A Mistress To Remember (Birds of Paradise Book 3)

by Eliza Lloyd

  She rocked faster, her fingers playing mercilessly, while her thighs burned. He had closed his eyes and everything about him suggested he was losing control—the heaving chest and clenched jaw, and the way he arched his back, practically bucking beneath her. He was doing nothing but indulging in the pleasure she was giving him.

  When his hands gripped her knees, he heaved, groaning, lifting her and finally turning her to her back before he shoved hard, releasing in the agony of uncontrollable sexual gratification.

  At her hands.

  She liked the sound of a man with little control, especially the way Mark seemed to be putty in her hands.

  Katrina wasn’t sure what was better—to know she was with a man who could pleasure her or to know she could bring a man to his knees.

  Either way, she thought as she snuggled next to him, she had never been this content: with a man, with the looming change for her children, with life.

  * * * * *

  Katrina saw the children off at ten o’clock in the morning, fighting back a wave of tears. They had never been parted for such a length of time.

  “It is only five days, Mama,” Ivan said. He had grown up this spring and seemed more than ready to break from her influence. All mothers had to let their little birds fly from the nest eventually. Maybe that was the hallmark of successful child rearing—the children taking flight without her help.

  “Take special care with Sergei,” she reminded.

  “I promise, he will only come back dirty,” Ivan said before kissing her cheek. Sergei looked out the window and waved. Claud ignored her.

  By eleven, Katrina had forgotten she had children.

  Mark’s unmarked carriage arrived, in which his traveling footman stashed her valise, a hatbox and a wicker basket containing food and wine. Mark had only told her they were traveling for a good distance, but he had not said where they were going.

  No lady’s maid. No valet. They would be living on sexual satisfaction, feeding each other with the velvety touch of hands and fingers and other bodily instruments and drinking from the elixir of her honeypot.

  “Henley-on-Thames,” he said when he’d settled himself in the carriage. “I have a friend who agreed to let us stay at his home, since he is in Brussels with a commission to paint their royals.”

  “We must have a drink to celebrate our freedom,” she said. She plucked the bottle from the wicker basket at her feet and handed it to Mark.

  “A Madeira.”

  “Only the best from your mistress.” She scooted close and ran her hand across his shoulder.

  She couldn’t help but kiss him. He was dressed in tan breeches and a navy cutaway jacket with white linen. He had forgone the traditional black cravat, though she saw that his hat, which was tossed on the seat across from them, was still adorned with a black band, a traditional mourning marker.

  He worked at the bottle and popped the cork. The glasses were filled quickly.

  “A toast?” he asked.

  “I’m woefully inadequate at Irish witticisms.”

  He raised his glass. “Let’s see. ‘Here’s to a woman’s kisses, and to whiskey, amber clear; not as sweet as a woman’s kiss but a darn sight more sincere.’ You asked for Irish.”

  She laughed. “You could have stopped at a woman’s kisses and I would have thought you wonderfully romantic.”

  He raised his glass again. “Here’s to a woman’s kisses.”

  “Oh, I must toast us in Russian then.” She lifted her glass and spoke in her native tongue, something she had not done with regularity for many months. “And the translation is, ‘Let the tables break from abundance, and the beds break from love.’”

  “A worthy toast.”

  Mark finished his glass while she still sipped at hers. “No tears this morning?”

  “A few. I tried to be strong, but there was Sergei, hanging out the carriage window, waving as if he would never see his mama again. And Ivan. It was if I don’t know the boy anymore. He is ready to take charge, embrace the world. His father would be proud. His mother is showing herself to be weak and sentimental. And my middle son is as nonchalant about life as anyone I know.”

  “I am sure you are a good mother, but you must change along with them as they mature.”

  “Did your wisdom come from being an older brother to all your sisters?”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe it was because of the recent musings I’ve had about being a father.”

  “Your day will come. We will find you a woman with sturdy hips, and you will seed a dynasty.”

  He chuckled, but she heard the rueful nature in its tone. “I would settle for an heir and a spare.” His brow furrowed a bit, contemplating some weighty matter. She reached for his glass and poured him more wine.

  “So how is your marriage list progressing?” he asked as she handed him a second glass.

  “There are a few worthy candidates, in spite of your assertion that they are too young.”

  “One name is sufficient, just make it the right one.”

  “I agree with your sister’s selection of Miss Albert. The daughter of a marquess. Hips. Family fertility. And she is very lovely. With straight teeth.”

  “She’s a bluestocking,” he said with slight mocking—and more of a tease toward her thoughtful analysis. But Katrina suspected, at present, no woman was interesting enough, wealthy enough or trustworthy enough to tempt him into marriage so soon.

  “Is intelligence such an unattractive trait? I’ve always thought intelligence a superior attribute, especially for women.”

  “It is, unless that is the singular focus, but it should be balanced with other behaviors that define womanhood.”

  “Such as?”

  “If I give you a list, you will find such a woman, present her on a platter and say, ‘Ah, here she is.’ I will then be suitably impressed but will utterly reject her, because she will be missing a certain something that appeals to me here, a certain je ne sais quoi,” he said, touching the center of his chest, “but which cannot be named. I’m not sure you can be unbiased in this search. And really, selecting a wife is nothing more than a gamble. She might be the most proper, well-endowed and well-dowered female to have been born, but that doesn’t guarantee compatibility or desirability.”

  “You have no faith.”

  “So, you are saying your first husband was the perfect man for you?”

  “I am saying we were well matched. As you would be with Miss Albert.”

  “No. If you and my sisters insist on continuing this search, Miss Albert should be scratched from your list. I looked at her once. And with the second look I was convinced with great surety that she is not the one.”

  “Oh, I have other names, but I think I would like to wait until the end of the season before making recommendations.”

  “They’ll all be married off by then.”

  “Not necessarily. Men tend to think they must snap up the first pearl to come along when, if they would practice patience…”

  “They would get a wife with a bigger dowry.”

  She laughed. “If they were patient, they would find a true diamond and not a rough imitation. Not a faux pearl.”

  “That’s what the dowry is for, to cover up the roughness of those diamonds.”

  “Goodness, such a skeptic. How did you find a wife the first time?”

  “I ask myself this all the time.”

  She laughed again. “Were you infatuated? Stars in your eyes?” She embraced his hand. Comfort came in odd ways, she knew. And what better way for a mistress to comfort than offer solace for the heart.

  “Susannah was…what I needed at the time.”

  “Then she was the best choice of all. She came to a few of my balls before your marriage. I thought she was lovely. Now, I insist upon hearing your list of qualities. Go on, name five of them. So, unintelligent is first on your list,” she said, laughing still.

  “I never said that. All right, thoughtful intelligence, not just factually smart.
” He raised his gaze to the ceiling of the carriage roof. “Witty humor, dynamically unique, unflagging trustworthiness and compassionate morality.”

  “Hm, I think you cheated. That is nearly ten different characteristics wrapped up in clever wording. And you didn’t mention love.”

  “That was number six. Honest, soul-deep, kindred-spirit love.”

  “A virtuous paragon, indeed,” she said. Katrina couldn’t read his soft gaze. Were they talking about one impossible vision of womanhood? Or was he telling her that she had none of those qualities?

  He talked more and she listened, finally taking his glass when he’d finished the last of his Madeira, about the same time as their conversation came to an end, coming back to the topic of his wife, Susannah. “It was heart-breaking, and makes it so difficult to even think of another wife.”

  “You are not alone in your grief,” she said, settling next to him her arm about his chest.

  “But I am alone in my regret, and strangely, they feel the same.”

  * * * * *

  The manor house was on a small estate nestled along the upper bank of the Thames with large oaks trees, a horse barn and manicured greens. Only four servants kept up the seven-bedroom home. A large gazebo was perched below, closer to the waters, with cushioned chairs and a rock fireplace—perfect for cool English nights.

  As for the river, there was a sturdy dock held in place with huge round poles where dories and rowboats could be launched with ease.

  Mark was pleased it offered peace and privacy, along with some special enchantments enjoyed by his friend, Lord Le Carre. This was no everyday house in the country, but one suited for a single man with singular tastes—one who enjoyed the country and thoroughly enjoyed a continual string of mistresses and odd friends.

  Katrina wanted to learn and he was in just the peculiar mood to instruct her. His cock had been in a tumescent state for most of the trip as the pleasurable idea of fucking Lady Klee from sunrise to sunrise was foremost in his mind.

  While he was ready to explore her, she had her own ideas.

  Katrina had to examine everything and was off with the housekeeper while he enjoyed a drink before dinner, which was to be served in an hour. Would the housekeeper show her every room? He doubted it, though the servants must know the home was special and tailor-made for less than innocent rendezvous.

  A distinct line existed for him—the line between sexual gratification and affectionate companionship. One served by a man’s mistress, the other by his wife and mother of his children. He was not sure if Katrina saw that line; she seemed to blend the two seamlessly.

  She had been content to think her dutiful marriage was the core of her happiness as a woman. Maybe that was what most people told themselves—was it just easier to lie to oneself than admit to a mistake, or acknowledge a painful unhappiness?

  What did the French say? “In love, there is one who kisses and one who offers the cheek?” Katrina had been rather secure in her well-matched marriage arrangement, not passionate but certainly without a painful lack of harmony. If he had to guess, her husband had probably been dotty for her, which undoubtedly accounted for her idealistic tendency toward happily-ever-after.

  Why should he think Katrina would be different from other women? His sisters were just as silly for their husbands. Were Susannah’s feelings ever such for him? Honestly, he didn’t know. But shouldn’t a man know if his wife held him in both esteem and love? And if she did, wouldn’t there be a reciprocal exchange of physical intimacies?

  Perhaps not the intensity one experienced with a mistress.

  Bah, it was all an idealistic dream…a wife interested in intercourse?

  What he did know was that the question of his next wife was one he was not interested in at present. He had a mistress. He had several more months of mourning.

  And he was not waiting to be struck by lightning.

  When Katrina arrived for supper, once again dressed with immaculate care, she greeted him with warm enthusiasm. The buttons down the front of her dress shimmered like diamonds. Easily accessible. Easily undone.

  She saw her plate at the far end of the table, plucked it up and returned to sit beside him. Once she was seated, she placed her hand over his and squeezed, jerking her hand away when she saw the servant was ready to serve her food.

  “It’s perfect, Mark. I could spend the whole summer here.”

  “But you’d miss much of the season.” He refrained from mentioning her children, intent on maintaining her sanguinity.

  “Does not the sameness of yearly balls and Bach musicals and marriage plotting frighten you sometime?”

  “Sameness implies stability and safety, and most cannot see beyond those basic needs,” he answered.

  “So, we must listen one year to Bach’s chorales and the next year to his concertos?”

  “Or you must learn to play your own instrument.”

  “That is very astute of you.”

  Katrina gazed at him, before glancing toward the footman as he left the room. Bright violet passion lit her eyes. Her hand, under the table, caressed his thigh. “Do you know it is Friday? That I’ve ridden in a carriage with you all day, maintaining the utmost in decorum when all I have been thinking about is what we might do together if we but had a bed? This fare will wait. I don’t think I can.”

  He threw his linen napkin to the table. “I’ve been waiting for such an invitation all day, Baroness.”

  He had noticed her calm demeanor but had attributed it to the journey and her separation from her children. He had been with enough woman to know all did not welcome a man’s advances much of the time, especially not when they had been bounced to jelly on a long trip by carriage.

  Katrina continued to surprise him, but he always arrived back to one conclusion. He paid her to be available. There was an additional benefit with Katrina—her entertaining bursts of forwardness. More than any other woman he had known, she was also willing to ask for what she wanted sexually.

  Worth its weight in gold and silver and not something to take for granted.

  Their room was up a short flight of wooden stairs. She bunched her skirts and hurried after the servant leading them, glancing back at Mark as she entered their room.

  After the servant departed, he closed the door and leaned against the wooden panel, enjoying her exuberance as she took in the new surroundings. A magnificent marble fireplace faced the large Jacobean poster bed with blue plush velvet curtains hanging in place.

  “Once we have shed our clothes, we should leave them off. It would save us so much time,” she said.

  “That might make it difficult to ride in the morning.”

  “My lord? It is a perfect time to ride.” She grinned impishly before working at the ties and buttons on her dress.

  “Amongst other things.”

  “Yes. And you must teach me everything. When we part, I must be as equally entertaining for my next lover.”

  “Your next lover?”

  He pushed away from the door and strolled toward her, before batting her hands away and popping the shiny buttons of her dress. “Your next lover?” he said again. “And who might that be?”

  She laughed. “A marquess, perhaps. A duke?”

  “Another duke? Are they so impressive?”

  “Or the Prince of Wales.”

  He separated the material, pushing the sleeves down, exposing the unblemished skin of her shoulders. He soothed his hands over her them and then kissed below her ear.

  “You are dreaming of another man already?” he asked.

  She laughed again and flung her arms about his neck. She had her eyes closed, as if she were imagining the possibilities. “I shall be the most sought after, the most desired mistress in all of London. I will be a perfect snob, eschewing the unworthy, disdaining all except the most interesting, the richest and the most handsome of suitors.”

  “And they will lay gold at your feet?” he asked. He worked at the falls of his trousers. His an
ger made desire burn hotter, but she did not see the set of his jaw or the fury he felt burn in his gaze. He did not bring her to the privacy of a country home to have her dream of her future lovers.

  “I will let them. The more gold the better. Mounds of coins and jewels and furs. All for me.”

  “Then I’d better get a last fuck before I can’t afford you anymore.”

  She was still smiling when he pushed her on to the bed and hoisted up her skirts. Her daydreamy silliness might have played better to a man who didn’t care what his woman did, but he was not one of them. She could show him some…

  He gripped the root of his cock, leaned over her and shoved hard. For the first time since he had known her, he did not care about her pleasure. He braced his arms firmly beside her shoulders. He pumped into her, telling himself he purchased nothing more than quim and that entitled him to complete access—mind and body.

  He did not look at her.

  While he pounded into her, grunting over her like an animal, his body relished the pure gratification. His mind already condemned him for overreacting.

  Release was pleasurable but not complete. There was no satisfaction past the end of his cock.

  He withdrew and pushed from the bed, stuffing his cock into his breeches and buttoning up. She lay unmoving, her face turned away from him. Her hands were fisted at her sides.

  “If that is how you need to obtain pleasure, that is fine. You paid me for such access. But if you intend to punish me for innocent teasing or for some imagined slight—”

  “You did nothing wrong.”

  She pushed out of the bed and into her robe, slowly fastening the ties. Mark found a chair and dropped into the cushions. The room was too small and he was too small-minded. He had tried being away from her to settle the agonizing jealousy that plagued him. He could bed any number of women or whores. He had done so in the past.

  He had never had this intense sexual longing as he did with Katrina. Was this how opium addicts craved their drug?

  Maybe it was a mistake to be alone with her for an extended period.

  But was it any better to see her every few days? His cock pained him mercilessly just imagining the rutting pleasure they could have. And his soul ached thinking about life without her.