His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  Kate had come to him. This very independent, very proud woman was offering him her trust. That made this kiss almost a sacred act. He’d failed her once. He did not wish to do so again.

  He’d been at the stables. He’d not been able to sleep. Thoughts of his argument with Kate, with what he should have said, preyed on his mind. Finally, he’d taken himself off in the opposite direction of her tent. Brushing Orion and being out in the night air had helped to calm his restless energy.

  Well, that and having his nephew come upon him in the stables and begin to carry on about how he worshipped the actress and felt she didn’t understand him. “She thinks I’m too young to know my own mind. And here I am, ready to offer her everything.”

  Christopher’s declarations of undying love had not sat well with Bran. What if Kate did choose the duke? He’d offer her a security of which she could only dream—and one that Bran had helped rebuild. Kate was ambitious. She had learned to take care of herself.

  True, years ago she had singled Bran out. However, they were now different people. Life had tempered them. He could offer her wealth, but did he want her if that was all she desired?

  In India, his work had been respected. In England, it seemed as if he couldn’t find a foothold. There were times he doubted if he’d ever make his mark in the world. Yet miracle of miracles, Kate was here, with him.

  She broke the kiss, her hands warm against his jaw. Her curves pressed against him. The moon caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I shouldn’t be here.” Her voice was raspy as if she struggled with herself.

  “Kate, if I could go back and relive everything, I would not have—”

  She silenced him with her fingers over his lips. “It isn’t the past, Brandon. It is not that.”

  He took the opportunity to kiss the tips of her fingers. She pulled her hand back. He captured it, lacing their fingers together. “Then what is it? Why are you here?”

  Her eyes had always been expressive. They searched his face a moment before she said, “I want you.”

  His answer was to sweep her up. He began walking toward the house. Her arms locked around his neck, her breath against his throat.

  Years ago, they had spent one day, less than twenty-four hours, as lovers. Bran had been unaware of how precious those moments had been at the time. How treasured this woman in his arms was. He’d assumed that life would take them their separate ways, and yet, here they were. The Fates, those mythical creatures who knew the future, had woven he and Kate together.

  He carried her toward the house. He’d left the back door open and easily let them both in.

  “Is anyone awake?” she whispered.

  “I live alone.”

  “Servants?”

  “No, Kate.” His valet was in London in a house he owned there. “It is just us.”

  She gave a soft sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. “Like years ago.”

  He climbed the stairs to his room. Neither spoke. His suite of rooms was at the end of the short hall. The door was ajar. Bran shoved it open. He crossed over to the bed. It was a four-poster with a plain white coverlet. The drapes were open and the dim, silvery moonlight gave the bed a soft glow.

  Bran sat her on the mattress. He knelt on the floor in front of her. Strands of loose hair curled around her face. He gently pushed them back and kissed her.

  Her arms slipped around his neck as if it was the most natural movement in the world for her. Her tongue met his and Bran experienced that timid touch all the way to his soul, and the kiss deepened.

  He untied the string of her cloak. Her hands slid into his riding coat and pushed it back over his shoulders. Their kiss broke, giving them a chance to undress in earnest.

  Bran realized his hands were shaking. It was as if his body had been waiting for her. He pulled her dress over her head and laughed to find she wore that impossibly thick nightdress.

  She was more successful with his shirt. She placed her hand against his bare chest, right over his heart. “It races like mine.”

  His answer was to kiss the sensitive skin at the line of her throat. He tasted her skin. Her breasts flattened against his chest and he ran his hand down along her rib cage, feeling the curve of them.

  Reluctantly, he rose. He began unbuttoning his breeches—and for a second, he wasn’t in this room in the Dower House. No, he remembered that other night when they’d both been as eager.

  The difference this time was that they each knew what they wanted. Bran made quick work of taking off his boots. He pulled down the leather riding pants. Kate watched with solemn eyes as if memorizing his every movement.

  When he was naked, when his desire for her was obvious, strong, and demanding, he said, “Stand up, Kate.”

  Like an obedient child, she came to her feet.

  He took hold of the skirt of her nightdress. Finding her lips, he kissed her as he slowly gathered it in his hands.

  She smiled, the movement tickling him. She lightly bit his bottom lip before soothing it with her tongue and intensifying the kiss between them. Her lower body was naked and pressed against him, his arousal against her flat belly.

  A growl of desire rose in his throat. He sucked hard on her tongue and released the kiss. He raised the nightdress over her head. She made it easy for him by holding her arms up. The room’s wan light highlighted her glorious breasts with their dark points and Bran was undone.

  He threw the nightgown aside, hungry for her. Her core against him was hot and wet.

  Fifteen years had passed. Fifteen years of nursing hurt and resentment. He did not want to waste a second more.

  From the moment Brandon had lifted her up in his arms, Kate felt as if she was in a dream.

  She was tired of living with the ghosts of her past. Tired of being the responsible one. Tired of protecting herself.

  Years ago, she’d believed herself in love with this man. He’d loomed large in her life even during their years apart—either as a shameful memory or the focus for her anger. To realize that she had been wrong about him, that he had cared? If the sun had suddenly shone in the middle of the night, it could not be a greater miracle.

  His arms felt good around her. Solid. This she remembered. She’d been safe with Brandon. There had been a wholeness to this act between them that had once made the world exactly right, and she yearned to experience it again.

  Their kiss took on a stronger purpose. His hand rested on her hip, its stillness an assurance that he waited for a sign from her.

  Yes, this was the lover she remembered, and she lowered herself to the mattress, bringing him with her.

  Back then, Brandon had been gentle and somewhat clumsy—as she had been herself. Neither one of them had really known what they were doing, she realized.

  Her braid was caught beneath her. She turned her head and pulled it out. He stretched his body beside her and traced her jaw with one hand.

  “You haven’t changed,” he whispered. “You are as lovely as when I first saw you. You were Juliette on the stage and I was lost.”

  She rolled on her side, the better to confront him. “You’ve changed.” She ran her hand over his shoulder. “You are stronger, bigger . . .” She drew her hand down along his waistline to his hip. “They are all good changes.”

  His answer was to kiss her as if breathing her in. He rose above her, guiding her onto her back. His weight settled upon her.

  Ah, yes, this she remembered. They fit together, especially when she bent her legs and cradled his hips between her thighs. Her hand smoothed over his buttocks. The heat of him was pressed against her—

  And she found herself struggling to breathe.

  Every muscle inside of her tensed. His weight that had seemed comforting, now threatened to suffocate her.

  Kate lifted her hips to buck him off, suddenly not wanting anything to do with him.

  Brandon moved off of her. “Is something the matter? Kate?”

  She scrambled to sit up and crawled backward toward the
headboard. Leaning against it, she willed herself to calm down, her hand covering her mouth. “I don’t know. I don’t know . . .” She looked wildly toward him. His face was in the shadows. “I can’t see you. Brandon, I can’t see.”

  “It is all right,” he said soothingly. “Let me light a candle.”

  She closed her eyes. She heard a scratching noise on a bedside table. There was silence, and then the sound of flint being struck.

  “I’ve lit the candle. Stay here.”

  She nodded, not opening her eyes. The mattress dipped as he rose. Her breathing grew normal. She didn’t understand what had come over her. The intensity of what could only be described as fear overwhelmed her. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

  The candlelit room was sparsely furnished. There was the bed and a washstand. There were no chests or cabinets for clothes. It was almost as if no one lived here.

  Steps sounded in the hall. Brandon appeared in the doorway. He held a glass in his hand. He wore his breeches and nothing else and she was very conscious that she was naked. She reached for the bedspread to cover herself, tucking the coverlet up and around her breasts.

  He made no remark. Instead, he walked to her side of the bed. He sat on the edge and offered her a glass of dark liquid. “Have a drink.”

  “What is it?”

  “Port. That is all that was in the cabinet.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Kate, drink it.” He wasn’t stern and yet he had a tone that warned her he expected to be obeyed. She’d used that tone several times herself.

  She took the glass, gave it a sniff, and sipped the heavy liquor.

  “More,” he ordered.

  She mugged a frown. His response was a nod of his head that she was expected to take it all in.

  Closing her eyes, Kate downed it. She lay back. The heavy wine seemed to flow right to her belly. There was a moment of intense heat and then a gradual warmth spread to the rest of her.

  “Good?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes and glanced at that portion of Brandon’s breeches that should have been quite tight from his erection. He noticed. A deprecating half grin twisted his mouth.

  “Is he completely gone?” she asked.

  Brandon shrugged. “Let’s say he is hopefully lingering off stage.”

  The description startled a giggle from her. She covered her mouth with one hand in embarrassment and then was horrified as that giggle changed into a sob, followed by another.

  Before she understood what was happening, she was bending over, lost in deep, humiliating tears.

  Brandon climbed up to the headboard to sit next to her. “Kate, what is wrong?”

  She put out a hand to block him from touching her, unable to speak. She also didn’t have an explanation. A tumult of feelings had overtaken her.

  “Is it me, Kate?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t understand herself.

  This time when he offered his arms, she fell into them, burying her face against his chest and letting the tears flow. She gasped for breath, trying to control them, and failed.

  “You don’t have to be strong all the time, Kate. You can trust me.”

  Trust? She didn’t think she knew what that word meant.

  Then again, he was right. She was tired of being in control. Exhausted by things so deep inside of her, she’d not even known they were there.

  He let her cry until she was spent, until she could do nothing more than put her arms around his torso and be still, resting her head on his chest. He smelled exactly as she remembered—of clean soap, warm man, and a hint of fresh air and horseflesh.

  The peace of silence settled upon them. She listened to his heart beat and felt the stirrings of trust again. And a desire for him to understand. Years ago, their time together had been too brief for confidences. The details of their lives had seemed unimportant compared to the attraction they’d felt. No wonder they had misread each other’s motives.

  Kate wanted now to be different.

  She spoke. “Jeremiah Earls was a family friend. My mother knew him from her acting days. When I announced that I was going to be an actress, my mother was the first to inform me I would not, and yet I had my heart set upon it.”

  “So she let you go?”

  “She had no choice. I have a strong will.”

  With a short laugh, he signaled his agreement.

  She tightened her hold around him. Her memories were clear and vivid.

  And that was how she’d been living, she realized, with memories. Only memories.

  No wonder her recent decision to finally take action for herself and return to London was so important.

  “Father didn’t want me to go either, although he could see my mind was set. So, I went to London with Mr. Earls. Before I left, Mother informed me that she had high expectations for me. She warned that choosing this course in life would put me on the outside. There would be many who would think the worst of me.” Brandon cradled her closer. She snuggled against him. “I was brave then. And so young. I didn’t think anyone could harm me. Except, I was foolish.”

  “Kate, naïve maybe but it isn’t foolish to want to make something of your life.”

  She silently disagreed. She knew who she was. She jumped into the story. “When I was met with success so quickly, I thought I was invincible. I also had made a promise to my mother that I would stand for the high morals of my family. She told me a lady had nothing to do with status or position. A lady is a woman who thinks highly of herself.”

  “Which you do.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Kate, you are a lady.”

  “Says the man I am naked in bed with.”

  Brandon made a dismissive sound. “Now you are being foolish. All this protecting virgins and living a cossetted life is nonsense. It certainly hasn’t helped my sister.”

  “But it does brand me. Oh, dear God, it has. You’ve heard the names they call me. Most times, I can ignore the unkindness of others . . . except for those moments—” Her voice broke off.

  “Moments?”

  “When I am ashamed.” The truth of those words almost robbed her of breath.

  He gathered her closer. “And what have you done that should make you ashamed?”

  “Brandon, you don’t understand—”

  “Maybe I do. Answer me, Kate. Let’s have it out.”

  Her throat closed, blocking anything she could have said. In the depths of her belly was a resistance that seemed as hard as rock.

  Brandon shifted his weight, giving her a bit of space, before he said, “I never thought of you as a woman of easy virtue. I remember what happened between us as being joyous. Freeing.”

  “It was.” Oh, God, why was this all so muddled? “And yet, it was wrong,” she insisted.

  “Because?”

  “I promised my mother . . . she warned me.”

  “About us specifically?”

  Kate came up on one arm, a truth becoming clear to her. “Of course not. She never knew about us. I didn’t tell her. She did know about Hemling. It seemed as if all the world did.”

  “But she didn’t know everything. She didn’t know that he forced you, and then made you afraid to leave. And he bragged about what he’d done.”

  She placed her hand on his chest. “I promised my mother I would not give in to the temptation of the world. She was so worried about me and I assured her over and over that I understood that I was an Addison and that, as she often said, ‘the blood of kings and queens flowed in my veins.’”

  “That is true of most of us, isn’t it? Kings were indiscriminate in where they procreated. There is probably many a yeoman or cowherd with the blood of kings in his body.”

  “Ah, but no one questions a king for his indiscretions, while his queen might find herself pilloried.” She pushed her heavy hair back over her shoulder. “I meant to keep that promise. I understood what my mother was saying. I
was raised with high standards and I felt blessed that I could be on a stage. I wasn’t even tempted—until you appeared.”

  “I have no regrets.”

  She nestled down into the haven of his arms again. “I had no regrets either, although I’m clear-eyed about what it was.”

  “And what was it, Kate?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “We belonged together.”

  Brandon ran a curled finger against her lower lip and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Kate, the bedrooms of London are filled with people who are not married to each other. No one can hold what we felt against us.”

  Or could have stopped them.

  “However,” she bravely went on, ready to confess all, “with Hemling, I lost sight of who I was. I stayed because I was afraid of what he might do when I tried to go—that this was what I deserved for my own foolishness. And I was angry, Brandon. I believed you had betrayed me, that I was abandoned. I was too proud to go home. I’d come to London to act and now, I was a prisoner, even with my own coach. Everyone thought I was fortunate to be kept by a marquis, but it was hell. I was an outsider. No matter how well I behaved, he saw me as almost less than human and not deserving of any dignity . . . and society felt the same way. The turning point came when I decided to take dignity for myself, when I left Hemling.” She shook her head. “He paid the theater managers to keep me off the stage. People thought I was rash to leave such a rich benefactor. They didn’t know how he really treated me. Nor did they care.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went home.” Suddenly, his body heat was too warm for her. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, wishing she could blot out those days. “I had been so involved in myself, I had no idea what was happening at home. My parents were dying. It was the fever. Mother nursed Father and then she started to feel poorly. My sisters were doing all they could . . . it was a terrible time. They died within days of each other. In the middle of it, on her deathbed, Mother confronted me about Hemling. She’d heard the rumors.” Again, her throat threatened to close. She’d never told anyone of this. She forced herself to speak. “She said I shamed the family. Those were her last words to me.”

  Hot tears flooded her eyes. She tried to will them back. She’d already cried more than she had in all her years combined.