by Sylvia Day
“Must I always want something from you?”
He stared at her, noting the hints of strain around her eyes and mouth, signs he’d most recently cataloged on Lady Regmont—the signs of a woman in a troubled marriage. Signs he would never see on Jessica’s face because he would die before he caused her such sorrow.
When he didn’t answer, Louisa pushed the blanket aside and swung her legs over the edge of the settee. She clasped her hands in her lap and rolled her shoulders back. “I likely deserve your wariness and suspicion. I was so focused on what I was feeling that I did not pay enough attention to what you were feeling. I am so tremendously sorry for that. I’ve wronged you for many years.”
Alistair’s heartbeat sped up, confusion warring with disbelief. As a boy, he’d wanted to hear such words from her more than he had wanted anything else.
“I came to tell you,” she went on, “I wish you happy. It does my heart good to see you well loved and admired. I did see it. I also felt it. She esteems the ground you walk upon.”
“As I do for her.” He rubbed the spot over his chest that ached for Jessica. “And her regard will never alter or diminish. She knows the worst there is to know about me, yet she loves me in spite of my mistakes. No … I would say perhaps she loves me because of them; because of how they’ve shaped me.”
“It’s a wondrous gift to be loved unconditionally. It is my failing that I didn’t do the same, my son.” She stood. “I want you to know that I will support you and your choice to the last. I’ll hold her in my heart as you do.”
His fingertips stroked over the smooth lacquered top of his desk. By God, he was exhausted. He wanted Jess beside him, close to his heart. He needed to hold her and comfort her and find his own peace with her. “It means a great deal that you came to me, Mother. That you waited for my return. That you give me your blessing. Thank you.”
Louisa nodded. “I love you, Alistair. I will endeavor to show you how much, and pray that one day there will no longer be any reticence or mistrust between us.”
“I should like that.”
His mother rounded the desk. She bent and pressed her lips to his cheek.
He caught her wrist before she straightened, holding her close to gauge her reaction. Had she truly come, repentant and guileless, with warm sentiment? Or had she already been given the news he was about to share with her, freeing her to give her blessing with mitigated risk?
“You will be a grandmother,” he said quietly.
She froze and her breath caught, then her eyes widened and filled with startled joy. “Alistair—”
So, she hadn’t known. The warmth of her acceptance and blessing spread through him. “Not mine. As you likely surmised, Jessica is barren. But Emmaline … Albert saw to his duty after all. Perhaps not a boy I could name as my heir, but regardless of gender, you will at least have the joy of a grandchild.”
A tremulous smile banished the melancholy reflected in Louisa’s blue eyes—irises that were so like his.
Alistair smiled back.
Epilogue
“Your sister looks well,” commented Her Grace, the Duchess of Masterson.
Jess looked across the veranda table at Alistair’s mother. “Yes, she is healthy and strong. And every day, she remembers a little more about laughter and finding joy.”
Just beyond the carved stone balusters that divided the veranda from the immaculate Masterson gardens, many of the dozen guests attending Jess’s house party strolled through the neatly trimmed yew hedges. Even Masterson was out enjoying the beautiful day, holding hands with the infant Master Albert who was toddling along the gravel paths.
“Lord Tarley seems quite taken with her,” Louisa noted.
Jess’s gaze moved back to Hester and Michael, following as they walked together; Hester with her parasol, and Michael with his hands clasped behind his back. They made a lovely couple, his dark comeliness so beautifully complementing her sister’s golden beauty.
“He’s been a dear friend for a long time,” Jess said. “But these last two years have proven him to be invaluable in so many ways. He’s made her feel safe, and from that position of safety, Hester has found the peace of mind to heal. Much as your son did for me.”
“It is no less than what you have done for him.” The duchess lifted her teacup to her lips, her porcelain skin shielded beneath the brim of her wide straw hat. “Where is my son, by the way?”
“He’s looking into an irrigation problem of some sort.”
“I hope he knows that Masterson is impressed with him.”
There was no way for Alistair to know since the two men rarely spoke, but such unfortunate rifts were topics best left for another day. “There isn’t anything he fails to excel in. Truly, I find it remarkable that such a romantic and creative soul should also be so well versed in numbers, engineering, and countless other analytical pursuits.”
There was also his physical prowess, but that was for Jess alone to know and enjoy.
“Milady.”
Her attention moved to the maid who approached with a missive in hand. Jess smiled and accepted it, immediately recognizing her husband’s penmanship on the exterior. She broke the seal with a smile.
Find me.
“If you will please excuse me, Your Grace,” she said, pushing back from the table and standing.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Always.” Jess moved through the open French doors into the house. The interior was quiet and peaceful, the large sprawling estate somehow retaining a feeling of intimacy and welcome. She and Alistair occupied one wing of the manse during the summer months, while the duke and duchess occupied the other most of the year. This was their second year summering with his family and, so far, it was progressing better than the first. Alistair’s naming of Albert’s son as his heir had been a great relief to all.
Jess had used the excuse of requiring assistance with a house party to bring Hester closer to rejoining Society with the start of the next Season. The past two years had been difficult, with the scandal surrounding Regmont’s death and all the speculation that sprang from it. Jess’s marriage to Alistair Caulfield, a future duke, had helped to divert attention, but nothing could hasten the healing process for Hester. Still, her sister’s recovery was progressing slowly but surely, with Michael always nearby if she needed him, a solid and unobtrusive friend. Perhaps he would become something more to her one day, when Hester was ready. Alistair believed his friend would wait patiently, just as Alistair had done for Jess.
Heading to Alistair’s study first, she found the space empty. She moved to the parlor, then the billiards room, but still didn’t find him. It was only when she began ascending the right side of the split staircase that she heard the faint strains of a violin. Her heart swelled with joy. Listening to Alistair play was one of her favorite pastimes. Sometimes, after they’d made love, he would rise from their bed and engage the stringed instrument. She would lie there and listen, hearing in the notes all the emotion he couldn’t convey with words. It was the same with his drawings. The finely wrought pencil lines captured moments and expressions only a lover would grasp and treasure. They told her more eloquently than speech how precious she was to him, how often he thought of her, and how deeply he felt about her.
Jess followed the haunting strains of a plaintive melody to their rooms. Two of the upstairs maids lingered in the hall, as awed as Jess, until they saw her approach and scrambled away. She opened the sitting room door, then shut and locked it behind her. Contentment swept over her along with the increased volume of music. She located her spouse in their bedroom, standing before the open window, his clothing removed except for his buff-colored trousers. Acheron lay at his feet, staring raptly up at him, as entranced as everyone became when he played.
As Alistair slid the bow to and fro across the strings, the muscles of his arms and back flexed and clenched with the fluid movements, creating a view she would never tire of. She sat on the bench at the foot of the
bed, watching and listening, her blood already beginning to heat and thicken with anticipation.
It was the middle of the day. Numerous guests surrounded and awaited them. Yet he’d lured her to their bedroom to seduce her with the refinement of his talent and the primitive lust of his virility—appealing to the disparate needs she hadn’t been aware of until he’d shown them to her.
The music faded into the warm summer breeze, and she applauded softly. He placed the instrument carefully within its case.
“I love to hear you play,” she said softly.
“I know.”
She smiled. “And I love the sight of your bare back and provocative backside, as well.”
“I know that, too.”
He faced her and her breath caught. He was partially aroused and wholly beautiful.
Jess licked her lower lip. “I feel overdressed.”
“You are.” His approach was both predatory and graceful, his rippled abdomen and confident stride engaging all of her feminine instincts.
“What lascivious agenda do you pursue?”
“We’ve been wed just over a year, yet I have not been granted my husbandly right to a honeymoon.”
A shiver of heated pleasure rippled through her. “Oh? My poor darling. Have you been denied any other husbandly rights?”
“You wouldn’t deny yourself.” Alistair caught her by the elbows and tugged her to her feet. There was a roughness and urgency to his touch that belied the softness of the melody with which he’d mesmerized her. Her nipples beaded tight beneath her bodice in response.
He knew, of course. His hands cupped her swelling breasts and kneaded with slightly more pressure than necessary. The edge to him made her hot and wet, eager. She loved all the ways he made love to her, but the times he sought her out while at the end of his control were special. She no longer had to drive him to the precipice. He stood on the cliff and called for her, deliberately bringing her close at the times when he was capable of being most vulnerable. Then, they would make the fall together, as they did everything together.
She set her hands on his hips, tugging herself closer. “I’m too self-indulgent when it comes to you,” she agreed.
“Indulge yourself with me on a honeymoon,” he coaxed in that dark voice of sin. “Weeks on a ship. Months in Jamaica. We have unfinished business there, you and I. Hester is strong enough now to bear the loss of you for a time, and Michael will look after her with as much care as he would look after his own heart.”
“Can you go now? Can you afford the time away?”
“I’ve spoken with Masterson. Now is the time to go, while he is fit and able.” His hands slid up to her face, cupping her cheeks. Tilting his head, he brought his lips to hers, kissing her softly. “I want to swim with you naked. I want to show you the fields burning. I want to—”
“—fuck in the rain,” she whispered, just to feel the tension grip him. “There is no need to seduce me to elicit my acquiescence. I would go with you anywhere, for any reason.”
“But this way is much more enjoyable.” Bending his knees, he matched his thick erection to the juncture of her thighs and rolled his hips against her. “With the windows open and our guests outside, you will have to be quiet in your pleasures.”
“While you do your worst to make me scream?”
“My best.”
Her mouth curved against his lips. “Perhaps you will be the noisy one. Perhaps I will make you groan and curse and beg for mercy.”
“Is that a challenge, Lady Baybury?” he purred. “You know I cannot resist a challenge.”
Jess reached behind him and gripped his taut, delicious buttocks. “I know. In fact, I am counting on that.”
Acheron, well versed in the proclivities of his lord and mistress, padded out of the room and found his mat beside the chaise in the adjoining sitting room. Flopping to his side, he fell into a blissful canine slumber, lulled by the sweet sounds of laughter and love that spilled from the bedroom behind him.
She’ll be his MISTRESS BY MARRIAGE.
Check out this fabulous novel from Maggie Robinson,
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London, 1820
Edward Christie had been an utter fool six years ago. True, he’d had plenty of company. Every man in the room gaped when Caroline Parker entered Lady Huntington’s ballroom. Conversation stilled. Hearts hammered. Shoulders straightened. Chests and areas lower swelled.
There were many reasons for those changes. Her hair, masses of it, red as lava was swirled up with diamonds. Diamond earrings, a diamond necklace, and diamond bracelets were festooned all over her creamy skin—skin so delicious every man whose tongue was hanging out longed to lap it. Her eyes were liquid silver, bright as stars and fringed with midnight black lashes, so at odds with her hair. And her dress, a shocking scarlet for an unmarried woman—for any woman—had a diamond brooch hovering over the most spectacular assets he’d ever seen. The jewels were all paste, as he was later to find out, but her breasts were very real.
There were known drawbacks, which quickly circulated about the room, prodded along by spiteful cats who were quite eclipsed by Caroline’s magnificence. She was old, at least twenty-five, and her family—what there was of it—was dirt poor and touched by scandal. Some said her brother died in a duel; others said he was killed by one of his many mistresses. She had a sister in Canada, living in some godforsaken outpost in the snow with her lieutenant husband and howling wolves. Her parents were long dead and she was clinging to the ton by the weakest of threads. The distant cousin who had inherited her brother’s title was anxious to get her off his hands before he put his hands all over her and irritated his irritable wife.
Edward had obliged in a courtship of less than five days. Baron Christie had spent his first thirty-four years never, ever being impulsive, and his sudden marriage by special license to a woman who looked like an expensive courtesan was the on dit of the season. He had buried one wife, the perfectly staid and proper Alice, whose brown hair would never be compared to living fire and whose brown eyes could only be compared to mud. Alice, who’d quickly and quietly done her duty, had provided him with an heir, a spare, and a little girl who looked just as angular and forbidding as her father. Alice, who’d caught a chill one week and died the next was no doubt rolling over in her grave to be supplanted by Caroline Parker.
Edward had no one to blame but himself. He didn’t need more children, and Caroline hadn’t any money. But what she did have—what she was—had upended Edward’s life for one hellish year before he came to his senses and put her away.
Caroline had no one to blame but herself. It was her pride, her dreadful Parker pride that had prevented her from saying one simple word—no. If only her rosy lips had opened and she had managed to get her tongue to the roof of her mouth and expelled sufficient air, she would not find herself living on Jane Street, home to the most notorious courtesans in London.
When Edward asked her to marry him after less than a week’s acquaintance, she should have said no. When he’d asked her that horrible, vile, impertinent question five years ago, she should have said no. But instead she’d said yes to the first question, rather gratefully if truth be told, and hadn’t said a word to the second, just cast her husband the most scornful look she could conjure up and showed him her back.
Caroline was no man’s mistress, despite her exclusive Jane Street address and rumors to the contrary. In the five years since she and her husband separated, he had come to her door but once a year, the anniversary of the night she was unable to utter that one syllable word. They took ruthless pleasure in each other, and then Edward would disappear again. She, however, remained, ostracized from polite society, completely celibate, and despite her ardent hopes, a mother only to the curious contingent of young women who shared her street. The children changed, but the game remained the same. From experienced opera dancers to fresh-faced country girls who had been led astray by rich gentlemen, Caroline watched the parade of mistresses come and go.
She passed teacups and handkerchiefs and advice, feeling much older than her almost thirty-one years.
But when she looked in her pier glass, she was still relatively youthful, her red curls shiny, her gray eyes bright. She might have been stouter than she wished, but the prideful Parkers were known to run to fat in middle age. For some reason Edward had let her keep some of the lesser Christie jewels, so there was always a sparkle on her person even if there was no spark to her life. She made the best of it, however, and had some surprising success writing wicked novels that she couldn’t seem to write fast enough. Her avocation would have stunned her old governess, as Caroline had showed no aptitude whatsoever for grammar lessons or spelling as a girl. Fortunately, her publisher was grammatical and spelled accurately enough for both of them. Her Courtesan Court series was highly popular with society members and their servants alike. There were happy endings galore for the innocent girls led astray, and the wicked always got what was coming to them. She modeled nearly every villain on Edward. It was most satisfactory to shoot him or toss him off a cliff in the final pages. Once she crushed him in a mining mishap, his elegant sinewy body and dark head entombed for all eternity with coal that was as black as his heart.
Of course, sometimes her heroes were modeled on him, too—men with pride nearly as perverse as the Parkers, facile fingers that knew just where to touch a girl, and particularly long, thick, entirely perfect penises. Caroline missed Edward’s penis, although she didn’t miss his conversation much. He was so damned proper and critical, and had been beyond boring to live with. Controlled. Controlling. Humorless. Once he’d installed her as his baroness, it was as if he woke up horrified at what he’d actually done, and whom he’d actually married. It was no wonder that she—
No, she couldn’t blame him. She had no one to blame but herself.
