The Accidental Mistress Read online

  She shuddered, a moan escaping her parted lips.

  Bending toward him, she threaded one hand into his hair, then kissed the side of his cheek, finding it faintly rough from a full evening’s growth of whiskers.

  He was the one to moan this time, shivering faintly beneath her touch. Lifting his head from her breast, he sought her lips, taking them in a wild, plundering kiss that demanded everything she had to give and more.

  Drowning in a dark lake of need, she yielded, returning his kisses with an urgency she would never have thought she could feel. But with this man anything seemed possible, pleasure a quotient that appeared to have limitless boundaries.

  In those moments, her senses narrowed down to only the two of them, her focus locked on the warm, wet silk of his mouth, the gliding bliss of his touch, the heady richness of his clean, male scent turning her drunk and drowsy. Breathing him deeper, tasting him more, she clutched her fists into the fabric of his coat, breath panting in ragged gasps from her lips as she tangled her tongue with his own in an untamed dance. With only a vague awareness of her surroundings, she let him draw her down to perch atop one of his strong thighs, a single powerful arm nestled securely at her back. Something hard and thick prodded her hip, a something nestled right between his legs.

  Oh my, she thought, is that his arousal?

  From somewhere deep, her conscience warned that matters were moving much too far, much too fast—leagues beyond her ability to control. Even so, she ignored the mental alert, too lost in the sensations he was evoking to stop. She shuddered as he stroked her back and over her bottom, caressing her through her clothes as she’d sensed he’d wanted to do earlier out on the ballroom floor. Scattering kisses over her cheek and chin, he ran his lips along her throat to its base, pausing to draw upon the spot with a delicate suction that made her pulse flutter like the wings of a trapped bird.

  Seconds after, his free hand slipped beneath her skirt and covered her knee. For long, long moments, he teased her there before sliding ever so slowly upward, beyond the top of her stocking, to find the bare skin of her thigh. Heat ignited inside her, spreading with the force of a wildfire, a demanding ache centering low between her legs. Shifting her slightly, he ravished her mouth anew, drawing her into an intense by-play of lips and tongues. Caught in the glory of his kiss, she didn’t notice that his hand had moved again until he lay his palm over the place where she ached the most.

  Her closed eyelids sprang open at the unexpected touch, pulling free of his kiss. “Oh! What are you…” Without thinking, her hand swept down from his shoulder and caught hold of his wrist through the cloth of her gown. “Stop.”

  “Stop?” he panted, meeting her gaze, barely banked passion mixing with confusion in his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because I…” She broke off, not knowing how to answer, nor even how she truly felt. His every touch until now had been bliss and would surely continue to be. Yet she shouldn’t be doing this, should she?

  His eyes narrowed suddenly. “Surely he touched you here before?”

  He who?

  Reacting spontaneously, she shook her head—answering honestly, since no one had ever touched her there, especially a man. A second later, though, her thoughts focused enough for her to make sense of his question. She stiffened. Dear Lord, he must mean my supposed husband! Suddenly she began to struggle, trying her best to climb off his lap. Instead he kept her in place, though he did move his hand down to her thigh.

  Mercy, what have I done? she thought, heart hammering in her chest.

  “So he bedded you, but did naught else?” Vessey demanded in a hard yet gentle voice. When she said nothing, he continued. “He sounds like a lout.”

  “No, he wasn’t, not at all,” she said, leaping to the defense of her husband—even if he was fictitious. “He was very…kind and…gentle. But we…we were both…” Yes, she thought half panicked, what were we?

  “Young,” the marquis supplied. “Is that what you are trying to say?”

  “Yes. We were young. Now, you need to let me go. I should not be doing this, nor should I have come out here with you. It was a mistake and I am sorry for it.”

  “Are you?” he murmured. “I am not.”

  But clearly knowing the mood was now irreparably shattered, he slid his hand from beneath her skirt. Taking hold of her hem, he smoothed the material down her legs to cover them properly again. Reaching up, he gently straightened her bodice, working his magic in reverse on her stays as he put her clothing to rights.

  Trembling, she remembered him doing the same for her when they’d been together in his coach. How is it, she wondered, that he can so scatter my every thought that I find myself at his mercy time and time again?

  When he was done, she tried again to climb off his lap, but he refused, holding her where she sat.

  Meeting his beautiful amber gaze, she decided to try the unvarnished truth. “My lord, this”—she paused to wave a hand—“whatever it is between us must end. Surely you can see that. I may be a…widow, and I admit that perhaps I have given you cause to think I am interested in taking a…” Her sentence trailed off.

  “Lover,” he offered.

  Warmth crept into her cheeks. “Yes. But I am not. Truly, in spite of tonight, I want no man in my bed.”

  He paused, tipping his golden head slightly to one side. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Quite sure.”

  Smiling, he lifted a palm and laid it boldly over one of her breasts, openly caressing her flesh.

  Her pulse gave a hard kick, her nipple beading into a betraying point.

  “Are you still sure?” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive nub.

  When she shivered and sighed, he laughed. Bending forward, he dusted a kiss across her lips, then stood her on her feet.

  “Go on for tonight. We’ll speak of this later.”

  Her brows drew together. “No, I…we shall not speak of this later. I do not wish to have an affair, my lord.”

  “Ethan. Don’t you think, under the circumstances, that it is a bit late for such formality?”

  “No, my lord, I do not.”

  He laughed again. “You are a delight. Now, run on and let Ottwell take you home, since I needn’t worry he’ll make it past your front door.” Catching her hand inside his own, he brought her palm to his lips and pressed a kiss onto its center.

  Her toes curled against the inside of her slippers—traitorous toes that they are, she thought inconsequentially.

  Knowing she had better leave while she still had the strength of will to do so, Lily whirled and hurried toward the house.

  Remaining seated, Ethan watched her, his eyes following until she disappeared from view. Only then did he allow himself to climb to his feet. Knowing he needed to protect her reputation, he decided to stay in the darkened garden a while longer. If he did not, he feared he might be tempted to go after her again despite having sent her on her way.

  Even now, his loins throbbed, demanding a satisfaction he knew he would not be finding tonight. Nor for many more nights to come, if he didn’t miss his guess.

  So she believes she doesn’t want a lover?

  Her mind might tell her that, but her body clearly knew otherwise. Despite the failures of her obviously inexpert husband, she was an extremely passionate woman. He need only coax her into seeing that too, into taking pleasure in the responses of her own body, and she would be his.

  Until then, he would need to be patient.

  Perhaps tonight should have dissuaded him. After all, widows were supposed to be experienced, women who understood the act of physical love in all its forms and permutations. Yet Lily did not seem to possess a similar level of experience. In spite of what she had revealed—or perhaps because of it—he found himself wanting her all the more. There were many reasons he ought to do as she asked, and relinquish his pursuit of her. God knows, they would probably both be better off, since he knew these things rarely turned out well in the end.

&
nbsp; But he had to have her. Anything less would just not do.

  Chapter Eight

  SEATED AT HER bedroom dressing table two mornings later, Lily let her maid, Susan, pin her thick hair into a fashionably elegant upsweep, a few short strands left to curl in becoming disarray against her temples and cheeks. With the exception of those deliberately trimmed pieces, Lily’s cropped hair had grown dramatically over the past several weeks, the additional inches making Susan’s efforts increasingly easier to achieve.

  Forcing herself to sit still, Lily smothered a yawn, tired despite what should have been a restful night’s slumber. Instead, she’d slept very little, tossing and turning against her mattress for the second night in a row. And all because of one particular man.

  Lord Vessey.

  Ethan, as he’d told her to call him, his voice a seductive whisper in her memory.

  But no, she scolded herself, I will not permit myself to think of him in such familiar terms. Doing so will only invite weakness, and that is something I cannot afford.

  As it stood now, she was far too susceptible to his blandishments. Thinking of him in intimate terms would only make her more so. But dear heavens, it was hard not to think of him, especially after the torrid embrace they’d shared in the Pendragons’ moonlit garden.

  Without meaning to do so, her eyelids drooped, sliding shut as memories stole into her drowsy mind. How wonderful she’d felt clasped inside his arms, her body trembling as she nearly drowned beneath the pleasure of his ardent kisses and passionate caresses.

  What would have happened if I’d let him continue? What would he have done, and how delicious might his further touches have felt?

  Her eyes popped open, her body tingling to her great mortification. Ignoring any damage such a move might cause to her coiffure, she leaned forward and picked up her cup of morning tea. Drinking deeply, she prayed the hot beverage would conceal the real reason for the sudden wash of color in her cheeks.

  “Oh, ma’am, I need you to hold still a tad bit longer,” Susan said. “I’ll be done in a thrice.”

  Resuming her prior position, Lily allowed the girl to work. As she did, Lily tried to review her list of duties for the day—a meeting this morning with her housekeeper about the servants’ schedule, then an hour in her study going over the household accounts. Later would be lunch with Davina, and this evening she planned to attend a musicale—a small entertainment she prayed would have no appeal to a man of Lord Vessey’s interests.

  When will I see him again? she wondered.

  She knew she would not be able to avoid him for long. If she didn’t miss her guess, he would seek her out soon if their paths did not cross again in the next couple of days. After all, he’d been quite open in expressing his wishes.

  He wants me as his lover.

  And what do I want?

  She had come to London in order to live independently, free from the demands of men, unburdened by the shackles of marriage. And on that score, her wishes remained unchanged.

  Not that Lord Vessey had ever mentioned the subject of marriage. In fact, she had the distinct impression wedded bliss was not something he desired any more than she did herself. And therein lay the crux of her dilemma.

  Passion.

  Her breath grew shallow at the mere thought, her tongue suddenly dry despite the tea she had drunk only a minute ago.

  Before meeting the marquis, she hadn’t given any thought to the idea of engaging in an amorous relationship with a man. For one thing she was a virgin, innocent of such needs and temptations. At least that was what she had thought until Ethan had come into her life. Kissing him that first time in the coach had been devastating enough, but she’d put the memory aside, believing he was part of her past. Then the night of the ball he’d shaken her world again, his touches and kisses awakening her senses as though he had ignited a blazing spark inside her.

  And will that spark burn me if I let it? If I let him?

  “There you are, ma’am,” Susan announced, sending Lily a cheerful smile in the mirror. “All done.”

  Forcing aside her inner musings, Lily studied the results. “Lovely as always. My thanks.”

  Satisfied that her task was now complete, the maid moved to one side of the dressing table and began tidying the items scattered across the polished rosewood surface.

  Lily stood and crossed to the window, barely bothering to gaze out. “Susan, would you mind finishing that later?”

  The girl paused and glanced up. “Oh, of course not. I’ve your gown to press for tonight anyway.”

  After her maid departed, Lily walked to her large bed with its pretty yellow draperies and matching counterpane. Sinking onto the soft goose-down mattress, her gaze fell upon her night table and the circular, painted miniature of her mother that rested there in a place of honor. Picking up the tiny portrait, she gazed at the beloved face, the likeness wrought when her mother had been young—not much older than Lily was now.

  I miss you, Mama, she thought, her heart squeezing achingly inside her chest. How I wish you were here so I could talk to you and take comfort in your counsel.

  Even as the thoughts passed through her mind, Lily realized that she would never have been able to share her present feelings of desire for Lord Vessey with her mother. Despite the unbreakable bond they had shared, her mother would not have understood, nor even countenanced the idea. Gently bred young ladies must save themselves for marriage—that would have been her mother’s belief.

  Yet what of a young lady who planned never to marry? Was such a woman to remain innocent and untouched all her life? Most would say yes, her mother included.

  But what do I say?

  A rumbling meow interrupted her musings as a large brown-and-black-striped cat leapt up onto the bed. Padding across the counterpane on a set of generously sized paws, he angled his body and rubbed against her side. Lifting a hand, she stroked over his silky back from head to tail, deciding to ignore the trail of cat fur she knew he must be leaving in his wake. Apparently approving her movements, he nudged his head into her hand and began to purr, kneading his paws against her thigh.

  “So, Mouser,” she murmured, “what do you think?”

  He meowed again as if answering her query.

  Lily laughed, a smile breaking over her face. “Well, thank you, sir, for your opinion. What’s that? You think his lordship is right? Well, you would take his side, would you not, considering you and he are both tomcats.”

  She stroked Mouser again and scratched his head, eliciting an even louder round of purring. A couple of minutes later, the cat sprang off the bed and glided toward a patch of morning sunlight on the carpeted floor. Lying down, he began to groom his coat.

  With a sigh, she placed her mother’s miniature back on the night table, her thoughts turning toward home. By now she assumed her stepfather had ceased any efforts to search for her, concluding that she must indeed have drowned at sea. He would have had a funeral, resenting the cost she was sure but wanting to present a façade of grief to the community. He’d probably even had a grave dug and buried a coffin, empty though it might be, and erected a headstone. How peculiar to think of her name chiseled there—Lily Bainbridge—dead to all who had known her. She supposed she really was Lily Smythe now, her old self and her old life gone forever.

  So where did that leave her with Lord Vessey?

  The same place she had been before, she realized. He was a weakness she simply could not afford to indulge. And so, when next they met, she would refuse him again, making it clear that they would not be lovers. For though she might desire him, she could not allow herself to succumb to his charms. Undoubtedly such an interlude would be pleasurable—very pleasurable, she decided with a small inner shiver—but she couldn’t take the risk. Clearly, he would not like her answer, but he was a gentleman and would abide by her wishes.

  Now she had to steel her resolve and convince herself that only being his friend was what she wanted.

  Early the next afternoo
n, Ethan secured the bouquet of flowers he carried beneath his arm, then rapped one gloved hand on the front-door knocker of Lily Smythe’s townhouse.

  He supposed he ought to have sent a note to let her know he planned to call, but he hadn’t wanted to give her the opportunity to “miss” his visit. As it was, he was taking a chance since she might very well be out shopping or calling upon friends. He didn’t think she would be with Davina Coates, however, since he had it from a very reliable source that Geoffrey Coates’s notoriously difficult mother was visiting for the week. Having met the old harridan a time or two, he pitied poor Davina, who would be at her mother-in-law’s constant beck and call with no time for her own personal amusements.

  The door opened, a middle-aged servant—the butler, no doubt—eyeing him and his floral offering with obvious curiosity. “Good afternoon,” the man said.

  “Good afternoon.” Ethan withdrew his card, a stiff rectangle of pristine white, and handed it to the servant.

  The man’s eyes widened as he read the name engraved on its surface. “My lord, please come inside.”

  With a nod, Ethan crossed into the foyer.

  Juggling the flowers, he drew off his gloves, taking a moment to glance around at the attractive décor with its polished marble floor, warm caramel-colored walls, and select Hepplewhite furnishings. A beautiful green ground Sèvres jardinière stood as a focal point on top of a fine walnut marquetry hall table, ormolu branches of porcelain jonquils extending from its top.

  Lily has excellent taste, he decided. Then again, he would have expected nothing less.

  “Is your mistress at home?” he asked.

  “If you would care to have a seat in the withdrawing room, my lord, I will inquire.”

  Ethan allowed himself to be placed inside the room. Yet less than a minute after the butler departed, he decided to follow, instinct urging him not to give Lily the chance to send him packing. Walking up the stairs and down a hallway, he found his way by listening for the sound of voices. Stopping at the open doorway of a sitting room, he gazed inside just as she was answering the servant.