His Favorite Mistress Page 15

  “Very true.” Resignation settled into her green gaze. “But I can see you will not visit me. Adieu then, Tony. I refuse to say good-bye.”

  And yet in that moment he realized that is exactly what their parting was—good-bye.

  Across the room, Gabriella watched the tableau unfolding between Wyvern and an utterly exquisite blonde woman whose name she did not know. Even as she danced, she’d found a way to keep them in her sight, her heart giving an uncomfortable squeeze at seeing the pair of them laugh and flirt together.

  Who is she? Gabriella wondered, not liking how close together they were standing, nor the playful manner in which the blonde touched Wyvern every now and again, pausing occasionally to stroke him with her fan. Whoever she might be, it was obvious they knew each other well—how well was the question?

  Surely she isn’t his mistress? Gabriella thought, although once she considered the idea, she began to strongly suspect that might indeed be the case. Naïve of her, she supposed, to imagine that Wyvern wouldn’t have a lover. A man like the duke undoubtedly had strong needs, and no lack of women willing to satisfy them.

  Growing up as she had, she knew far more about such matters than most girls her age, even if she wasn’t familiar with all of the specific details of such arrangements. She realized as well that many married women and widows of the Ton took lovers, most seeing nothing amiss in sharing their sexual favors outside the bonds of matrimony.

  So which one was the blonde—widow or wife? And what was she to Wyvern—his current mistress, or only a former one? Neither answer sat well with her, a bitter taste suddenly forming on her tongue.

  To her immense relief, the dance soon ended. With a gracious smile, she allowed her partner to escort her from the floor. She was chatting with a group of gentlemen when Lord Carlow arrived.

  He made her an impressive bow. “Miss St. George.”

  “My lord,” she replied, giving him an easy smile.

  “I have been waiting half the evening for our dance, and I believe the time has now arrived. If these other gentlemen will excuse us, shall we depart?”

  A small round of good-natured complaints rose into the air as her coterie of admirers tried to dissuade her from accepting. Instead she laughed and showed them her dance card to prove Carlow right. With a trail of disappointed sighs, she took his arm and let him lead her away.

  As he did, her gaze fell again on the mysterious blonde, the unpleasant taste returning to her mouth despite the fact that the woman was no longer standing with Wyvern. She scanned the crowd for him, a frown furrowing her brows when her search proved fruitless.

  “Is anything wrong?” Carlow inquired. “You look a bit pained.”

  “Oh, no no, it’s nothing,” she lied. “Only a faint touch of the headache that comes upon me every now and again. I am sure it will pass directly.”

  “Would you be more comfortable if we did not dance? Perhaps a stroll instead?”

  Glancing up, she met his open gray eyes. “A stroll would be pleasant, if you are certain you would not mind.”

  “Not a bit. Come, let us promenade.”

  They were halfway around the room when they came to a set of double doors, open to the night. Before she knew his intention, he drew her over the threshold and out onto the shadow-draped terrace.

  “I thought the fresh air might do your headache some good,” he volunteered. “The ballroom has grown rather warm and close, but if you would rather return—”

  “No,” she said, relaxing at his explanation. “You are right. A draught of air is most likely just what I need.”

  And the night breeze was refreshing, she decided, as they strolled at a leisurely pace away from the noise and light of the ballroom. The air was fragrant with the scents of earth and blossoming flowers rather than hair pomade and perfume. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes for a brief moment to better savor the fragrance. “Oh, just smell the lilacs! Are they not divine?”

  “Hmm, they are indeed,” he agreed as he drew to a halt. “But not nearly as divine as you.”

  Her eyes popped open an instant later as he shifted to take her in his arms. “My lord! What are you doing?”

  “What I have been dying to do for ages.”

  She set her hands against his chest, intending to push him away, but then she stopped. Maybe she should let him kiss her. Maybe she ought to find out what it was like to know the touch of another man. After all, she had no means of comparison, only her experiences with Wyvern—devastating as those had been. Perhaps Lord Carlow would prove an even more adept lover than the duke, although she had her doubts. With thoughts of Wyvern and the gorgeous blonde still fresh in her mind, she let herself be convinced. With a shiver, she waited for Carlow’s mouth to touch hers.

  The moment it did, she knew she had made a mistake, as his lips moved with warmth and urgency against her own. Though his touch was pleasant and his technique quite skilled, no sparks sizzled through her bloodstream, no dizzying surfeit of pleasure rose up to cloud her brain and ease her inhibitions. Disappointment sank within her like a leaden weight. She’d so been hoping she would adore his kiss, but all she could think about was the duke and the fact that Carlow’s touch could not compare.

  Why can’t he be Tony? Why can’t I want him like Tony? But she did not, and there was nothing to do but put an end to the illusion. Sliding her palms upward again she pressed against his chest to let him know she wished to stop.

  Only he did not stop.

  Instead, he tightened his hold and kissed her harder. Her heart fluttered—and not with desire—as she pushed again, turning her head this time to break his embrace.

  “Enough!” she said on a muffled cry. “Stop, my lord!”

  Ignoring her, he once again sought her lips, but she eluded him so that all he was able to do was graze her cheek. Struggling, she fought to be free.

  “You know you want me,” he said, refusing to release her. “Quit the maidenly pretense and let that hot blood of yours flow. Give me what both of us want.”

  “What I don’t want!” she cried. “I don’t want you! Let me go!”

  He laughed, the sound sending a quiver of dread along her spine. How could she have so misjudged him? How could she have allowed herself to get into this predicament? She opened her mouth to scream, then closed it again, realizing that once everyone came running, her reputation truly would be in tatters, absolutely irreparable. It wouldn’t matter that he was forcing her, all Society would see was that she was in an improper embrace with a man. She would be ruined, her only hope marriage—to him!

  Struggling harder, she lifted her foot and gave him a hard kick in the shin. He grunted in obvious pain, a sneer turning his handsome features cruel. His arms squeezed harder, cutting off part of her air, then his mouth took hers, forcing his tongue between her lips despite her attempts to extricate herself. She bit at him and wished she’d let out a good loud scream no matter the consequences.

  Long moments passed, her heart hammering so loudly she could hear it inside her ears. Then without warning, she was free, stumbling back a few steps as Carlow was wrenched bodily away. Fists sailed through the air, the sound of flesh beating against flesh giving off sickening thuds.

  “How dare you touch her, you filthy cur! I should kill you for this!”

  Wyvern! Thank God it was Wyvern.

  Despite the concealing darkness, she had no trouble making out his familiar form, nor that of Lord Carlow, who was now sprawled on the stone surface of the terrace.

  “Get up so I can hit you again,” taunted the duke, his fists clenched at his sides.

  But Carlow stayed down, leaning over to spit out a mouthful of blood. Digging in his pocket for a handkerchief, he carefully wiped his lips.

  “Coward!” Wyvern declared.

  Carlow gave no argument.

  “I should call you out for this,” the duke continued, “but you aren’t worth the scandal. Get up and go, else I change my mind and demand satisfaction, after all. Fra
nkly, I’d relish a chance to have at you with a sword or a pistol. I don’t believe you’d care for the outcome either way.”

  Carlow cringed, refusing to look at Gabriella as he climbed to his feet. Moments later, he melted into the darkness, moving around the house so he wouldn’t have to return to the ballroom. Only then did Gabriella allow herself to react, shivers racking her body so she visibly trembled where she stood.

  Wyvern stepped forward and drew her against one shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, leaning into his strength, her skin goose-pimpled with cold despite the warm night air. “I’m all right,” she whispered. “At least I am now.”

  He held her for another long moment, then set her from him. “Of all the stupid ideas! What were you thinking? Coming out here alone with him?”

  “I—”

  “Did you learn nothing?” he stated in a harsh, low-pitched voice made all the worse for his control. “Especially after I warned you about him? What if I hadn’t come upon you when I did? What if he’d managed to do far worse than steal a few kisses?”

  “He brought me outside for some air, or so he claimed,” she said, her lower lip quivering. “With the ballroom so near, I didn’t think I needed to worry.”

  “Well, you did, didn’t you? If he’d lured you out into the garden, he could have done anything.”

  Pressure built inside her chest, a tear escaping to roll down her cheek. Before she could prevent it, a second tear followed, landing in a salty splash on the bare flesh above her décolleté.

  Wyvern cursed under his breath, then reached up to brush the moisture from her face. “Shh, don’t cry. God, I hate it when women cry.”

  Another tear slid free. “I’m s-sorry.”

  He drew her once more against his shoulder. “Hush, everything will be well.” Reaching inside his coat, he withdrew a handkerchief. “Here,” he said, passing her the silk square. “Dry your eyes.”

  Wiping her cheeks, she fought to get her emotions under control. Sniffing twice, she allowed one last tear to slide free before she successfully willed away the urge to burst into a watery torrent. A long minute elapsed, Wyvern’s silence giving her more time to recover.

  “Do you feel up to returning to the ball?” he finally ventured in a soft voice.

  The ball? In the last few minutes, she had forgotten all about the festivities still taking place inside the townhouse. Some of her distress must have shown, since Wyvern continued before she could answer. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll send word inside to Rafe and Julianna and let them know that I’ll be driving you home. We’ll say you aren’t feeling well, which, as it happens, is the truth.”

  “That would be most welcome…if you are sure you do not mind.”

  “Of course I don’t. Now, let me take you out through the library. No one but the footmen will see us that way.”

  Less than half an hour later, Gabriella leaned back into a corner of Wyvern’s sumptuously appointed coach, London passing by beyond the glass-paned windows, the blinds half drawn to keep out curious glances. With his usual easy efficiency, the duke had taken care of every detail, escorting her from the house without any need for excuses, then settling her comfortably inside his vehicle while he composed a brief note and sent it off with a footman for delivery.

  Then they had been on their way.

  He is still angry, she decided, given the fact that he hadn’t said a word to her since leaving the Eckfords’ townhouse five minutes ago. With a shiver, she leaned more deeply against the plump, velvet-covered squabs, their rich, sumptuous brown appearing black in the darkness. Sprawled in the opposite corner, Wyvern sat shrouded in shadows as well, only the lower half of his face visible upon occasion when they passed beneath the glow of a streetlamp, his square, heavily masculine jaw looking severe and unyielding in the subdued light.

  Tears threatened to start again, but she refused to let them fall. There would be plenty of time for such weakness once she reached the safety of her bedchamber. What a little dunce she was to trust Carlow. And how lucky that Wyvern had stepped in to save her—again!

  “I am sorry,” she blurted, her voice slicing through the daggerlike quiet. “I am sure you are thoroughly sick of me, as I nearly ruined my reputation tonight after you worked so hard these past weeks to restore it. It was stupid of me to go with him. I have no excuse other than my own callow folly.”

  Silence descended once more, her chest aching a bit at his lack of response.

  “Is that what you think?” he bit out abruptly. “That I am annoyed that you might have undone my so-called hard work? Were your success in Society not directly linked to your current and future happiness, I wouldn’t give a flip about your reputation. Good Lord, Gabriella, I care about you, not some supposed slight to my pride. Carlow might have violated you, do you realize that? It makes me sick to think of the ways he could have harmed you.”

  “But he did not,” she said, warmth spreading over her skin at Wyvern’s concern. “Because of you.”

  After a pause, he reached out a hand. “Come here.”

  Without hesitating she stood, crossing quickly to sink down next to him.

  He clasped her palm inside his own. “My heart nearly stopped when I saw you struggling with him,” he told her in a thick voice. “The blackguard. I should have murdered him where he stood.”

  “No, you did the right thing. You stopped him and sent him away. I would not wish his blood to be on your hands. He isn’t worth that.”

  “You’re right. He is worthless. Still, I’ll make sure he comes to regret ever laying hands upon you.”

  “But you said—”

  “Don’t worry. My methods will be completely nonviolent. There are more ways than combat to make a point.”

  A quiver traced through her, leaving her glad she was not on the receiving end of his wrath.

  “So why did you go out there with him?” he demanded a moment later, his tone seemingly calm.

  She paused before answering. “I told you. We went out for the air.”

  “Hmm, so you said. Nothing else?”

  “No. At least not on my part. Honestly, I had no idea that was why he decided to take me outside. I thought we were only strolling.”

  “Did you let him kiss you?”

  She flinched, wishing she didn’t feel compelled to admit the truth. “I…yes, at first, but I wanted him to stop almost immediately. He…he was otherwise inclined.”

  “That much was apparent. You’re too damned beautiful for your own good, do you know that? When you’re at a ball, half the men in the room pant after you, while the other half wishes they could.”

  Her heart leapt at his words. “What of you? What do you wish?”

  “Gabriella,” he warned with a faint growl.

  “Your Grace,” she returned. “And so, who was that blonde woman by the way?”

  “Which blonde woman?”

  “The one with whom you were talking. The one with the decidedly flirtatious manner and the overly friendly fan.”

  His eyebrows lowered in a thoughtful scowl, then smoothed out again as recognition dawned. “Oh, her. Just an old acquaintance, no one with whom you need bother.”

  “Is she your mistress?”

  “You certainly don’t mince words.”

  Gabriella refused to be put off. “Is she?”

  “No,” he stated. “She is not.”

  “Was she ever?”

  “Adam’s apples, you’re beyond bold! I do not believe I am required to answer such personal queries.”

  “Ah, so I am right, she was.”

  His eyes gleamed, their midnight-blue shade nearly black in the evening shadows. “Yes, she was, but it ended quite a while ago.”

  “What about now? Is there someone else?” she persisted, her pulse quickening with equal measures dread and determination. No matter the answer, she had to know.

  A long silence hung in the air. “No, there is no one at present.”


  Relieved pleasure flooded through her veins. So he had no mistress currently. The question was why, and what might it mean?

  “Now I believe you should return to your seat,” he said.

  From his implacable tone, she could tell he meant exactly what he said. She also knew he was not in the mood for further questioning. Deciding it easiest to acquiesce, she shifted forward to climb to her feet. Abruptly, the coach swayed, bumping her against the seat. Despite the excellent padding, a streak of pain shot through her upper arm and shoulder.

  “Ow!” she cried.

  His scowl returned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Gingerly, she rubbed a hand over the abused area. “Nothing of import. Just a couple of bruises.”

  “Bruises? Where would you have gotten…why that bastard! Here, let me see.”

  “See what? The marks? I am sure they’re under my dress. Besides, it’s too dark to make out such a thing.”

  “Let me determine if that’s true.” Shifting, he caught her in a gentle grasp and leaned her closer to the window. With careful fingers, he pushed up the edge of one of her short sleeves. Mellow golden light from a passing streetlamp filtered inside, revealing an obvious row of finger-shaped smudges set in purple against her white skin.

  Drawing a harsh breath, Wyvern stroked a thumb over her injured flesh. “I ought to go back and run him through. He deserves that and far, far worse. How dare he mark you!”

  “They’re only bruises. They shall fade.”

  “He should not have touched you. I don’t know how you could have let him, even a little.”

  “I wanted to know,” she whispered, her breath growing shallow.

  His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Know what?”

  “If I liked his kiss the way I like yours.” She swallowed. “If I could possibly lose myself in another man’s embrace.”

  A spark of hot blue fire flashed inside his eyes. “I don’t want you ever taking such risks again, do you hear? In fact, you are to avoid kissing men.”

  Her lips parted. “All men?”

  “Every one,” he ordered in a rough tone, his gaze lowering to her lips. “Every one, that is…but me.”