A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (5 page)

Chapter Four

There
was a sudden lull in the low rumble of voices.

All
around, men came to attention, their gazes focusing in on Miranda. Their faces brightened,
their eyes widened and they seemed to stand taller.

A
stab of pure male pride hit Adrian, shocking him.

He
had thought himself above such an emotion.

It
was unworthy.

A
man did not gain anything in himself from merely having a beautiful, well-dressed,
well-coifed woman at his side.

Yet,
still that feeling was there. He tried to push it down but it wouldn’t be
vanquished or suppressed. It filled him with a sense of renewed energy,
anticipation and an undeniable joy to be male and alive.

Again,
she was bringing out things in him he’d rather not have to admit. Showing him
sides of himself he had not even guessed lurked under the control he tried to
maintain. Under the image of himself as something better than his father and
his grandfather.

Excessive
drinking, hard fucking, feckless gambling, rash decisions, maudlin emotional
self-indulgence—He had thought to escape the weaknesses of the Sutherland men.

But
had he?

The
decision to keep company with Miranda had been a rash one.

How
soon until he began making rash decisions that would affect his carefully
rebuilt finances and reputation?

Several
of the brasher young puppies called out to Miranda or made sounds to indicate
their general pleasure in seeing her. Their hopes to attain her affections.

Adrian
realized that he had increased his hold on her arm. Without thinking.

But
was it natural protectiveness or something worse, like base possessiveness?

“I
love you, Miss Jones!”

The
impassioned call cut into Adrian’s thoughts.

Laughter
erupted.

Adrian
glanced at Miranda, and found her making eye contact with the Earl of Dawlings,
the young heir to the Duke of Alnwick.

Miranda
smiled then placed her closed fan to her lips. Briefly.

Hot,
bilious jealous burned through Adrian’s gut.

Miranda could feel the tension pouring off
Adrian. Dressed to fashionable perfection in his expertly tailored dark evening
attire, his magnificently, darkly gorgeous looks and leanly-muscled masculine
build had drawn many feminine eyes, something that had provoked Miranda’s
jealousy. But it was Miranda he had selected as his mistress. Miranda that he
was so madly, deeply, desperately in love with.

Why then was he sitting beside her here in
this luxurious private box, his back rigid, his expression stony? With her
heart in her throat, she attempted a smile at him.

He did not even look her way.

She turned her attention back to the theatre
with its glittering chandeliers and all the ladies in their elegant evening
attire and their gentlemen in their dark clothes. She began to feel overheated,
a little lightheaded.

She took out her fan and began to cool her
face.

She had known they shouldn’t come out
together so soon and face the world. She had known they ought to strengthen
what they had together, alone. Well, she ought to have used all her wiles, all
her skills to
make
him stay at home.

But she hadn’t wanted things to be with
Adrian as they had been with Carrville. She wanted them to be something
different. Something real.

Suddenly, Adrian leapt to his feet and jerked
the curtains to their box closed.

With her heart pounding, she gazed up at
him, her mouth falling open. “Adrian?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even appear to have
heard her.

He was staring down at her.

No, not starting. Scowling.

“You offered the Earl of Dawlings a kiss,
with your fan, did you not?”

She caught her breath. Some habits continued
without thought. She shook her head. “He’s just a boy.”

“He’s young but he’s no boy.”

She turned her palms up in a gesture of
designed to ask for pity. “He’s terribly self-conscious, especially around
women. I simply try to be nice, to be encouraging.”

“He made you a respectable offer of support
not so long ago, did he not?”

She put her hand to her collarbone as shock
washed over her. “How would you know
that
?”

“His older sister was appalled. She told
Dorothy.”

Dorothy.
Adrian’s sister-in-law and lover.
How intimately her
name rolled off his tongue.

Jealousy coursed through Miranda’s veins.
Did Adrian intend to continue to see his noble lady lover?

She had been so giddily happy the past hours
that she had not even thought to ask.

“I rejected his offer.”

“Because you were waiting for Froster to
make his?”

Indignation washed over. “No, my lord,
because Dawlish is too young to be making any courtesan such an offer.”

“Eighteen is not
that
young.”

She lifted her chin. “It is for him. He’s
not the same as other young men. He has been slower to mature. He doesn’t even
know his own mind yet.”

Adrian frowned and crossed his arms over his
chest, all but glowering now.

She spent a moment or two, cooling her face,
the subject of the fierce scowl. Then she dropped her fan and sighed. “It was
thoughtless of me to have made the gesture. It was just… habit.”

He didn’t soften.

“I am sorry, my lord.”

She hoped he would accept that and return to
his seat. He kept studying her.

“Must you wear such…” he paused then his
frown deepened as he made a sweeping gesture over her bodice. “Must you wear
such sparkly attire?”

The consternation stamped on his handsome
face, the sharpness of his voice, made her catch her breath.

She ran a hand over the jets on her
sapphire-colored bodice, too shocked by his change of mood to gather her wits
enough to respond. She glanced down and stared at the glittering jets, as
though she might be able to see the answer there.

“Yes, that,” he said gritty.

She jerked her gazed back to his.

He was still scowling, his jaw held tightly.

“You object to this gown?” Disbelief rang in
her tone. He had just said earlier how much he admired her in the garment. How
well the color suited her.

His sensual mouth twisted, giving his
expression just a touch of self-mockery. “What I object to is the attention it
draws to you.” His voice became a little hoarse. “To your breasts.”

He brought his hand close above the
offending bodice and allowed the back of his hand to caress where her breasts
swelled.

The touch of his smooth leather glove sent a
shiver of pleasure tingling over her flesh. Her nipples pulled tight. A volley
of reactive shivers shuddered deep, deep into her belly. However, the continued
sternness of his expression sent an edge of apprehension through her. Making
her mouth dry.

She licked her lips.

He looked up at her.

His vivid blue gaze seemed even more
luminescent in the soft lamplight. The beauty transfixed her.

“I am a courtesan,” she said, making her
voice as soft, as tender as she could. “This is how all my gowns are. They are
meant to—”

“They are meant to tease and torment men
with lust.”

“They are meant to highlight my role. To
maintain the stylish image that others expect.”

“Hmm” he said, his tone a degree softer.

Yet, she sensed the tension underneath and
she watched as he settled his hand into the valley between her breasts. Cold
metal touched her.

His signet ring.

There was something indecent about that proper,
official emblem of his family name, his rank pressed to her intimate flesh.
Here, in public, so close to his peers and even more scandalously the
daughters, sisters and wives of his peers.

The sight was also flagrantly erotic.

“You mean your role and the image others
expect from a courtesan?” he asked, his voice low and oddly, coldly sensual.

“Yes,” she said.

“And here I thought you were something
altogether different now.”

“Oh,” she said.

He pressed his knuckles more firmly, the
metal pressing her softness.

Marking her with his family crest.

“Miranda.” His voice held a note of censure.
“You are no longer a courtesan, a girl whose time and attentions one might
purchase for the right price.”

He continued to press his signet ring into
the tender valley between her breasts.

That combined with his words, sent a shiver
down her spine.

Her heart began to hammer against her chest
wall. Her mouth went even drier.

“Adrian…” She made her voice soft, a tender
appeal.

His jaw hardened, his gaze turned cold.
“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” she asked, her voice hoarse
with her quickening breath.

“Don’t use your courtesan’s wiles on me.”

“I
am
a courtesan,” she said, firmly.
“I must keep my image intact, no matter if I happen to belong to you at present
or not.”

“I see.” His voice had gone soft.

That softness held a steely edge that sent
more chills of apprehension down her spine. But if only she could make him
understand. Then he would see things differently. She swallowed, hard, and went
on, trying to explain. “I must pay attention to how I appear when I am out in
Society.”

He nodded, jerkily. “Of course, you must
keep all your options open.”

She held up a forestalling hand, pressing it
against his lapel, her glove glowing white against the dark wool. “No, no I
didn’t mean it like that.”

“It is the truth, though, isn’t it?” He
laughed, softly, the sound held the edge of bitter cynicism.

“Adrian…”

“Never lie to me. We both know that you
aren’t exactly maximizing your options. All you need is to find a gentleman who
sympathizes better with your… limits than Froster did.”

The mention of the Duke of Froster brought
to mind all the advantage noblemen held over her. Brought to mind her need for
their financial support, for their protection.

Aristocrats held all the power.

They always had.

They always would.

And now she had allowed herself to fall in
love with one of them.

She had delivered herself right into the
jaws of the lion.

With a rising sense of panic, she mindlessly
glanced about the box for the exit.

His chair made a groaning creak as he lunged
towards her. His arm latched about her waist. She made to jump to her feet but
his body was a solid, immovable barrier to her escape. His arm tightened like
an iron band.

Her heart’s beat increased all the harder.

He pressed her down into the chair and bent
over her. The scent of his cologne swept over her.

Imprisoned by his tall, leanly muscled body,
she felt arousal and real fear of his masculine strength war within her.

He leaned into her neck, his breath hot
against her ear. “You’re mine.” His arm tightened about her waist. His teeth
grazed the hollow beneath her ear.

Sparks of pleasure went chasing down to her
nipples, making them harden.

“You’re mine now.”

Emotions rose within her. Too many and too
conflicting for her to handle. She cried out with the intensity of them.

He bit at her neck, lightly. But not too
lightly. “Mine.”

His mouth fastened on her neck, kissing,
licking, sucking, as though he were starving for the taste of her.

Wetness flooded between her legs. The sudden
surge of desire confused her. Then her heart thudded with pure fear. She pushed
at him, hard.

He tightened his hold. “I won’t stand for
infidelity.”

“Adrian…”

“You needn’t parade yourself around in
glittering gowns, paint on your face, reeking of your expensive
perfumes—enticing the offers of other men. You have me now.”
Her brain finally focused on one single thought. “You’ll tire of me!”

“No. Never.”

“Yes…” She swallowed. “Yes! You will. All
noblemen tire of their toys.”

“Miranda—”

“No, you listen to me now!” Her voice was a
sharp whisper. “I know you’ll tire of me and then I’ll need someone else… a new
protector. You can’t ask that I become dowdy and—”

“Find someone else?” He growled the words against
her neck. “Did you not listen to me? You belong to me now.”