A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (6 page)

“Now yes. For now, I am yours, all yours.”
She attempted to assure him, to touch his cheek, not because she had softened
but because she sought to soften him.

To gain an advantage that she might use to
escape. To assuage that gnawing, clawing sense that she must run now.

Or she would lose herself.

Possibly forever.

He grasped her hand, roughly. “I’ll never
let you go.”

“Yes, it is the way of the world.” She
couldn’t help letting her bitterness bleed into her tone.

“It is not the way between us.”

“You can’t
know
that.”

“I know that you are mine now.” He gripped
her jaw and lowered his head as though he would kiss her.

“I’ve told you before my lord.” Her voice
shook and she stiffened herself, attempting to steel herself and glared at him.
“I will not tolerate force.”

Suddenly, he seemed to change, his body
froze against hers. “You’re shaking.” He let go her chin then touched her bared
arms, above her long gloves.

She flinched.

“Are you cold?” he asked, running his hands
lightly up and down.

She shook her head. She wasn’t cold. She was
terrified.

Of his aristocratic will.

Yes, she had known him to be an arrogant
man, previously disdainful of her.

But his tenderness towards her, her growing
ardor for him had led her to sort of temporary blindness.

He was a nobleman like any other, raised
with a sense of entitlement, with a shameless sense of his own power over
others.

And seeing her own ability to blind herself
to his traits, his flaws, sent another wave of terror through her.

“I want to leave.”

He went rigid, his hands gripping her arms.
“Why does that sound so final?”

She shook her head, woodenly. “Please, I
want to leave. Now.”
“You mean you want to leave me.” His tone was hard, flat.

“I just need to get out of here.”

Through the brightly lit lobby, it was
Adrian’s hand on her arm, leading her, that gave her the strength to face the
few stragglers who remained even though the act had begun on stage.

Adrian, always Adrian making her feel
protected.

Comforted.

Yet, he had been the one who had so unnerved
her. Her tendency to allow his gentleness to sway her, her weakness to him
alarmed her as never before.

Now outside, again dry mouthed and inwardly sharking
in fear of her own reactions to this enigmatic nobleman, she didn’t know what
to think. Or what to do.

“Perhaps I should hail a hackney,” she said.

His face contorted, with tenderness.

She gestured towards the line of hired
carriages waiting. “Please, it would be better for both—”

He took the edges of her open pelisse.
“Hush.”

“Adrian…”

“Not here.” He pulled the edges together and
fastened the frogs.

She fought the softening that his solicitous
care caused. How ridiculous. No grown woman should turn into a pile of mush
because a man took a moment to fasten her wrap.

But it did make her melt.

He could be so wonderfully tender. She
craved that tenderness like she needed air.

She steeled herself and pulled away from
him, turning towards the line of public conveyances. “No, I should—”

He caught her hand. “Miranda…”

Something in his tone, a note of utter
sincerity, a note of supplication.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He leaned close. “I was a jackanapes.”

The simplicity, the vulgarity—and yes, the
complete truth of his statement made her pause.

“You’re still overset.” He squeezed her
hand. “You’re still shaking.”

She gaped at him.

“Let me take you home. Let me take care of
you.” He lifted her arm and placed it in the crook of his arm. “I won’t ask for
more than that.

“Adrian, please, I don’t think—”

“I made a mistake. I hurt you. I want to
make it up to you.”

The sincerity in his eyes, in his voice
created a tugging sensation within her. She wanted to turn and face him
completely and to allow him to draw her into his embrace.

Against that tall, lean body.

The leanly muscled body that had held her
firm whilst he had issued his demands.

Panic jolted through her. She pulled away,
harder this time.

He let her go.

She set off for the line of hired vehicles.

Chapter Five

Miranda shivered and pulled her shawl more
snugly about herself. How cold her rooms seemed. She had never noticed how
drafty the windows were.

She had donned her heaviest flannel
nightdress and built a cheery fire. She had drunk a steaming mug of tea and
brandy.

But nothing could warm her.

The clock on the hearth chimed. One single
chime, a lonely, forlorn sound.

She dropped her chin to her knees and stared
into the flames.

You’re mine…mine now.

His words echoed endlessly in her mind. Just
as they had the entire way home in the hackney.

She had been mistress to a man she loved for
scarcely a full night and day.

She didn’t believe that he really loved her.

Not now.

Not after seeing that look of utter
possessive, maybe even obsessive desire.

Miranda didn’t know a lot about love between
a man and woman. However, she knew one thing from pure instinct and common
sense.

No man could love a woman and look at her as
though she were a possession.

Winterton had looked at Mama so many
times—too many times—with that look. As though she were prized plaything.

I let myself love him completely,
unreservedly for a whole day.

With no thought of the future.

Tremendous pressure seemed to build within
her chest. She gave a lengthy sigh, trying to release that heaviness.

But it wouldn’t go. It spread into her
throat. She lifted her head and pressed her hand, trying to ward off the sense
of being gagged.

Being gagged by her own regret.

She hadn’t known that he would make such
demands on her.

She hadn’t realized how much her life would
change—must change—if she were to be his…his…

His love.

Yet, still his possession?

Yes, of course. Noblemen were incapable of
seeing common women as anything else.

Maybe they even saw their own wives that
way?

Like their horses and dogs. Cherished,
adored and loved, yes.

But owned.

Just Winterton had owned Mama.

The duke’s sense of ownership over Mama had
extended beyond his tiring of her. He had been jealous of any man who would
dare touch one of his toys.

Even if he no longer cherished that
particular toy.

Staring into the flames, she was transported
in her memory to that night in the tiny kitchen. Winterton forcing Mama to her
knees, forcing her head back, his hand twisted into her hair, cruelly forcing
her head back, forcing her to look up at him—

Like a supplicant.

Forcing her to take his organ into her
mouth—

Her body jerked, reflexively. As though the
memory of her pistol’s retort was indelibly imprinted on her.

Blood.

So much blood!

Acid rushed into her throat, hot and
burning. She clamped a hand to her mouth and choked it back, swallowing,
swallowing…

She would no longer allow the memories to
control her, to make her retch, to make her suffer.

Her stomach gave another hard lurch.

She swallowed again.

No! I will not be sick over Winterton’s
sins! Never again.

Winterton had been the one seeped in
sickness and sin. She’d been an innocent. A daughter who sought only to protect
her mother.

A daughter who had become a harlot to save
and provide for a mother who become broken in her mind and spirit that dreadful
night.

She had not wanted it but now she couldn’t
change what life had made of her.

She was a courtesan. And a courtesan must
always protect her heart. Must always keep her eye on the larger prize.

Miranda…You are no longer a courtesan, a
girl whose time and attentions one might purchase for the right price…you’re
mine now.

She could still feel the cold metal of
Adrian’s signet ring, imprinting his family crest into her flesh.

Despite his lack of wealth, he was a mighty
earl.

She was just a common-born girl who had only
her beauty and whatever intelligence she possessed to ensure survival for Mama
and herself.

Since she had discovered how Aunt Cassandra had
lied to her and betrayed her, stealing the money that Miranda had earned with
her virgin’s blood, it had sunk in on her fully, just how alone she was. She
had only Mama to care for in the whole world.

And she could trust and depend on only
herself.

A knock sounded at the main entrance to her
rooms.

The sound seemed to echo in the pit of her
belly, even as a little wave of anticipation tingled through her.

Of course, it would be Danvers.

Who else?

Her mouth went dry and a little eddy of
lightheaded apprehension threatened to overtake her.

She was here alone. She had let her
housekeeper go and had not had the time to hire her back. Sally, the maid,
spent her nights at her family’s shop.

A second knock sounded. Louder this time.

She leaped up and ran on silent, stockinged
feet to the door.

“Miranda.”

She caught her breath.

Yes, Danvers himself. Just the sound of his
voice did things to her that should never be allowed. It weakened her resolve.

He knocked again.

She steeled herself and leaned close to the
door. “Go away.”

“Miranda, please.”

His voice was contrite. Gentle.

She wanted to fling the door open. To fly to
him.

With her hand on the knob, her hand grew
weak, slack.

How often had Winterton spoken to Mama in
coaxing tones? How often had he sworn to hold an unending love for Mama?

Her throat began to burn and she pressed her
forehead to the door frame. “I don’t need this…” Her voice cracked and she
swallowed. “I don’t want to see you, not now.”

“When?” His voice resounded with
frustration.

“I need time…” Yes, she needed to be alone.
She needed to think.

She couldn’t think clearly around him. Even
when speaking to him through a door. Her hand flexed on the doorknob.

“Miranda…” His voice had deepened, sounded
somewhat choked. “You sound overset. I can hear your shaking in your words.”

Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes.
She closed them and swallowed, pressing her forehead harder until the craved
edge of the frame began to dig into her flesh.

But she couldn’t hold back the flood of hot,
stinging tears. She clamped a hand to her mouth, silencing a gulped sob.

“I lost control.” His firmly stated
admission rocked through her.

Calling to her sympathy. To her longing for
him.

Drowning in a morass of warring, confusing emotions,
she grasped the one that didn’t weaken her, the one that did not hurt so badly.

Anger. “You bloody well did!”

The vulgarity exploded from her lips and
sent a wave of warm satisfaction through her. Yet, her anger continued to
build.

“Damn you, Davers! Damn you to blackest
hell!”

Silence fell in the wake of her exclamation.
Her ears strained for the sound of his departing footfalls even as her heart
began to beat frantically. And her stomach turned sick.

Would he really go?

Wasn’t that what she wanted?

Oh God, she wasn’t sure what she wanted—

“I know that you are angry. You have a right
to your anger,” he said, in a quiet, yet deep and steady voice.

Suddenly all her anger drained, leaving her
weak and sagging with her back against the door. Tears were still streaming
down her cheeks. Yet, she was clearer of mind than she had been since the scene
in his box. She wiped at her eyes with her flannel sleeve.

“You need time, I understand.” Adrian’s calm
tone had continued steadying effect on her. “But our separation should not be
public. It wouldn’t be safe for you.”

“Why not?” she asked, not fully
understanding his meaning.

“Winterton.”

The mention of the duke sent a chill through
her.

“I don’t want Winterton—or any other man—to
think that you are without protection, for you are not. You never will be
again, Miranda. No, matter what happens, I shall be here for you.”

Miranda went weaker than ever, leaning hard
against the door, her shoulder shaking as quiet sobs racked her.

Safe. He made her feel so safe.

She had longed, in her secret heart, for a
feeling of safety like this.

But could she trust it?

Could she really trust him?

Especially after his loss of control
tonight?

“I should take you for rides in Hyde Park in
my open carriage and maybe accompany you on a few of your errands. We should be
seen together.”

“I don’t know…”

“Are you crying?” His voice was curt, but
she could hear the frantic edge underneath.

She sniffled and swallowed, hard. “I-I…” She
couldn’t compose herself.

She was so mixed up inside.

“You frightened the very devil out of me!”
The words seemed to well up from the pit of her heart, her belly, the very pit
of her soul.

She would never, ever have allowed herself
to admit fear to a man.

At least not before Danvers.

A series of silent, convulsive sobs followed
and she put her hand over her mouth, helpless to the emotion rocking through
her. Afterward, she stood panting, a strange calm following the excess.

For the love of God, who was this weeping,
near hysterical girl?

How effortlessly he could make her come
undone!

And that seemed all the more reason to
continue to distrust him, to continue to protect herself against him.

In the silence that followed, she willed her
breathing to slow.

“Miranda, please, allow me to enter.”

“No, no…” She shook her head.

“This is killing me.”

His voice rang with anguish.

Anguish that cut through all other
considerations and spoke to her heart.

She couldn’t stop herself. She whirled and
wrenched the door open.

Still dressed in his dark evening clothes,
with his dark hair falling across his forehead and his eyes burning with
emotion, he looked too handsome to be human.

His face contorted with some emotion.

She couldn’t be sure what. A wave of her
earlier anger swept through her, sweeping away her ability to think. She lunged
forwards and came at him with her arms raised. She fisted her hands and hit him
in the chest, pelting the wool of his coat.

“Damn you!”

His eyes widened and then his features
softened into something that looked very much like fond amusement.

That sent her anger spiraling and she pelted
him all the harder.

He grasped her wrists.

It disconcerted her how quickly, how easily
he was able to render her helpless. She struggled against his hold. “Damn you!”
She caught a convulsive breath. “Damn your eyes!”

“Hush, hush,” he said, gently yet firmly.

“I saw Winterton in your face!” She hurled
the words at him.

“What?” he asked.

“In the box, at the theater, I saw Winterton
in your face.”

He froze. Then he paled. “God.”

“He would have done the same as you. After
all, I am just a night bird, aren’t I? Common-born.”

“Hush, don’t say those things.” He pulled
her towards the open door.

Awareness of their situation struck her.

He was a peer of the realm, standing in the corridor
of her boarding house, in the wee hours, apologizing and bearing his soul.

Letting her hit at his chest and vent all
her emotions.

He had lost control at the theater.

But here, now, she was the one who had lost
control.

He was accepting it, taking it, even though
they were sure to be the object of gossip on the morrow. The people in her
boarding house weren’t blind or deaf. Someone would see the benefit to sharing
the tale of this little drama, especially for a little ready coin.

What was wrong with her?

Had she lost all rationality?

Having gone limp, she allowed him to draw
her back into her vestibule. He closed the door then pulled her into his arms.