A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (9 page)

“Will this one do, my lord?”

He scanned the garment with its wide black
ribbon under the bodice. A wry smile twisted his sensual mouth. “I think you
could select something a little more…”

“A little fancier? A little more elegant?”

“Yes.”

“So, you want your ladybird to be elegant
but not too…” She paused for effect, trying to remember his exact words. “Not
too sparkly.”

“The gray would make you look ill. I don’t
expect you to wear unflattering colors and plain garments. I just ask that you
not—.”

“You don’t want me to look like a night
bird.”

“I wouldn’t have put it like it, Miranda.”

“No, you might not have. But it is what you mean.”
She put the gray dress back on the rack and pulled out a dark blue silk day
dress with a modest neckline adorned with a broad ivory-colored lace collar and
fastened with pearl buttons.

Her bed creaked as he left it and his boots
sounded on her bare floors as he approached the wardrobe.

“It’s going to rain and the wind is already
brisk.” He took the dress from her. “That silk won’t be warm enough.”

She watched him replace the blue dress to
the wardrobe. She ought to have been rankled at his just taking control like
that. Especially given their conflict last night. But oddly enough, it made her
feel warm inside.

He ran his hand over the tops of the
garments hanging there then stopped and took out a dress made of soft, fine
plum colored wool of much the same style as the blue.

He laid the garment over her bed and then he
returned to her, bending to retrieve her wooden hairbrush from the window
ledge. He examined it for a moment and then he looked up at her with a
questioning look.

“I sold my silver one.”

A frown flitted across his face. Then he
motioned for her. “Come here.”

His resolute yet tender tone put more warmth
into her belly.

“Sally should be here soon,” she said,
realizing how mussed she looked.

He shook his head. “I have sent her on her
way. I will care for you today.”

He walked closer to her then moved behind
her and lifted her tangled hair off her shoulders.

With no experience of men and hairbrushes,
she braced herself for abrupt too-hard strokes and the resultant burn on her
scalp.

He gathered the mass of her hair, holding as
though his hand were a ribbon and he began working the brush on the bottom and
working his way up with firm yet gentle strokes. “Dorothy has an understated
prettiness.”

She seethed at his words.

Calmly, he continued to brush her hair,
making surprisingly quick progress. “People don’t notice it because of her
brisk, practical manner. She rarely smiles.”

“Oh, but she smiled for you?” Only with
effort did Miranda keep a civil tone. Why must he spoil this moment with talk
of Dorothy.

He took a few more strokes then smoothed his
hands over her hair, moving slower and slower as he did.

The sensual motion re-ignited her arousal, a
betrayal by her body that sent her ire soaring. She gritted her teeth and
crossed her arms over her chest. “I will not share you,” she said, tersely,
even as her jaw began to ache.

“So, you
will
be a demanding
mistress?”

She whirled and faced him. “A most demanding
mistress.” She tapped her foot. “Especially when it comes to this.”

He caressed a hand down the length of her
hair. “Miranda,” he said, tenderly.

Her heart hammered and a younger, girlish,
all-too-hopeful part of herself seemed to leap to the fore. “End it. Put her
aside.”

He laughed, softly and he continued
caressing her hair. “My tigress.”

His sensual laugh only increased her
arousal. But his attitude still rankled. Ire consumed her. She unfolded her
arms, rushed at him and grasped the edges of his waistcoat.

She glared up at him. “I mean it, my lord.
Put her aside. Do it today.”

She heard the stridency in her voice, aware
of how much it revealed of her emotions. She couldn’t help it. She took a deep
breath and struggled for control. “I will not share.”

His face contorted with tenderness. “You must
learn to trust me, my love.” He leaned down and placed a kiss upon her
hairline.

She wanted to hold on to her anger. It was
the only thing that seemed safe in this moment. But at the touch of his lips,
calmness washed over her.

“I put her aside, already.”

“When?” she demanded.

“Before you and I became lovers.”

She frowned. “But how?”

“She was there, that morning…”

“Oh.”

She felt foolish for having allowed her
temper to get away with her. She really needed only to ask him. But she seemed
to have a way of losing her control when around him.

He gathered her into his arms. His words
were still swirling around her mind as he pressed her against his tall, leanly
muscled body.

“You’re everything I want. The only woman I
want.”

Happiness flooded her.

The feeling was so intense that she released
it in a soft laugh.

The sound was girlish, joyful.

She stood on her tiptoes and smiled up into
his face. That gorgeous, yet perfectly masculine, face. She lost herself in his
blazing blue gaze.

He put his mouth to hers. Firmly. Gently.

His erection throbbed against her belly.

She had not re-buttoned her nightdress since
he’d unfastened in the early hours.

The memory of his hand slipping underneath
the heavy flannel and caressing her breasts came to mind. Her nipples hardened
in reaction and she felt a flush of pleasure suffuse her. Arousal tingled in
her belly.

Dorothy Chadwick indeed!

Miranda wanted his attention centered solely
on her. And she knew exactly how to do that.

She pulled her mouth away from his then
moved away from his body.

On a low growl, he caught her by the waist.

She laughed softly, a purposefully sensual
womanly sound. Then she pulled away again, walked a few paces then reached for
the hem of her nightdress. She drew it slowly up and over her head. She tossed
it to the bed then stood in the sunlight, displaying herself without a trace of
shame.

His eyes darkened and he seemed to drink her
image in.

She cupped her breasts, lifting them,
becoming aroused by both her own touch and his eyes on her. Her nipples
hardened, aching for stimulation. She rubbed her palms over them.

He had seemed frozen and now with a low
groan, he came to her, his hand instantly cupping her, caressing her nipple.

His hand on her felt so natural, so filling
her with delight that it seemed he was meant to be her lover.

She’d been waiting her whole life for his
touch.

His love.

Excitement built within her and she began to
tremble. She loved him so much that it hurt.

His other hand pressed her buttock and pressed
her to his loins. The hot, hard ridge of his erection invited the most
lascivious, desperate of longings. She moved up as high on her toes as she
could manage, using him for support. She writhed, rubbing her softness against
the slight scratchiness of his fine worsted wool trousers.

She was wet. So very wet for him. Her nub
throbbed, no matter how she pressed herself to him, her flesh still ached for
more direct contact.

A soft moan escaped her. She heard the deep
longing in the sound.

“You want to come?” He licked the hollow
beneath her ear. “Now, without any further delay?” He nipped her earlobe
lightly. “Could you?”

“Oh, yes, yes…”

He put his hand between their bodies,
flattened it against her stomach then moved it swiftly lower. His fingers brushed
her erect, straining nub.

The pleasure of his touch went trembling
through her. She tossed her head back and moaned, deeper and longer this time.
There was something unbearably arousing about doing this standing.

On the second stroke of one finger, he found
that sweetest spot, the one that made her cry out.

“There?” he asked, his voice deep and
sensual.

“Yes,” she said her voice breathy.

He rubbed her gently at first, increasing
the speed and pressure with at a measured but steady rate.

The tension in her pelvis, her loins rose
quickly.

“Oh, oh, oh!” She cried out, clutching at
his shoulders as her legs went weak.

He fastened his mouth on her neck, low
groans vibrating in his chest, all of it thrilling her.

The tension that had been building within
her shattered, a thousand silvers of intense pleasure exploding within her. Her
body shuddered and she would have collapsed if he had not held her.

He was kissing her neck, sucking hard enough
to leave love marks and telling her how beautiful she was in the most beautiful
of words. His voice resonated with unmistakable affection. And just when her
breathing had slowed to almost normal, he swept her up into his arms and took
her to her bed.

He laid her sideways on it with her legs
hanging over the edge. He bent and placed a kiss on her stomach.

She laughed, softly, a little breathlessly.
She reached for him. “Be inside me,” she pleaded.

“No,” he said. “This is all for you.”

He knelt between her legs, taking her by the
ankles and pulling them over his shoulders.

“Be inside me,” she begged again, as she
stroked his face, enjoying the smooth shaved cheek.

He placed two fingers at her entrance then
thrust into her gently, hooking them into her forward wall.

Exploring.

He found a sensitive spot. She cried out,
arching her hips.

“Oh God!” she cried, as his tongue touched
her nub.

He lifted his head. “That’s just beginning,
my love.”

Every flick, lick, swirl and suck he gave
her sex-sent her into a maelstrom of bliss where one climax blended into the next.
He did not cease until she was clawing at his head, begging him to stop.

He had rolled her to her pillow and she had
immediately fallen into a deep sleep. When she woke, in the circle of his arms,
around noon. More tea was brought to them with a variety of cakes. He must have
sent out for them. And then his servants brought her a steaming bath.

Now, a little past two in the afternoon, she
stood before him on legs still weak from intense satisfaction. A patch of
flesh, high up on the inside of her thigh ached with a bruised feeling, for he
did
mark her there, just as he had threatened. He done so in the moments after he
had ceased, when she was weak and panting helplessly with the pleasure-pain
aftershocks of the excesses he had given her. She was clad in the purple wool
dress he had selected for her, which happened to be her favorite. She had
purposely avoided selecting it because she didn’t want to associate any of
today’s friction between them with it.

But now that he had picked it, she wanted to
wear it.

That particular dress made her feel modest
and feminine. She could pretend for a little while, at least, that she was some
tradesman’s daughter and Adrian had met her, loved her. Been mad for her and
she for him.

But he could never marry a commoner.

So, she was his cherished mistress. And he
her first ever lover.

It was a pleasing fantasy.

She sighed.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, his
expression now distant, touched with his characteristic arrogance.

She was frustrated with him for he had not
allowed her to give him satisfaction.

He had not allowed her to give him any
direct pleasure at all.

And when their bout of love had started, she
had intended to seduce him. How had he so deftly turned the balance of power
between them? She had become the seduced, the pleasured, the dazzled,
thoroughly sated.

It was a way of dominating her.

She knew this.

Was it also a way to keep control over a
cherished possession? Had Winterton dazzled her mother with such pleasures?

No.

She had to press her hand to her mouth to
keep from expressing a cynical laugh. Winterton was far too selfish to have the
control to even attempt to dominate a woman through excessive carnal pleasures.

“Come, my love,” Adrian said, reaching his
hand to hers.

She took his hand, promising herself that
soon he would be just as helplessly in her thrall. She would give him back all
that he had given her today.

And a little more.

Chapter
Seven

The look on Miranda’s face as she surveyed the
garden was priceless. Adrian reminded himself that he would need to give his
man of business a hefty increase for the month. He had told the man what he
wanted and somehow he had found a house here in Chelsea, just perfect as though
it had been built to order.

A most beautiful example of medieval
architecture.

She kept studying the cherub fountain with
its pond, surrounded by brilliantly colored autumn flowers. She clapped her
hands. “Oh, God, Adrian, it is such a lovely house. So romantic.”

To have pleased her so thoroughly brought
him a satisfaction so deep, for a moment, he couldn’t speak. He smiled at her,
pulled her close and placed a kiss on her forehead.

“It is so perfect,” she said, her face
shining with joy. She looked so young and free of care. To see that expression
on her face, it made the house worth every penny-piece he was spending.

Did it make up for being so reckless with
his personal wealth, which was the larger part of his sons’ future inheritance?

Probably not, someone else, anyone else
would say.

But that look on her face,
God
.

“What do you think of it, my lord? You are
so quiet.” Her face crinkled with concern, yet, her eyes sparkled with
happiness.

He glanced over his shoulder at the house
then scanned the gardens and then turned his attention back to her.

“Well?” she said, in a breathless tone that
reminded him of a much younger girl, one who was near to bursting with
impatience.

He leaned down and brushed his lips on her
forehead then smiled, looking into her pale green eyes.

“Here, we will spend our shared hours,” he
said. “All the hours of our love.”

He put his mouth to hers and kissed her,
tasting deeply of her mouth.

Miranda’s mouth fell open as she took in the
main hall of the house. Highly polished wood and gleaming brass accents,
wonderful mullioned windows illuminated the open space.

“I have only furnished the bedchamber. I
have left the remainder for you to furnish and fill with those things that you
like most.”

His deep voice echoed in the empty chamber.
She whirled to face him. “You can’t possibly afford this.” She sighed. “I know
I can’t.”

He came to stand behind her, embracing her
from behind. “It’s no longer your place to worry about financial concerns.
That’s why I am here, to protect you against such worries.”

He pressed his face into the crook of her
neck and kissed her.

She shivered, whether because there was no
fire yet built or because she was overcome with the haunting, romantic beauty
of the house or because she was awed by his generosity.

She was such an emotional girl. He had hated
when she’d said those cruel things about Jane and Dorothy, calling them plain.
He hated to think that Miranda possessed such a mean side. But then he’d
realized she’d said those things in a blind anger born of jealousy. He hated
jealous women.

But he couldn’t deny that he loved the fact
that Miranda was
that
jealous of his previous lovers, of his wife

Was that all he would have of her? Her
passion and her jealousy? He wanted more. He wanted something that he had never
believed in before.

He didn’t have a name for what he wanted.
All he knew was that Miranda created a fierce gnawing hunger in him. She gave
him moments of happiness, but when he was away from her, he ached inside.

She had peeled back all his layers of
self-protection.

Was that the price of love? The price he
must pay to share those precious moments of joy with her?

As he led her about the house, Miranda
watched the brooding expression darken Adrian’s face. What was he thinking?

She was beginning to learn what a complex man
he was. He carried sadness, deep inside himself.

She seemed to bring this sorrow out in him.
Why? She was his mistress. She was supposed to bring him joy.

Over the past two weeks, he had visited her
daily, spending the late night and morning hours with her in her rooms. In her
bed mostly. He had told her that he spent the bulk of his evenings visiting
various clubs and attending balls, where he gambled to increase his personal
wealth and thus to increase the inheritance he would be able to leave his sons.

Then he would come to her. He would sleep
all afternoon and begin the whole business again in the evenings.

She understood of course. She accepted his
strange hours and adapted herself to them.

Her own days took on a strangeness she had
never experienced before.

When she was with him, she felt alive like
never before, every moment filled her with joy like she were floating in the
clouds.

When he left her, she was thrown back to
earth, left alone to sleep and count the hours until he would visit her again.
She began to understand Mama better. In Miranda’s childhood, her mother had lit
with joy upon Winterton’s arrival and even Miranda had ceased to exist for her
then.

When Winterton would leave, Mama would throw
herself into gardening and sewing garments for all of Miranda’s dolls and
making the most enjoyable and entertaining of games and parties for Miranda and
the servants. Mama always had a touch of the child about her and the times when
Winterton were not in residence with her, she had created fun and pleasure and
novelty with an almost frantic obsessive need.

Now Miranda understood that need.

She also understood the term “half-life” for
a mistress truly shared only half—or even less—of a nobleman’s life.

Adrian, despite his failings of excessive
pride and possessiveness, was like a prince dropped into her common girl’s
world. Making everything shining and new.

There was something quite wrong and
unbalanced about the situation but now Miranda followed her prince as he showed
her the palace he had purchased for her, at great personal sacrifice to
himself.

He called this a “modest house.”

Miranda called it a palace. It made the
cottage by the sea of her childhood that Winterton had provided Mama seem
paltry by comparison.

There was a part of Miranda that couldn’t
bring herself to ever reject this magnificent provision. In her world, a
nobleman’s regard and affection for a mistress were always measured by the
value of the presents he gave to her.

The bedchamber was grandly furnished, the
windows, upholstery and bed all draped in shades of purple, blue and cream.

She turned back to Adrian and found him
staring distantly out the window. It seemed to be his way to slip in and out of
moods of deep contemplation and brooding. If she had been his wife, his social
equal, would she simply have been able to accept it as part of his nature and
not take it so personally?

Had Jane Sutherland been able to cheer him
with her ever mirthful personality? Certainly not in the bedchamber from what
Adrian had said.

Had Dorothy Chadwick been able to lighten
his brooding moods?

Miranda didn’t know, couldn’t know.

All she did know was that such moods drove
her to wonder if he were already becoming bored with her. That she couldn’t do
what was needed to make him happy, to take his mind off his cares and woes.
That she was an inadequate mistress.

For that was what a mistress was meant to
do.

A mistress was meant to be a sweet
distraction.

But what was a woman like her to do with a
man who resisted such distraction?

Would he eventually compare her to Dorothy
Chadwick and regret his decision? Did he prefer Dorothy’s more practical
approach to life? Did it mesh better with his own somber approach? Had he
simply been beguiled by Miranda’s undeniable beauty?
Was beauty all Miranda really had to offer a man?

The past proved that Adrian didn’t need
great beauty to find pleasure with a woman. His long string of conquests among
the plainer examples of noble widows, something which others had often remarked
upon, proved that.

Miranda shook off the darker mood. She hated
dwelling on darkness. Life offered enough pain. One had to find pleasure and
joy where one could. Perhaps not to the extravagant extent that Mama had done.

But today, Miranda wanted to celebrate.

“Adrian,” she said, softly. Her voice echoed
louder than she expected in the space.

Adrian turned from the window and she
reached out her hands.

He came to her and took her hands but his
expression didn’t lighten.

“Can we ask the servants to bring us some
cakes and champagne?” she asked, all smiles. “Of course we can,” he said, his
expression turning tender.

She wanted to show her gratitude.

She wanted to bind him to herself forever.
To always hold him thrall. For surely he held her under his spell.

She watched his tall, lean frame with
pleasure as he walked from the chamber to go speak to the servants.

When he returned, she had something more to
suggest.

“Will you make love to me, here, now in this
bed?” She cringed at the pleading, submissive tone in her voice.

But that was the way things had become
between them. In the bedchamber, he took control. He did only what he wanted,
in his own time, and way. And she had tried, several times to seduce him, to
drive him out of his mind with pleasure.

And each time, he had taken all the control,
driven her mad with pleasure and it had been she who had begged him to stop,
her body drained and sated.

Even though it always ended up being the
stuff of a naughty girl’s dreams, his determination to completely control their
carnal interactions had begun to eat away at her confidence.

She’d always held a measure of control with
Carrville, always been able to keep insecurity at bay by keeping him suitably
enthralled with her sexual skills. She could always get her way with Carrville.
Was that a way of saying she had known how to manipulate him with sexual
pleasure. Perhaps. It was the way of her world. Of women like her.

Adrian gave her no chance to even show him
just how skilled she was.

He turned to her and his slow, sensual smile
made her belly flip over. Her knees went weak.

“Of course I am going to make love to you,
here and now, on that bed.” He gave her a quick, light kiss. “What else shall
we do while we wait for the servants to bring our feast?”

His blue eyes burned more vividly. His mood
was becoming lighter.

A wave of relief washed over her. She began
to lose her self-consciousness and she laughed. “Feast? Just cakes and
champagne?”

“I asked them to bring us beefsteak and
pudding and fresh baked bread.” He touched her nose with a fingertip. “And
pineapple and strawberries for my lady’s fancy, if they can find them.”

She laughed again, her spirits soaring with
the heady joy of being with him, of sharing pleasures with him. “Pears and
raspberry preserves would do.”

“That’s what they will bring if there are no
pineapples to be found.”

“Some music would be nice too.” She
wheedled, shamelessly, for she had discovered Adrian could play a mandolin
decently. He would not sing, of course, but the fact that he played such an
arcane and romantic instrument had shocked her greatly, given his prideful,
dignified personality. She caressed his chest through his satin waistcoat. “Did
you bring it?”

“Yes, I did,” he said, “But later.”

The note of command in his voice, the
sensual promise, made her shiver with the first tingles of true arousal.

 
“Turn,” he said.

She obeyed. He began unfastening her dress.

He had finished unbuttoning her and the
garment slipped down her arms and sagged. She faced him, considering his
distant expression.

Perhaps he was frustrated because for all
her sexual skills, she couldn’t bring herself to perform that act which men
wanted most.

“I wish I could bring myself to please you.”

He frowned and gave her gaping dress a push
down and he quickly unlaced her stays then pushed them down as well so that she
stood only in her shift and petticoats. “You please me.” He cupped her breast
through the thin muslin and the light of desire ignited in his gaze. “God above
how you please me.”

“No, I mean in
that
way.” She leaned
closer. “On my knees.”

She choked on the words and was immediately
sorry she’d tried to even speak them for they brought disturbing images to the
fore.

Mama being forced by Winterton.

“It’s not necessary.” Adrian caressed her
hair. “I don’t need it to feel satisfied.”