His Lady Mistress (26 page)

Lady Arnsworth had made that quite plain.
Gentlemen such as Blakehurst prefer to take their pleasures outside the marriage bed. In their wives they require decorum…A lady will not notice these things…
She ought to be grateful that he no longer wished to use her for his pleasures, that she’d had no idea of how to please him.

Drawing on every reserve of strength, she manufactured a bright smile. ‘When do we leave, my lord?’ London would serve her purpose admirably.

Alone in the library half an hour later, Max sat contemplating the ruin of his marriage. He had disgusted her, probably sickened her. Worse, he had hurt her beyond all forgiveness. She recoiled from his touch, from his very presence. So why in Hades had she elected to come to London? Certainly not for the benefit of Lord Blakehurst’s company. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t much like being in the same room as Lord Blakehurst right now, let alone the same skin.

The best thing he could do for Verity was arrange for her to be introduced to the life that could be hers as Lady Blakehurst. Social, fashionable London. As a Countess, she would be accepted with Almeria’s support. The peculiar circumstances of her marriage would be forgotten soon enough.

He forced himself to examine all the possibilities. She
might well take a lover. His throat closed. He would be well served if she did. She had offered herself and her love to him. And he had flung them back in her face, along with her trust.

He knew, with shattering certainty, that he would never be able to bring himself to do as he had threatened and disavow a child. His own blind stupidity and jealousy had created the situation. He would have to live with the outcome and protect her from the consequences. And in the meantime he would have to try to win her back. As his wife.

He groaned. At some point he would have to tell her the truth—why he had never intended to have children. In wedlock, anyway. Oh, hell! It would have been so much easier if she had been Selina, his mistress. He could have had his cake and…An odd thought came to him. He had barely known the supposed Selina Dering. What would have happened when he came to know her? When he discovered the woman he now knew? Would he have felt comfortable about
her
bearing his bastard child? Even if she hadn’t turned out to be Verity Scott?

The thought of Verity quickening with his seed left him shaking with sudden passion. His. In every way possible. Nothing less would satisfy him. And as he realised that, the truth hit him like a lightning bolt—he’d have married her the moment he found she was increasing. He’d never wanted a woman as deeply as he wanted her and he’d never wanted to protect a woman before. From everything, even from himself if necessary.

She had loved him. Why else would she have tried so hard to breach the coldness between them? She had loved him. And he had spurned it. She had gifted him with her innocence. And he had treated her like a whore. Finally and worst, she had trusted him. He had taken her trust and trampled it.

There was only one way to regain her trust. He would have to give her his trust. He stared blindly at his entwined fingers.
His
trust. That was the easy bit. There remained the small
matters of her innocence and love. In return for those he would have to give himself. And his love.

He faced the truth he hadn’t dared to admit. He loved her. And for Verity to accept his love, she would have to trust him enough to risk her heart again. Trust. It all came down to trust.

Chapter Twelve

‘W
ake up, Verity. We’re nearly there.’

The deep, velvet dark voice drifted into Verity’s dream of warmth and safety. And affection. It wrapped around her warmly, smelling of leather, sandalwood and something musky and she sighed contentedly and snuggled closer, rubbing her cheek against the strength enfolding her. More sounds penetrated her dream. A rumble of wheels and clattering hooves. Voices and the occasional crack of a whip.

The arms holding her shifted, tightened and the voice whispered, ‘Sleep a little longer then.’ Followed by gentle pressure on the top of her head and a featherlight touch of lips at her temple.

Max had held her like this once. Tenderly soothing her to sleep after making love, keeping her fear and guilt at bay with his strength and warmth. She had dared to dream that there could be more, that one day he would love her in the way she loved him. She had dared to whisper of love, the dream had felt so real. Even now, she thought, her dream felt real…so real.

The carriage came to a halt and with it, Verity’s dream. Abruptly she became conscious that the arms holding her were all too real, that she was snuggled on Max’s chest with his cheek resting on her hair. That she was safely wrapped
in the thick travelling rug Max had insisted she bring. Every fibre of her, body and soul, ached to stay exactly where she was, for the dream to continue. Every nerve tautened, mustering the will to pull away, back beyond her defences.

He spoke again, in cool, dispassionate tones. ‘We’ve arrived, Verity.’ Careful hands lifted her away and set her down on the seat. She shut her eyes briefly, resisting the urge to wriggle back into his arms and beg him to hold her. Never again could she let him close. Being pushed away cut to her very core.

Breathing slowly, Max watched her. She looked deliciously tousled, her curls hopelessly tumbled on her shoulders. Scarcely surprising since he had been unable to resist the temptation of removing her pins and tangling his fingers in the silken, cool tresses.

The need to pull her back into his arms and kiss her senseless hammered in his blood. He mustn’t. The sudden tension in her body as she woke seared him.
Don’t ever touch me again.
She didn’t want him near her, let alone kissing her.

The chaise door opened and the steps were let down. He stepped out and turned, prepared to assist Verity down.

‘I can manage for myself, my lord.’

The words cut into his heart. His touch sickened her. Even the simplest gesture of courtesy. Every instinct screamed at him to lift her into his arms, to hold her close. Sharply he turned away and nodded to the waiting footman to assist her.

He watched her precede him into the house, her head high, her back straight. Gone was the gentle, vulnerable girl who had trusted him. Now grey eyes blazed at him like twin swords. He had honed the blades himself.

In the hall he remembered that he had a gift for her. Something he ought to have given her before they were married. ‘When you have changed for dinner, my dear, I would be obliged if you would join me in the drawing room.’

His heart ached at the tiredness in her face as she looked at him. ‘Of course, my lord.’

Verity stared at her reflection. Heavens! She was so pale her freckles nearly stood out in relief. She pinched her cheeks. That was worse. Now she looked feverish.

‘Will there be anything else, my lady?’

‘Hmm?’ Verity blinked at the rather prim-looking dresser. Apparently Max had sent a message to Lady Arnsworth telling her to find a suitable maid. Whatever might be permissable in the depths of Kent, a pregnant lady’s maid would cause a furore in London. The idea had tempted Verity, but she couldn’t possibly use Sarah like that. ‘No. Nothing else…ah, Cooper. Thank you. That will be all.’

‘My lady’s jewellery?’ Cooper flushed slightly.

My lady didn’t have any, but she simply shook her head and said, ‘No, thank you, Cooper. I’ll ring for you later.’

Cooper curtsied and went away, leaving Verity frowning at her reflection. The gown was well enough. She found that she loved the slide of silk against her skin. It shivered through her, reminding her of…No! She mustn’t think of Max’s kisses and tender caresses. They had meant nothing to him. They must mean nothing to her.

Verity fixed the fashionable reflection with a glare to remind her that she had to go down to the drawing room and pretend indifference to her husband. Above all, she had to ignore her body’s response every time he touched her. She could not keep pulling away. There would be times when he had to touch her. To lead her into dinner. He might even have to dance with her and she would have to behave as though her bones had not turned to honey and her lungs still functioned.

Painfully she realised that although she might, just might, be able to control her body’s response to Max, her heart was another matter entirely. She could not control her heart’s response, but she would have to make sure he never saw it.

Verity found her way to the drawing room easily enough, but she hesitated outside the door. On her previous brief visit
to the mansion she had only penetrated as far as the front hall and library. She had never expected to live here. As she opened the door, she realised that the last time she had been in this house she had come to cry off her betrothal.

Max stood staring into the fire, but he glanced up and smiled as she came in. A brief, constrained smile. ‘Tired?’ He looked frowningly at her.

‘Oh, no,’ she lied. Damn him. She didn’t want his consideration, his kindness. Everything would be so much easier if she could hate him. But she couldn’t. And she couldn’t let him close again.

‘I have something here for you.’ He reached into the pocket of his coat. ‘I’ll have the rest of the jewellery taken to your room, but I wished to give you this now. I should have done so when we became betrothed, but I…it slipped my mind.’

He came towards her and she fought to remain unmoved.
Indifferent. Cold. Think of ice or sn—

He took her hand and the ice dissolved in steam. Trembling at the fire that poured through her, she tried to pull back, to conceal her yearning, but he held her captive. The ring slid on to her finger and he released her.

‘Oh.’ Shock robbed her of speech as she gazed at it. Red fire winked back at her, dancing and shifting in the lamplight.

‘The setting is very old. It’s been in the family for generations.’

‘But…no.’ She couldn’t wear this. A family piece. No. Trembling, she made to take it off. ‘I might lose it, or—’

His fingers closed over hers. ‘Leave it there. It is yours. Absolutely. To lose or keep as you will. Your betrothal ring.’

‘What are the stones?’

His mouth twisted. ‘Rubies. What else?’

What else indeed. But she was not a virtuous woman. If she were, she would not be married to him.

Max watched her leave the dining room as the covers were removed, so he could enjoy his wine in solitary state. He
wanted to go after her, sweep her into his arms and upstairs into his bed. He hadn’t realised quite what a strain being with him would put on her, let alone having to touch him. The ring had glowed on her finger in sumptuous mockery all through dinner. She’d been so tense as he put it on her that he’d wondered if she might break.

Rubies. What else?
His own words haunted him. Had she thought his choice of ring a subtle insult? That she was
not
beyond the price of rubies? That he believed she could be bought by a gift of jewellery like…like any of his ex-mistresses? He hadn’t meant it like that. But if he went to her and tried to explain…

She needed time. Space. If he followed her now, she’d feel hunted. And he wasn’t sure enough of his own control. Perhaps it would be better to allow her to go her own way for a while and find her feet in society. Almeria would keep an eye on her. She could not come to any harm under Almeria’s legendary shield of propriety.

Verity re-read the note from Lord Selkirk and put it down on her dressing table with a grimace. A third drive with Selkirk in ten days would be just the thing, of course. More than enough to have tongues wagging maliciously. Especially if she danced with him twice tonight. Again. She shivered. Dancing with him was horrible. Something about him felt…slimy. And he didn’t bathe properly. Always under the overpowering rosewater lurked the sour reek of stale brandy and stale humanity.

So different from Max…No. She wouldn’t think of him. What was the saying? Out of sight, out of mind? At that rate she ought to have practically forgotten his existence. Except for the great ruby that glowed on her left hand.

Almeria had recognised it.
Good God! I hope he warned you how valuable it is! My sister never dared to wear it.

Verity pushed away the queer thought that Max had trusted
her with part of his family heritage. He had sent the rest of the jewels to her rooms the following day. Every time she wore one of the settings it reminded her that he did not trust her with the one part of his family heritage that she cared about. He would not permit her to bear his legitimate children. His bastards would have been another matter.

Selkirk. She would have to dance with him tonight. But she couldn’t bear driving with him this morning. The swing of his phaeton, combined with his smell and perennially wandering hands…Ugh! she couldn’t do it. Not even for the sake of stirring up more gossip.

What else could she do this morning? Shopping? Lady Arnsworth thought she should do a great deal of that, but it seemed pointless. Why buy more clothes when one’s wardrobe held enough clothes and more hats than one knew what to do with? Lady Arnsworth apparently failed to see how any female supplied with a mere week’s worth of morning gowns, afternoon gowns and promenade gowns and
two
weeks’ worth of evening gowns, plus the requisite slippers, gloves and associated falals, could possibly deem herself adequately provided for.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, girl,’ she had said. ‘Your husband has given you
carte blanche
to spend what you like. Most women would give their eye teeth for such
largesse
!’

The term
carte blanche
ripped at Verity’s façade. Max poured out money on her until she was well nigh choking on it. From all accounts Lord Blakehurst had been renowned for his generosity towards his mistresses. She didn’t want another penny. Especially since she had donated most of this month’s pin money to an institution for reformed prostitutes.