His Favorite Mistress (2 page)

Gazing downward, he quirked a brow. “I must admit I have to agree with your assessment.”

“My assessment of what?” she demanded in a winded voice.

“That you are a woman full-grown.” He snuggled her closer, and stroked a hand over her back and across her hip. “You may be young, but you are curved in all the right places. Considering our current proximity, you really ought to tell me your name, you know.”

She squirmed against him. “Release me!”

He chuckled softly. “So you would rather have me use persuasion, would you, to force out the answer?” His gaze lowered to her mouth, his tone dropping to a husky drawl. “You will find I have a rare talent for persuasion.”

“And you will find that I am well used to the blandishments of smooth talkers and confidence tricksters. I doubt your efforts will prove any more successful than theirs.”

“A challenge, is it? I like challenges, especially ones issued by pretty little minxes like you.”

Before she knew what he meant to do, his lips came down on hers. At first she stiffened inside his embrace, straining to be free despite the futility of the action. But even as she struggled, a part of her brain registered the captivating pleasure of his mouth moving against her own, the breath she’d barely managed to regulate becoming fast and shallow once more.

Still, with a last ounce of determination, she gave another wriggling push. To her dismay, however, her attempt did nothing but encourage him to reach down and secure her wrists behind her back before he slowly bent her body into his own, leaving her plastered to him, her breasts flattened against his hard chest.

She barely had a chance to adjust before he slanted his mouth and kissed her harder, compelling a response from her that she was helpless to resist. For in spite of having previously fended off unwanted advances from men, this was the first time she’d ever been caught by one.

The first time she had ever been kissed.

And what a kiss it is!
she had to confess, her limbs turning warm and waxen as if they had a will of their own. Her brain might argue that she didn’t want this—want him—but her body most decidedly did not agree. Ragged heat washed over her, a shiver following as he coaxed her lips to part.

Using his tongue, he painted her mouth with the lightest of strokes, a move that sent her heart racing at breakneck speed. Trembling from the almost shocking carnality of the act, she let him continue, let him delve inside her mouth to play there with a finesse that quite literally made her whimper.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the kiss ended, Wyvern lifting his head to peer down into her eyes. His own gaze was lambent, eyelids half-lowered as if he, too, was trying to recover from an unexpected surfeit of pleasure. Yet he didn’t release her from his hold, obviously not so far gone as to forget why she had come into his possession in the first place.

“Have you had enough,” he asked roughly, “or shall we try for another?”

Seeing his expression that was half challenge, half anticipation—as if he knew he would win no matter her answer—she decided it might be wise to acquiesce to his original demand. “It’s Gabriella,” she murmured. “My name is Gabriella.”

His lips turned up on a smile. “It suits you. A pleasure to meet you”—Pausing, he shifted so their bodies rubbed together—“Gabriella.”

Her breath caught on a sharp inhale, a quiver running like an electrical spark over her skin.

Easing his hold fractionally, he set an inch between them. “Well now,” he drawled, “what am I going to do with you?”

Just then, footsteps rang out near the door as Rafe Pendragon strode inside.

“Sorry for the delay,” he remarked. “I had a note from Julianna and wanted to write back despite the late hour. Did you find that book I…” Whatever else he may have planned to say, the statement dwindled off to nothing as his gaze landed on her. “What in heavens have you got there? Or should I more aptly say
whom
?”

“This,”
Wyvern declared, “is Gabriella, and from what she tells me, she came here tonight with the sinister intention of shooting you. As you can see, I have relieved her of her weapon. The pistol is just there on the desk.”

“How extraordinary.” Pendragon strolled forward. “Snuck in, did she?”

Wyvern nodded. “During dinner, it would seem. I should think you’d know better by now than to leave your windows unlocked. One never knows what might find its way inside.”

“He didn’t leave his windows open,” she interrupted, struggling a bit again inside Wyvern’s implacable hold. “I picked the lock. And I am not an
it
and do not care to be spoken about in the third person as if I were absent from the room.”

“Fiery, isn’t she?” Wyvern commented in an amused tone.

“And obviously determined.” Pendragon lighted another candle then strolled closer, pausing to inspect her face. “So, child, why have you broken into my home? More to the point, what is it you imagine I’ve done that would lead you to wish me harm?”

“I imagine nothing, you murderer!” Anguish and fury burned like acid through her veins, along with the frustration of knowing her plans for vengeance had been thwarted. Considering what a heartless brute Pendragon was, she knew she had little time remaining until he had her arrested and cast into gaol. But before she found herself hauled off and tossed inside a dank cell—an idea she shivered to imagine—she vowed she would speak her piece.

“You deserve to pay for your crimes,” she spat. “I may not be able to kill you as I’d hoped, but I want you to know the suffering you’ve caused.”

Pendragon arched both of his dark brows. “Those are serious charges, indeed. And while I freely admit I have lived neither a pure nor blameless life, I can assure you I have not murdered anyone. Mayhap you have mistaken me for someone else.”

“Liar!” she declared, “I know it was you. My mother told me what you did, how you drove my father to ruin, then lured him into the countryside so you could finally finish him off.”

Pendragon stared at her. “Gabriella, did you say? Good God, I should have known straight away.”

“Known what?” Wyvern questioned.

“That this girl you’re holding captive is Burton St. George’s daughter.”

Chapter Two

A
NTHONY
B
LACK,
twenty-third Duke of Wyvern, felt his mouth drop open.

In the normal course of things, Tony considered himself an unflappable sort of man—calm under pressure, insouciant at the most astonishing of news. But given the magnitude of what Rafe had just revealed, he supposed he could grant himself a bit of latitude for the slip. After all, it wasn’t every day a man found himself holding the daughter of his friend’s most hated enemy.

Lowering his gaze, he studied her anew, searching for signs of resemblance to the deceased Viscount Middleton. Around the eyes perhaps, he decided, though the color wasn’t the same at all. True, the viscount had possessed blue eyes, but Gabriella’s were far more than mere blue—their petal-soft hue was a unique and unforgettable shade of violet. Instead of sandy brown, her hair was a dark sable, satiny and thick, the wavy locks straining against their tie as if begging to be set free. As for her face, it was nothing short of exquisite, her features framed in a perfect oval with an elegant nose; soft, full lips; and a translucent pink-and-white complexion that more than rivaled the finest porcelain. As for her body, well, he’d already had time to explore that for himself in close detail, finding her slender frame was lushly feminine yet surprisingly lithe and toned, as if she were used to a variety of athletic pursuits. In that, he supposed, she shared a trait with her father, since Middleton had never been a slouch. As for whether she possessed any of his other, less appealing, qualities, that remained to be seen.

Careful to maintain his hold, he shifted Gabriella to his side before turning his attention toward Rafe. “I did not even realize Middleton
had
a daughter. How did you know?”

“I made it my business, once upon a time, to be apprised of everything concerning St. George. It seemed safer that way.” Rafe’s gaze moved to Gabriella. “I knew of you, but very little more than your name. He kept you well hidden, so much so that I doubt even his closest cronies realized. Your mother is an actress, is she not?”

“Was,”
Gabriella tossed back, her chin coming up as she shot Rafe a glare. “She is dead as well, because of you.”

Rafe drew in a long breath. “I am sorry for her loss, but you cannot lay her death at my doorstep.”

“Why not, since you are the cause!” she accused. “After Papa died, Mama grew despondent. She began to drink, and see men she would never, ever have considered entertaining in the past. One night, one of them beat her to death, and she let him. They said she barely put up a struggle, as if the effort was simply too much for her. Her heart was broken because of Papa’s loss, because you killed him and left us with nothing.”

“My sympathies as well,” Tony interceded in a calm voice. “But you are blaming the wrong man. Rafe isn’t the one who left your mother with nothing. He isn’t the one who left
you
with nothing, making no provision for your future care.”

“My father would have done so had he known,” she defended, a sliver of doubt creeping into her voice. “He was still young. He had no reason to expect he might die.”

Tony shook his head. “We, all of us, may die at any moment. A considerate man takes care of those he loves. Had Middleton not been a selfish bounder and heartless bully, he would have done so for you and your mama. As for accusing Rafe of murder, he is not the one guilty of that particular crime.”

“Tony—” Rafe interrupted.

“If you want to know about murderers,” he continued, “you have only to look to your own—”

“Tony,
enough.
”

He shot Rafe a look. “She needs to be told, not go on laboring under falsehoods and delusions. Gabriella, you strike me as a bright young woman. Do you not wish to know the truth? Do you not want to have the veil of lies lifted from your sight?”

Her face hardened at his words, her gaze moving between the two men. “I know the truth. He murdered my father, stabbed him in the chest with a knife. You are simply trying to protect him because he is your friend.”

“He
is
my friend and I would gladly protect him with my life, but what I say is the plain truth. I will swear an oath on it should you wish. Your father, I am sad to say, was not a pleasant man. He killed people, murdered them.”

“He did not! I don’t believe you!” Gabriella shot back, a defiant gleam flashing in her eyes. “My mother told me what happened, told me how Pendragon grew up hating my father because Papa was the viscount and the legitimate heir. How Pendragon let envy drive him to hound and torment my father, ruining him any way he could until he finally lured him to his death.”

“And did your mother also mention that your father kidnapped Lady Pendragon?” Tony questioned. “That Rafe tracked Middleton out into the countryside in order to rescue his wife and the unborn child she carried? Did she know that your father demanded a ransom for her return, intending to use the money so he could flee the country? Or that he was desperate to recover journals that incriminated him in a number of crimes, the passages outlining many of his nefarious activities over the years? Acts that involved rape and murder, including the death of his wife, the brutal violation of an innocent girl, and even patricide.”

She gasped, her eyes wide as blood drained from her cheeks.

“That’s right,” Tony pressed. “Middleton murdered his own father—
your
grandfather!”

Her lower lip trembled, a stricken expression on her face as though her whole world were being cleaved in two. And perhaps it was, Tony realized. She’d come here tonight seeking vengeance on behalf of a man she obviously loved, only to find out he was not the person she had believed him to be.

“No, it isn’t possible,” she argued, struggling inside his hold. “He wasn’t like that. He would never have done the dreadful things of which you are accusing him.” Her voice broke on the last word, her tone husky with barely repressed emotion.

“But he
did
do those things,” Tony said. “Then afterward he killed one of his oldest cronies in order to cover up his crimes.”

“You lie! You must be lying,” she insisted, shaking her head in an effort to deny what she was obviously struggling not to see as the truth.

“A respected barrister has the journals,” Tony continued. “I could obtain them for you and let you see.”

“They must be false,” she countered.

“The legal inquest into your father’s death judged them valid,” Tony stated. “Rafe fought with your father that day, and the two of them did grapple with a knife. But your father was the one trying to kill Rafe, not the other way around. He is the one who attacked first, then ended up being stabbed in the scuffle. Rafe did not murder your father.”

“I have only your word. Why should I believe you?” Sudden desperation rang out in her voice.

“Why should you not? Do you really think I would fabricate such an elaborate story as that? That I would offer to produce proof written in Hurst’s own hand?”