More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (27 page)

She gazed into the fire.

She should not have allowed him in here. She knew
that she would no longer think of this room as hers. It was theirs. She could feel his presence here. She could see him as he had been earlier, sprawled comfortably but not inelegantly in this chair. She could hear his voice reading from
Mansfield Park
as if he were as lost in the story as she had been. And she could see him standing at the window.…

It was unfair. She could have coped with her new life if their relationship had proceeded, as she had expected, along purely sexual lines. She knew enough to realize that sex was not love, especially sex between a rakish duke and his mistress. She did not know what
this
was.

He had spent longer than two hours in this room with her this afternoon—with his mistress—without once touching her. He had not taken her to bed. After tea, during which they had discussed the war and political reform—she was a pacifist, he was not; she was unreservedly in favor of reform, he was far more cautiously so—he had got to his feet quite abruptly, made her a bow, bade her a good afternoon, and gone on his way.

He had left her feeling empty inside. Though that could not be strictly true or she would not also have felt all churned up—her body, her mind, her emotions.

For almost the whole time they had been here together in the den, he had not been the Duke of Tresham. He had been Jocelyn. But Jocelyn with far fewer reservations than she was accustomed to. Jocelyn without any mask. A person in need of being himself as he had never been before. A man in need of friendship and acceptance and—ah, yes.

Jane sighed aloud.

A man in need of love.

But she doubted he would ever accept that ultimate gift even if he acknowledged the need to himself.

She doubted even more that he was capable of returning the gift.

And who was she to offer? A fugitive. A murderess—no, not that. She was even beginning to believe it herself. She did not think the blow she had given Sidney would have killed him in itself.

She shuddered at the memories.

And then she set her head back against the chair and listened to the sounds of Mr. Jacobs or Phillip at the front door, locking up for the night. A moment later there was a tap on her door.

“Come in,” she called. It must be midnight or later. The servants should be in bed.

He looked powerful and satanic, covered from neck to ankles in a long black opera cloak. He stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, while her stomach performed a complete somersault and she knew that indeed the afternoon had been disastrous to her.

“Still up?” he asked. “I saw light beneath the door.”

“Do you have your own key?” she asked him.

“Of course,” he replied. “This is my house.”

She got to her feet and moved toward him. She had simply not expected him.

And then a strange thing happened. He took his hand from the doorknob as she approached and spread his arms to the sides, revealing the white silk lining of the cloak and the elegant black and white evening clothes he wore beneath. But Jane did not really notice the splendor of his appearance. She kept walking and was soon enveloped in the folds of his cloak while she lifted her face and he lowered his own both at the same time.

It was a long and deep and fierce embrace. But the strange thing was that it was not sexual—not entirely so anyway. Jane had little experience with embraces, but she knew instinctively that he was not just a man kissing his mistress prior to taking her to bed. He was Jocelyn. And he was kissing her, Jane.

By the time the embrace ended he was the Duke of Tresham again.

“I will be putting you to work tonight, Jane,” he said.

“Of course.” She stood back and smiled.

And then gasped with alarm when he caught her hard by the wrist and gazed down at her with hard, cold eyes.

“No!” he said fiercely. “You will not smile at me in that way, Jane, like a jaded coquette hiding her weary cynicism behind a cool smile of invitation. There is no
of course
about it. If you do not want me, then tell me to go to hell and I will go.”

She jerked her wrist out of his grasp. “What do you expect when you speak of putting me to work?” she asked angrily. “Does a woman go to
work
for a man in bed when she wants him? When you call it work you make a whore of me.”

“You are the one,” he reminded her, his eyes as cold as steel, “who speaks of contractual obligations and rights. What does that make of me? It makes me someone who has purchased access to your body. Someone who has bought the services of a whore. It makes of you a woman who is working when she lies on her back for me. Don’t use righteous anger on me, Jane, and expect me meekly to bow my head. You may go to the devil for all I care.”

“And you may …” But she forced herself to stop and
to draw a steadying breath. Her heart was pounding like a hammer. “We are quarreling again. Was it my fault this time? I am sorry if it was.”

“It is that infernal contract that is to blame,” he grumbled.

“Which is my fault.” She smiled briefly at him. “I really am pleased to see you, Jocelyn.”

The anger and the coldness faded from his face. “Are you, Jane?”

She nodded. “And I really do want you.”

“Do you?” He gazed broodingly at her, his eyes very black.

Could this be the Duke of Tresham? Unsure of himself? Uncertain of his welcome?

“I am saying it inside the room where we agreed our contract would bear no sway,” she said, “so it has to be the truth. Come to bed with me.”

“I have come from the theater,” he explained. “I was invited back to Kimble’s for supper with his party and said I would walk there rather than crowd a carriage. But I found my legs carrying me here instead. How do you interpret that, Jane?”

“I daresay,” she said, “you were in need of a sharp quarrel with someone who would not back down from you.”

“But you were the first to apologize,” he reminded her.

“Because I was wrong,” she told him. “I do not insist upon winning an argument at any cost, you see. Not like some I know.”

He grinned wolfishly at her. “Which means, I suppose,” he said, “that as usual you have had the last word,
Jane. Come, then. Since it is what I came for and since you have invited me, let us go to bed.”

Physical desire made her breathless again as she stepped past him and preceded him up the stairs. He did not come immediately after her, she noticed. He had paused to set the guard in front of the dying fire.

Which was probably, she guessed with an inward smile, one of the most domesticated things he had ever done.

K
IMBLE WOULD TEASE HIM
mercilessly in the morning. Jocelyn did not care. When had he ever cared what anyone—even his closest friends—thought or said about him? And the teasing would at least be good-natured.

The truth was he had had to come back tonight. He had been more disturbed by the strange events of the afternoon than he cared to admit. He had had to come back just to get some normalcy back into his relationship with his mistress. To put her to work.

It had been a mistake to use those exact words to her, of course. But he was not accustomed to tiptoeing his way about other people’s sensibilities.

He undressed, doused the candles, and climbed into bed with her. He had instructed her to keep on her prim and pretty nightgown. There was something surprisingly erotic about grasping its hem and lifting it up her legs and over her hips to her waist. He did not want foreplay tonight. He wanted to do what he had come to do before somehow the whole scene became unfamiliar again. He slid his hand between her thighs and felt her. She was ready enough. He turned onto her with his full
weight, spread her legs wide with his knees, slid his hands beneath her, and entered.

She was soft, warm, relaxed heat. He began to work her with firm, vigorous strokes. He tried to think of her simply as a woman. He tried to think of his need as simply sexual.

He failed miserably on both counts.

He rarely kissed in bed. It was unnecessary, and it was too personal for his taste. He kissed her.

“Jane,” he murmured into her mouth, “tell me you wanted me to come back, that you have thought of nothing but me since this afternoon.”

“Why?” she whispered. “So that you can warn me again not to become dependent upon you? I am not sorry you came. I am glad. This feels good.”

“Damn you,” he said. “Damn you.”

She was silent while he worked. But just as he felt the climax approach and was about to deepen and quicken his rhythm, he felt her arms close about his waist and her feet slide up the bed and her thighs hug his hips while she tilted her pelvis to allow him deeper access.

“Jocelyn,” she whispered, “don’t be afraid. Please don’t be afraid.”

He was driving toward release and did not hear the words consciously. But after he had finished, when he lay exhausted beside her, he heard their echo in his mind and thought he must have imagined them.

“Come here,” he said, reaching out a hand to touch her.

She curled up against him, and he lowered her nightgown, drew up the bedclothes, wrapped his arms about her, pillowed his cheek against the top of her head, and fell asleep.

He had frequently spent nights at the house and staggered home at dawn to sleep. He had never
slept
a night at the house. When he had come this time, he had intended a few hours of vigorous sport just to remind both Jane and himself of the basic nature of their liaison.

He awoke when daylight was pouring into the room. Jane, tousled and flushed and delicious, was still asleep in his arms.

He drew free of her and swung himself out of bed, waking her in the process. She smiled sleepily at him.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly as he pulled on his evening clothes. “I daresay according to that infernal contract I have no right intruding on your privacy when I am not actually asserting my rights. I will be gone in a moment.”

“Jocelyn,” she said with soft reproach, and then she had the unmitigated gall to laugh.

With glee.

At him.

“I amuse you?” He scowled at her.

“I do believe,” she said, “you are
embarrassed
that you slept instead of spending the night demonstrating your renowned prowess as a lover. You seem always to have to prove your superior manhood.”

The fact that she was perfectly right did not improve his mood.

“I am delighted to have amused you at least,” he said, throwing his cloak about him with a vicious swing of his arm and buttoning it at his throat. “I shall do myself the honor of calling upon you some other time when I have need of you. Good morning.”

“Jocelyn,” she said softly again when he already had the door of the bedchamber open. He looked back at her
with haughtily raised eyebrows. “It was a wonderful night. You are lovely to sleep with.”

He did not wait to discover if she mocked him or not. He stepped through the door and closed it none too quietly behind him.

Devil take it, he thought, noticing the clock in the hallway as he descended the stairs and noticing too with a grimace that Jacobs was waiting there to let him out, it was seven o’clock. He had been here for seven hours. He had been in her bed for seven hours, and he had had intercourse with her once.
Once!

He bade the butler a curt good morning and strode off down the street, noticing with some satisfaction that the twinge of stiffness in his right leg was becoming less pronounced each day.

You are lovely to sleep with
.

Jocelyn chuckled despite himself. She was right, goddammit. It had been a lovely night, and he felt more refreshed by his sleep than he had in a long while.

He would go home to bathe and change, he decided, and then go shopping—for a small pianoforte and for sketching and painting supplies. Perhaps the best thing to do about this whole extraordinary situation was to go along with it, let it happen, let it proceed in its own way and at its own pace to its inevitable conclusion. Sooner or later he would grow weary of Jane Ingleby. He had of every woman he had ever known or bedded. He would of her too—perhaps in a month, perhaps in two, perhaps in a year.

In the meantime, why not just enjoy the novel feeling of being—ah, yes, the fateful words that hovered in the background of his thoughts and threatened to verbalize themselves.

Why not?

Why not enjoy the feeling of being in love?

Why not revel in the ultimate foolishness for once in his life?

W
ORKING IN THE GARDEN
later that same morning, enjoying the exercise, loving the brightness and heat of the sun on her back, Jane came to a decision.

She was in love with him, of course. Worse than that, she thought she was also growing to
love
him. There was no point in trying to deny her feelings and no use whatsoever in trying to fight them.

She loved him.

But it would not do, of course. She was not foolish enough to imagine that he would ever love her in return, though she knew that he was in the grip of a serious obsession with her. Besides, even if he ever did love her, there could be no happily-ever-after to expect. She was his mistress. And she was who she was.

But she could not live forever as a fugitive. She should never have given in to the cowardly impulse that had sent her scurrying into hiding in the first place. It had been so unlike her normal self. She was going to have to come out of hiding and do what she ought to have done as soon as she discovered that Lady Webb was not in London to help her.

She was going to find the Earl of Durbury if he was still in town. If he was not, she was going to find out where the Bow Street Runners had their headquarters and go there. She was going to write to Charles. She was going to tell her story to anyone who would listen. She was going to embrace her fate. Perhaps she would be arrested
and tried and convicted of murder. Perhaps that would mean a hanging or at the very least transportation or lifelong imprisonment. But she would not give in meekly. She would fight like the very devil to the last moment—but not by running away and hiding.