More Than a Mistress. Ann Lethbridge

word?

      She bit her lip. ‘Continue.’

      He rolled the stocking, as neatly as any maid would, careful not to damage the cobwebby silk. Another inch of skin, another kiss. Thrills coursed through her blood. She held herself rigid against their temptation, but she couldn’t stop watching.

      He continued to roll and kiss every inch until the stocking reached her ankle. He shaped her calf with his palm, lingering there as if he’d exposed a treasure. Her insides tightened with desire and longing.

      He sighed, a waft of warm gentle air against her skin, then pulled the stocking off. He rubbed the ball of her foot with his thumb. Her body hummed with pleasure. He massaged her arch. She wanted to purr like a cat. Her back stretched. Her shoulders loosened. Dazed, she stared down at his broad naked shoulders, the curve of his back, the movement of muscle beneath. He was lovely.

      She yearned to touch him. If only she dared.

      Gently he lowered her hem, and rose to his full height, smiling down at her. Clearly waiting for sign from her as to where they would go next.

      When she said nothing, he gave a slight nod. ‘I think it is time I bid you goodnight.’ He put on his ring, tucked the rest of his jewellery in his coat pocket and slung his discarded clothing over his shoulder.

      He looked just like a pirate carrying off his booty.

      She half-wished the booty included her.

      Her heart knocked against her ribs. Her body trembled with the urge to join him in his chamber. To enjoy his beautiful body and the pleasure he would give.

      It had been a long time since she’d known the pleasure of a man. But she never expected to be attracted to a man like him, a nobleman who no doubt would mock her in his clubs and to his friends. Blast it. Pricked by her pride, she’d let him push her too far and been tempted by his beautiful body. What a fool.

      Thank goodness he’d be gone in the morning and leave her in peace.

      ‘I’ll collect the rest of my winnings tomorrow,’ he murmured.

      Her heart lurched.

      Money. He meant the money. ‘It will be waiting for you,’ she said with a calm she did not feel.

      She acknowledged his sweeping bow with an inclination of her head.

      He closed the door softly behind him. She sat still, imagining him climbing the stairs. Would he walk slowly? Lingering, hoping she might follow? Or would he run, glad of his escape? Or had it all been one great joke?

      Did he know she was his for the taking had he persisted? Did he know she’d lie awake all night, reliving his touch on her flesh?

      Shame sent more heat to her face. Her stomach fell away. Would she never learn? She inhaled a deep breath, pushed to her feet and looked up at Grandfather’s portrait beside the hearth. A gentler one than that in the other room. ‘I certainly made a pig’s ear of that, didn’t I?’ No doubt more scandal would attach to her name when he gossiped to his friends.

      Thank God, he would be gone in the morning.

       Chapter Four

      Voices. Female voices. As consciousness returned, Charlie lay still, eyes closed, his cold naked body rigid. One movement would be his downfall. A laugh chilled his soul.

      ‘Do you think he tupped the missus?’

      ‘Why else would she bring him home?’

      Odd. Charlie cracked an eyelid. Peered at the two women at the end of a monstrous four-poster bed and remembered. He was in Yorkshire, not a war-torn field in Europe. He let go of his breath, relaxing his body.

      The women were dressed modestly, like chambermaids, one a chubby young blonde with an inquisitive expression, the other a sallow-faced brunette past the first blush of youth. Their eyes perused his body as boldly as a farmer sizing up a bull at the market.

      Flipping the sheet over his groin, Charlie sat up and smiled. ‘Good morning, ladies.’

      The blonde one squeaked. The other put her hands on her hips. ‘Sorry, your lordship. We didn’t mean to wake you. Your fire is made up and we stopped to admire the

      ‘You should draw t’curtain,’ the younger one said defensively, ‘if you don’t want us looking.’

      He choked back a laugh. Miss Draycott had the most unusual of staff. But then there was nothing about Merry Draycott that was usual.

      The dark one lowered her lashes a fraction and her gaze to the sheet, which hid little of the evidence of his morning arousal. ‘I could help you out with that for a shilling.’

      ‘I wouldn’t charge you at all,’ the blonde said, licking her lips and smiling. ‘I’d bounce on that any day of t’week.’

      Good God, what sort of house was this? Charlie tried to keep his jaw off his chest. ‘Thank you, but no.’

      The hopeful smile faded. ‘You won’t say nowt to missus, will you? About us waking you. We are supposed to be quiet.’

      With a sense of unreality, Charlie shook his head. ‘Thank you for the fire.’

      The older of the two narrowed her gaze. ‘How come you left all the candles burning? Not scared of the dark, are you?’

      Scared didn’t come close to describing the insidious panic he felt in the hours before dawn. He grinned. ‘I fell asleep reading.’ He gestured to the book on the night table, placed there in case of such questions.

      ‘Waste of good beeswax, that is,’ she muttered and flounced out of the room.

      The other girl followed, lugging the coal bucket and a dustpan and brush.

      Charlie collapsed against the pillows and let out a laugh. There was no mistaking the sort of fires those women preferred to light and it had nothing to do with hearths and coals.

      He should have guessed from the style of Merry’s dress and her lapses of speech that the damned woman was a brothel keeper.

      An abbess. And one with enemies? Overnight he’d been thinking about that broken axle.

      Another look at her carriage was required, but this latest piece of information added to his suspicions about her supposed accident. It wasn’t one.

      He glanced around the room. The candles augmented by light from the window illuminated a carved and tapestry-hung nightmare of a room in every shade of green. It looked worse than it had the previous evening.

      He threw back the covers and slipped from the bed. He strode to the window. He’d left the curtains open, too, as well as the bed curtains. Unending white accounted for the unnatural light. He frowned at the sky. While the clouds seemed less lowering, he doubted the roads would be passable.

      And he was stuck in a house of ill repute. A joke Robert would have loved. Charlie didn’t find it in the least bit humorous. She should have told him last night instead of her pretending to be respectable—well, almost respectable.

      A vision of Merry’s lovely slender leg in his hand popped into his brain. The arousal that had tormented him the previous evening, and upon awakening, started anew. He cursed. He’d behaved like a perfect gentleman with a woman who kept a bawdy house. What a quixotic fool she must have thought him.

      He turned away from the window at the sound of the chamber door opening. Brian with boots in hand. The lad bowed deeply. ‘Good morning, my lord. Mr Gribble said to tell you the snow on the moors is really deep.’

      ‘I guessed as much. You don’t need to stay. I can manage.’

      The lad looked so crestfallen at the dismissal, Charlie relented. ‘Brush my claret-coloured coat and then iron my cravat, if you wouldn’t mind.’