His Lady Mistress. Elizabeth Rolls

You helped me. Please—you must go! If anyone finds you here…’ Her voice dried up at his smile.

      ‘They’ve all gone boating.’

      ‘And the servants—the other servants?’ she amended, remembering her role. ‘You think they won’t tattle?’ She grimaced. Most of them were only too pleased to have someone to look down upon. One or two were sorry for her, but the rest took their tone from their mistress.

      He grinned at her and pulled out a large handkerchief. And ripped it almost in half. ‘Our chaperon. I brought it along for mending.’

      She scowled at him. Drat the man! She would be in the most appalling scrape if they were caught and all she wanted to do was smile back!

      ‘No one would ever believe that the high and mighty Lord Blakehurst would be seen dead blowing his nose on a mended handkerchief!’ she snapped. And shut her eyes in horror. Was she mad? Meek little Selina wouldn’t have said that!

      An appreciative chuckle made her eyes snap open.

      ‘Not dead, no,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘That would be a bit much. But I do have a very saving disposition. Hangover from my army days. Ask my valet. He’ll tell you.’

      ‘Please, just go,’ she begged.

      He stared at her. ‘Miss…Miss…Selina, you’re not scared of me, are you? You don’t imagine for one moment that I have any…’ he hesitated ‘…that I would behave like Godfrey Faringdon towards you?’

      Verity gasped. ‘You? Like Godfrey? Oh, no!’

      His gaze focused. ‘You seem very sure.’

      She caught herself up. ‘I…I…yes. Nothing about your reputation suggests that you…that you…well, anyway, I am sure. But please go!’

      ‘Has that little toad bothered you again?’ he asked sharply.

      Her stomach lurched. ‘No. He hasn’t been anywhere near me.’ She could not repress a shiver. The moment Lord Blakehurst left Godfrey would be at her again.

      ‘Good.’

      Her eyes widened at the harsh note in his voice. ‘Why should you care?’

      He didn’t answer. Instead, he came towards her. She forced herself to stillness, meeting his suddenly intense gaze unblinking.

      Slowly he lifted a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, the softness of her throat. Every precept of good sense and modesty shrieked at her to strike his hand away. She remained still, captive to his gentle touch. When had she last been touched gently?

      The answer shook her to the core. Nearly five years ago. By Max Blakehurst. Only now his touch made her restless, sent shivers rippling through her. She forced herself to remain still, rigid.

      After a moment his hand dropped. He inclined his head. ‘Good afternoon, Selina.’

      The door shut behind him and slowly Verity lifted her hand to the path his fingers had traced.

      Twenty minutes later Max rode out of the stable yard. With Lady Moncrieff stalking him through the house, retreat was the only sane tactic. He had no stomach for her ladyship’s plans for their mutual entertainment and having her forever cooing about him had become intolerable.

      He pushed his horse harder, seeking forgetfulness in the flying hooves and surging power beneath him.

      Several miles later the mare’s labouring breath told him it was time to turn for home. He drew the lathered animal to a halt, dismounted and loosened her girth.

      ‘Easy, old girl.’ He rubbed the sweaty nose. ‘I’ll walk for a bit. Give you a breather.’ Guilt and self-loathing did not excuse riding his horse into the ground. There was no rush, he could take his time getting back. When he did he’d make his excuses and depart. There was nothing to hold him at Faringdon Hall.

      Or was there?

      Deep grey eyes swam into focus. Wary, shuttered eyes, fringed with the darkest lashes. Selina…what was her name? Dering. Selina Dering. He came to a dead halt. Why the devil would he consider staying for Selina? As far as he could judge, his warning to Godfrey and Lord Faringdon had taken effect. She had said herself that Godfrey had not been near her. What more could he do for her?

      His whole body hardened as he walked on slowly, suggesting all manner of things that they could do for each other. From the moment she had landed in his arms the other night he’d been conscious of the attraction. He wanted her. At first he’d tried to ignore it. Told himself he’d acted in her defence from motives of the most disinterested chivalry. It was only half-true. He wasn’t disinterested. On the contrary.

      Her very refusal to have anything to do with him piqued his interest. Most girls in her position would be doing their utmost to cast languishing smiles, practically tripping over themselves—literally—to engage his interest. Selina couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. He grinned. Not what he usually looked for in a mistress, but for her he’d willingly make an exception. God, she’d be sweet…

      No! Be damned if he’d behave as Faringdon had, forcing the girl into submission.

      But you wouldn’t be. All you have to do is offer. She can refuse.

      And she would. Her whole response to him suggested that. Far from trying to catch his attention, she had been practically pushing him out of the door of the sewing room. Hardly encouraging, but at least she had some spirit left. Whatever her background was, she didn’t talk or behave like a servant.

      He faced another truth. When he left, what was to prevent Godfrey taking up where he had left off? Probably at the most he had won the girl a breathing space. He swore under his breath. All he wanted was to shake the dust of this place from him, but he couldn’t. Not until he had made quite sure that Selina was safe.

      A heavy weight descended on his shoulder accompanied by a satisfied snort. Adjusting his step to accommodate the mare’s head, he cast a sideways glance at her and rubbed the velvety nose. ‘Comfortable? Anything else I can carry for you?’

      She whiffled contentedly.

      He shook his head and walked on, remembering the unridable filly he’d bought three years earlier. Mistrustful Fidget, as likely to bite a man as not, with her head on his shoulder like an overgrown spaniel.

      He’d tamed her. Why not Selina? He had rescued Fidget from a young idiot who was mistreating her brutally. Was Selina’s situation so very much different? He caught himself up with a rueful grin. Arrogant coxcomb! Selina was a girl, a woman. Not a filly.

      Fidget had been given no choice in her fate. Selina had every right to refuse. Fidget had learnt to trust him after he had taken her. Selina would have to learn before he took her, if she learnt at all. If she hadn’t been too badly hurt. His stomach clenched at the thought of what she’d likely been subjected to.

      He’d been invited to stay for a fortnight. He had just over a sennight left. That long to gain Selina’s trust—and affection.

      Affection? Where did that notion come from? Since when had he wanted affection from one of his mistresses? All he wanted from his mistresses was a couple of months of pure and simple pleasure. Three at the most. Well, maybe not pure. Very well, definitely not pure. But no more than three months. Not even from the loveliest of them. So there it was—he wanted Selina. Right down to her freckles.

      And if she didn’t want him?

      His whole being revolted at the thought. He took a deep breath. If she didn’t, he’d have to devise another way of protecting her. It crept into his mind that Selina would be very different from his previous mistresses. He had the oddest feeling that he might not want to let her go after three months.

      He pushed the thought away. He was being fanciful. Taking her as his mistress would be the easiest and most satisfactory way of protecting her. That was all.

      Hurrying