Regency Silk & Scandal eBook Bundle Volumes 1-4. Louise Allen

harshly.

      ‘What if I would have enjoyed being your mistress?’ Nell demanded, fighting with the recalcitrant sleeves of her spencer which had turned themselves inside out. Marcus, looking grim, did not answer her, but sat down and began to pull on his boots. ‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘the genteel thing for someone of gentle birth fallen on hard times to do would be to simply dwindle to death without any form of occupation. That would be the respectable fate.’

      ‘Damn it!’ Marcus grounded his right foot with a slam onto the flagged floor. ‘Are you saying that you really would have become my mistress? If I had asked you in cold blood as a business proposition instead of the pair of us getting carried away just now?’

      ‘Perhaps I would.’ Nell buttoned the spencer up to her chin. ‘You appear to make love very nicely, which must be a benefit—not that I have much basis for comparison, of course, so I am really not a good judge.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Marcus ran his neckcloth through his hand with a snap. ‘I rarely get any complaints.’

      ‘How gratifying for you. Practice makes perfect, no doubt.’ Where were her shoes? Nell spotted them under the table, sat down with more force than elegance and began to lace them up. ‘I am sure that earning my living by submitting to your embraces would be considerably more pleasurable than getting eye strain and backache for pennies making hats.’

      ‘I do not require my mistresses to submit! Damn this thing!’ Marcus tied the neckcloth into a rough knot and thrust the ends into his waistcoat. ‘And I might remind you that mistresses come to bad ends when their looks fade.’

      ‘Not if they are prudent,’ she retorted. ‘It appears to be like any other form of business. One takes care of one’s assets, charges a good price for them and invests the proceeds wisely.’ Suddenly, shockingly, it seemed a not unattractive way of life. Provided one never let oneself fall in love, of course.

      ‘Stop talking such damned nonsense.’ Marcus lost his precarious hold on his temper, threw down his coat and grabbed her by both arms. ‘You will do no such thing.’ They glared at each other ‘You have no idea what you are talking about or what the dangers are.’

      ‘Balderdash.’

      ‘Very well then. I will set you up in your own business. Millinery, a dress shop. Haberdashery or some such. That, at least, will be safe.’

      ‘Why should you?’ Nell demanded. ‘You do not owe me anything, and that would simply make me your pensioner. At least, as a mistress, I would give something in return. I have my pride, believe it or not.’

      ‘You have damn little else,’ he ground out.

      They were both furious now and Nell had very little recollection of quite why, except that her body thrummed and ached with unsatisfied desire and the man she had fallen in love with was lecturing her. He was probably right, which did nothing to soothe her hurt feelings.

      ‘I am going back to London and then I will set about finding a protector. It will require a small outlay in clothes, I suppose, but I have my savings.’

      ‘If you expect to find yourself a wealthy protector you will need more than a sewing girl’s savings,’ Marcus said, his lip curling in a way that had her longing to hit him. ‘Clothes, shoes, fans, perfume. A coiffeuse, a maid…you must be seen in the right places, drive in the parks.’

      ‘You know so much about it, you are just the person to advise me,’ Nell said sweetly. ‘Perhaps you would like to invest in me?’

      Marcus let go of her arms as if he had been bitten. ‘That, my dear, would make me your pimp,’ he said, his voice icy. ‘And, given that you need some lessons in lovemaking before you will be a worthwhile investment, I think I will not risk my social standing by a descent into trade just yet.’

      ‘You—’ Nell swept up her coat, crammed her hat painfully on her head and, fumbling with gloves, muff and scarf, stormed out of the door.

      ‘Nell, come back here!’

      ‘No! I am going to walk,’ she threw over her shoulder, making for a narrow path through the trees that led in the direction of the house and ignoring the colourful language that followed her.

      For a moment she thought he would pursue her, but after a few minutes she heard the sound of hooves on the hard ground and caught a glimpse through the trees of the curricle being driven away at a speed that could only be described as reckless in the icy conditions.

      There was something hot on her cheeks. Nell dumped the muff and scarf on a tree stump, found her handkerchief and blew her nose. Anyone’s eyes would stream in this cold, she told herself, pulling on her gloves, winding the scarf around her neck and beating the frost and twigs off the muff. Anyone’s.

      By the time she got back to the house, she could feel her face was red with exertion and the cold air, her feet were like ice and her hair was escaping from the fur hat she had bundled it into, but she was at least feeling calmer. It seemed that brisk exercise was a remedy for both sexual frustration and bad temper. But what she was going to say to Marcus when she saw him again, she had no idea.

      ‘Thank you, Andrewes.’ There seemed to be a new arrival. The footman ushered her into the hall which was encumbered with a trunk and a number of valises. A greatcoat was thrown over a chair and she could hear Verity’s voice raised in excited speech.

      ‘A new guest?’ she hazarded.

      ‘It’s Lieutenant Carlow,’ the footman said with a grin. ‘Master Hal. Sent home on leave from the Peninsula now his wound’s healing.’ There was a feminine shriek of laughter from the drawing room and his smile widened. ‘Their ladyships are very pleased to see him, as you might imagine, miss.’

      ‘I’ll go up and change,’ Nell said with a glance through the window. No sign of a curricle. ‘The family will want some time to talk together. Could you have some tea sent up please, Andrewes?’

      Less than a fortnight ago, I was filling my kettle from a bucket on the landing and now I am airily requesting a tea tray from a liveried footman, she thought, trudging up the stairs. Had she really contemplated becoming a fallen woman in order to continue in such luxury? It seemed she had, which was a lowering thought. But somehow she could not regret the impulse, not if the man in question was Marcus.

      Luxury seemed even more tempting when a tap on the door brought not just the maid with the tea tray, but footmen with hot-water pails. ‘Andrewes thought you looked a bit chilled, miss,’ Miriam said, shaking out Nell’s coat while the sound of water being emptied into the tub came from the dressing room. ‘Shall we wash your hair? Lady Verity’s given me a bottle of her camomile hair lotion for you.’

      ‘Oh yes, why not?’ Nell drank her tea and contemplated the soft towels, the rose-scented soap, the fire in the dressing room. Sinless indulgencies for a guest. But, when she went home, the only way she could enjoy them was by committing the gravest sin for a lady: the sacrifice of her already tarnished honour.

      Nell put down her cup and stood up, wondering if to choose the life of a courtesan would be to take power or to lose it utterly.

      Sliding into the warm embrace of the tub did nothing to banish the memories of how pleasurable some of the duties of a mistress might be. Idly Nell soaped her arms, squeezed the big sponge so that water flowed over her breasts, felt again Marcus’s lips on her heated skin.

      But she had fallen in love with him, maddening, suspicious man that he was. Was that why his lovemaking stirred her so? Could she give herself to another man, feeling like this? No, of course she couldn’t. She would be disgusted at herself. It was Marcus’s caresses she wanted and only his. She should be grateful that his scruples stopped him before they had done anything irrevocable. Which meant returning to a life of respectable, humble drudgery and the sooner she resigned herself to it, the better.

      The gloom that these thoughts provoked halftempted Nell into taking her drab gown from the clothes press and bundling her hair into a net. Stubborn self-respect