Jade Lee - Wedded in Scandal

“And that can be extremely exhausting, what with telling everyone what to do and seeing that it is done.”

He leaned back in against the settee, dislodging a pile of dress patterns as he moved. “I tell you, no one listens to me. At home or anywhere else.”

“Anthony did. Francine listened as well.”

“But did exactly as she pleased.”

The lady grinned even as she picked up the tumbled patterns. “Francine listened to what you thought and then made her own decision. That is an excellent thing, I believe, in a young person.”

“You obviously know different young people than I do.”

She smiled, but her expression was wistful. “This is fun, is it not? Trading insults, bantering back and forth about the people we know.”

He grinned. It was the most fun he’d had in an age.

“That is why you don’t despise me, my lord. Because there is no relationship between us, no need to please or be pleased by the other. We can be as absurd or as contentious as we wish, with no consequences.”

“I could still ban Gwen from your shop.”

“But you are a man of your word, my lord, and promised not to do such a thing.”

He sighed loudly, adopting a most dramatic pose. “Oh, damnation, my honor!”

Her expression went from wistful to fully entertained. Exactly as he had wished. “No consequences, no relationship, not even as dressmaker to client.” She took a deep breath, unconsciously drawing his attention to her beautifully formed breasts. “I vow it is a relief to me as well.”

He was silent for a time, his mind on her curves, on the lightness he felt in her presence, on the delight of her conversation. The offer formed in his mind long before he voiced it. In truth, he’d had it in his thoughts after their first meeting, even knowing how improbable it was. That, perhaps, was the real reason he had come skulking about her back room, and it was not to have a look at her books.

So he waited a time, thinking once more upon the possibility. He had made some discreet inquiries after their first meeting. He had learned from Gwen what was said about the woman, and from there it was a matter of the right question in the right ear. The answer was just what he had hoped. It took a moment’s more consideration but in the end, the words were inevitable.

“I should like to offer my condolences, Mrs. Mortimer.”

She frowned, obviously confused by his words. “My lord?”

“On the passing of Lord Metzger. I understand you were both very…close.” She had, in fact, been his mistress for many years. But now the man was dead—he’d died some months ago—and she was without protection.

He watched her swallow, seeing those exact thoughts whisper across her features. “His lordship was indeed a good friend,” she said, caution in every word.

“So I understand. But now he is gone, and I should like—”

“No relationship, my lord. Do you not recall what I just said? No relationship. The delight we have in our conversations would alter drastically if we began…something else.”

“Really?” he said as he leaned forward. Her hand was resting on her knee and it was the work of a moment to capture her wrist and thereby trap her in her seat. “Do you think so?”

“I do. I most certainly do.” Her voice was high in pitch and he caught an undercurrent of panic. She knew he was drawing close to kiss her. She knew it and was panicked by the thought. Or perhaps she was simply playing the part of an ingenue to spark his interest. Whether real or feigned, he was beyond intrigued. Indeed, certain parts of him were all but demanding she surrender to him right here and now.

But he was more refined than that and so he slowed his approach. He easily flipped her hand over to press a kiss into her wrist. To his delight, he felt her shiver as he pressed his mouth to her tender flesh.

“Do you know,” he said against her skin, “I believe I should like to explore something with you.”

“I’m sure you would,” she said somewhat tartly, though her voice trembled. Her arm did not as she whipped it backward out of his hand. She didn’t know that it was exactly as he’d planned. While she drew her hand back, he pretended to be pulled forward enough that he had to catch himself on the armrests of her chair, thereby trapping her beneath the tent of his body. “My lord, this is most inappropriate.”

“On the contrary,” he said as he slowly lowered his face toward hers. “I believe an offer of protection is exactly appropriate between the two of us.”

“My lord! I am a dressmaker!”

“Not to Lord Metzger, you weren’t. And not to me.”

She had drawn back to the farthest reaches of her chair, but she hadn’t screamed. He saw the rapid beat of her pulse in her throat and felt the tight puff of her breath against his cheek. She was interested, of that he was certain. But how quickly could he get her to fall? Normally he enjoyed the dance of maybe yes, maybe no. But with her, he found he wanted merely to possess as quickly as possible.

“No, my lord.” She put a hand to his chest to stop him. There was little strength in her words and her wrist, but it was enough to make his honor prickle.

“Don’t you want to explore, Mrs. Mortimer? To find out if our delightful conversations will continue with the benefit of a relationship?”

She licked her lips in anxiety, and his gaze dropped from there to even lower. Her bosom was flushed rosy pink above her gown, and her beautiful breasts were tightened into hard points that made his blood crow with delight. Without even thinking it, he lifted his hand to stroke one hard nub, but she caught him before he connected.

“No, my lord. No!”

He twisted his arm around hers such that he caught her wrist again and lifted it to his mouth. Nearly a decade ago, his uncle had taught him how to seduce a woman with just his tongue. It had been the most useful lesson any relative had ever given him. He used it to its fullest extent now as he teased and stroked her wrist. And as he applied himself to her skin, he watched her face. Her mouth opened on a gasp as she made to pull her hand away. But he was already at work on her wrist, and he saw her eyes widen in shock. Obviously Lord Metzger had never been instructed by a lecherous uncle, because Mrs. Mortimer’s body began to react.

Her lips darkened to a rich, wet red. Her eyes, so wide a moment ago, began to soften in a kind of daze. She shivered against his lips, and her knees, which were pressed so hard against his thighs, eased slightly apart. She probably wasn’t even aware of her reaction, but he had been taught well. He knew what to look for in a woman.

And then, formidable woman that she was, she gathered her wits. She closed her eyes and stiffened her spine. When her words came, they were hard and implacable.

“No, my lord. I will not be your mistress. Pray respect my wishes and remove yourself from my person.”

He lifted his head and slowly set down her arm. He watched her exhale in relief, obviously believing she had won. And cad that he was, he took advantage of that one moment of vulnerability. Before she could stop him, he closed the distance between them.

He kissed her. He more than kissed her, he used his superior position—in height, in social status, and in simple physical prowess—and he owned her mouth as only a man can own a woman.

One kiss, one moment, and she was his. Or so he believed…for about five seconds.

He was kissing her! Lord Redhill was kissing her, and it was wonderful!

Certainly she had been kissed before. There were any number of unscrupulous men who had tried to take advantage of her, especially after her father’s perfidy was known. And in truth, she had known on some level that Lord Redhill would fall into that category eventually. He was not a man to be denied anything, and if she caught his fancy—which she knew she had—then he would of course be required to act upon the impulse. He was a man, after all, and that was what men did.

So she had expected the kiss, had seen the signs, and had her defense ready. After all, she was experienced in stopping all manner of advances. In fact, that was why she had developed the fictitious persona of Mrs. Mortimer, Lord Metzger’s mistress. Lord Metzger had no more been her lover than her driver, but the widespread belief that he was her protector had helped her keep her virtue without all that unnecessary grabbing and demanding that men did. Then poor Lord Metzger had died. Lord Redhill had sauntered into her life. And now he was doing things to her mouth that she had never imagined possible.

He’d started with a simple press of lips to hers, but at her gasp of surprise, he had swept inside. One other man had done that to her, back when she was at school, and she had choked on his invasion. She had wasted no time in shoving the man so hard he landed on his backside.

But Lord Redhill didn’t invade with such brute strength. Instead he teased her, coaxed her, and indeed, something about the sweep of his tongue, the nip of his teeth, even the delightful taste of his breath set her body to humming. Humming, by God, when she was absolutely not a woman who hummed.

She felt his hand at her neck, a single finger, then two, caressing beneath her jaw, slowly coaxing her head backward to rest cupped in his other hand. She couldn’t stop herself from complying. His stroke trailed fire along her skin and, unlike anything else in her life, that heat slid beneath her flesh and into her blood. And with her surrender, Lord Redhill increased his conquest. The press of his body grew harder, the penetration of her mouth more dominant.