That was his aim. The whole point of having a mistress was having an entertainment, not being one. “I am the 8th Duke of Winterhaven.”
“An accident of birth.” She waved away the attribute that so entranced his other women. “Your title tells me about your station, not about you. Tell me something you like.”
He frowned. None of his other women ever contradicted him or pushed him to reveal himself like this. “I like you,” he said, not so sure he truly did now.
She raised her glass in salute. “Flattering, but you’re stalling, sir. Tell me something I don’t already know.”
While he was perfectly willing to share his body with this delectable woman, he always kept a firmly erected barrier between himself and his mistresses. When he looked into her eyes, he realized he’d not advance his cause a bit by holding back.
“I . . . like raising horses on my country estate.”
She smiled. “Good. Why?”
“Because it’s the done thing.”
“Oh, how deplorably dull. Never say that’s the real reason or I’ll believe you haven’t an original idea in your head.”
By thunder, no man had ever spoken to him thusly. Certainly no woman. “Miss St. George—”
“Bella, please,” she corrected. “Do you know why I sing, Sebastian? Because it moves me.” She leaned toward him and he forced himself not to be distracted by her décolletage. “Music is a demanding god. I can’t have a normal life because of the odd hours, the travel, and the slightly disreputable company. But when I sing, the glory of sound shivers over me. Music gives me so much, that the dusty theatres, the despicable critics, the terror that something might go horribly wrong—none of those things matter. I’m never more fully alive than when I’m pouring out my soul in song.”
“That’s what moves me.” She laid her hand on his. “I want to know what moves you. Now, tell me what you like about raising horses.”
He liked the smell of a horse, the dusty warm scent of a gelding’s shaggy coat on a brisk fall morning. He liked their soft noses and sweet breath. The homely comfort of a low whicker of greeting when he approached. He loved giving a spirited mount its head and flying across the—
“Freedom,” he said softly. “I love the freedom of riding. The speed. The thrill of controlling a powerful animal with only my knees, reins and will.”
Her smile washed over him. “You don’t have to be the 8th Duke of Winterhaven on the back of a horse.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, surprised that she’d divined his deeper thoughts so accurately.
“Someday, Sebastian, I should like to see you ride.”
* * * * *
It’s not here. Arabella rifled through Sebastian’s greatcoat pockets while he stepped out to see what was keeping their dessert. Oh, God, it’s not here.
All during supper, she’d furtively surveyed the sumptuous room, looking for the libretto. There weren’t that many horizontal surfaces where he might have laid it aside absently. She checked the small bookshelf, but there were only a few novels whose spines had never been cracked. The escritoire in the corner was locked, but surely he wouldn’t have felt the need to place the libretto under lock and key.
Unless the duke had found the envelope tucked within Don Giovanni’s pages and opened it. Unless he knew.
“Calm down,” she ordered herself. Sebastian was a very closed off, very private person, but she’d been able to read him fairly well. She’d know if he had found it.
She brushed her fingertips over the window ledges to see if he’d propped the libretto there. The door opened behind her and she turned guiltily to face him as he came back in, followed by a footman.
“Looking for something?” Sebastian asked.
“Looking at something,” she said smoothly. “Did you know you can see St. Paul’s from here? It’s really quite lovely by starlight.”
“And some things are lovely even without benefit of starlight.” His appraising gaze washed her with masculine approval.
She smiled at his compliment and settled back at the dining table where the footman put the finishing touches on their dessert. With a fine fork, he pricked the sponge cakes resting in shallow dessert-dishes. Then he poured on raisin wine and brandy in equal parts and once the cakes were thoroughly drenched, he sifted sugar on each of them. Just when Arabella didn’t think she could handle another ounce of decadence, he spooned a generous dollop of custard alongside each cake.
The footman bowed and left them to enjoy their sweets.
“I’ll never fit into my second act costume if I eat all that.”
“Try it before you decide not to like it,” Sebastian said, forking up a bite and offering it to her.
She opened her mouth and let the flavors burst on her tongue. “Oh, my! That’s worth a trip to the tailor.”
He offered her another and she took it.
“Oh, there’s a bit by the side of your mouth,” he said.
She ran the tip of her tongue around her lips.
“No, you didn’t quite . . . allow me.” He leaned over and licked the corner of her mouth, right at the juncture of smooth skin and moist intimacy. Then he pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes.
She wasn’t sure what he saw in hers, but she saw . . . loneliness in his and her chest ached.
Then he kissed her.
His kiss in her dressing room had been practiced, smooth. This one wasn’t. There was no sense of seduction, no hurried taking. It was more a gentle exploration. His mouth slanted over hers with surprising tenderness.
Then the kiss took a decidedly wicked turn. He stole her breath and nipped her bottom lip. His tongue made rough love her to mouth and her whole body sang. She draped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He stifled a groan.
“No, this isn’t . . . “ He yanked himself away, taking a deep breath, obviously bridling himself. “I don’t usually conduct my affairs in this manner.”
“I thought it was a grand beginning myself,” she said with a chuckle. “How do you usually conduct your affairs?”
“In a thoroughly civilized way. Before we proceed, it is important—”
“Proceed to what?”
“To . . . become better acquainted,” he said, neatly sidestepping the obvious. “I have a contract I should like you to look over and sign.”
“Indeed?”
“It’s all quite standard, I assure you and generous to a fault, I’m told.”
“What sort of contract?”
He walked over to the escritoire, unlocked it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Then he returned to the table. “It’s all here, laid out neatly. You will receive a liberal stipend for each of the three months we are together and at our parting, a pension to be drawn out for a number of years. I enjoy giving my mistress gifts, so if you prefer emeralds over rubies, be sure to let me know.”
“You expect me to become your mistress?” She leafed through the contract in awe.
“I should think that's obvious.”
“And the contract is for a predetermined length of time?”
“Yes, three months is optimal for—”
“No.” She laid the contract on top of her brandy-soaked cake. A ring of gooey moisture soaked through the paper and made the neat script run together.
He couldn't have looked more surprised if she'd slapped him. “No?”
“No, I won’t sign this contract. I won’t become your mistress.” Then she rose, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I can't promise to stay with you for three months. I might be hopelessly bored with you before that time is up, but . . .”—she walked her fingers down his chest to the buttons of his trousers—“I will become your lover.”
His breath hissed over his teeth. “When?”
She kissed his lips. Bella liked men. She liked Sebastian. And she needed more time to look for that envelope. “Right now.”
“The first physical encounter with a prospective mistress sets the tone for all future interludes.
A wise man makes his expectations clear.”
~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Chapter 4
Sebastian knew it was the height of foolishness to engage in love play with a woman without benefit of a contract. She might decide to make more of their relationship than it was. She might make demands upon him he was unprepared to meet. An intimate encounter with a woman was not something a prudent man stumbled into without protecting his interests.
And his future freedom.
But at the moment, Bella's mouth on his made any thoughts of prudence flee away.
He loved the way she tasted, sweet with a hint of raisin wine and a splash of brandy. Her scent engulfed him, warm and musky. Her body pressed against his, her softness melding into his hardness. She didn't kiss like any woman he'd ever known. Usually his mistresses passively accepted his attentions. They took their cue from his level of passion, matching him surely but unwilling to initiate anything.
Bella took the lead, teasing him with her tongue and then withholding it. She kissed his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. A playful nip on his earlobe sent his groin into pleasurable agony.
“Bella,” he murmured, not sure his voice would even work.
She pulled away and looked up at him, her lips kiss-swollen. “I like the way you said my name just then. It sounds as if you want me. Need me.”
Her words were a dash of cold water. The 8th Duke of Winterhaven didn’t need anyone. He cleared his throat. “I do want you.” He plucked a couple pins from her hair and ran his fingers through the length that uncoiled. “That’s not in dispute.”
She caught up his hand and pressed a lover’s kiss on his palm. He fought the urge to groan with wanting.
“But you don’t need me?” she asked.
“Bella, I . . .” He clamped his lips shut. A duke, a man for that matter, ought not admit to need.
“Well, that’s something of a challenge for me then,” she said with a sly grin. “I shall have to make you need me.”
The thought amused him. As if anyone could make him do anything he didn’t wish. She wrapped her slender arms around his neck and turned her face up to him again. He claimed her mouth without further invitation.
“No, no,” she said after a few moments, sliding her hands down so her palms pressed against his chest. “You’re kissing me by rote.”
“What?” No woman had ever complained of his kisses.
“Don't misunderstand. Your kisses would turn most women to water. When you kissed me before, it certainly weakened my knees, but this one was too practiced, too predictable. So many seconds slanted this way, so many turned the other. In another moment, I’ll be presented with your tongue.” She cocked her head at him. “A lady could set her pendant watch by that kiss.”
He pulled away from her. She was either the most intriguing woman he’d ever met or the most infuriating. He wasn’t sure which.
“Don’t take it badly. I see so much potential, so much to hope for in you, Sebastian.”