|
“Of course, the mezzo was just covering for the tenor,” Arabella
said before she popped a tart bite of orange into her mouth. “He was
actually with one of the baritones from the chorus.”
Sebastian laughed. Arabella St. George told such engagingly ribald
stories. They tripped off her tongue with the same ease as one of
her high notes. He loved her naughty tales of the backstage doings
at the opera company and the sly little tidbits about the heads of
state for whom she'd sung private recitals. He easily envisioned her
moving smoothly among his peers as they made the rounds of demimonde
haunts, charming them all as she went. She would be an ideal
mistress.
The only problem was that she seemed a bit distracted sometimes. He
caught her gaze flitting about the room now and then as if she were
looking for something in particular. It seemed out of character—as
if the lady were in actuality a cutpurse looking for a likely item
of value to filch. But then she’d flash him such a beguiling smile,
he decided he’d imagined the whole thing.
By the time they reached the main course, he was thoroughly
convinced he’d made the correct choice for the next season. Then
she stumbled badly.
“But I’ve occupied the conversation far too long,” she said. “Tell
me about you, Sebastian.”
He shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
That was far too wide a net. He decided to limit it. “I am a Whig in
matters political.”
"There's a conversation stopper." She laughed. “Our costume mistress
has a parrot that claims to be a Whig if you offer him a cracker, a
Tory if you give him cake! Rather like a real politician, I should
think." Then her smile faded and she skewered him with a piercing
look. "You’ve told me nothing.”
|
That was his aim. The whole point of having a mistress was
having an entertainment, not in 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 or
pushed him to reveal himself like this one. “I like you,” he
said, not so sure he really did just now.
She raised her glass in salute. “Flattering, but you’re
stalling, sir. I think you'd like to bed me, but you don't
appreciate my prying. 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. But when he looked into her
eyes, he realized he wanted to please this woman for some
unaccountable reason that had little to do with a bedding.
He’d not advance his cause by holding back. What could it
hurt if he tossed her a small bit of himself? |
|
|
Emily
Bryan
.jpg)
|
|
“I . . . like raising horses on my country estate.”
She cocked her head at him. “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—”
“Do you know why I sing, Sebastian?"
"It is your profession."
"But that's not why I do
it. I sing because
it moves me.” She leaned toward him and he tried not
to be distracted by her décolletage. With any luck at all, her body
would soon have no secrets from him. “Music is a demanding god. I
can’t have a normal life because of the odd hours, the travel, 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 demanding critics, the terror that something might go horribly
wrong—none of that matters. In that delicious moment, I'm connected
to my body and my heart and the eternal now. I’m never more
fully alive than when I’m pouring out my soul in song.”
She laid her hand on his. “I want to know what moves you. What makes
you come alive. Now, tell me what you like about raising horses.”
He leaned back in his chair to think. 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 in a low whicker of greeting when he approached. He loved
giving a spirited mount its head and flying across the meadow. “Freedom,” he
said softly. “I love the freedom of riding. The speed. The thrill of
controlling such a powerful animal with only my knees, reins and
will.”
One corner of her mouth turned up slyly. “You don’t have to be the
8th Duke of Winterhaven on the back of a horse.”
“No,” he said, surprised that she’d divined his thoughts so acutely.
"I can simply . . . be myself."
Her smile washed over him. “Someday, Sebastian, I should like to see
you ride.”
~~~
|
Emily
Bryan
|
|
|
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 their supper, she’d furtively surveyed the sumptuous
room, looking for the libretto. There weren’t that many places, 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 small escritoire in the
corner was locked, but surely he wouldn’t have felt the need to
place it under lock and key.
Unless he’d found the envelope tucked within the libretto’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 evidence of French espionage. |
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 their
butler.
“Looking for something?” Sebastian asked.
“Looking at something,” she said smoothly. “Did you know you
can see St. Paul’s from here? The dome is quite beautiful by
starlight.”
"And some things are quite beautiful even without benefit of
starlight," he said.
It was a practiced compliment, but she smiled at him in any case, and settled back at the dining table where the
butler put the finishing touches on their dessert. With a fine fork,
he pricked the
sponge cakes
resting in individual glass dessert-dishes. Then he poured raisin
wine and brandy in equal parts over them. 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,
the butler spooned a generous dollop of custard alongside each cake.
The butler bowed and left them to enjoy their dessert.
“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 of custard by the side of your mouth.”
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. It was natural, sensual, unduke-like
thing to do. She liked it far more than she wanted to admit. Then he
pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes.
Arabella
wished she had nothing to hide from this man, that her unfinished
business with Fernand wasn't tainting this delicate dance.
Everything about her evening with Sebastian had been a delight,
except for that blasted envelope hanging over her like the sword of
Damocles.
He was still giving her a searching look. She wasn't sure what
he saw in her eyes, but she saw . . . loneliness in his. He enjoyed
power, prestige, great wealth and it was leaving him empty. Her
chest ached for him.
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. |
|
|
Emily
Bryan
|
|
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 way.”
“How do you conduct your affairs?”
"In a thoroughly civilized manner. Before we proceed, it is
important--"
"Proceed to what?" she interrupted. She wanted to make him say it.
“To . . . become better acquainted," he said, neatly sidestepping
the obvious. "I have a contract I should like you to look over and
sign."
"What?"
"It’s all quite standard, I assure you and the terms are generous to a fault, my
solicitor tells me."
"What sort of contract?"
He walked over to the escritoire and unlocked it. After pulling out
a sheaf of papers, 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 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.”
She leafed through the contract in awe at its minute detail. There
was even a clause agreeing to support, but not acknowledge, any
child conceived during the next three months. “You expect me to
become your mistress?”
"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 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 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 the 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."
|
Emily
Bryan
|
|
|
Click
here to read the next chapter!
Want to be notified
when the next chapter of
A DUKE
FOR ALL SEASONS
is up?
Sign up for
Emily's newsletter!
|
|
.png)
