Mistress by Amanda Quick
“Marcus.”
“I told you last night that I am in need of a real paramour.”
He slid one hand down to her waist and then he spread his fingers over her hip. He squeezed gently, crushing her white silk skirts. When she moaned, he moved his palm lower, took a handful of silk in his fist, and raised it to her thigh.
Iphiginia was startled by the feel of stone directly against the back of her leg. She opened her eyes, confused and disoriented.
“I do not—”
“Hush.” Marcus covered her mouth with his own, sealing her halfhearted protest behind her lips.
He braced her against the statue behind her. He slid his hand up along her stocking-clad leg past her garter and wrapped his fingers around her bare thigh.
Iphiginia flinched in reaction.
To her astonishment, he stilled. “Does my touch offend you? Do you find my hands rough on your soft skin, Mrs. Bright?”
“No,” she managed in a thin voice. She clung to him. “I love your hands, sir.” She kissed his jaw. “They are so … so …” Words failed her.
“Yes?” He stroked his rough palm along the inside of her leg.
Iphiginia gasped and buried her face against his shoulder. “So very exciting,” she whispered.
He seemed to relax. “I’m pleased that you are excited.” He dropped a small kiss on her ear. His fingers flexed on her leg.
Iphiginia could hardly breathe. No man had ever touched her so intimately. She was stunned by the sensations roiling within her.
She reminded herself that Marcus believed her to be an experienced widow, not a naive innocent. She must not allow him to notice that she was close to being overwhelmed by lovemaking.
“Sir, I am not at all certain this is either the time or the place for this sort of thing. Someone might walk in on us.” Iphiginia knew that she did not really want him to stop. What she wanted was for him to go more slowly. But she could not explain to him that she needed time to adjust to the new and disturbing demands of passion.
“Calm yourself, Iphiginia. We are alone in this chamber. No one is likely to walk in on us.”
Without any warning, Marcus raised her leg and hooked it over a stone arm. Her skirts fell back along her thigh, exposing her completely. Marcus’s palm went straight to the hot, damp place between her legs.
Iphiginia shrieked very softly in astonishment. “My lord.”
Marcus kissed her deeply, cutting off the soft, startled sound. He stroked her deliberately.
Iphiginia froze. Her fingers locked on his shoulders. She was an experienced widow, a woman of the world….
“My God, you feel good,” Marcus whispered thickly. He sounded pleased and somewhat awed. “Do you always respond this readily?”
Iphiginia tried to answer, but she could not speak. She kept her hot face pressed against his shoulder and shook her head quickly.
“No? The late Mr. Bright did not have this effect on you, then?”
Iphiginia could not lift her head. Frantically she shook her head again. “No.”
Marcus drew one finger slowly between the soft, plumped folds of feminine flesh. “And your previous lovers? Did you grow this moist and this hot this swiftly for any of them?”
Iphiginia was nearly beside herself now. Her fingers bit so deeply into the fabric of his coat that she was surprised she did not poke holes in it.
“Did you, Iphiginia?” Marcus touched an unbelievably sensitive spot.
“No,” Iphiginia yelped, her voice muffled. “No, my lord. Indeed, I do not—”
“Have there been many?”
Iphiginia could barely think. “Many what?” she asked distractedly. Oh, God, he was doing something to that special place. Rubbing it, tugging gently, circling it with his finger. Everything inside her lower body was twisting into a knot.
“Have there been many lovers since your husband went to his reward?” Marcus eased a finger a very short distance into her feminine passage.
“No. Oh, nor.”
“That explains why you are so very snug.” He tested her gently with his finger. “Very tight, indeed. You are going to fit me more closely than a new pair of breeches.”
Iphiginia knew that if he were not supporting her, bracing her against the statue, she would have crumpled to the floor as though she were made of melted wax.
“Dear heaven,” she whispered.
She had never felt so wicked, so sensually abandoned in her life. Clearly she was at last on the verge of surrendering to the ungoverned artistic sensibilities everyone had always assumed that she had inherited from her parents.
During her years in Deepford a great many people had warned her that such inclinations were in the blood and that she must be constantly on guard against them. But until Marcus had come into her life she had been disappointed to discover that she’d had no such interesting inclinations to guard against.
“I am glad that you have not had a string of lovers since your husband’s death.” Marcus took her earlobe between his teeth. “I have no use for inexperienced females, but I confess to a strong preference for those who have been somewhat discriminating in their choice of lovers.”
“I have been extremely discriminating, sir.”
“Something tells me that the late Mr. Bright was not very demanding.”
“Uh, no.” She lost her breath entirely for an instant as he began to stroke her more quickly. “No, he was not. He was a … a most considerate gentleman.” Whatever that meant.
“What a waste.” Marcus eased his finger back inside her and probed deliberately. “I assure you I shall not make the same mistake.”
Iphiginia cried out. Her whole body seemed to clench around Marcus’s hand. She clung to him for dear life and pushed her face deeper into his shoulder as the most inexplicable sensation she had ever known soared through her.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus breathed as she quivered in his arms. “So this is how it feels to touch starlight.”
Iphiginia could no longer speak. She fought for breath as she went limp.
Marcus’s soft laugh held a husky note of masculine satisfaction. He removed his hand slowly from between her legs, steadied her carefully, and began to unfasten his breeches.
Iphiginia barely realized what he was about. She was too busy marveling at the delicious tremors of release that were already swiftly receding into the distance.
“That was really quite astonishing, sir.”
“Yes. Quite remarkable. And it will be even more interesting to be inside you when it happens the next time.”
“Inside me?” Iphiginia tried to focus on what he was saying.
“Do not concern yourself, madam. I brought along a condom. French, of course. They do make the best ones, do they not? It is designed to my precise specifications. After some study of the subject, I elected to modify the original design somewhat in order to—”
“For heavens’ sake, sir.”
Marcus winced. “Forgive me. This is neither the time nor the place for such technical discussions, is it? Sometimes my interest in mechanical and scientific matters gets the better of me. Rest assured that I shall take very good care of you.”
Iphiginia was speechless. She had heard of condoms. A charming countess in Italy had once described them to her and Amelia over tea. They were fashioned of sheep gut and secured with little red strings.
A small sound came from the shadowed doorway. It was followed by a woman’s giggle. A man hushed her and then chuckled drunkenly.
“Damn it to hell.” Marcus hastily refastened his breeches.
“What is it?”
“We are no longer alone.” Marcus lowered her skirts and shook them out for her.
“Someone is here? In this chamber?”
“Yes. Are you all right?” He glanced down at her with some concern.
“Yes, of course.” Iphiginia felt strangely languid, almost uncaring about the possibility of being discovered in such an embarrassing position.
&nb
“There is no need to hide.” Marcus sounded amused. “You look quite untouched.” He drew his finger along the curve of her bare shoulder and smiled. “Not at all as though you had only recently been imitating one of these statues.”
“But I came in here for a reason.”
Marcus’s expression darkened. “Did you?”
“Yes. I cannot miss the opportunity. I may not get another. This way, sir. Hurry.”
More drunken laughter sounded from just inside the doorway. The newcomers had paused to examine the first of the erotic statues.
“What the devil are you up to, Iphiginia?”
“There is another door at the end of the hall. Lartmore told me that it opens directly onto his library.”
“Why in the name of the devil do you—” Realization appeared to dawn on him. “No. Absolutely not. We are not going to pursue your ridiculous plans tonight.”
“I may never get another chance.”
“Damn it, Iphiginia, this is nonsense. Let’s get out of here and find a quiet place where we can finish what we started.”
She blushed and glanced at him in surprise. “Do you mean there is more?”
Marcus grimaced. “That is not amusing, madam. I am suffering mightily.”
“You appear to be quite fit, sir. Come, this way.” Iphiginia grabbed his hand and started through the maze of statuary.
Marcus allowed himself to be dragged toward the rear of the statuary hall. “I am going to regret this, aren’t I?”
“Don’t be silly.” She found the door just as the other couple burst into another bout of raucous laughter and then fell silent.
“Here we are,” Iphiginia whispered. She twisted the doorknob. It turned readily enough.
Lartmore’s small library—no more than a study, really—was shrouded in darkness. There was just enough moonlight to see the candle on his desk.
A man’s hoarse groan echoed down the length of the shadowed hall. “I say, just like the bloody statue, by God. Just like the statue.”
“Damnation,” Marcus muttered. “We cannot go back that way.”
He pushed Iphiginia into the library, followed her inside, and quickly closed the door, cutting off the woman’s loud moan.
“It’s all right, Marcus. They do not know we are here.”
He swung around. “Very well, madam. You have got us in here. Now what?”
“I merely want to take a quick look at Lartmore’s desk.” Iphiginia lit the candle and held it aloft.
Marcus’s face was grim. “Are you searching for black wax and a phoenix seal, Iphiginia, or merely looking for something of value to filch?”
She stared at him, stung by the accusation. “You do not think very highly of me, do you, sir?”
“You must admit this situation appears somewhat questionable.”
“And you, of course, would immediately question it.”
“Given the, ah, unusual nature of our association, I think I have a right to scrutinize your actions.”
“You are willing to make love to me, but you do not trust me, is that it?”
“Iphiginia—”
“Never mind, my lord.” Iphiginia lifted her chin proudly. “I quite understand. Put your mind at ease; I am not here to steal the silver. I am pursuing my inquiries.”
“I told you that Lartmore is highly unlikely to be the blackmailer.”
“Yes, I know you expressed your opinion, sir, but I have my own opinions.” Iphiginia surveyed the desk, searching for the wax jack. She spotted it at once.
“I see.” Marcus propped himself on the corner of the desk and folded his arms across his chest. He watched intently as she studied the design of the seal and the remains of once-molten red wax. “Do you always ignore the opinions of others?”
“I was forced to listen to the opinions of others for years, my lord. I was also obliged to submit to them. But I am an independent woman now.”
“An independent woman, eh?”
“Yes. Damnation. There is some sort of flower engraved on this seal, not a phoenix.”
Marcus glanced disinterestedly at the seal. “What did you expect to find? Only a fool would use his own distinctive seal and wax on a blackmail note. People would recognize them.”
Iphiginia glowered. He had a point. She did not want him to think that she hadn’t already considered every possibility. Marcus was too bloody arrogant as it was.
“It has occurred to me that the blackmailer may have two seals, one of which he uses exclusively for his nasty notes,” she informed him. “He may even have two different colors of wax, one for his regular correspondence and one for blackmail letters.”
“So?”
“So I am hoping to either find the second seal, which he no doubt keeps hidden, or to discover traces of the black wax in his wax jack.”
“The jack. Of course.” Marcus gave her a look of grudging respect. “Highly unlikely that he would have two jacks to melt wax.”
“Precisely. Even if he uses two different colors of wax, he would no doubt melt both in the same jack.” Iphiginia examined the wax jack on Lartmore’s desk. She could see only traces of red wax.
“Well?” Marcus asked blandly.
“I do not see any bits of black wax.”
“I believe I indicated earlier that you would not. Lartmore has his idiosyncrasies, but he is no blackmailer.”
Iphiginia set down the wax jack. “Nobody likes a person who is always saying ‘I told you so,’ my lord.”
His mouth curved slightly. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“You do that.”
Marcus studied her. “Have you got anything else to go on besides the color of the blackmailer’s sealing wax and a phoenix design?”
“No.” She shot him a disgruntled look. “And even if I did, I’m not at all certain that I would share the information with you, now that I know you do not trust me.”
“It is obvious that our association is going to be of a somewhat tricky nature, Mrs. Bright.”
“It all seems quite simple to me.”
“Does it, indeed?”
“Yes, it does,” Iphiginia said coldly. “We are bound by a single mutual interest. We both wish to discover the identity of the blackmailer, although in your case I believe you are merely seeking proof that I am guilty.”
“On the contrary, Iphiginia. There is something else that binds us together as surely as the search for the blackmailer.”
She gave him a wary glance as she tried one of the desk drawers. “What is that?”
“Passion, my dear Mrs. Bright. Pure, unbridled, honest passion. Or have you already forgotten what happened out in the statuary hall?”
She blushed. “I have not forgotten. I will admit it was a very interesting experience.”
“Thank you.” He inclined his head with mocking grace.
“I have, however, begun to think that it might be best to avoid such experiences in the future.”
Marcus’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “What makes you think you will be able to avoid them?”
“You will find, my lord, that I am a woman of exceedingly strong willpower. I generally accomplish what I set out to accomplish.” She put out the candle. “Come, let’s be off. There is nothing of interest here.”
“I disagree.” Marcus’s voice was soft with challenge as he straightened away from the desk. He took her arm. “My interest has been well and truly whetted, my dear Mrs. Bright. And as is the case with yourself, I generally accomplish what I set out to accomplish.”
SEVEN
TWO DAYS LATER IPHIGINIA SAT AT THE DESK IN HER LIBRARY and studied a sketch of a design she was creating for the first level of a house. It was one of a series of designs that she was completing for the new construction project that she and Amelia were organizing.
The square of town houses was to be known as Bright Place in honor of her parents. The name of the project was still a secret known only to those in Iphiginia’s small circle of relatives and to her trusty man of affairs, Adam Manwaring. Until her masquerade was concluded, Iphiginia did not want the name of the square to become widely known. She feared the rumors. At the very least, she would be hounded to death at parties by potential investors. At worst, questions might be raised which could, in turn, invite inquiries into her past.
The houses in Bright Place would be unlike so many of those being built in English towns these days. She had not set out to re-create any one particular classical design. Rather, Iphiginia wanted to produce a harmonious blend of the best of ancient and modern designs.
She was concerned with both exterior and interior elements. Her efforts took into account such factors as the English temperament and the climate. Quality of the building materials would be excellent. In terms of technical design, she planned to incorporate some of the things that she had learned from her perusal of Marcus’s theories on building foundations.
She would not be a slave to the classic tradition the way her father had been, she vowed. But neither would she make a mockery of it by allowing the extremely daring artistic impulses that she had inherited from her mother to run wild.
The trick was to create a graceful synthesis. She called upon the skills her father had taught her, of course: perspective, architectural detail, and a knowledge of classical elements. But she also utilized some of the bold style her mother had bequeathed to her.
The secret of her success with Morning Rose Square, she knew, was that she had never allowed herself to forget that everything she created had to work against an English landscape. She was determined not to make the mistake so many architects made. She would not try to impose buildings designed for the hot, dry climates of Greece and Rome onto the English countryside. Potential purchasers needed homes that could withstand the damp weather and the chill of cold winters.
She eyed her newest design with a critical eye. All of her rooms had high ceilings and stately, well-proportioned windows. Those elements were a legacy from her father. He had been much enamored of the Palladian tradition.