k tip of her nipple, and he averted his eyes as his groin pulsed painfully.
“You shouldn’t see me like this!” She slapped his hand away, but she looked more frightened than angry. And dismayed. “I don’t believe what you’re telling me. That young lady was Miss Elizabeth? She can’t have known me, or she’d not have been so charitable toward the finery her husband-to-be lavishes upon his mistress. You’d do well to remember that, Lord Ruthcot. I am Lord Deveril’s mistress. You do me great harm in coming here tonight.”
“Only if you intend remaining with Deveril.”
She looked at him squarely. “What choice do I have?”
“You could come to me?”
“Be your mistress?”
For so long a time, she simply regarded him. Nothing at all suggested she thought this either shocking, distasteful, or desirable. Then she sighed and stepped back into the shadows near the stairs, half turning with her hand upon the newel post. “I have been the mistress of two men, Lord Ruthcot, when I’d thought to be the wife of only one in my lifetime.” She took the first step, adding over her shoulder, “Thank you for your kind offer, but Lord Deveril would rather see me dead than belong to another. Only tragedy could come from such a rash transfer of allegiances.”
He darted forward and gripped her shoulder, pulling her into his embrace. She seemed to yield but perhaps that was only wishful thinking. Pressing his face against her hair, he breathed deeply. The orange water fragrance was like a drug and his senses spun. “Admit you have feelings for me else you’d never have phrased your rejection like you did.” He drew back and cupped her chin. Her breath, short and shallow, was sweet against his lips as he gazed into her lovely face, her large gray eyes round with…? Desire? Either way, she didn’t pull away. “You reject me out of fear of what Deveril will do, not because you have a disinclination for me.”
With resolute purpose, she stepped back, and he dropped his arms to his side as she raised her chin. “The reasons don’t matter, Lord Ruthcot, merely the fact that it cannot be, no matter the circumstances.”
“Then you do love me!” Relief was intense but though she resisted, briefly, in his embrace, almost immediately she opened her lips against his and with a sigh, twined her hands behind his neck. He’d never felt her like this, with just the light fabric of her nightgown and a shawl about her shoulders. He pressed her closer but it was a mistake, for just as he felt her resolve slipping, like the shawl around her shoulders which pooled about her feet, she snapped to attention, struggling as she pulled her mouth back. Her eyes were dark and frightened.
“You make me forget myself, Lord Ruthcot. No, I do not love you. I love no one and you have not proved yourself my friend. Besides, I’ve promised no man would ever have that power over me.”
“I don’t seek power over you. I wish merely to…show you how I feel.”
“I already told you, it’s not possible. Even now we court the gravest danger. If you truly care for me, you’ll leave.”
“Please, Miss Mordaunt. Jemima. I love you.”
“Love!” She spat the word, though she sagged against him, not withdrawing completely. There was a bleakness to her tone he knew was not for effect. “If you really loved me, you’d show it by esteeming me as a woman of virtue. You’d declare that your love was so strong only a legal union could bind us for all eternity. Yes, see how you shy away from words like that. They sound grasping to you? Once, I was a lady. The husband I would accept would only enjoy what you have now through a legal union. How do you think I feel, knowing my chief value is in my youthful body, my face? That I will be discarded when both show the ravages of age, and I no longer give pleasure? A wife? Well, a man is shackled to a wife for life, but I’m not the kind of girl a man like you marries, am I, Lord Ruthcot? And I don’t want to be another man’s mistress. Even to a man as attractive as you. And so, even as I forget myself yet again, I will not weaken and succumb, no matter how hard you press me.”
She was nearly in tears now as he let her go.
He felt distraught and put out his arms but she took another step back as he said softly, “Jemima, don’t cheapen my feelings for you.”
“It’s the truth. I notice you’ve said nothing to dispute my observations. Good night, Lord Ruthcot.”
She extended her arm but only to push him backward and he realized he had no choice but to leave. In the darkness as he made his way to the door, felt disoriented; disordered by her declarations. How could she be his wife? He was a lord of the realm, and she was a…he couldn’t even think the word. When he turned for a final look over his shoulder, she refused to meet his eye as she regarded him from several steps higher upon the stairs, half obscured by the shadows.
Disconsolately, he let himself out of the house. It had been a mistake to come. The fact she felt desire for him was maddeningly exciting but her adamant intention that it go no further than a kiss nearly drove him insane.
Chapter 11
Jemima was shaking so badly as she crawled into bed she knocked the candlestick over, unaware until she smelled smoke. By the time she realized what had happened, the flame had ignited the counterpane and with a shriek, she began to beat the flames. Mary rushed into the room shortly afterward and quickly poured a copper jug of water over the smoldering bedding before fetching new sheets.
She was an efficient maid. Young and not a confidante, but she did her job well.
Jemima also realized she must be doing a job for Deveril, for when he came to visit her the next morning en route to his wedding, he paused in the drawing room where she was quietly embroidering and surveyed her thoughtfully from the doorway.
“I hear you had a visitor last night.” With his face in shadow it was difficult to gauge his mood. She’d have to be careful.
“I didn’t invite him, and I gave him short shrift.” She managed her defense with commendable calm, but she was quaking inside. Had Mary observed them kissing? If she had, she’d have seen how lacking in resolve Jemima had been for those dangerous few seconds.
“I believe so.” Deveril sounded marginally more approving. However, when he stepped into the light his face was clouded. “Who was it?”
Jemima shook her head as she glanced down at the embroidery in her lap. “He was foolish and hopeful, but I assure you he won’t trouble me again.”
“I trust not. Indeed, I trust he won’t cause me trouble, either, but I would ask that you volunteer his name, my pet.” He crossed the room to put his hands on her shoulders, his soft but warning.
Jemima glanced up at him. She’d thought Deveril would be less jealous, rather than more, with his impending marriage only an hour away.