The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

"Not at all."

She saw he wanted to argue, but Mary’s reappearance saved her from continuing this awkward conversation. "Shall I serve dinner in an hour, my lord?"

>

"Does that suit you, Selina?" Brock asked.

She appreciated him checking her preferences. Cecil never did.

Oh, dear, she’d better break this habit of comparing Brock to Cecil. Cecil was her future, and if she stewed on how poorly he measured up to Lord Bruard, she invited nothing but misery. "Yes, thank you."

"I’ll leave you to wash and change, then," Brock said, as Mary curtsied and left.

This had been such a disturbing day, crammed with overwhelming emotions. Selina welcomed the chance to gather her thoughts away from that perceptive green gaze. "Thank you."

But when he went through to the dressing room and shut the door behind him, all she knew was that she’d almost used up a day of her week. She didn’t want to be parted from Brock for a minute of what was left.

Chapter 6

Brock studied Selina over the ruins of the extravagant meal Mary had prepared for them. The flickering candlelight turned his new lover into a symphony of gold and shadows. Desire stirred, lazy now, but apt to flare into a blaze at the first encouragement.

After what they’d done in the carriage, he was surprised that he was already so eager for more. But Selina Martin had exerted this power over him, right from the first moment he saw her, so unsure and out of place amongst the Derwents’ aristocratic guests. He’d wondered if his fascination might fade, once he’d had her. He never seduced unworldly women, and he’d feared the novelty of the experience might explain his obsession with her.

But having had her, he wanted her again. Having had her twice, he wanted her over and over. He already knew a mere week wouldn’t quench his mighty thirst for her.

It might be futile to regret that she refused to throw Cecil over and become his mistress, but futility didn’t blunt the sharpness of the pang Brock felt. He was greedy to want more than she offered, although he didn’t know how to stop. Already her scent was the promise of paradise and her voice the music of the spheres.

A week was all he had.

So when he asked his question, he hoped she had other ideas. He certainly did. "Would you like to move into the drawing room for port? We can play cards, or there’s a pianoforte, if you’d like a little music."

She toyed with the stem of her empty wineglass. The firelight lent amber tints to her hair, gathered up in a tumble of curls. He itched to bury his hands in that silky mass.

This evening, she wore the most elaborate of her gowns – or at least the most elaborate one he’d seen. It was still rather plain, certainly in terms of the Derwents and their milieu. But the sky-blue color made her skin look like warm cream and the bodice, while modest, hinted at the rich curves beneath.

He was hungry for her, hungry to bolster the connection between them. When she took him inside her with such sweetness in the carriage, all his boredom and restlessness had vanished. She thrilled him as no woman ever had. Tupping Selina Martin was fiercely exciting, but the greatest gift she gave him was the peace deep in his soul, a peace he’d never experienced in all his wild, wanton seekings after bliss.

"It’s still early," she murmured, staring at the wineglass.

As if to confirm that statement, the mahogany clock on the mantel struck nine. They’d lingered over dinner. As if by common consent, they’d avoided contentious topics. Neither had mentioned Cecil or money, or how fast their time together would pass.

Brock enjoyed talking to Selina. He’d always appreciated women’s company. He wasn’t the sort of scoundrel who had no use for a mistress once he’d fucked her. Beyond his interest in Selina as his partner in sensual exploration, he liked her. He even liked her strength of character, although it had proved damned inconvenient when he offered her financial help.

As the evening progressed, it became clear that Selina considered any sacrifice worthwhile for her son’s sake. She didn’t view her future with Cecil in a spirit of self-pity, but with grim endurance. It was the price she paid for her child’s future, and she paid it without complaint.

Brock couldn’t despise her stalwart love for Gerald. Damn it, he admired it. He wished to heaven his mother had loved him with such constancy.

"Then shall we go to the drawing room?" he asked with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

He wanted her in his arms. He didn’t want to wait. But on the other hand, he didn’t want her to think he was a man without any graces at all.

Her faint smile only deepened her air of mystery. He bit back a groan. His interest in swiving her heightened by the second.

She lifted her gaze and stared straight at him. The heat in her eyes shot a bolt of lust right to his balls. "I’d rather go upstairs and…fuck."

The sound of the profanity in her soft, precise voice made him see stars. "Selina…" he choked out, as his hands fisted on the damask tablecloth.

She watched him, her eyes devouring him, as if he was even more delicious than Mary’s bœuf en daube. "I want you." The wry humor, that proved such a beguiling surprise now he came to know her, gleamed in her eyes. "I want you in a bed where I don’t feel like I’m going to end up on the floor if the carriage hits a bump."