The Unmasking of Lady Loveless Read online

  “Melicent,” he said softly. His lips brushed her cheek, sending quivers of sensation tingling through her. Her breath hitched in her throat. She reminded herself that she was angry and hurt at his neglect and his callous indifference. She could not feel that and yet still respond to his touch. But when she looked up into his eyes she almost gasped at the expression of intense, dark desire she saw there. Her hands trembled in his. He drew her closer.

  The front door opened and a young man of about twenty years burst in, shattering the moment. His fair hair was disordered by the wind. His clothes stank of stale ale. He skidded to a halt and blinked at them, swaying slightly.

  “Melicent? Beaumont? What the hell—”

  “Alex, you will remember my brother Aloysius?” Melicent said hastily.

  Alex freed her gently. “Of course,” he said. “How are you, Durham?”

  Aloysius Durham squared up to him pugnaciously. “I said what the hell are you doing here, Beaumont? How dare you just walk in? I’d like to rearrange your face—” He stumbled, almost falling, and knocked over the hat stand.

  “He’s drunk,” Melicent said. “I do apologize.” It was not an uncommon occurrence with Aloysius, but she wished it had not happened now.

  “No need for apologies,” Alex said. He gave her a lopsided smile that set her pulse awry. “He does have a point. However—” he grabbed Aloysius by the scruff of the neck “—I think he should sober up before he is permitted to upbraid me.”

  Before Melicent’s fascinated gaze he dragged her brother down the passage and out into the yard. She heard the sound of the water pump and then Aloysius howling. The noise was matched by a cantankerous wail from upstairs.

  “Melicent!” Her mother was calling. “What is happening?”

  Smothering a smile, Melicent ran upstairs. She was almost certain that her mother would have a miraculous recovery in order not to miss anything else. One way and another, Alex’s arrival in their household had set the cat amongst the pigeons.

  Alex built up the fire in the drawing room and settled back in a comfortable but faded Chippendale chair to the side of the hearth. This seemed to be the only warm room in the house. The rest of the place was colder and less welcoming than the grave. He disliked the thought of Melicent almost literally freezing to death in here, shivering in her plain, worn worsteds. It puzzled him, too. He had been meticulous in making sure that his agent paid her a monthly allowance. Where had the money gone?

  He thought of Melicent in her stained apron, her hair awry, the lines of worry and tiredness etched deep on her face. A wave of tenderness took him by surprise. She deserved better than to have to manage a young drunkard of a brother and a bully of a mother.

  He had sobered Aloysius up somewhat abruptly and dispatched the youth upstairs to find a change of clothes. Aloysius had grumbled but had succumbed to Alex’s authority. The lad was clearly running wild and, if the large bag of money in his pocket was anything to go by, was a gambler as well as a drunk.

  Alex looked about the room. It was as bare and unappealing as the rest of the house, the furniture battered and old. From the drawer in a side table a few sheets of foolscap poked out. Alex took them out and held them up to the faint light, perusing them with mild curiosity.

  “The Further Adventures of a Woman of Pleasure by Lady Loveless…”

  Lady Loveless, he thought, should be more careful in concealing her inflammatory manuscripts. Not that Melicent looked anything like a writer of erotic fiction. One would never guess. The thick, heavy material of her winter gown concealed all the delicious lines and curves of her body. Alex was surprised to discover that he was very anxious to reacquaint himself with those curves. And then there was her rich dark hair, scraped back into an unbecoming knot but that would spread out over his bare chest like a swatch of silk. The image of Melicent, naked in his arms, soft, sweet and yielding as he remembered, hardened his body into arousal. He turned to the manuscript again:

  “The soft sheen of the pearls glowed in the half light. He drew them over the swell of her breasts and down to pool about her navel.…”

  He had brought pearls as a Christmas gift for Melicent. The image of her wearing them and nothing else fixed itself in his mind; the slide of the jewels against the translucent pallor of her skin, the quickness of her breathing as her sensual pleasure mounted, the desperate little sounds she would make in the extremes of her ecstasy…

  “She made a soft noise of surrender and spread herself for him, and he eased her thighs farther apart and slid—”

  There was a scraping at the drawing-room door and Alex jumped visibly, shoving the sheets into his pocket. He tried to rearrange himself so that his physical state would not be too obvious.

  Melicent stood in the doorway, dressed in an unfashionable evening gown. He found that he wanted to rip it off her and make love to her on the carpet. Clearly Lady Loveless’s provocative prose was creating havoc within him. He struggled for some control.

  Melicent looked at him, a slight frown on her brow. “It is very hot in here.”

  He knew.

  “You look rather flushed, my lord. Are you developing a fever?”

  He certainly was.

  “I am well,” Alex said. His voice sounded strangely husky. He cleared his throat.

  “Dinner is ready,” Melicent said, still looking concerned. “It is only mutton and vegetables. I am afraid that we do not keep a very elaborate table.…”

  She carried on talking about the food, but Alex could not concentrate. He was watching her lips move, plush and pink. He wanted to taste her. He could not help himself. He crossed the room in two strides, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  It was heated, intimate and exactly like the fantasy he had imagined from the first moment he had read her writing. She made a very sweet sound of capitulation in the back of her throat and melted against him, eager and willing, her lips parting beneath the pressure of his, inviting him in. Her scent surrounded him, apples and honey; it was on her skin and in her hair, and suddenly his mind went blank of everything except desire and he was kissing her deeply, plundering her mouth, as his tongue moved against hers in demand and possession.

  They broke apart as the dinner gong sounded. Melicent was panting, her hair ruffled, lips soft and damp, eyes wide and dark with desire. Alex felt another spear of lust go through him. He was not sure if he could wait until after dinner to have her. Never had the idea of forcing down a piece of overcooked mutton appeared so unappealing. But on the other hand, delay could be an aphrodisiac. Perhaps he could use the time to stoke their mutual desire. He rather liked that idea. For one thing was for sure, and that was that he would not be occupying the guest chamber that night.

  Chapter 3

  Melicent tried fiercely to concentrate on her dinner, but her efforts were to no avail. Alex was sitting opposite her and she was aware of nothing but him. The table was small and every so often his thigh would brush hers beneath the cloth. Each time it happened her nerves would jump with tension and barely suppressed longing. She was conscious of his hands, strong and tanned, as he held his knife and fork, and of his voice, low and intent as he maintained a scrupulously polite conversation with her mother. Most of all she was aware of his dark gaze resting on her face. It made her heat up from the inside out, so at least she did not notice the coldness of the dining room tonight. Her heart tripped in quick, flustered strokes. Her stomach squirmed with sensuous longing. She wondered what on earth was happening to her, for although she had conceived a schoolgirl tendre for her husband on sight, she had never felt this immodest, wanton and reckless lust for him.

  He caught her eye. His firm lips curved into a smile that promised to fulfill every one of those wanton thoughts. Melicent almost whimpered aloud as her insides did another slow somersault.

  On hearing of her son-in-law’s arrival, Mrs. Durham had, predictably, risen from her bed like a phoenix, with no sign of illness at all, had donned her best evening gown and was n
ow holding court. At the other end of the table Aloysius sulked and sighed his way through the meal, every so often shooting a look of extreme dislike in Alex’s direction. Melicent smiled faintly to remember the summary way in which her husband had dealt with her brother’s bad behavior. She imagined that Aloysius would be hoping for Alex’s swift return to London so that he could make an equally swift return to a life of debauchery. She knew that she needed to talk to Alex about his plans. He had said nothing of whether he expected her to accompany him when he left. Many men, she was aware, were dictatorial enough to demand unquestioning obedience from their wives in such matters. Many wives would comply, thinking it their duty. She was no longer one of them.

  The old hurt stirred in her. Alex could not simply walk in, kiss her and expect her to fall into his arms as though their estrangement had never occurred. She was no longer the starry-eyed innocent he had married four years before. She had worshipped him when first they were wed, and his cold preference for spending time on the Beaumont estates rather than on her had broken her heart. From the first she had sensed the slow-burning anger in him at being manipulated into marriage. It had terrified her, holding her silent, building a wall between them.

  There was nothing remotely cold in the look that he was giving her now, though. She felt her skin prickle as his gaze slid over her like a physical touch.

  “I am sure that a change in company would do you the world of good, ma’am,” Alex was saying to Mrs. Durham. “It sounds as though you have suffered a terrible reversal in health in recent times, but with the right company you might find yourself miraculously restored. A small cottage in a seaside resort or in a fashionable spa would suit, perhaps? I am sure it can be arranged. And a congenial lady to act as companion…”

  “That sounds delightful,” Mrs. Durham simpered.

  Melicent looked up sharply. She could see what Alex was doing. If the care of her mama were taken off her hands then her prime reason for staying in Yorkshire would be gone. She would have no excuses to hide behind.

  “The society in Peacock Oak is very pleasant, Mama,” she protested. “The Duchess of Cole has been kindness itself, and Major and Mrs. Falconer at Starbotton Manor are charming.”

  “The duchess has a young baby and I am sure she does not wish us to be forever hanging on her coattails,” Mrs. Durham said. “As for the Falconers, I hear they are to visit his uncle, the marquis, in Scotland in the New Year. No, my dear, your husband is quite right. A remove to Bath or Cheltenham will be just the thing.” She reached across the table and patted Melicent’s hand. “Then I may return you to Lord Alexander’s care. He has been most patient to spare you for so long, but it is selfish of me to keep you.”

  Melicent heard Aloysius mutter something that sounded like “It has never troubled you before, Mama.” For once she felt completely in charity with her brother. She glared at Alex and met a look of limpid innocence in return.

  Mrs. Lubbock entered to remove the plates and deliver a pudding of stewed rhubarb and cream.

  “I have been reading some of your writings lately, my love,” Alex said, passing Melicent the cream bowl. There was a spark of something disturbing deep in his dark eyes. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed them.”

  Melicent was startled. “I did not realize that anyone knew I wrote them,” she said. Mr. Foster generally took the credit for the architectural guides even though Melicent wrote at least half of the text.

  “I believe your secret is out,” Alex murmured. His gaze dwelled on her face, bringing the warm color up into her cheeks, making her tingle.

  “Nor was I aware that anyone read them,” Melicent added. She felt flustered. No doubt Alex would consider it eccentric at best and unacceptable at worst for the wife of a peer to write to supplement her income, but her mother’s quack medicines were shockingly expensive and seemed to swallow the best part of her allowance—the part that Aloysius did not steal for his gambling, of course.

  “I think you do yourself an injustice,” Alex said, smiling at her in a manner that made her feel quite feverish. “I imagine that they must provide inspiration and entertainment for many.”

  “I suppose so,” Melicent said doubtfully. Perhaps he was right—there were those who used the architectural guides to inform their country house visiting, but she would scarcely call them entertaining.

  “I found them most stimulating,” Alex continued.

  Melicent’s sense of astonishment increased. In no way could those dry tomes be considered stimulating, except… Alex had always been wrapped up in Beaumont, which was an architectural gem of an estate. Perhaps that was why he found her writings so interesting.

  “I am glad that they please you, my lord,” she murmured.

  “Very much,” Alex said smoothly. “I look forward to discussing them further with you. In private,” he added.

  “You must tell Mr. Foster that you have an avid reader, my dear,” Mrs. Durham put in. “As the books were his idea…”

  “Indeed?” Alex said. His eyes had narrowed. “Who, pray, is Mr. Foster?”

  “Mr. Foster is an antiquarian who lives in the village,” Mrs. Durham said. “He is a very pleasant gentleman. He has always been most generous in involving Melicent in his projects.”

  “I see,” Alex said. Melicent jumped at the undertone in his voice. He had turned slightly toward her. “You discuss your work with him?”

  “Of course,” Melicent said, perturbed by the look of fierce, primitive possession in his eyes and the tension she could see in his stance.

  Alex paused, the bowl of steaming rhubarb before him. “And the practical aspects, the research, if you would care to call it that…”

  “Oh, no,” Melicent said. “That would not be proper.” Mr. Foster had in fact invited her to accompany him on one of his trips to visit an historic house, but she had been obliged to decline because she had no chaperone.

  Alex’s expression relaxed slightly. “Well, suppose that is a mercy.”

  “I might have known that you would disapprove.” Melicent said with a flash of defiance. “Just because I am your wife—”

  “That seems a good enough reason to me,” Alex said. He turned to Mrs. Durham. “If you will excuse me, ma’am, there are matters that Melicent and I need to discuss.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Durham said, fluttering her hand, “but pray do not be too cruel to Melicent, my lord. We needed the money for my medicines, you see.…”

  “So you needed the money,” Alex said between his teeth as he grabbed Melicent’s wrist and practically hauled her from the dining room, “and you think that justifies you prostituting yourself like this?”

  “Alex, no!” Melicent looked at him in horror. “It is not that bad! I know it is unorthodox of me—”

  “Unorthodox? It is the most appalling thing imaginable.”

  “I had no idea you were so stuffy!” Melicent snapped. “How ridiculous you are—”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  He moved so quickly she had no time to evade him. One moment they had been standing in the dark, cold ground-floor passageway, where the air was thick with the smell of boiled vegetables, and the next he had grabbed her and his mouth covered hers and harsh reality simply melted away, leaving her feeling intensely alive and scandalously wild.

  He kissed her fiercely, with primal possession, as though he wanted to imprint himself on her and claim her utterly. Melicent’s knees weakened and she slid her arms around his neck to steady herself. One of his hands was resting in the small of her back and he drew her closer, fusing their bodies together so that she was achingly aware of his intense arousal. She gave a little moan and he deepened the kiss, ravishing her mouth, his tongue exploring her intimately. Her eagerness and hunger matched his. Her fingers burrowed into his hair and she offered herself with all the openness and generosity in her spirit, lost in the wonder and pleasure of the kiss. This desire that flared between them was so unexpected that it was in itself a seduction. She
did not want to resist.

  It was only when Alex loosened his grip a little that reality intruded once more and she could see the drab hall and hear her mother’s shrill tones as she harangued Aloysius in the dining room, and then she wished to escape them all the more.

  Alex was drawing her toward the stair. He was breathing hard and his eyes glittered with desire.

  “Upstairs,” he said. “Now.”

  Melicent’s breath caught. A long shiver ran down to her toes. It seemed impossible that Alex was going to make love to her here in the dingy surroundings of Meadow Cottage and in doing so transport her from this dreary place to somewhere magical where she forgot all her regrets and her cares, and became as free and wild and wicked as she wanted to be. She trembled to think of it.

  “We don’t have a guest chamber,” she began, and saw him smile.

  “You don’t need one, my love. I am your husband. I’ll sleep with you.”

  Her pulse hammered. “Alex—” This seemed too swift. She could not understand it. She tried to hold on to her common sense, but she did not really want to. She wanted to run away, to find excitement in Alex’s arms, even if it was only for a brief few hours.

  “Yes, my sweet?” He was holding her lightly by the upper arms, bending to nip and kiss at the soft skin above her collarbone.

  “Alex…” She forgot whatever it was she was going to say as his lips trailed kisses to the hollow of her throat and his fingers slipped to the buttons on her bodice. She felt one of them yield. Then another, a third, a fourth… Her gown hung open; she felt the heat of Alex’s palm against one breast and shuddered with need. Alex buried his other hand in her hair so that he could pull her head back gently to allow his mouth to caress the sensitive, exposed skin of her neck. Melicent’s whole body seemed to convulse with cool shivers at the brush of his lips, even as her nipples contracted to tiny, aching points that begged for his touch.