The Demon's Mistress by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page A

utterly. It had been so long, so long, since a man had held her, kissed her like this. She’d told herself she was glad to be free of it, and known that she lied.
    She found she’d thrust her hands beneath his jacket, and was clawing at his long, tight back through silk and linen. She stopped that at least, but her heart thundered and that betraying ache had become throbbing demand.
    His lips released hers and slid down her neck.
    She should stop him now. She should. Instead, she was fighting not to fall to the ground and tear his clothes off.
    He pushed his thigh between hers. She heard her own sound of need, and finally dragged herself out of his arms. “St—”
    His hand came hard over her mouth.
    He was right. She’d been about to scream.
    â€œHush,” he said softly, “hush.”
    No apology, just soothing sounds he might make to a frantic animal.
    Animal.
    Oh, God.
    She closed her eyes, excruciatingly mortified to have reacted like that to the cynical attentions of a man more suited to be her son than her lover. Then she was in his arms again, being held quite gently, her face pressed to his shoulder, however, just in case.
    Oh, to wipe out those foolish moments! To take frosty leave of him and never see him again.
    You can, whispered a voice. Just give him the money and cut free.
    She couldn’t. He needed more than money. He needed a clean break from corruption, and a helping hand back to ordinary, sane ways. The fact that he’d stolen that dishonorable kiss showed he was still deep in the pit. She suspected that soon he’d be ready to shoot himself over it.
    She moved her head slightly to take a clearer breath, and he let her. His head rested against hers, however, and his arms were no longer imprisoning. Despairingly, she sensed that he was relishing this embrace. How often had he simply been in someone’s arms?
    His mother and two sisters might possibly have held him if he needed it. Mother and younger sister had died of influenza. His older sister had died in childbirth round about the time of Waterloo. His father had shot himself not long after, and perhaps the other deaths had been part of it. It had mostly been the debts, though, and they had been Maurice’s fault.
    There must have been women abroad, but had they been the sort to just hold him when he needed holding? The sort to whom he could confess fear and doubt? The sort to let him weep?
    Did he ever allow himself to weep?
    Her own eyes were blurring, tears ached in her throat, and she realized her hands were making stroking movements on his back. Motherly, she told herself. He probably could do with a mother substitute.
    She wanted to burst into wild laughter.
    She fought for composure and looked up. “I believe we are engaged to be married, Lord Vandeimen.”
    She couldn’t really see his features, but that meant he couldn’t see hers either. The silence stretched too long, however, before he asked, “I should send the notice to the papers?”
    She heard surprise. “Yes.”
    After another silence he asked, “And then what? Do we go through the form of drawing up marriage settlements?”
    â€œWhy not? They will make a model for when I truly commit to marriage.”
    He moved slowly away, then linked her arm with his and drew her back to the path and the amber light.
    â€œI apologize for what happened,” he said, looking fixedly ahead. “You are being nothing but kind, and I attacked you, frightened you. Since you are kind enough to continue with this arrangement, I give you my word it will not happen again.”
    Maria stopped herself from protesting. This was how it must be, and if he hadn’t recognized her reaction for what it had been, that was a blessing.
    â€œThen we have everything settled. Now I would like to go home. You will escort me and my aunt?”
    â€œOf course.”
    But he paused beneath a bright lamp and deftly tidied her