The Rake's Defiant Mistress

Clayton leaned towards her, planted a hand on the mattress either side of her slender figure. Sinuously she flipped on to her back and coiled her arms about his neck, dragging him close.

‘Think what beautiful children we would have,’ she whispered urgently against his mouth. ‘A little girl with blonde hair like you and a boy…your heir…dark like me.’

Clayton smiled against her lips. ‘And what does your fiancé think to bigamy and bastards?’

Loretta threw back her head and chuckled, deliberately tempting his lips to an alluring column of milky skin. She wriggled delightedly as a moist caress moved on her smooth white throat. ‘He would be most put out…but it does not signify. You know I would drop Pomfrey tomorrow and take you in his stead.’

‘Yes…I know you would,’ Clayton said and lifted his head to look at her with slate-grey eyes. He touched his mouth to hers in an oddly passionless salute.

Just a short while ago the bed had been the scene of torrid lovemaking. Now his response to Loretta Vane’s seductive teasing had cooled considerably. His change of attitude was not simply caused by his irritation at her constant marriage proposals. He’d no quarrel with the Honourable Ralph Pomfrey and had no intention of becoming embroiled in one because Loretta had now pinned her ambitions to net a wealthy husband on him.

It had recently come to light, when Pomfrey unwisely approached Claude Potts—a known blabbermouth—for a loan, that he might not be quite as flush as was generally thought. In fact, it was rumoured that Loretta’s bank balance might be healthier than was Pomfrey’s following a disastrous run of luck he’d had backing nags.

Thus, it had become more obvious why this pleasant fellow of impeccable lineage would propose marriage to a woman who, although a lady by name, was a courtesan by nature.

Loretta had been left a tidy sum by her late husband, Lord John Vane. She had already frittered away a good portion of it. Doubtless she was now fretting that, far from improving her prospects by marrying the Earl of Elkington’s youngest son, she might put in jeopardy what remained of her little nest egg. It was surely no coincidence that her enthusiasm for the match had waned with Pomfrey’s luck.

Worried by her lover’s lack of response, Loretta tugged at Clayton’s shirt front and slid her tongue on his lips to tempt him to kiss her properly.

‘Pomfrey is your fiancé,’ Clayton reminded her lightly, holding her by the wrists away from him. ‘You will make a good couple. He is the right husband for you.’ He released her as he said that and, collecting his jacket from the velvet chaise longue, pushed his arms into the sleeves.

‘You are the right husband for me!’ Loretta fiercely objected. Realising he was about to go before giving a satisfactory answer, she sprang upright and swung two shapely legs off the bed. Her honed features were no longer softened by sensuality, but set in determined lines that set aslant her full mouth and dark brows.

‘I’m not the right husband for any woman…trust me on that,’ Clayton returned with a wry smile as he negligently stuffed his cravat into a pocket. ‘Do you want to go to the opera tomorrow evening?’ he asked idly, his hand on the doorknob.

‘Marry me!’ Loretta demanded. ‘It’s you I want. It’s always been you I want. We make a good couple. I swear if you do not, Clayton…if you do not…’ she repeated, playing for time to rally enough courage to issue the ultimatum.

‘If I do not?’ Clayton prompted. He leaned back against the door to watch her, while shooting two pristine shirt cuffs out of his jacket. A steady dark gaze was levelled on her flushing face. ‘Come, tell me what you plan to do to punish me.’

‘I will finish it between us,’ she stated in a brittle tone and tilted her chin to an obstinate angle. ‘I will go ahead and marry Ralph Pomfrey as soon as maybe and once I am his wife I will not cuckold him. I will sleep with only my husband.’

A spontaneous laugh broke in Clayton’s throat. ‘I’m impressed. You’re going to be a faithful spouse. That’s most unusual for the ton and most certainly novel for you, my dear. I’m sure your late departed husband would be miffed to know you’ve reformed rather too late for him to gain any benefit. I hope Pomfrey appreciates your sacrifice.’

Ralph Pomfrey was aware—as was the whole of the ton—that he’d proposed marriage to the woman who had been Clayton Powell’s mistress for over six months. The knowledge that his betrothed was continuing to sleep with another man seemed not to trouble Pomfrey. Naturally, it was assumed that once the nuptials were imminent the liaison would end, at least until Loretta had done her duty and provided her husband with a legitimate son and heir.

‘You won’t find it all so amusing when I turn you away,’ Loretta said with a choke of annoyance. She had used her ace and had it immediately trumped. Now she wished she had saved it for another time, but could not withdraw it. ‘You won’t find another woman to please you as well as I do.’

In Clayton’s view, that petulant afterthought was her ace and it kept him loitering by the door while he gave both it and her his attention. Without doubt Loretta Vane was an enthusiastic and uninhibited bed partner.

A slow appraisal roamed over the naked young woman provocatively posing on the edge of the bed. Her figure was undeniably lush and perfectly proportioned. But it wasn’t just Loretta’s physical charms that made men keen to win her favours. She’d gained a reputation as a wanton with an appetite she’d been previously unashamed to sate in adulterous affairs during her first marriage. If she’d meant what she said about staying true to Pomfrey once they were wed, it would indeed be an odd union. Polite society was, for the most part, composed of people untroubled by discreet promiscuity within marriage, once the nursery was full.

Clayton tilted Loretta a wry smile that hinted at his capitulation. He approached her, noticing sultry triumph glittering in her eyes as she rose gracefully from the bed to sway towards him.

‘How do you know you please me very well?’ he asked and pressed a kiss to the pulse bobbing beneath the porcelain skin of her throat. ‘I’ve never told you so.’

‘You don’t need to say. I know I do,’ she said huskily. An ardent gleam was darkening her blue eyes as she peeped up at him. ‘Shall I make you say it?’

‘Do you think you can?’

‘I know I can,’ she promised and flicked her small tongue to curl on his ear.

‘Well…in that case I suppose it would be rude to decline the challenge,’ Clayton said before his lips hardened on hers, parting her mouth wide so he could immediately plunge inside. He gasped a laugh as her nimble fingers immediately opened the buttons covering the magnificent bulge straining the material at his groin. They slipped inside to slide with skilful rhythm until he growled at her to cease. She did so and instead lithely dropped to her knees in front of him.

With blood pounding through his veins, Clayton curved long fingers over the dark head rocking efficiently in front of his hips. With a groaning oath he tensed and drew her up. Swinging Loretta in to his arms, he carried her back to bed.

At six in the morning Clayton again shrugged in to his coat and approached the door of Loretta’s boudoir. As she softly called his name he turned to smile at the dishevelled sight of her. Her half-open eyes were glazed in torpor.

‘I know I pleased you,’ she purred. ‘Deny it if you can…’

‘You pleased me. Without doubt you make an excellent paramour.’

Sensual languor was still drugging her mind, but Loretta frowned at the amusement in his tone. ‘I’ll make a far better wife than mistress. I meant what I said, Clayton,’ she whispered throatily.

He shot her a grin. ‘So did I,’ he said and went out, quietly shutting the door.

A nebulous March morning was moistening the cobbles as Clayton emerged into the street. He turned in the direction of Belgravia Place, a leafy square hemmed by elegant town houses, the largest of which was his home.

John Vane had left his young widow her own apartment conveniently situated in the heart of town. Thus it was just a short time later, and with a weak dawn light at his back, that Clayton was taking the stone steps to his mansion two at a time.

On entering the hallway he was surprised to see Hughes, his butler, striding towards him as though anticipating his arrival. The elderly servant had been in the army in his heyday and, being sprightly for his years, still strutted about as though on parade.

‘An urgent post arrived, Sir Clayton,’ he told his master and held out the tray on which reposed a parchment. If he deemed it odd to see his master arrive home at daybreak with his cravat trailing from a pocket and the remainder of his clothes in a state likely to give his valet an attack, he gave no outward sign.

Clayton took the letter while issuing an order. ‘Arrange for hot water for a bath, please, and coffee and toast.’

‘At once, sir,’ Hughes said with a crisp nod and marched off.

Clayton took a proper look at the writing on the note he held. A grin split his face. He recognised the hand as that of his good friend Viscount Tremayne. He guessed that, as the post was urgent, Gavin was already on his way to Mayfair from his estate in Surrey. Clayton dropped into his chair in his study and read the very welcome news that Gavin Stone was due in town today.

Chapter Two

‘Oh! You have not brought him for me to cuddle!’

‘You may cuddle me instead!’ Viscountess Tremayne teasingly replied and proceeded to give Ruth a warm hug. ‘I have missed you,’ she said fiercely.

‘And I have missed you,’ Ruth said simply, tightening her arms about her best friend. ‘I am longing to hear more wonderful news about Surrey. But first tell me—where is that darling baby boy?’

‘He has been snuffling a little bit and I thought it best to leave him in the warm with his nurse as the weather has turned so bitter cold.’ Sarah gave Ruth an expressive look. ‘James is teething and I fret that he might take a chill.’ A soft maternal smile preceded, ‘He is a darling little chap, the image of his papa, and at times I feel I will die for love of him.’

Ruth linked arms with Sarah and led the way to the sitting room. Once her visitor had shed her hat and gloves, they sat in comfortable fireside chairs. Logs were crackling valiantly in the grate, keeping at bay the draughts. Outside was weak spring sunlight, but the March winds were strong enough to infiltrate the casements and stir the curtains.

Ruth poured tea from the prepared tray that sat on a table close to the hearth. Once they had sipped at the warming brew their conversation was resumed with a fluency that mocked the long months and miles that had separated them. To an observer they might have been dear sisters, so affectionate and natural were they as they chatted and warmed their palms on the china cups.

‘How long will you stay at Willowdene Manor?’

‘Until Michaelmas…if I have my way,’ Sarah said with a grin.

Ruth cocked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And I imagine you have a tendency to get your own way.’ She sighed in faux sympathy. ‘Poor Gavin!’