Read Online Joan Wolf by His Lordship's Mistress - Free Book Online
Authors: His Lordship's Mistress
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horses in her childhood.
He didn’t believe her. For one thing he suspected she had never set foot in Ireland. When he had tried to pin down about where “in the west” she had performed she had replied glibly, “Oh, Wexford.” He had not said anything, so she did not realize that Miss Burnley’s lamentable lapses in geography had caused her to give herself away. Wexford was most certainly not in the west of Ireland, as Linton, who had visited there, had first-hand reason to know.
And the knowledge she had displayed this afternoon could only belong to someone who had worked or owned or bred horses—race horses—seriously. He pressured her a little, gently, but she had closed up against him. He had looked at her as she sat on the seat beside him, bent slightly forward, braced and on edge, and he had wanted to put his arms around her and beg her to trust him. But he had known such an action would only frighten her more—frighten her, perhaps, into running.
And that, he realized, was something that frightened him. He did not want to lose her. There was something about her that attracted him as no other woman ever had.
When they reached Montpelier Square he set himself to reassure her. On the surface she seemed perfectly composed but the signs of strain were there to his discerning eye: her air of withdrawal and the austerity of the set of her lips revealed clearly the tension she was feeling. He had some brandy brought up to the bedroom, and taking off his coat and loosening his cravat he stretched himself comfortably on the chaise longue. “You must be cold after that drive, Jess,” he said in his deep, warm voice. “Let me give you a splash of brandy.”
She was standing by the fireplace, her right hand resting on the marble and her left keeping her skirt from the fire while she held out a foot to the warmth. “Only my feet are cold,” she replied.
“Then take your boots off,” he told her. As she hesitated he put down his glass, went across to the fire, and picked her off her feet as easily as if she were a child. He sat her down, knelt down himself, and pulled the boots in question off her feet He then handed her a small glass of brandy. “Drink it,” he said sternly, fixing on her his very blue, steady, and now somewhat imperious gaze.
Reluctantly she took it; then, as he continued to stare at her, she sipped it cautiously. It brought tears to her eyes but she could feel its warmth coursing through her. She sipped again, more assuredly, and looked up to find his eyes still on her. Her mouth compressed a little and then, irresistibly, she laughed. “How odious in you to always be right,” she said.
“Do you think I’m always right?” he asked serenely. “Well, I am still waiting to catch you out.”
He smiled, leaned back on the chaise longue, and held out an arm. “Come and get warm,” he invited. She put her glass down and went to sit in the circle of his arm. Humorously and reminiscently he began to tell her about an incident from his boyhood where he had been, regrettably, very wrong indeed. Jessica lay still against him, listening and absorbing warmth from his big body, and slowly he could feel the tension draining out of her. Her head was pillowed comfortably against his shoulder. He felt the relaxed weight of her and she seemed to him very small and fragile and tender as she rested against him.
There rose in him, as there had before, an overwhelming desire to protect. Why this self-contained girl who had, he suspected, more courage and toughness than many men he knew, should call forth this feeling from him he did not understand. But there was a quality of gallantry about her that moved him very much. She was in trouble, that much was clear to him. He wished he could help her, aside from the monthly allowance he was making her. But he knew, without asking, that she would not allow him to. He bent his head and gently kissed the top of her head. “You’re tired,” he said softly.
He didn’t believe her. For one thing he suspected she had never set foot in Ireland. When he had tried to pin down about where “in the west” she had performed she had replied glibly, “Oh, Wexford.” He had not said anything, so she did not realize that Miss Burnley’s lamentable lapses in geography had caused her to give herself away. Wexford was most certainly not in the west of Ireland, as Linton, who had visited there, had first-hand reason to know.
And the knowledge she had displayed this afternoon could only belong to someone who had worked or owned or bred horses—race horses—seriously. He pressured her a little, gently, but she had closed up against him. He had looked at her as she sat on the seat beside him, bent slightly forward, braced and on edge, and he had wanted to put his arms around her and beg her to trust him. But he had known such an action would only frighten her more—frighten her, perhaps, into running.
And that, he realized, was something that frightened him. He did not want to lose her. There was something about her that attracted him as no other woman ever had.
When they reached Montpelier Square he set himself to reassure her. On the surface she seemed perfectly composed but the signs of strain were there to his discerning eye: her air of withdrawal and the austerity of the set of her lips revealed clearly the tension she was feeling. He had some brandy brought up to the bedroom, and taking off his coat and loosening his cravat he stretched himself comfortably on the chaise longue. “You must be cold after that drive, Jess,” he said in his deep, warm voice. “Let me give you a splash of brandy.”
She was standing by the fireplace, her right hand resting on the marble and her left keeping her skirt from the fire while she held out a foot to the warmth. “Only my feet are cold,” she replied.
“Then take your boots off,” he told her. As she hesitated he put down his glass, went across to the fire, and picked her off her feet as easily as if she were a child. He sat her down, knelt down himself, and pulled the boots in question off her feet He then handed her a small glass of brandy. “Drink it,” he said sternly, fixing on her his very blue, steady, and now somewhat imperious gaze.
Reluctantly she took it; then, as he continued to stare at her, she sipped it cautiously. It brought tears to her eyes but she could feel its warmth coursing through her. She sipped again, more assuredly, and looked up to find his eyes still on her. Her mouth compressed a little and then, irresistibly, she laughed. “How odious in you to always be right,” she said.
“Do you think I’m always right?” he asked serenely. “Well, I am still waiting to catch you out.”
He smiled, leaned back on the chaise longue, and held out an arm. “Come and get warm,” he invited. She put her glass down and went to sit in the circle of his arm. Humorously and reminiscently he began to tell her about an incident from his boyhood where he had been, regrettably, very wrong indeed. Jessica lay still against him, listening and absorbing warmth from his big body, and slowly he could feel the tension draining out of her. Her head was pillowed comfortably against his shoulder. He felt the relaxed weight of her and she seemed to him very small and fragile and tender as she rested against him.
There rose in him, as there had before, an overwhelming desire to protect. Why this self-contained girl who had, he suspected, more courage and toughness than many men he knew, should call forth this feeling from him he did not understand. But there was a quality of gallantry about her that moved him very much. She was in trouble, that much was clear to him. He wished he could help her, aside from the monthly allowance he was making her. But he knew, without asking, that she would not allow him to. He bent his head and gently kissed the top of her head. “You’re tired,” he said softly.
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