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

with great wealth and fairly good taste. He didn’t exactly like it—he’d never been in a place before where everything seemed so shiny new—but it was an extraordinary setting.
    â€œGood reminder that it isn’t your setting, Van,” he muttered, exploring his new quarters.
    Noons had already put his scant belongings in the drawers, and a table held glasses, a number of full decanters, and bowls of fruit and nuts. A richly marqueteried breakfront desk contained heavy writing paper, and everything else needed. The glass-front shelves above held a selection of books that seemed to be chosen with care to meet every possible taste.
    By her?
    It hadn’t been wise to agree to move in here, but last night he’d not been able to resist. Comfortable living tempted him, but he also wanted to get to know Maria Celestin, to come to understand what was going on here, and the way he felt.
    Hades, he’d almost ravished her! It hadn’t felt like that at the time, but it was obvious from her reaction that he’d completely misjudged it. Of course he had. He was a hired servant, nothing more, and he’d attacked her.
    He’d gone over and over it in the night.
    There’d been pride involved, yes. He’d wanted to master her. Revolting thought. It had spun out of control, though.
    Something about her drove him wild. It wasn’t just her coolness, either. Today, when she’d come down the stairs, the way she moved had practically rendered him breathless, even if she had been in a shapeless pale dress and a concealing cap.
    Last night she’d worn an elaborate turban. At their first meeting she’d been in a toque. He felt almost rage that she hid her hair so much. Soft, dark blond curls had ruffled out around her cap, and when she’d turned to her niece he’d seen escaping tendrils against her long, pale neck.
    Did it curl all over? How was it arranged? How long was it? Naked in bed, would it flow long, loose, and pale around her?
    Stop it, Van.
    He pressed his fist to his mouth.
    Stop being an animal. She’s a mature, respectable widow who would not even let you touch her except for this eccentric plan of hers.
    He was rough from war. Broken in fortune. Broken in spirit. What was he doing now, after all, but marching to duty’s drum, left foot, right foot, like the most wretched dullard in the infantry?
    In six weeks he’d have enough money to continue the march, that was all, and doubtless he’d never see Maria Celestin again.
    They attended two routs and a soirée that night. Maria wanted first reaction over with. She had to endure some sly comments about his youth and good looks, and about his moving into her house, but people mostly seemed to accept the situation, though with amusement.
    She left Vandeimen to decide how to behave, and he managed to project a kind of reverent adoration that made her want to scream. Bad enough to be thought an older woman made foolish by lust. Even worse to be treated like a revered saint.
    But then, partway through the evening she began to wonder if he was doing it deliberately to try to counteract the more sordid aspects.
    If so, it didn’t work.
    â€œMy dear,” said Emily Galman, a thin, predatory woman Maria had known since her first season, “a tiger on your leash! I shall study you for teeth marks.”
    Her quick dark eyes already were.
    â€œDivinely handsome,” said Cissy Embleborough, who’d also made her curtsy at the same time, but who was a friend. “I’m not sure I’d find him comfortable, though.”
    â€œComfort isn’t everything.” Maria immediately wished the words unsaid.
    Cissy laughed. “True. And it may come in time.”
    It was three days later that she encountered Sarah Yeovil at a private exhibition of medieval art. “Maria,” Sarah said, drawing her into a quiet corner, “are you sure this is wise?”
    â€œWise?”