Page 10 of My Fake Mistress
He wanted to kiss her, had to kiss her, like he needed to seal the moment with something more than their mutual satisfaction. He knelt, bringing his face equal to hers, and palm cupping her cheek, drew her close. With panting, breathy brilliance, their mouths met, and Julian snaked an arm around her waist and drew her as near as he could without toppling her from her chair. He’d never tasted a woman afterthatbefore and her flavour was depraved salt, desire and the slightest hint of sweet tea.
‘Have I enlightened you, Miss Blythe?’ he asked as he stroked a matted curl from her forehead.
‘I don’t know what I feel. I feel…’
Julian bit down the arrogant words he wanted to offer.Satiated. Satisfied. Properly corrupted.
‘Connected,’ she said, then accepted a kiss he hadn’t realised he’d been offering. ‘I felt like I was part of you. And you were part of me. I couldn’t tell you where one of us ends and the other begins.’
She rested her head against his chest. He encircled her body in his arms and held her steady. Her breathing stilled. She began to fidget.
‘You want to return to your painting?’ he asked, reluctantly releasing her.
She gave a hesitant nod. ‘Please.’
She barely acknowledged him as he left. No wonder men like Carlson insisted their women had no other interests but them. But just as he reached the door, licking the wound of his hurt pride, she called him back. Hand on the frame, he turned.
‘Would you like me to bring this to your room when I am finished?’
He’d never sleep again. ‘Take it to your room. I’ll have one of the staff hang it. And next time you visit, it will be there for you. Like your own place here.’
Her smile, beautiful, genuine, devoid of any hint of modesty or deportment, lit her face, and the room, even him, and the fullness of her attention seemed more precious because of its previous absence.
‘I know just the place,’ she said, then returned to her work.
Chapter Four
‘Youaren’tthinkingaboutthat attic, are you?’
Blythe startled, then drew her attention back to Yvette, seated beside her in the opalescent beauty of the ballroom. ‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘I mean, no. I mean…’I was, but not in the way you might imagine.
‘Are you going to be this insufferable once you start your position?’
‘Unlikely. I imagine I will revert to the same old bore you met months ago.’
Yvette bumped against Blythe’s side and smiled with warm comradery. ‘You are far from a bore. You have been an inspiration to me. I am going to miss you so much.’
‘An inspiration?’ An awkward chuckle loosened and bubbled from Blythe’s lips. ‘I am nothing special.’
‘Of course, you are. You move in a man’s world with the type of quiet confidence that reminds me of the queen. You erode the old rules, not with a sledgehammer, but with your brushes and sponges. You think it’s nothing, but to go out into the world alone, and forge an independent path, is extraordinary.’
Alone. After tomorrow, she would be. Of course, she would have Yvette when she came to town, and the friendships of the other women in the boarding house. But that sense of family and belonging that had been lost to her when her uncle died—would she ever find that again?
The Duke of Northumbersomething bowed before Yvette. ‘Miss Ashford. May I have the pleasure of the waltz?’
Yvette flipped out her dance card, shaped like a fan, and scanned its segments. ‘Unfortunately, I am already promised to Mr Bertram. But I have a vacancy for the polka?’
The duke fidgeted. Blythe stifled a giggle. Yvette regularly made such statements just to watch the men squirm. She knew they all detested the polka. ‘I would be so honoured,’ he gritted out, then bowed, before retreating to the cluster of men by the tables.
‘It is insufferable having to wait to be asked to dance. To never be allowed to initiate,’ Yvette said.
‘If you could approach anyone, who would it be?’ Blythe asked.
Yvette scrunched her skirts, then, with a slight wistfulness, glanced across to the far side of the room, and with a heavy sigh, said, ‘Lady Lewellyn.’
As Blythe looked to where the bright young debutante decorated the wall with a couple of friends, she understood the weight of Yvette’s confession. After all, she lived in a women’s boarding house. It was not unheard of, at least in her world.
‘Maybe you should ask her anyway?’
