Free A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) by Natasha Blackthorne

caressing hand froze, so deeply did her
words cut into him.
    As the full meaning of her words settled in,
the pain seemed to take away his ability to take a full breath.
    You terrified me.
    You reminded me of Winterton.
     
    He understood, better than he had before,
how deeply he had hurt her the evening before.
    He had to work very hard to make her forget.
To make her feel secure with him and to believe him when he said that he would
never, ever abandon her.
    And yet, the strength of his need to possess
her still disturbed him. Did he love her, the woman inside enough to respect
her need for autonomy?
    Or would he prove no better than the other
men of his family, a man who wanted to possess beautiful women and would treat
them no better than an expensive doll?
    A feeling of profound despair wrenched
through his gut.
    No, God, no.
    He was not like his father.
    He grit his teeth.
    He was not!
    He loved Miranda, body and soul.
    Despite the edgy energy coursing through his
veins, he forced himself to lie beside her. But he couldn’t close his eyes.
Instead, he watched her as sleep overtook her.
    Moonlight from the partiality opened
curtains made her pale skin glow. He couldn’t take his eyes from the perfection
of her profile.
    She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever
seen. That was no lie told to flatter her. He couldn’t deny the joy that filled
him to know that she was his .
    But was it joy to possess her love?
    Or joy to possess her loveliness?
    Did he doubt himself because she still
didn’t trust him? Was her lack of trust a sign that she didn’t really love him?
    Or was it as he had determined from the start
tonight, that he had given her due cause not to trust him?
    The conflicting thoughts went round and
round in his mind, keeping him from sleep.

Chapter Six
     
    At a clanging sound, Miranda opened her eyes
and came to herself. Dawn’s pale light gave the chamber a soft glow.
    She glanced around and saw a maid she had
seen in Danvers’ house building up the fire. Intent on her work, the girl did
not glance Miranda’s way.
    Danvers came into the chamber. His hair was
damp, obviously recently combed into place and he looked clean-shaven. He wore
a crisp white shirt with a pale blue vest and beige breeches and he bore a
tray.
    He placed the tray on the bedside table. The
scent of steaming tea tantalized her. Yes, she could certainly use a nice, hot
cup right now.
    She could feel his eyes on her like a
physical touch. But she stared at the coverlet, with her last words from the
night before echoing in her mind.
    Because I am an elegant plaything?
    What a horrid thing to say!
    She recalled the stricken expression that
had crossed his face after she had said it. She knew him well enough to know
he’d never show that kind of weakness to anyone else.
    That kind of hurt.
    She had hurt him.
    What was the matter with her?
    She would usually never allow anyone to know
her direct thoughts. It was more her way to keep her tongue still and to wait
to see what others did. Or did not do.
    But with Adrian, she just couldn’t bear any
uncertainty.
    She had wanted to see what he would do or
say.
    Well, she had seen, hadn’t she?
    Now she didn’t know what to say or do to
make the situation better.
    “You need to eat,” he said.
    She sat in the bed, all too aware of him,
his strong yet elegant body moving behind her. The scent of his cologne wafted
down to her as he fluffed the pillows and made a backrest for her.
    Beneath the cologne, she detected a strong
scent of brandy. So, he’d been drinking, heavily, again.
    Because of her.
    The door clicked softly closed as the maid
left them.
    Full of unease and regret, she watched him pour
her a cup of tea and add two lumps of sugar. She accepted it with hoarsely
whispered thanks. And then he watched her while she sipped it.
    The sun continued to brighten the chamber,
making the blue lights in his still slightly damp black hair glisten. He held a
teacup himself but did not drink.