Page 33 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

This might have been a mistake.

Chapter 7

And so, Georgia began to settle in at Endymion. The night she kissed Demon—the night of her arrival—she snuggled into the big bed, opened the book he’d given her, and promptly fell asleep. She woke up the next morning drooling on the cover.

Life at Endymion was certainly simpler than she was used to. Father wasn’t here to judge her appearance as a reflection of himself, after all. And without a maid—Mary had enough work to do—Georgia could only manage simple hairstyles and less ornate day gowns.

And Demon…didn’t seem to mind. At all.

The morning after her arrival, she was dressing when she heard the door open. She turned to find him standing there, and the look in his eyes… Oh dear Lord, the look in his eyes told her exactly why he was there.

Her core began to throb, even as he stalked across the room to her. She’d been wearing only her chemise at the time, and the way he cupped her breasts through the soft linen sent shudders through her.

He’d said nothing, and still fully clothed, lowered his head and drew her nipple—linen and all—into his mouth. Her whimper seemed to inflame him, and soon he’d unbuttoned his trousers, turned her around, tossed up her chemise, and pushed into her.

There was no mirror, and she’d held onto one of the bedposts, but the result was the same; he curled around her, encasing her in his heat as he thrust in and out of her aching core, his fingers bringing her to her peak.

She came on his cock, again, and he spilled his seed down her thigh.

It became a habit. Georgia awoke each morning in breathless anticipation, wondering when he’d come to her.

Often it was as she was dressing and she found herself drawing out the chore, taking her time with her hair and undergarments, knowing full well when he was done with her she’d have to lie in the bed for another half hour just to recover from the spine-melting, knee-shaking orgasms he drew from her.

Sometimes he arrived in her room before she was fully awake, and she’d go from half-asleep to fully aroused just from the way he looked at her. Sometimes he arrived when she was already dressed and leaving the room; on Monday he found her in the corridor, and they’d barely had time to duck into the linen closet.

Each time Demon took her it was fast and hard and so very desperate, as if he needed her. He never removed his clothing, and he always took her from behind, so she couldn’t hold him…couldn’t even look at him as he thrust into her.

But he always brought her pleasure. Dear God, the pleasure!

Roger was nothing like this. You forsook your family and your life for him, and even he did not give you such pleasure.

But Roger had been her husband, even if only for a short time. Demon was…

Demon was her master. She was his plaything, his bartered doxy.

And God forgive her, but she was coming to love her role. The breathless anticipation of when he’d come to her, the way his touch could shake her so thoroughly. The way he only took her from behind, and always refused to remove his clothing. There were no more kisses, but the saints knew she still found fulfillment.

She was coming to crave his touch—crave him.

And Demon…he never said it, but it was clear he anticipated these meetings as much as she did. He might think of her as only his mistress, his possession, but he needed her.

Georgia was coming to crave the sensation of his need as much as his touch.

Yes, her mornings were wonderful, and her days at Endymion were simpler than ever before. In London there would be visits and shopping and various charitable projects Father had approved to boost his image, but here…

She puttered about in the conservatory, or read, or worked on small embroidery projects, or helped Mary with the tidying, much to her surprise. She didn’t want to overstep her bounds, but she did ask once or twice about holiday preparations as November turned to December and there was no hint of festivities.

Mary, in her shy way, said there was no plans for Christmas celebrations, and Georgia made a note to offer her help in a few weeks.

In the meantime, she kept busy. She’d been able to save some of the clippings from the rose Demon had been destroying—er, “pruning”—that first day they’d met, and was pleased with their rooting. The implements in the dusty conservatory were old and some were rusted through, but she managed. And it felt good to have dirt under her nails again, where Father couldn’t criticize.

A few times she bundled up and worked in the garden, doing proper pruning. It was still early in the season, and she figured she couldn’t do any more harm than Demon’s ax had done, and perhaps might save the climbing rose.

Not that she’d be here to see it bloom in the spring, but it was a nice thought.

By then, she’d be back at Father’s house in London, missing the garden at the Bonkinbone estate. Hopefully there would be blooms in the squares and fine gardens to admire, but Georgia wouldn’t have the satisfaction of knowing she’d made those blooms possible.

Perhaps when she left Endymion, she might bring one of the potted roses to remember her time—

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