Mistress by Midnight by Maggie Robinson

with some difficulty. It was heavy in her hand. “This is rather vulgar for daylight, isn’t it, my lord?”
    “They expect it of me. The Mad Marquess, you know. You should see the ruby.” Con’s face twisted in a smile. “I am allowed eccentricity.”
    “You have grown like your grandfather.” Laurette placed the stickpin on her dressing table. How odd that she did not feel self-conscious walking about bare as a baby, or nearly so.
    “I suppose I have, save I’ve learned to make money rather than just spend it.” He started to pull the tie from his throat but she stopped him.
    “I am to undress you, remember?”
    “Get on with it, then.”
    She looked up at him. “Am I going too slowly?” She touched a silver button on his waistcoat with the tip of one finger.
    “Yes, damn it.”
    He’d growled at her. Interesting. She removed the length of stock, wrapping the fabric around one hand, then laid it next to his emerald.
    His jacket was next, molded to his muscular torso. She un-peeled it and padded on her stocking feet over to a chair, draping it neatly on the back. Con clenched his jaw, looking as if he wanted her to toss each garment to kingdom come, but said nothing.
    Beautiful silver buttons, each embossed with the Conover crest. They were worth something, too. She bent down and pushed them through the buttonholes, watching as Con’s manhood twitched below.
    He had much less mastery of himself today than he did when she had so ignominiously fallen on her bottom removing his boots. That slow torture with his fingertip must have nearly killed him. As it had almost killed her. She licked her lips and heard him groan.
    “Enough.” He pushed her away and tore off the rest of his clothes, kicking off his boots with near violence. His vest, hisshirt, his breeches, his boots were now strewn around the room. She tried to pick up his billowing white linen shirt from the floor and was rewarded by a smart tap to her backside.
    “Leave it. Come to bed.”
    Laurette rubbed her bottom. “You are spanking me?”
    “I shall do worse, unless—”
    He must have heard how he sounded, seen Laurette’s shock at his words and actions.
    He enveloped her in his arms. “Forgive me, Laurie. I would never hurt you,” he whispered. She rested against his chest, puzzled at the change in his mood. His hands fumbled with her hairpins and she felt the mass of amber fall down her back.
    No. He would never raise a hand to her. His hurt was of a different nature, and one she had been battering against for a dozen years. But Con had been as much a victim as she, she supposed.
    She shook her head, impatient with herself. It was time to stop making excuses for him. He had married and fathered a child, then left to indulge his senses in all manner of foreign debauchment. She had seen the brass hookah in his bedchamber, after all. Whether he used flavored tobacco or hashish, it was still a disturbing habit. Even an English gentleman’s cheroot was a nasty thing to her way of thinking.
    She sat at the edge of the bed, untied the garter and turned her stocking down with deliberate precision. She imagined she could hear Con’s heart thudding in his chest as he stood naked just inches from her. She took her time with the other leg, enjoying his apparent torture. But then, he resorted to his earlier roughness. Pushing her backward on the bed, he covered her with his weight, his kiss feral and demanding, his hands whirling through her hair and over her skin, his thumb grazing her nipples, his cock with one abrupt thrust embedded within her. It wasn’t rape. Her body had been ready fromthe moment he entered the garden, even if her mind had not been.
    But she had inserted no sponge. There had been no time. She tried to scramble back but he held her in an iron grip, gloving himself within her so completely that she soon ceased thinking of consequences, and only felt each quicksilver connection between their flesh. He pushed deeper, she rose to