Temporary Mistress

Temporary Mistress

Brokenhearted after the death of his wife and infant son, Phillip Graves—Viscount

Danbury—lives only for pleasure, changing his mistress every few months. After his
mistress-to-be is indisposed, he acquires a temporary replacement who, to his surprise,
offers him something he never thought to find—a second chance at love.

After being forced on the streets by her late father, Franny Talbot is desperate to

escape the whoring life. The chance to be under an aristocrat’s temporary protection
gives her more than a path to freedom, though. Philip’s skilled lessons in sensuality
show Franny all the delicious and titillating ways a man can possess a woman. And she
unexpectedly finds herself falling in love with a man who can never truly be hers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing

www.ellorascave.com

Temporary Mistress

ISBN 9781419936920

Edited by Kahli Reid

Cover design by Dar Albert

Photography: Mayer George Vladimirovich; Curaphotography/Shutterstock.com

Electronic book publication December 2011

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Cecily French

Chapter One

London 1816

“Let’s see your tits, dearie.”
“Pardon me?” Franny Talbot’s hands clutched at the battered sack that contained

what few possessions she had in the world as she stared at the red-haired woman in the

amethyst dressing gown.

“I said, let’s see your tits,” the woman repeated, not unkindly. “In other words,

strip off.”

“But—”
“If you’re going to work in Madam Terez’s House of Pleasure, you best get used to

showing yourself naked,” Madam Terez said, leaning back in the heavy leather chair

behind her desk. She tilted her head, her gaze penetrating Franny’s old coat. “You did

say you’ve done this before, didn’t you?”

Trying hard to stop the blush creeping up her neck from reaching her face, Franny

returned Madam Terez’s stare. “Of course, I have. Why else would I be here?”

“Hmm. Beneath the dirt, you look right elegant. How many times?”
Francesca scrubbed her smudged cheeks with her fingertips. “Excuse me?”
The madam blew out an impatient sigh. “How many times have you spread your

legs for a man’s cock? Used your twat to pay your bills? Had a man’s cock in your

mouth?”

Heat seared Franny’s cheeks but she managed to keep her voice level. “I know what

to do with a man.”

“Do you? We’ll talk about that later. Strip off.”
Franny put the sack on a brocaded chair and covered it with her coat and equally

battered bonnet while making a quick assessment of the madam’s office. The mauve

and green carpet stretching all the way to the edges of the dark blue walls was faded

but clean. Heavy drapes covered the windows and her racing heart slowed a bit. Maybe

no one could see inside. Two large oil lamps on the edges of the desk provided the

room’s light and her tightly held shoulders relaxed. It felt safe here. For now.

Within minutes, her clothing—every last stitch of it—lay on a leather sofa, and head

high, Franny stepped forward for the madam’s inspection.

“Hmm.” Madam Terez stroked her chin and nodded. “Nice firm tits, not too big,

not too small. Nipples ain’t too big neither. Don’t have a child, do you?”

Franny shook her head. “No,” she said.

Temporary Mistress

“Shouldn’t think so, with that flat belly. Alabaster skin, blue eyes, nice, long legs,

curly black hair around your honey pot. Men like that. Turn around and let me see your

bum.”

Hesitating only a fraction of a second, Franny pivoted and waited. Madame Terez

gasped, but whether in horror or disgust, Franny couldn’t be sure.

“What made them bruises?” Madame Terez demanded. “A stick?”
“A cane.” Franny steadied the wobble in her voice. “From someone who thought he

didn’t get his money’s worth.”

“Turn around.”
Keeping her hands at her sides, Franny obeyed and waited.
“I don’t allow things like that in my house,” Madam Terez said firmly. “Some of the

gents may get a bit creative at times, but I don’t let none of them mistreat my girls.

Them that tries it finds their arses out on the street. And I only cater to bachelors and

widowers. I don’t hold with adultery. There’s other places for that.” She gave Franny

another hard stare. “Who was your fancy man?”

Franny raised her chin. “Oliver Sidlow.”
“Lord help us, it’s no wonder your back is covered in bruises,” Madam Terez

snorted. “Oliver’s half crazy and so’s them who buys his girls. Everyone in whoring

London knows that. How did you wind up working for him?”

Whore. “My mother died six months ago and then my stepfather sold me to Oliver

two months ago,” Franny said woodenly. “He used the money for drink and a week

later stepped in front of a hackney coach. He’s dead.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Madam Terez said kindly. “You were a virgin ’til then, were you?”
“Yes,” Franny whispered.
“Did you run away from his place?”
“Yes.”
“Then Oliver is bound to be lookin’ for you,” Madam Terez acknowledged with a

nod. “And no wonder. A beauty like you must have brought him a fair bit of coin.

There’s them that likes fresh meat and a fella can get rough if the girl doesn’t know how

to fuck him properly. Oliver will want you back, all right. But why’d he beat you? Them

bruises are fresh and a beauty like you won’t bring in no coin if she’s got bruises.”

Fear started Franny trembling and she covered her breasts with her arms. “It wasn’t

Oliver. The man he gave me to five days ago did it after I put a fight because I wouldn’t

let him—” She choked on the memory of what the man tried to do. “I cut his face with a

paring knife he left on a plate of fruit.”

“Lord, if Oliver isn’t looking for you, than that fella is,” Madam Terez groaned. “I

can’t have you stayin’ here.”

“Please, Madam Terez, don’t put me out!” Franny begged. “I’ve been hiding for five

days now. If Oliver finds me, he’ll kill me!”

Cecily French

“Put your clothes on, dearie.”
Franny’s heart sank. “I’ll take any patron you have, do anything he asks—”
“Put your clothes on,” Madam Terez repeated. “You can’t meet the other girls all

naked.”

“You mean I can stay?” Franny gasped, reaching for her shift. “But I thought you

just said I couldn’t.”

“I meant permanent like. You can stay for a night or two,” Madam Terez said. “It’s

sure as Gospel, Oliver is lookin’ for you, but I’ll be damned if I let him ’ave you.”

Franny bunched the threadbare fabric between her trembling hands. “But then

where—?”

“It just so happens, I’ve heard that a gent of my acquaintance may possibly be in

need of a mistress straightaway,” Madam Terez said. “You just might do. I’ll send ’im a

note. But right now, you need a hot meal and a hotter bath. Come with me, dearie.”

It was only much later that night—her empty stomach filled, skin scrubbed and

curled beneath clean sheets in a nearly new nightgown—that Franny realized she had

forgotten to ask the man’s name.

* * * * *

“What do you want me to take off next?”
“You might as well take off my trousers.” Phillip Graves, Viscount Danbury,

regarded the buxom beauty standing before him in nothing but her skin. “After all,

you’ve taken off everything else.”

“Trousers it is,” she agreed, removing the garment and casting it aside. Phillip

groaned in relief as his cock sprang free.

The woman surveyed Phillip. “You’re a lovely man,” she sighed. “I’m going to miss

our times together.”

“You’re not likely to turn down a duke’s proposal, even if he is old enough to be

your grandfather,” Phillip said, taking her hand and placing it on his cock. “And

besides, our arrangement was for five months, remember?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she cooed, slowly moving her hand up and down. “I don’t see

why we can’t go on as before. My new husband is not as likely to be the tiger in bed

that you are. I’m going to miss having you inside me, pounding away.”

“I don’t tup married women, Isabella.” Phillip gripped her shoulders as his cock

hardened further and his heart began the old familiar slam against his ribs at her deft

touch. “So let’s have one last tryst and call it over.”

She pouted. “You don’t have a heart.”
I buried my heart with my wife and son eight years ago, right after she died giving birth to

him, so I have none to give. Not to anyone.

Temporary Mistress

“You’re quite right, Isabella,” Phillip agreed. “One doesn’t need a heart to screw

one’s mistress. Just a willing cock, her equally willing mound and enough staying

power to make it worth both their whiles.”

“Well then,” she said, tossing back the blonde hair cascading down her breasts. She

took his hands and placed them over the white mounds. “Make it worth my while this

one last time. Fuck me as hard as you can, my lord.”

“As my lady wishes.” Scooping her up, Phillip carried her to the waiting bed. The

attentions of his fingers and tongue to her mound soon had her writhing beneath him,

moist and ready. Her nails dug into his back as she opened her legs wider.

“Inside me,” she ordered, her breathing ragged. “Now.”
“As my lady wishes.”
Phillip plunged into her, feeling her buck beneath him as her legs wrapped around

his hips, drawing him into her depths. Her screams soon signaled her approaching

finish and, as always, he pulled out before his seed exploded inside her. No need to

leave her with child. Let the old duke do that.

And Phillip could leave with his heart still safely buried.

Cecily French

Chapter Two

The pleasure of your company is requested at the annual weekend house party of the Rogues’

Gallery two weeks from now. As per regulations, appearing without a female companion is

grounds for dismissal from the IC. RSVP

P.S. I imagine, Phillip old man, that once again your companion will be judged la plus

belle dame de la soirée. Unless of course you try to bring last year’s contestant, which I

remind you is strictly against the rules.

A. Quincy.

“Damnation!” Phillip crushed the heavy paper into a ball and threw it across the

room into a trash basket. After seven years, how could he have forgotten about the

house party? And now Lucia, Isabella’s replacement, was confined to her bed for the

next several weeks recovering from a broken ankle. Honor demanded he keep her for

the customary five months unless she decided to withdraw her acceptance of his offer,

highly unlikely given Phillip’s reputation as a lover. But what was he going to do in the

meantime? He couldn’t show up at the party empty-handed and risk expulsion. He

needed a temporary mistress and fast.

As per his custom, he’d spent the last month interviewing candidates for the

position. Lucia had seemed the best choice, but recalling the remaining candidates,

none of them even remotely interested much less aroused him.

He strode across the room to stare out the window of the St. Ives Residential Hotel

onto the tree-lined London street. Morning sunlight shimmered in welcome, and

beyond the glass came the cheery patter of street runners. He massaged his shoulders

and winced. The scratches Isabella had left on his back at yesterday’s parting still

burned. Perhaps giving her up was a bad idea. But he had never strayed from his five-

month rule and he wasn’t about to start now.

Drumming his fingers against the glass, Phillip considered his options. Finding a

temporary mistress shouldn’t be so hard. A man with his title, wealth and—modesty be

damned—exceptional good looks could have any woman he wanted by simply

crooking his finger and saying, “Come here.” And for the past seven years they had.

But now, with the party looming, he didn’t have much time to start looking for a

substitution for Lucia. He had to find one right away, which gave him precious little

time to get to know her before taking her to the annual gathering. He couldn’t show up

with a woman on his arm without knowing her likes and dislikes, her background—

widows or the rare divorcee were usually good choices, preferably past child-bearing

age—and what she liked in bed.

Especially what she liked in bed.

Temporary Mistress

And with the exception of the years he had hosted the event, his companions had

taken the title of “The Most Beautiful Woman of the Gathering” every year since the

Rogues’ Gallery formed seven years ago. Pride demanded he win again. The one-

thousand-pounds prize purse made it even more enticing, even if it traditionally went

to charity.

A knock at the door brought him out of his brooding.
He crossed the room and opened the door. A hotel page in full red-and-gold livery

stood in the hallway. Phillip knew every staff member on sight, but this boy’s face was

new to him. The lad could not have been more than ten years old, but his expression

suggested that he knew his job was of the utmost importance.

“Good morning, my lord.” He bowed and took a small, sealed piece of paper from

inside his brocaded jacket. “This came ’alf a moment ago by a runner.”

“Did it indeed?” Phillip molded his expression to match the boy’s.
“Yes, my lord, and ’e’s waitin’ for an answer, beggin’ your pardon, sir.” The note

was handed over with another bow.

“You’re new to the St. Ives, aren’t you?” Phillip asked.
Pride lit up the boy’s face. “Yes, my lord. Started last week. Ain’t never been up to

the third floor before.”

“You better come inside, then.” Phillip opened the door wider and stepped back.

“What’s your name?”

“Hodges, sir,” the boy said as he entered. His eyes widened at the opulence of the

front room and he let out a whistle. “This must be costin’ you a fair bit of coin!”

Phillip gave him a slow wink. “Lots of coins,” he agreed as he glanced at the

familiar handwriting covering the paper. “Tell the messenger I’ll call on the sender

within the hour,” he said. “Can you remember that?”

Hodges’ mouth trembled with barely concealed outrage. “I’m not stupid, sir.

Wouldn’t be workin’ ’ere if I were.”

Phillip grinned at his injured tone. “I beg your pardon. Does this make it right with

us?”

He proffered three pennies from his trouser pocket. Hodges’ mouth fell open. “Yes,

sir! Message delivered right away, sir!”

He took the coins, gave a smart salute and hurried from the room. Phillip closed the

door, opened the note and scanned its brief message.

If you’re still in need of a new mistress, I’ve just the one for you. Bit rough, but you can

have fun polishing her up.

Terez

Cecily French

“So you’ve found me a rough diamond, have you?” Phillip folded the paper and

carried it to his desk. He just hoped that two weeks would be enough time to polish it to

the level of required perfection.

* * * * *

“Madam is going to offer you to Viscount Danbury?” The scantily clad brunette

stared at Franny, her mouth a petulant pout. “You just got here yesterday and ain’t

even bedded anyone yet. What makes you so bleedin’ special?”

“I don’t know,” Franny said honestly. “Who is Viscount Danbury?”
“Lord, don’t you know nuttin?” The woman’s pout became a sneer. “Phillip

Graves, Viscount Danbury, is the greatest lay in the ton or my name ain’t Mary. They

say he can have you screamin’ at what just his tongue can do to your twat, let alone do

to it with his prick. Handy with his fingers too, if half of what I’ve heard is true.”

Franny’s cheeks burned. “Have you—”
“Been with him? Naw. But I watched him once through a peephole into the room ’e

was using. Prettiest arse you’ve ever seen on a man, cheeks nice and tight and legs

that’ll hug you snug while you ride him. And his cock!” Mary shivered, but her

expression turned greedy. “Lord save the woman who ain’t big and deep enough to

hold all of him! I’d let him—”

“That’s enough, Mary.” Madam Terez’s entrance into the sitting room ended the

description of Franny’s prospective employer. “No need to scare the girl.”

“Why her and not me?” Mary complained. “She looks like a virgin decked out in

that dress. Is that what Lord Danbury is wanting? ’Cause I can play the virgin with the

best of ’em. Just did it last week.”

“Shut up, Mary,” Madame Terez ordered. “His lordship is needing something

special.”

Her gaze inspected again Franny’s choice of dress. The pale-yellow muslin gown,

with lace at the collar and short sleeves, skimmed Franny’s curves, such as they were.

The snug, low-cut bodice and the silken corset underneath showed just enough of her

breasts to arouse interest. Underneath, the barest of chemises covered the rest of her.

“After all,” Madam Terez had said when handing Franny several different dresses

to try, “the man deserves a peek at what he might be purchasing.”

Now she nodded at Franny’s choice of dress and asked, “Who did your hair?”
Confidence calmed Franny’s trembling insides. “I did,” she said proudly. Twin

tendrils curved the slopes of her cheeks, and matching ribbons hung from the cascade

of black curls balanced on her head to trail down her neck.

“Very nice,” Madame Terez nodded in satisfaction. “Years ago in France, they

would have doused you with water to show off your body. But this ain’t France and I

don’t want my carpets all wet. Come, my dear, ’is lordship is waitin’ to see you.”

Temporary Mistress

Ignoring Mary’s departing scowl, Franny followed Madam Terez from the room

and downstairs. The smell of cigar smoke wafted from the front parlor where callers

were received and Franny’s tension returned. Oliver smoked cigars.

“Good morning, my lord,” Madame Terez called to the back of the lone figure

standing by the fireplace as they entered the room. “I hope you are well today?”

After tossing his cheroot into the flames, the man turned and Franny’s heart

slammed into her ribs with such force she thought she might swoon. Any and all

adjectives for describing male beauty evaporated at the sight of the tall, powerfully built

man whose amber-eyed gaze set her insides quivering. Wide of shoulder and long of

leg, his form stirred to life Mary’s descriptions of his prowess in the bedroom. A lock of

honey-colored hair fell over one amber eyebrow.

But it was his mouth, full and generous, that sent a cascade of delicious shivers

scrambling over Franny’s skin.

His mouth would truly be a force of nature, bringing to life any fantasy a woman

could entertain.

Even a woman like Franny.
“My Lord Danbury, this is Franny Talbot,” Madam Terez said. “Franny, this is

Phillip Graves, Viscount Danbury.”

Franny produced the curtsy she had practiced. “My Lord Danbury,” she said.
His only answer was to continue to stare at her, his eyes seeming to pierce the

muslin fabric, and even as her brain commanded her not to, a blush warmed her from

her toes peeking from the open shoes to the ribboned crown of her head.

He came forward to slowly walk around her, his gaze heating her skin’s warmth to

a near flame, and a throbbing ache began between her legs. Merciful heavens, if he

could do this without laying a hand on her, then everything Mary had said must be true

indeed.

“I believe,” he said finally, “that I am going to be in your debt, Terez. A diamond

indeed.”

Madam Terez favored him with a smile. “Well, then. I’ll leave you two to get

acquainted.”

She left, closing the door behind her. Franny clasped her hands together and

waited. The ticking of the wall clock provided the room’s only sound unless one

counted the roaring of Franny’s heart in her ears.

He broke the silence first. “Would you like to sit down?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” She made her way to a nearby sofa, but hesitated. Did one

wait for a viscount to sit first?

He must have read her mind, because his soft chuckle teased her ears. “You may

sit.”

“Thank you.”

Cecily French

She lowered herself to the sofa, carefully arranging the skirt of her dress. When she

had settled herself, Phillip sat beside her and took her hands. “Do you understand why

I am here?”

“Yes, my lord. You need a mistress. Least that’s what Madam Terez said.” Her gaze

rested on their joined hands.

“Look at me.”

She raised her head and Phillip found himself staring into the depths of eyes so

blue they were almost violet. Her hands nearly vanished inside his, but he could easily

imagine them wrapped around a love-satisfied organ, arousing him again into

erectness. Beneath his trousers, said organ stirred in anticipation. “Do you want to do

this, Miss Franny? Do you want to become my mistress?”

She shrugged and her gown slipped off one shoulder just enough for him to view

the creamy skin. “Not much choice, my lord. It’s here or the streets, and that’s no

choice.”

“How long were you on the streets?”
“Two months.”
“And did you work in another house before that?”
“No sir. I was still at home.”
Phillip dropped her hands. “Explain,” he said.
He saw fear glimmer in her eyes, but she kept her gaze fixed on his face as she told

him how she had come to be at Madam Terez’s house. “So with Oliver and that other

fella looking for me, I’m as good as dead if I go back,” she finished. Her hands gripped

one another and a wobble entered her voice as she added, “But if you give me a chance,

sir, I promise to do my best to satisfy you. Please let me try.”

Damnation! You’re hardly more than a virgin. What the blazes was Terez thinking offering

me a girl who’s probably never had her mouth on a man’s cock or done it anywhere but in a bed

in her short, professional life? I should ask for a woman who at least knows what she’s doing

between the sheets.

But her beauty, as well as her obvious fear, stopped him from doing just that. Her

skin gleamed like a pearl in the firelight’s glow and a faint smell of summer flowers

surrounded her. With a woman like her on his arm, winning the prize for having the

most beautiful mistress would easily be his. Again.

And how could he turn her out on the streets with the likes of Oliver Sidlow

hunting for her? “Have you ever bedded a man for just the pleasure of it?”

“No sir.”
“Never known any pleasure from a man?”
“They got what they wanted,” she said with more than a trace of bitterness. “Didn’t

stop to ask what I might want. Most times, there wasn’t even as much as a kiss, if you

could call it that. More like slobbering.”

Temporary Mistress

“That’s a shame,” Phillip said softly. “Bedding one another should always be

pleasurable. Pleasuring a woman, watching her be pleasured, is half the fun. Otherwise

what’s the point?”

“They got what they wanted,” she repeated.
“Has anyone ever touched you like this?”
With a feathering touch, he ran his forefinger over her lips, letting it trail down to

trace the soft curve of her jaw until it rested above the valley between her breasts. She

sat quite still, almost as if expecting a blow. Only the quickening rise and fall of her

chest showed she was at least somewhat aroused.

“No,” she said. “Never like that.”
“When a man kisses you, it should be something like this.” Leaning in, Phillip

lowered his head to let the tip of his tongue trace the shape of her lips. They tasted of

cherries, sweet and tart all at once.

“Let your tongue touch mine,” he instructed. “First the tip, then slowly, slowly, slide

it into my mouth.”

He took her into his arms as her mouth opened to do as he asked. Her hands met

behind his head and held him in place as she continued her task. Beneath her dress, her

heart beat in a frantic rhythm as her tongue met his and she gently sucked it as he

feasted on hers. Sweat broke out on his forehead as the tips of her nipples hardened

against his chest and his cock swelled as he imagined feasting on the rest of her.

A moan broke from her throat and he pulled back. A rosy flush stained her cheeks

and her kiss-brightened eyes proved his attentions were successful. “Did you enjoy

that?” he asked.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I did.”
“That,” he said, “was a kiss. Now, Franny—”
“My given name is Francesca,” she supplied.
“Really?” he asked. “Very well, from now on, your name in public will be

Francesca. Only in private will you be Franny.”

“And I suppose I am to call you Phillip.”
He considered. “I suppose so. After all—”
“I mean calling you ‘my lord’ this and ‘my lord’ that when everyone knows we’re

sharing a bed seems a bit la-di-da, don’t you think?”

He laughed at her spot-on imitation of a ton dowager. Her sweet mouth’s droll

expression quickened his heart. Beauty and wit. He could almost feel the weight of the

winner’s purse in his hands.

“You will be my mistress for two weeks,” Phillip continued. “In that time, I will

provide you with a new wardrobe and a place to live. In return, you will be available to

me at all times. Do you understand?”

Cecily French

“Well, that’s what a mistress does, isn’t it?” she asked. “To always be ready to hop

in bed with her patron?”

“There are other places to make love besides a bed.”
She recoiled as if he had struck her. “I won’t do it with no one but you,” she rasped.

“And I won’t let anyone watch us or share our bed. If that’s what you want, then you

can find another honey pot to dip your prick in.”

“I don’t share my women,” Phillip said stiffly. “Especially not when I am the one in

bed with them.” Then softening his tone, he added, “And after the first time I bed you,

you’ll not want another—not while we’re together.”

“And when our time is up?” she demanded. “What happens to me then? Back on

the streets, always looking over my shoulder for Oliver or someone like him?”

Phillip considered. If circumstances were different, she would be his for five

months and his final gift would be enough money to keep her until a new lover came

along. His other women always found one within days.

But from her described history, Franny was not like his other mistresses. Her only

experience with sex was from the hands of men who had wanted only one thing—a

quick fuck, with no thought of pleasure. In her and out of her and a coin, maybe two, if

she were lucky. He might very well have to teach her everything about pleasing and

being pleasured.

The thought of teaching her how to please him hardened him again, and his balls

ached at the thought of her riding him while he held her hips and drove his cock deep

inside her. The imagined taste of her honey pot filled his mouth and he swallowed

before asking, “What do you want to happen?”

The glitter in her violet eyes darkened them to nearly cobalt. “I want to have

enough money so I never have to rely on a man again,” she said. “I want to be as free as

I can be.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t want a man at all after this?” he asked, half amused

at her declaration.

“If I do, it’ll be when I want him, not because I need him to provide for me,” she

said fiercely. “A man got me into this life, so why shouldn’t a man help me get out of it?

You can do that, can’t you?”

“And you’ve never wanted a man, have you?”
A shadow of—what? Fear? Anticipation?—passed over her face. “Don’t know what

that feels like to want someone,” she whispered. “Wanting someone is like in books and

stories, where everything is wonderful and no one ever gets hurt.”

Her answer startled him. “Do you know how to read, Franny?”
Annoyance pulled her sweet mouth into a frown. “Yes, my lord, I know how to

read,” she snapped. “And write and do arithmetic past division, even fractions and the

like. I used to read the newspaper when I was at home, and more than the tidbits on

Cecily French

Chapter Three

“Where are we going?” Franny asked as their carriage and its two black horses

drove them across town. The slightly shabby neighborhood of Madam Terez’s brothel

seemed worlds away as the narrows streets widened to ones boasting glass-fronted

shops with sparkling windows and heavy awnings. Other carriages rattled past them,

the horses’ hooves beating on the pavement while overhead the sky’s blue gleamed

with a freshly scrubbed brilliance. Franny lowered the window, breathed in and slowly

expelled it. Even the air smelled cleaner in this part of London.

“Mayfair,” Phillip said.
“Mayfair,” she repeated. The wonder of it nearly made her shiver. “Do you know

the Prince?”

“We’ve met,” Phillip said. “He’s a good bit older than me, so we don’t really travel

in the same circles. But I have dined at Carlton House once.”

“I’ve never seen Mayfair.” She ran her hand over the finely tooled leather seat. “I’ve

never ridden in a carriage before either.”

“A day of many firsts for you, then.”
A question burst from Franny before she could stop it. “Would you show me where

the King lives? Please?”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Have you ever seen London other than where

you lived?”

Shame scalded Franny’s cheeks. “No,” she admitted. “Just the streets and shops

near Panhurst Alley in Clerkenwell where I grew up.”

“Well then, we must change that. One should always know the city where one

lives.”

He knocked on the roof of the carriage and they pulled over to the side of the road.

Leaning out, Phillip called, “Christopher, Miss Francesca has never seen our part of

London before. Take us around the city, and be sure you include the King’s residence

and Saint Paul’s.”

“And Hyde Park, please,” Franny added eagerly. “I’ve always longed to see that.”
“And Hyde Park,” Phillip agreed. “Drive on.”
“Yes, my lord,” a man’s voice answered.
Phillip closed the window and sat back. “There we go,” he said. “Your own

personal tour of London.”

He smiled and anticipation scooted down Franny’s spine. He had been kind so far.

Perhaps being his mistress wouldn’t be so bad. She had survived Oliver. Surely she

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could survive Phillip Graves, Viscount Danbury. She’d let him bed her as often as he

wanted if it earned her freedom.

She lowered her eyelids to stare at him. If he looked as good without his clothes as

he did in them, going to bed with him might be nice. And he smelled good too. Clean

like soap and something smoky. Her heart beat a little faster as she recalled what Mary

had said about how pretty his arse was, and she quickly swallowed the giggle rising in

her throat. His lordship was so elegant in those snug breeches and well-fitting coat, it

almost seemed indecent to call his backside an arse.

But deep inside her brain, her mother’s old words sounded a warning. “If

something looks too good to be true, it probably is.”

“If you look outside,” Phillip said, his voice slicing through her musings, “you’ll be

able to see Saint Paul’s.”

Franny leaned forward again to peer out the window and gasped. Sure enough, the

church rose in the distance, its dome gleaming against the sky like an offered pearl. For

the next hour, they continued their journey, with Phillip pointing out places Franny had

only heard tell of.

“The Tower of London,” Phillip intoned in a ghostly voice as they passed the

massive fortress. “Where perish all the enemies of the King!”

He let out a demonic cackle and Franny laughed. “Good thing I’m just a humble

subject,” she said. “He won’t have to worry about the likes of me giving him trouble.”

Phillip wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Would you like to see if there’s a fresh batch

of heads hanging from Traitor’s Gate?”

“Not today, thank you very much,” Franny replied with another laugh. “Might

make me lose my appetite for later on.”

“And speaking of appetites, I think I’m ready for something to eat.” Phillip knocked

on the roof again before opening and calling out the window, “Home, Christopher.”

They picked up speed again and shortly came to a stop. Franny peered outside the

window and stared open-mouthed at the large three-story, red-brick building. “Mercy,

is this your house?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Phillip answered. “Several friends and I bought it years

ago, so it serves as my home when I’m in town. This is St. Ives Residential Hotel.”

“Don’t you have a house all of your own?”
“Yes, but I choose to live here.” His clipped tone suggested more questions about

his living arrangements would not be accepted or welcomed.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” A man in red-and-gold livery opened the carriage door.
“Good afternoon.” Phillip stepped down and offered Franny his gloved hand.

Sunlight struck his hair, adding a gleam of gold to it and Franny blushed, a sudden

thought keeping her seated. Would the hair around his privates be the same color as his

hair? And was he really as big as Mary claimed? A pulse hammered in her throat. A girl

Cecily French

at Oliver’s said a tall man would have a long dick and a big set of balls. “Take both yer

hands to hold ’im if he stands over six feet in his socks,” she’d promised.

And Phillip Graves, Viscount Danbury, was very tall indeed.
He frowned at her hesitation. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said hastily. Taking her reticule, she slid across the seat and let him help

her to the sidewalk.

He signaled the carriage to leave and peered at her. “You’re sure you’re well?”
“Yes.” She gave him her brightest smile and looked past him to the footman.

“What’s your name?”

The man’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline and his gaze darted to inspect

Phillip’s expression. “Hastings, ma’am,” he said at last.

“Hello, Hastings,” she answered. “I’m Franny—I mean Francesca and I’m— Wait!

My clothes!”

She would have darted down the sidewalk had Phillip not grabbed her by the arm.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“My clothes!” she wailed, pointing at the departing carriage. “They’re in that bag I

brought from—”

“Hush. You’re making a scene.” His whispered command brought her to stillness.

“You can’t be seen in anything you had before arriving at Terez’s except that dress

you’re wearing. Calm yourself. Lesson Number One. A gentleman’s mistress never

makes a scene in public.”

“Sorry.” Franny recovered some of her composure and straightened her old bonnet.
“That’s better,” he conceded. “Now, after we have tea, we’ll go shopping for your

new wardrobe.”

“We will?” Franny’s excitement returned. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Never? Never gone shopping just for fun?”
“Never had the money for that,” Franny amended. “Only went shopping for food

and the like, and to buy fabric to make my clothes. My mother taught me to sew as soon

as I could sit still for more than five minutes.”

A thoughtful expression crossed his face. “I believe you said she died six months

ago?”

The old pain pierced Franny’s heart. “That’s right.”
He patted her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
He offered his arm and she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. She gave

Hastings another glance and said, “Thank you, Hastings.”

“It was my pleasure, ma’am.” Hastings bowed again.
They walked up the broad steps leading to the front, double-glass doors under a

dark-green awning. As they reached the top steps, the doors swung inward and another

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liveried servant also bowed in greeting as they entered. “Good afternoon, my Lord

Danbury,” the man said. His tone matched his solemn expression.

“Good afternoon. Afternoon tea for two in my suite. Extra sandwiches, please.”
“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed again.
“Afternoon tea?” Franny asked. “At this time of day?”
“I thought you said you were hungry,” Phillip reminded her.
Franny’s stomach growled in answer and she laughed. “I guess I am.” She smiled at

the servant and said, “Thank you. What’s your name?”

The man’s eyes widened, then blinked several time. “T-Thomas, ma’am.”
“Hello Thomas. My name is Franny and—hey!”
Phillip tugged at her arm and then quickened his pace, pulling Franny along so fast

she almost stumbled. “Hey!” she protested again. “What’s your hurry?”

“Lesson Two,” Phillip said as they approached a massive staircase. “A gentleman’s

mistress does not spend time in idle chatter with his servants.”

“That doesn’t sound very polite,” Franny said as they climbed the stairs to a

landing and continued up a second staircase. “What’s wrong with being friendly?”

“One is not friendly with servants,” Phillip said. “Polite, thanking them when

they’ve done their jobs, but not friendly.”

“Is that so?” Well, my mother used to say handsome is as handsome does,” Franny

retorted. “And that includes how you treat people.”

With a barely audible sigh, he led her to the next landing and they continued up to

the third floor. Guiding her down a carpeted hallway, he stopped in front of a door.

After opening it, he gestured and said, “Ladies first.”

Franny entered and gazed in wonder at the well-furnished room. “Oh my,” she

breathed. “How beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, shutting the door. “Let me show you to your room.”
She followed him into a large, sunny bedroom overlooking a flower-filled garden.

An enormous wardrobe stood in one corner. The only other furniture was a dressing

table, a large chair and a very large white bed, sheets pulled back as if in anticipation of

someone lying there, and not just sleeping. It was a bed made for the giving and taking

of pleasure. Might as well get started.

Taking a deep breath, Franny looked at the man she had known for only a few

hours. “So,” she said. “Do you want to fuck me now or later?”

A violent spasm of coughing broke Phillip’s reply. “Do I what?” he wheezed.
She shrugged, a matter-of-fact expression settling over her face. “We probably have

a bit of time before they bring up the tea,” she said. “We could do it quick-like and the

bed’s right there. After all, you went to Madam Terez for a new mistress, didn’t you?”

Cecily French

The thought of doing just that—stripping her of that borrowed dress underneath

the old coat and everything else she might be wearing and burying himself inside her

waiting folds—brought Phillip to a fast and hard erection.

Or maybe he could just take off the coat and do it to her in her clothing. Easy

enough to undo his trousers and slip inside her to have a fast and furious romp.

But either way, the bonnet would definitely stay. The battered flowers and

drooping brim gave her a certain whimsical charm.

“I think,” he said raggedly, “that the first time we are together should be as much

about pleasure as our agreement. You did say your past experiences offered you none.”

She blushed and, once again, tears brightened her eyes. “No,” she said at last.

“They didn’t.”

He came forward and raised her chin with his fingers.
“I promise you, Franny,” he whispered, “when I am making love to you, you will

experience such pleasure as to rock you to the foundations of your being. All the bad

memories will vanish like mists and new ones will brand themselves into your soul.”

Her lips curved up into a smile and the tears gave way to twinkle. “Sure of yourself,

aren’t you, my lord?”

“Always,” he said. “Especially when it comes to pleasure.”
He pulled her close and teased her mouth open with his own, slipping his tongue

inside to capture hers. She sighed and leaned against him. He trailed his hands down

her back to cup her bottom and press her against his aching erection. Heavens, why had

he even suggested waiting?

“Do you want me to take you now?” he whispered, breaking their kiss. “I will if

that’s what you want. Fast and hard and furious. I can take you standing right here, or

up against that wall there. Just tell me what you want.”

Anger glinted in her eyes and pulled her sweet mouth into a frown. “No,” she said.

“I’ve done it in doorways and on steps and on stone floors. We’ll do it in the bed the

first time. I want the good memories. They’ll have to do me for a long time when our

agreement is done.”

A rapid tattoo on the door announcing the arrival of their tea forced Phillip to step

back and say, “As my lady wishes.”

And praying the outline of his erection against his trousers wasn’t too apparent, he

headed for the door.

* * * * *

“Welcome, my lord! How may we serve you today?” The fashionably dressed

woman rose from her curtsy.

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Phillip gave his hat and coat to a waiting girl before gesturing at Franny. “Good

afternoon, Mrs. Jennings. This is Miss Francesca Talbot, a friend who is in need of a

wardrobe.”

“Lord save us, but you’re the answer to a prayer!” Mrs. Jennings plucked a tiny fan

from her dress pocket, opened it and began waving it in front of her face with great

vigor. “I’ve just had a gentleman cancel his wife’s entire wardrobe order! Thought I’d

have my first attack of the vapors.”

“Indeed?” Phillip said. “Why did he do that?”
“He found out how much she’d lost at gambling,” Mrs. Jennings said, continuing

the fan’s motion. “And Lord save us, she’d ordered a lot of dresses! Was scared to death

I’d have no one to buy them. But now perhaps your lady here—” She gave Franny an

appraising stare. “She looks as if with a nip and a tuck, the dresses just might suit her.”

“Good,” Phillip said. “Then show us what you have, Mrs. Jennings.”
He moved behind Franny and unfastened the clasp at the neck of her cloak. His

fingers brushed her collarbone and then her shoulders, sending shivers over her skin as

he removed the old garment and gave it to the servant. “Take this away and burn it,” he

commanded. Turning back to Mrs. Jennings, he said, “Are you quite sure the lady in

question isn’t going to need them?”

Mrs. Jennings beamed at him. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but there isn’t any

way the lady will be needing them new dresses now. Does Miss Talbot need other items

as well?”

“She needs everything,” Phillip said. “Especially…” Franny heard his voice lower

to a husky baritone whisper, “Whatever underpinnings you carry. Silk, lace, satin…”

His voice trailed away and Mrs. Jennings cast Franny a knowing glance. Did all

men do this when they had a new mistress? But then of course since all Franny’s clothes

were gone, she could hardly be seen naked in public with Phillip.

“Except for shoes and accessories, I think we can accommodate Miss Talbot quite

nicely,” Mrs. Jennings said. She studied Franny again. “She has the prettiest skin I’ve

seen in ages. And I do believe she could wear almost any color, ’cept maybe orange.

Shall I bring them to the usual private suite? And a pot of tea?”

“No tea, thank you,” Phillip said. “Just the dresses.”
Nodding, Mrs. Jennings bustled away and Franny looked at Phillip in wonder.

“The usual private suite?” she repeated.

His lopsided smile gave him the appearance of a naughty schoolboy, full of

schemes and mischief. “Sometimes the couples who come to shop here like to do more

than buy clothes. Come, I’ll show you.”

He crooked his finger and headed down a short corridor to a door. Opening it, he

stepped aside and let Franny enter first. She gasped and said, “Lord! This is a dressing

room?”

Cecily French

Except for the bed in a far corner, the room’s chairs and sofas grouped together near

a fireplace suggested this was a parlor, meant for no more than polite conversation.

Except for the bed in the far corner. Franny could not stop staring at it. It was long

and wide and, just like at the hotel, its covers were already pulled back as if waiting for

someone to tumble between the sheets.

A painted dressing screen stood in another corner and before it, a wide velvet chair

big enough to seat two.

“Lord!” Franny said again. “You mean to say people actually screw while trying on

clothes?”

“Not in the clothes,” Phillip said, his voice returning to its earlier baritone purr.

“But the chance of someone walking in and seeing you while you’re being pleasured

adds to the excitement.”

Franny scowled at him, new clothes or no new clothes. “I told you, I won’t let

anyone watch us. ’Specially not in a public place. So get that out of your head right

now.”

“Such is not my taste,” Phillip agreed. “Why don’t you get undressed?” He pointed

at a pink robe hanging on the dressing screen. “You can wear that while we wait. But

leave the robe untied, please.”

A pulse began to pound in Franny’s throat. “All right,” she managed to say,

moving toward the screen. Her shoes sank into the deep, plush carpet, rendering her

footsteps silent. Behind the screen, she took off her shoes, then the yellow muslin dress

and carefully draped it over the screen. At Phillip’s insistence, she had left her old

bonnet at the hotel. She hesitated a moment, then removed her petticoat and stockings,

but left on her old, paper-thin shift, molding itself to her body. Taking the pink robe,

she slipped it on.

Soft. Had there ever been anything so soft? The fabric settled over her skin like the

quietest of sighs and Franny ran her hands over her silk-covered breasts and hips. It

was quite the prettiest thing she had ever worn.

“Are you still there?” Phillip called from the other side of the screen.
“Yes.” Franny started to tie the sash hanging from loops at the waist, but

remembering his command, left the robe open. Trying not to shiver, she stepped from

behind the screen.

He had removed his jacket and sat with his legs crossed. A velvet waistcoat hugged

his broad chest and snug, dark breeches encased his long, muscular legs. His stare froze

her in place and a smile spread over his face. “Come here,” he said at last.

Slowly Franny walked to stand before him as he continued to stare at her, praying

he wouldn’t find fault with her body. Men had stared at her before, lust narrowing their

criticizing eyes, need making their faces ugly. But the stares only lasted for a moment.

Then they would fondle her breasts while jamming their fingers up inside her to get it

slick enough for them to undo their pants and shove in their cocks. A few humps while

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grabbing her butt with a lot of hot, nasty breathing in her face or her neck and they’d be

done.

Phillip’s stare was different. His gaze flickered over her, giving the impression he

was studying something he hoped to purchase. Which of course he had. At least for two

weeks.

It might have been a trick of the afternoon light streaming through the sheer-

curtained windows, but Franny thought she saw a faint sheen of sweat shining on his

forehead.

“Would you,” he said, breaking the silence, “sit on my lap?”
He uncrossed his legs and patted them. Lifting the robe, Franny started to lower

herself onto his waiting lap, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Straddle me, please,” he whispered. “I want to see you.”
Carefully, Franny placed her bare bottom on the edge of his knees and waited.
“No,” he said, his stare burning her face. “Come closer.”
He put his hands on her hips and scooted her up his legs until her mound sat

directly on his crotch. From under the trousers’ cloth, his cock twitched and moved

against her folds. Damp warmth started beneath Franny’s thighs and her heart

quickened. He felt so very big.

“Sit up,” he said, pulling the gown’s folds apart so he could see her. She moved and

he put his hands around her waist. “You’re so slender,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re

one of those women who starve themselves to stay thin because fashion says so?”

Franny lips lifted into a tiny smile. “More like there’s never been quite enough to

eat. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have as much to eat as I wanted.”

“I can make sure you’re always well-fed.” He slipped his hands under the shift to

stroke the flat plane of her belly. “And your skin is so soft. Are your breasts as soft as

well?”

In answer, she took his hands and placed them over her breasts, her gaze never

leaving his face. Beneath his palms her skin felt like silk, her nipples hardened against

the fabric. His fingers traced the points and she trembled.

“Are you afraid of me?” Phillip asked.
“No,” she said, but her trembling continued.
“What do you want right now?”
“I—” Her words faltered but his gaze on her was gentle and she relaxed a bit. “I

want you to kiss me. The way you did this morning at Madame Terez’s.”

Phillip expelled a long sigh of satisfaction and moved his hands back to her waist.

“Very well.”

She lowered her head and found his mouth. Slowly, Phillip traced her lips with the

tip of his tongue, reveling in her mouth’s sweetness, tasting the last of the raspberry jam

Cecily French

she had earlier slathered on her scone. Ordering afternoon tea had been a stroke of

genius on his part. Her mouth tasted of summer and innocence.

A tiny moan sounded from her throat and Phillip brushed his lips against hers

before gently teasing her mouth open, holding her over his pulsing cock while her

juices flowed onto him.

Their kiss deepened and Phillip slid his hands under her bottom, cupping the

cheeks, marveling at their firmness. He moved his hands to brush his fingers against the

nest of curls, and only his earlier promise kept him from exploring the region between

her thighs.

A brisk knock preceded the door opening to allow Mrs. Jennings inside, pushing a

large rack of dresses. Franny had just enough time to scramble to her feet and tie her

robe, while Phillip crossed his legs. Thank God his trousers were dark.

“Here we are, my lord,” Mrs. Jennings said cheerfully. “I’ve brought an assortment

of what the other lady had ordered, those I think will suit Miss Francesca. There’s

morning dresses, walking dresses, dresses for carriage rides in Hyde Park, evening

gowns, even a riding habit.”

“Oh my.” Franny stared open-mouthed at the gorgeous array of colors. Pinks and

mauves to jade greens and cobalt blues shimmered like a captive rainbow. “Those are

for me?”

“You need more than that dress you were wearing,” Phillip said. “Mrs. Jennings,

will they fit?”

The modiste gave Franny a quick once-over. “Might have to take some of ’em in a

bit, seeing how she’s so slim.”

“I’m sure your staff can see to that,” Phillip said. “Try on the blue velvet one first,

Francesca.”

And so the afternoon progressed. By the time the wall clock chimed four, Franny

had tried on no fewer than twenty dresses, with Mrs. Jennings helping button and

unlace, and Phillip approving all but one.

And he insisted all her undergarments be the same pale pink as the robe. “It suits

your skin,” he told Franny.

“It’s a shame I don’t have the rest of what you need,” Mrs. Jennings lamented as her

assistant carried away the last of the dresses. “But for ladies’ accessories and shoes,

there’s no better place than Lancaster’s. And for bonnets and hats, you can’t beat

Duvall’s. Both of ’em stay open until after six, now that the Season is in full swing.”

“We’ll go there next.” Phillip cast a glance at Franny who sat in a high-back chair.

She again wore the shell-pink dressing gown, tightly belted at the waist and a mask of

weariness had settled over her face. “Leave the dark-green gown for her to wear on the

way home,” he told the dressmaker.

“The silver and blue morning dresses don’t need any work,” Mrs. Jennings told

him. “And that rose evening gown is ready as is.”

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“Excellent,” Phillip said. “Send the other dresses over to the usual address after the

alterations are done, if you please, Mrs. Jennings. Thank you.”

“Always at your service, my lord.” The modiste hung the green dress on the screen,

curtsied and left them alone, closing the door behind her. Franny watched her

departure before looking at Phillip again. “Aren’t you going to pay her?”

“Lesson number three,” Phillip intoned. “A gentleman never carries cash with him.

He arranges for his bills to be sent to his man of affairs who settles them promptly. Shall

we go?”

Nodding, she rose and slipped behind the screen. Shrugging out of the robe, she let

it fall to the carpet. Taking the new shift, she pulled it on and reached for her new stays.

“Need some help with the lacing up?”
Franny stood quite still as Phillip joined her in the tiny area. His scent enveloped

her and his warmth settled over her skin like a caress. He stepped closer and his mouth

moved across the back of her neck, sending a rush of heat searing over her body.

His fingers slowly began to pull together the laces of her stays, like he had done this

a hundred times before. Which he probably had.

“Now for the dress,” he said, taking it from its place on the screen. “Raise your

arms.”

Franny did as she was told and as he pulled the dress over her head, the soft fabric

slid over her breasts and past her hips. His hands wrapped around her waist and

Franny waited for him to touch her somewhere else again. Her breasts. Her bottom.

Or should she start to call them her tits and arse? Oliver had always done that, and

so had all the men he had forced on her. Heat scorched her from head to toe as she

blushed in recollection of the night Oliver made all “his girls” parade down a long

wooden table baby-naked before a troop of drunken men to see which girl had the most

impressive body. Most of them had jeered as Franny began her wobbling walk in the

high shoes Oliver made them wear.

“You call those tits?” one man had yelled. “Garn, a babe would starve if he had to

suck those!”

“Bet she ain’t even big enough to hold a decent-size prick,” another hooted. “And

her arse ain’t nothing to fill out a dress. Can’t imagine it bouncin’ up and down on ya.

She looks like a damn boy.”

“Are you cold?” Phillip’s hands continued to lace up her dress.
When he had finished, Franny turned and asked, “Do you think my tits and arse

are too small?”

His eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your heard me. Are my—”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” he interrupted. “I heard you. No, my sweet Franny, your

tits and arse, as you call them, are perfectly formed and suit your body.”

Cecily French

Relief washed over her and she blurted, “You don’t think I look like a boy?”
His roar of laughter was all the reassurance she needed. Between gasps, he said, “If

you looked like a boy, you wouldn’t have made it out of Madam Terez’s front parlor.

My taste is exclusively for beautiful women like yourself.”

Her earlier sense of wonder at this new adventure returned. “You think I’m

beautiful?”

His laughter died away and his fingers lifted her chin. “You wouldn’t be with me if

I didn’t. Come. Let’s go buy you some shoes and bonnets.”

Temporary Mistress

Chapter Four

“That will be all, Hastings,” Phillip said as the man finished clearing the table of the

dinner dishes.

“Very good, sir.” Hastings picked up the tray. “Breakfast at the usual time?”
“I’ll ring for it when we’re ready.”
“Very good, sir,” Hastings repeated and headed for the door.
“Have you worked here long, Hastings?” Franny asked from the other side of the

table.

The man stopped and turned to stare at her. “I have worked here for five years,

Miss Talbot,” he said at last.

“Do you like it?”
Hastings hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Miss Talbot. Most men in service would

give their right arm to work at St. Ives Residential Hotel.”

She winked at him. “Might be hard to carry those trays up and down the stairs with

only one arm.”

Hastings’ firmly set mouth trembled and then, to Phillip’s amazement, he laughed.

He couldn’t remember ever having seen the usual dour-faced man smile, much less

laugh.

“I suppose it would, Miss Talbot,” he agreed between gasps of laughter. “I suppose

it would.”

“That will be all, Hastings,” Phillip said. “You may go.”
Hastings’ smile vanished. “Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you, Hastings,” Franny added quickly.
His smile returned, but only in his eyes. “You’re welcome, Miss Talbot.”
When the door closed behind him, Phillip sighed and said, “Didn’t I tell you not to

be overly friendly with the servants?”

“They’re not pieces of furniture,” she retorted. “And why shouldn’t I thank them if

they’ve been nice to me?”

“It’s part of their job to be nice to you,” Phillip said. “Not doing so could cost them

their jobs here.”

“My mother taught me to always say please and thank you,” she said through a

yawn. “But maybe yours didn’t. I’m too tired to argue you with about it, anyway.”

Phillip picked up his wineglass, drained the remaining contents and stared at her

over its rim. “Are you too tired to do anything else?”

Cecily French

Her eyes darkened and she bit her lip. “No,” she said after a pause. “After all, that’s

why I’m here.”

“I’m glad we understand each other on that score,” Phillip said dryly. He put the

glass on the table, stood and held out his hand. “Come.”

She rose and, taking his hand, let him lead her into her bedroom. Light flickered

from the candles in the candelabra, filling the room with soft shadows. In the warm

light, her skin glowed with a pearl’s sheen, but her eyes’ color became nearly onyx, and

the fringe of her lashes stood out in dark contrast to the pale skin beneath them.

“Are you sure you’re not afraid of me?” he asked.
“I don’t think you’ll hurt me,” Franny said slowly. “Madam Terez said she didn’t

let the men who came to her house hurt the girls there, so she’d hardly have let me go

with you if she thought you’d hurt me, now would she?”

“Quite right. We’ll start very slowly this first time. Has anyone ever bathed you?”
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Bathed you,” he repeated. “My bath water is sent up in the dumbwaiter every

night at ten unless I’ve gone out for the evening. The watermen should be here at any

moment to unload it.”

“In the what?”
He swallowed his chuckle. It wouldn’t do this close to bedtime to laugh at her.

“You’ll see in a minute,” he explained.

She nodded and, as if by divination, a knock sounded at the door to the suite.

Forcing his step to an unhurried pace, Phillip walked through the rooms to open the

door. Jock, St. Ives chief waterman and the tallest man of Phillip’s acquaintance,

inclined his head. “Good evening, my lord.” The four men behind him bowed in silent

greeting.

“Good evening,” Phillip said. “I presume the bathwater is in the dumbwaiter?”
“All loaded,” Jock told him. “Shouldn’t take us but a second to get it all out. Come

on lads, let’s not keep his lordship waiting.”

Dumbwaiter? The sound of heavy, booted feet crossing the carpet and a sudden

squeaking of wheels forced Franny to creep across her room and gently open the door

to the tiled bathing area in the next room and peer inside. “Oh my,” she breathed.

“Didn’t know there were giants living in London.”

One by one, five powerfully built men unloaded enormous urns of steaming water

from a shelf built into the wall, carried them to the large bathtub and poured in the

contents. A tug on a series of ropes and pulleys raised another shelf, containing more

urns. Half a dozen candelabras stood around the room, their lit candles warming the

space, filling it with a golden light. From a tall vase on a corner table, lilies rose,

scenting the air with an exotic fragrance. Phillip stood watching, his expression

impassive. His gaze slid in her direction and he gave her a sly smile. Franny’s face

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burned at being caught out, but she returned his smile. After all, if she was going to let

him bathe her, she should know about these things.

After returning the urns to the shelves and shutting the doors, the tallest of the men

asked, “Will there be anything else my lord?”

“No. That will be all.”
“Very good, sir. Come, lads.”
Franny waited until the door to the suite clicked close behind the men before

stepping into the room. “My goodness, what was that contraption in the wall?”

“It’s called a dumbwaiter and removes the task of hauling bathwater up three

flights of stairs. And as you can see—” Phillip pointed to the enormous bathtub. “It

takes a great deal of water.”

Franny nodded. “You’d have to pay a maid a lot to mop up the spills on the stairs.”
He chuckled. “Are you always so practical, my Franny?”
“I’ve had to be,” she said simply.
“So,” he said. “Let me see you without your robe, please.”
Please. That was new. Franny removed it and carefully draped it over the back of a

nearby chair. Fighting the temptation to put her arms over her breasts, she left them at

her sides, fingers curled against her thighs.

His gaze moved over her, stopping at her breasts before traveling to her belly and

on to the nest of curling hair between her thighs. “Turn please,” he said at last.

Franny’s hands curled into fists and she waited for his question as to the bruises on

her back. She heard his sharp intake of breath, but kept her head high.

“My poor Franny,” he said at last. “Indeed, it seems I’ll have a lot to teach you.”
She began to tremble and with her hands still fisted, turned. “About what?”
He stepped forward and with one finger, traced her jawline. “About how to put the

abuse you’ve suffered behind you and open yourself to a world of pleasure. Believe me,

when we’re done, you’ll have nothing but wonderful memories of what a man and a

woman can do together. Come, it’s bath time.”

Still trembling, she took his hand and let him help her into the steaming water. She

sat, leaning against the tub’s smooth surface, watching him unbutton his cuffs and roll

his shirtsleeves above his elbows to reveal a set of powerful forearms.

“I’ll start with your back,” he said. “Can you sit up a bit?”
Nodding, she wiggled her bottom forward across the tub’s smooth surface. When

she didn’t feel him move, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

His finger traced around the bruises covering her back and she winced. “Easy there,

my lord.”

“Did Oliver do this to you?” A hard note entered his voice.
“Him and the man whose face I slashed.”
“Why did they beat you?”

Cecily French

“Why?” Irritation and weariness replaced Franny’s anticipation and she turned to

scowl at him. “Because I’m a whore, my lord. A piece of meat they bought for a few

minutes or a few hours, depending on their fancy and their coin. Whores don’t feel

nothing, don’t have feelings. They aren’t even people. We’re cunts, twats, gashes,

nothing more. Or didn’t you know that?”

His eyes boring into hers were fathomless, suggesting secrets hidden in their

depths, secrets hidden long and shared with no one.

“Let us understand one another, Franny,” he said. “I have never harmed a woman

before or forced myself on her. I’ll not start with you.”

“Is that so?” she taunted. “What if I don’t please you? What then?”
His smile could have tempted the Serpent in the Garden of Eden into righteousness.

“Then I’ll teach how to do that, my Franny. And I promise that you will be well-pleased

by me. Turn around now so I can wash your back.”

He took a sponge and bar of rose-scented soap from the grooved tray on the floor

beside the tub and she turned away. After soaking the sponge, he lathered it up and

carefully washed her neck and back with the lightest of strokes. He began to hum, and

the gentle sound began to ease some of the tension from Franny’s body.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good. Lean against the tub, now.”
She scooted back and he started to move the sponge over her breasts, massaging

first one, then the other. Franny’s nipples hardened into tight points and her breasts

throbbed with a curious ache.

“Do you like that?” he asked, continuing the sponge’s work. He put the sponge

aside and with his fingers, stroked her nipples until Franny thought she might scream

in pleasure from his touch.

“Yes,” she gasped.
“Good. Put your knees up.”
Taking the sponge again, he moved closer to the tub and began to work it down to

her belly, sliding it across again and again before moving it down to wash her legs in a

long, sliding motion. A heat crept along Franny’s skin that had nothing to do with the

water’s temperature and everything to do with his touch.

He moved the sponge between her legs and Franny gripped the sides of the tub at

the back-and-forth motion against her mound. Oh Lord, it felt so good.

“Look at me,” he whispered.
She turned her head. In the candlelight, his eyes glittered like a summer sun and the

sponge slid from his hand. He lowered his head to cover her mouth with his, his tongue

swirling around hers in invitation to respond in kind while his fingers found their way

to her mons. One touched the tight bud buried in her folds and began to stroke it with a

slow deliberateness and a whimper began to rise in Franny’s throat. She squirmed, but

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he wrapped his other arm around her chest, holding her in place and kept kissing her

while his finger worked its wicked magic until something inside her shattered and she

gave cry to her release.

She sagged back against him, eyes closed, her heart threatening to beat right out of

her chest. He moved his mouth to brush against her eyelids and forehead.

“Has a man ever touched you like that?” he murmured.
Franny released her answer in a sigh. “No,” she admitted. “No one has ever

touched me there.”

“You mean on your nubbin?”
She opened her eyes and sat up. “Is that what it’s called?”
He grinned and for a moment Franny was ashamed of her ignorance of her own

body. But his eyes held no scorn when he nodded and said, “Yes. There are others, but

nubbin will do for now. Let’s get you dried and into one of those new nightgowns.”

“What about you?” she asked. “When do I get to see you?”
“Now, if you like. Stand up.”
Her knees wobbling, she stood and let him help her step over the side of the tub. He

reached for one of the towels in the chair and draped it over her. Franny stood quite still

as he worked the towel over her body, blotting and patting. She caught his scent again

and her pulse surged into a staccato beat as he passed the towel over the tangle of black

curls between her legs. Her honey pot, Madam Terez called it. A dull ache began there

and she wondered what it might be like for man to kiss her there.

“You have, I think,” he said, stepping behind her to kneel and pat the towel over

her bottom’s cheeks, “the most deliciously shaped rump I’ve ever seen.”

She glanced over her shoulder and down at her bare bottom. “What about that

birthmark on the right side?”

“Charming,” he said. “Simply charming.” And he kissed the spot.
Abruptly, Franny giggled, then threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter.

“Does that make you an arse-kisser, my lord?” she gasped.

“I hope not,” he said, sharing her laugh. He stood and turned her to face him. “Has

a man never kissed your bottom?”

“No,” Franny said, still chuckling. “Only on the mouth.”
“Ah,” he sighed. “Then there are pleasures beyond your wildest dreams awaiting

you, my Franny.” He held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

She dropped the towel on the floor, took his offered hand and let him lead her into

her bedroom. “Wait here for a moment,” he instructed.

“Where are you going?” Worry sounded in her voice.
Kissing her cheek, he said, “I have no intention of making love to you the first time

in such dim light. I want to see your face when you come, see the passion I arouse when

Cecily French

I kiss you in places that have never been kissed, see your nipples glistening after I’ve

tasted them.”

“Then why are you wasting time talking, my lord?” she murmured, sitting in the

corner chair. “Fetch us some light.”

“As my lady wishes.”

Phillip returned to the bathing area, blew out the candles in one of the candelabras

and then carried it back to Franny’s room. Using a candle from the first one, he lit the

others again. The shimmering light threw shadows around the walls and he turned

back to Franny. “So.”

She rose and closed the space between them. “So,” she echoed. “Do you want me to

undress you?”

Damn he was glad he had removed his boots and jacket after dinner. Because right

now all he wanted was to get out of his clothes, carry her to the bed and feast on her.

“Please,” he said.

She tugged on his cravat and the simple knot collapsed beneath her fingers.

Holding it up, she asked, “What do you want me to do with this?”

An image of him, wrists tied together with the scrap of cloth while her mouth

worked on his cock sprang to mind. Would she do it if he asked? Better to save it for

later.

“Nothing,” he rasped, pulling it from her hand and tossing it aside. Taking her

wrist, he pulled her close enough to nuzzle her ear. “Kiss me,” he whispered. “Kiss me

while you strip me naked.”

Her kiss was gentle as her tongue explored the regions of his mouth. After

removing his waistcoat and tossing it aside, she ran her hands under the linen of his

shirt, her fingers brushing across his nipples, and he sighed in anticipation of where else

she would touch him.

“Such lovely fabric,” she sighed, breaking their kiss. “Surely you don’t want that on

the floor?”

“I have hundreds of shirts,” Phillip said raggedly. “To hell with the shirt.” He took

her hand and placed it over the aching bulge in his trousers. “Can’t you feel how much

I want you? Strip me.”

Pulling the shirt free from his trousers, she eased it off his shoulders and added it to

the collection of clothing on the floor. His trousers followed as did the undergarment

beneath it so at last his rod sprang free.

Her eyes widened in the candlelight and her lips parted.
“Lord,” she said. “Mary at Madam Terez’s was right. You’re huge.”
“It’s not the size of a man’s cock that’s important,” Phillip groaned, “but what he

does with it and how well. And you are about to find, my sweet Franny, that I know

exactly what to do with it.”

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Kicking aside his clothing, he pulled her back into his arms again, his hands

traveling down her back to cup her rump while he buried his tongue in her mouth. Her

hands imitated his, her breasts pressed against his chest and she had a sudden desire to

nibble them, taste them, suckle them until she was panting.

“Mmmm,” she sighed between kisses. “Don’t you think we’ll be more comfortable

in the bed?”

“First things first. Take down your hair.”
She pulled the pins from the upswept style, scattering them over the carpet and

setting the dark curls free to tumble over her shoulders and down her back.

“By all the saints, you’re beautiful.” Phillip scooped her into his arms and carried

her the short distance to the waiting bed. He laid them both down and arranged her

against the pillows. “Now, my temporary mistress,” he whispered. “Let me pleasure

you.”

Moving down the bed, he propped himself on his elbows in easy reach of her

breasts. With the fingers of one hand, he traced her nipples in a slow motion, blowing

gently on them before lowering his mouth to take his first taste. The scented soap from

the bath perfumed her skin, filling his head with the fragrance of rose and jasmine as he

continued to lave her breasts with his mouth and Phillip silently thanked God for the

miracle of a woman’s body.

Her hands cradled his head and her chest rose and fell under him as he continued

to suckle her nipples. “Mmmm,” she murmured. “That feels nice. No one’s ever kissed

my breasts like that.”

“I’m glad you like it.”
He lightly bit one nipple and she gently slapped his head. “Beast,” she scolded with

a smile.

“You have no idea, my sweet Franny.”
Moving down, he slid the other hand between her legs and rested it on her mound,

letting its heat warm his hand while her arousal dampened his palm. Then he slid one

finger back and forth across her nubbin, stroking with a featherlight touch.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“Preparing you for more.” Phillip lifted his head. “I’m going to finger your nubbin

until you’re ready to scream and then I’m going to eat you.”

“You’re what?” Her hands curled around the sheets.
“I’m going to use my mouth on your mons,” Phillip explained. “Don’t tell me a

man has never kissed you there?”

“I told you it’s only my mouth that’s been kissed,” she said. “That and my breasts.”
“Ah, then it will be my honor to be the first.”
He spread her legs and lowered his mouth, taking time to breathe in the dark,

pungent scent of her womanhood. No man-made perfume could arouse Phillip more

Cecily French

than the scent of a woman’s mound, waiting to be pleasured, knowing it was waiting

for him to fill it.

He continued to stroke her nubbin. Her hips twitched, but he laid an arm across

them to keep her in place. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured. “Oh, Lord.”

“Lie back,” Phillip instructed, “and give yourself up to pleasure. Allow me to take

you to la petite mort.”

He put his mouth on her mound to taste her bud. It swelled against his tongue and

her heavy breathing became the moan of a woman headed toward release. He looked

up to peer into her face. Her flushed skin and glazed eyes filled him with an absurd

sense of satisfaction.

“Open your legs wider,” he whispered. “Take me in as deeply as you can.”
“Let me see you first,” she said, her breathing coming in ragged bursts.
“Anything to oblige, my lady.” Phillip moved forward and braced himself on his

palms so she could see him. Her fingers reached out to gently trace the length of his

shaft, before returning to stroke the head.

Sweat broke out on Phillip’s forehead. “Ah, careful, my lady. You’ve already got me

so hard I’m fit to burst in your hand.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” she whispered.
And to Phillip’s shock and delight, she moved her hips down, and taking him in

her hand, guided him up into the waiting depths of her warmth, her thighs pulling him

up to his balls.

“Careful, my Franny,” Phillip gasped as she set her hips into a rocking motion.

“Don’t hold me so tightly. I want to feel every sweet inch of your beautiful mound.”

“Sorry, my lord.” Her thighs relaxed. “Is that better?”
“Much.” Phillip pulled away to push back inside her. She fit snugly around his cock

and he pumped in and out of her again and again. Her hands found his arse and

hugged his hips loosely as he moved his mouth over hers. Her tongue found his and

she sucked it greedily.

“Do you taste that?” he said, breaking the kiss. “That dusky, tart taste?”
“Mmm.” She nodded, her pleasure glazed eyes searching his face.
“That’s you, my Franny. That’s the juice of your mound left on my mouth when I

ate you.”

A faint blush washed over her cheeks. “Did I taste good to you?”
“Lord, yes,” he groaned and Phillip’s hips took on a furious rocking motion. She

pulled his head down to kiss him again, and her cries filled the room as her body’s

movements matched his. She screamed her release just before his hit. He pulled free to

scatter his cum over the sheets and collapse spent beside her.

Temporary Mistress

Chapter Five

“Good morning, Phillip.”
“Mmmph?” A single eye opened and squinted at her.
“Good morning,” Franny repeated, setting down the breakfast tray on the nearby

table before sitting on his bed.

Even after making love for more than half the night, habit had woken Franny early.

Surprised to be alone, she had found Phillip in his own bed and she wondered if he

preferred to actually sleep by himself.

He rolled over onto his back and Franny could not withhold her sigh of

appreciation at the memory of running her fingers through the soft blond hair covering

his broad chest. She bit back a giggle, recalling the soft hair on other parts of his body.

He stretched his arms over his head and opened both eyes. “Good morning,” he

yawned. Sniffing, he craned his head toward the table. “Is that breakfast?”

“Yes,” Franny said shyly. “I hope you like these omelets and bacon and toast.”
He sat up and leaned back against the pillows, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “How

did you know what to order?”

“I asked one of the kitchen staff what you liked to eat for breakfast,” Franny

explained. “I must say, they didn’t take kindly to me making it for you.”

“Wait a minute.” Phillip blinked at her. “You made my breakfast?”
“Why not?” Franny asked. “I know how to cook.”
Her answer set him coughing and she hurried to pour him a glass of water from the

carafe on the dresser. After he drained its contents and put the glass on the floor, he

asked, “What did Emil say when he found you in his kitchen?”

“You mean that man in the tall hat and funny accent?” Franny asked tartly. “You

would have thought I had peed on the floor when he found me at his stove, but I told

him he could shove off because I was going to make you breakfast, him like it or not.”

His eyes narrowed and his mouth worked silently as if trying to form a protest. For

a moment Franny was afraid he was going to yell at her, but then he fell against the

pillows, howling with laughter.

“Good Lord Almighty!” he said through gasps of laughter. “You told Emil Dubois

to shove off?”

“And what if I did?” Franny said, planting her fists on her hips.
“He’s the chef d’hotel, that’s why,” Phillip gasped.
Franny frowned. “What’s that, then?”
Still chuckling, Phillip sat up and rearranged the pillows. “He’s the chief cook.”

Cecily French

“Oh,” Franny said. “Well, I’ll put my omelets up against his any day of the week.

Here, you be the judge.”

She stood and, picking up the tray, carefully placed it over his lap. “I asked them to

bring up the coffee when it was finished brewing,” she said. A faint tap at the door

suggested its arrival and she headed toward the front room. “Don’t go anywhere,” she

said.

When she returned with the coffee tray, Phillip had removed the cover to his

breakfast tray and was staring down at the enormous food-covered plate. “You expect

me to eat all this?”

“Some of it is for me, my lord,” Franny said, not sure if he was teasing her or not.

She poured the coffee and gave him a cup before sitting beside him again. “You go

first,” she said.

He raised his gaze from the food to stare at her. “I can’t remember the last time a

woman made breakfast for me,” he said.

“Didn’t your other ladies know how to cook?” Franny asked.
“I don’t know. I never asked them. But I doubt it.”
He picked up his fork, cut into the omelet and popped a piece into his mouth.

Franny watched him, her pulse doing a curious dance beneath her skin. He ate, took a

long swallow of coffee and smiled at her. “Perfect,” he said.

Some of the tension relaxed from Franny’s shoulders. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad

you like it.”

“Here,” he said, patting the bed. “I’m glad you made enough for two. It’s hard to

trust a cook who won’t eat her own cooking.”

She sat and reached for her fork, but Phillip put his hand around her wrist. “Wait,”

he said.

He leaned in, put both hands around her head and pulled her close for a slow,

warm kiss. His tongue slid around hers with a touch as gentle as feathers. Franny’s

heart picked up in tempo and she palmed his stubbled cheeks.

At last he sighed and leaned back. “Good morning,” he said softly. “Sleep well?”
Franny covered her giggle with a napkin. “Very well,” she said. “And you?”
“Very well,” he answered. “I hope you don’t mind I came in here to sleep. I’m told I

sometimes snore rather loudly.”

“I see.” Franny nodded in understanding. She pointed at the plate and added, “It

won’t do to let it get cold.”

“Can’t have that.” Spearing a bite of omelet, he turned his fork toward Franny’s

mouth. “Open wide.”

Franny accepted the bite, chewed and swallowed. “Thank you. Is there something

we should do today?”

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A wicked light sparkled in his eyes. “Well, when we finish breakfast, I think we

should go back to bed. Don’t you?”

A throbbing started between Franny’s legs. “Really?”
He nodded, his amber eyes pinning her to the bed. “I’ve seen you naked by

candlelight,” he said. “But the sun will give us a very different kind of light filtering

through those curtains over there.” He pointed at the tall windows. “The sunlight

should do more than justice to your skin. I want to see the sun shining across your

breasts. Or would you rather I call them your tits? Some women like their lovers to use

words like that, and some men want their women to use them. They say it excites

them.”

Franny blushed. “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
“We’ll leave that matter for later.” They finished their breakfast in silence and

Phillip put the tray on the other side of the bed. “I think I’ve developed an appetite for

something else.”

He studied her body through the sheer fabric of her wrapper for a moment. “You

didn’t wear this to cook my breakfast, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Franny said. “I found an old dress in the wardrobe in my room

and wore that.”

His smile turned wicked. “And so you changed back into just this,” he caressed the

wrapper, “to serve me breakfast. I’m flattered, my Franny. You almost make me think

you enjoy my attentions.”

“You’re not so bad,” Franny admitted, unwilling to give him too much praise.
“Not so bad?” he mocked, pulling her close again. “My dearest Franny, let me show

you what I can do.” He slipped his hands inside her wrapper to stroke her nipples with

his thumbs. “You’re naked, my Franny,” he whispered.

“Well, I thought why put on a nightgown if you’re just gonna take it off?” A thrill

coursed over her skin and she held his hands in place. She swallowed her whimper as

fingers replaced thumbs to continue their tracing of the bits of hardened flesh.

“Do you like that?” he whispered.
Franny nodded. Pleasure had sealed her mouth.
“So soft,” he murmured. “What would you do if I put some of that raspberry jam

on your nipples and then sucked them clean?” He slid his hand down to rest it between

her thighs. Gently easing one finger inside, he asked, “Or here, perhaps? You’re so wet,

my Franny, so ready for me. But why have jam when your body is already the sweetest

thing I’ve tasted in ages. Shall I taste you again?”

His touch fired Franny’s skin and her mound ached for his tongue’s exploration of

it. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Then tell me.” His finger played with her nubbin. “Say what you want me to do.”
“I want to you put your mouth—”

Cecily French

A door slammed and a voice called, “Phillip! By all the devils in hell, what is going

on?”

A tall man, though not as tall as Phillip, strode into the room, forcing Franny to her

feet and she bit her lip in frustration. A red-faced Phillip, on the other hand, remained

where he was. “Damn it, Gregory,” he said. “Have you heard of the newest way to

announce yourself? It’s called knocking. And then you’re supposed to wait for someone

to say, ‘Enter.’”

“We have a problem,” the man declared, ignoring Phillip’s comment. “I’ve just

come from the kitchens. Emil is threatening to quit!”

“You may tell him I’ll raise his salary by fifty pounds,” Phillip said. He pointed at

Franny. “Emil’s got his cock all knotted because she cooked my breakfast.”

The man blinked and seemed to see Franny for the first time. “Did I interrupt

something?”

“Yes, you certainly did,” Phillip agreed. “But now that you’re here, you might as

well tell me why the hell you’re here. But manners must be observed first. Greg Keller,

allow me to introduce Miss Francesca Talbot. Francesca, this is my friend—or at least he

usually is—Gregory Keller.”

Habit dropped Franny’s knees into a curtsy. “Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Rule Number Four,” Phillip said. “A gentleman’s mistress need not curtsy to his

friends. Besides, he’s not titled. He’s terribly rich, but not titled.”

“But a gentleman always bows to a lady upon being introduced,” Greg said,

performing the required act as he removed his hat. “An honor, Miss Talbot. Are you

and Phillip long acquainted?”

“We have known each other since yesterday,” Phillip said dryly. “And were about

to get to know each other better when you interrupted.”

“I most humbly beg your pardon.” Greg flashed the grin Phillip remembered from

their days at school as he tossed his hat onto the bed. “But I did come on rather

important business. There’s a bit of trouble at Hobart’s that needs your attention.”

“And why does our investment group need my attention?”
Greg shrugged. “They sent a note ’round this morning and asked that I fetch you.

So consider yourself fetched.”

“Damn.” Phillip lay back on the pillows and glanced at Franny. She had moved to a

chair in the corner and sat with her hands folded, watching them through half-lowered

eyes. Except for the wrapper that showed everything, she was the very picture of

maidenly modesty and not a woman he had bedded half the night. His cock twitched

angrily at the delay in having her again.

Fighting the urge to toss Greg into the hall so he could relieve Franny of what little

clothing she wore and roll her between the sheets, Phillip exhaled his impatience and

said, “It seems, Francesca, that business matters call me away for a few hours.”

Temporary Mistress

“All right,” she said, looking up. “Should I go apologize to what’s-his-name in the

kitchen?”

Phillip raked a hand through his hair. “Rule Number Five. A man’s mistress never,

ever apologizes to the staff, no matter what she does.”

Irritation darkened her violet eyes. “Perhaps you should write all these rules down,

my lord. That way I can learn them before I fuck them up. Aren’t you glad I can read?”

A knock at the suite door interrupted Phillip’s reply and Franny shot him a

withering look. “Is Rule Number Six a gentleman’s mistress never answers the door?”

“Yes, and you certainly can’t answer it wearing just that,” Phillip growled.

“Gregory, make yourself useful and answer the door.”

“Right you are,” Greg answered. He left but returned within seconds. “It’s a Mrs.

Jennings. She’s says she’s brought the rest of the dresses for Miss Talbot.”

“Good,” Phillip said. “That will give Franny something to do while we’re gone.”
“I’ll just go say hello to her, then,” Franny said. “Or is Rule Number Seven ‘Wait for

your dressmaker to come to you’?”

“Go,” Phillip ordered.
She nodded and looked at Greg. “Happy to have met you, Mr. Keller.”
“A pleasure, Miss Talbot.” Greg bowed again. After she left and closed the door, he

looked at Phillip. “Feisty bit of petticoat, isn’t she?”

“She’s a bit rough around the edges,” Phillip conceded, praying for his swollen

erection to subside. “She’ll be ready by the time of the house party.”

“You’re taking her to the house party?” Surprise raised Greg’s eyebrows. “What

about Lucia?”

“Broke her ankle and is confined to bed for weeks,” Phillip said. “Quite unable to

participate. Francesca is filling in, so to speak.”

“Well, you can ‘fill me in’ on the rest of the details later,” Greg said. “We’re

expected at Hobart’s within the hour. And by the time you’ve bathed, shaved and

dressed, we’ll have just enough time to get there, so don’t even think about having a

post-breakfast romp with the lady.”

Phillip scowled. “Not likely with Mrs. Jennings here. I suppose I should comfort

myself with the philosophy of introducing oneself gradually into the regions of delight.

Now, unless you want to see me naked, I suggest you wait in the other room.”

“Perish the thought.” Greg collected his hat and strode from the room. When the

door closed, Phillip shoved aside the sheets, shaved with cold water and dressed while

his fantasies of how to spend the afternoon with Franny threatened to raise his cock

again.

“Down, boy,” he commanded, adjusting himself within his undergarment and

pulling on his breeches. “Rule Number Eight. A gentleman’s cock never starts the

conversation, especially when discussing investments.”

Temporary Mistress

Chapter Six

“So how is his lordship, then? In bed, I mean.”
Watching Mrs. Jennings’ reflection in the full-length cheval mirror as the modiste

wrapped a satin sash around the waist of a lilac morning gown, Franny blushed.

“Phillip? He’s…”

“As well hung as they say?” Mrs. Jennings chuckled.
Playing with an errant curl trailing down her neck, Franny swallowed hard before

saying, “He’s hung all right. Huge is more like it. And-and he’s—” She searched for the

right word. “Vigorous,” she said at last. “Mrs. Jennings—”

“You can call me Delores, dear.” The older woman adjusted the lace neckline of

Franny’s gown. “Maybe a bit more lace,” she muttered. “Don’t want your tits hanging

out for all the world to see, even if they are pretty.”

“Delores, what’s la petite mort?”
Delores’ hands slowed and she met Franny’s questioning gaze in the glass. “It’s a

fancy French phrase. The little death. Don’t think the French ever said nothing that

wasn’t fancy, God love ’em.”

“What’s it mean, then?” Franny asked.
“Lord, dearie, it means when a man’s making love to you and it feels so good you

can’t stand it anymore. It’s when your toes curl and you’re filled with as much of his

cock as you can hold and both of you are just humping away at each other until yer

skin’s on fire and you finally explode from happiness. That is, if it’s good enough.” She

studied Franny’s wide-eyed face in the mirror. “I take it the Viscount made you feel that

way? Was it that good? Does the Viscount make you feel that good?”

“Yes,” Franny admitted shyly. “Never felt that way with a man before. Never felt

that good, before.”

“Ahhhh.” Delores nodded in understanding. “Ever been a man’s mistress before?”
“No,” Franny said. “Just on the streets for a couple of months until I got away from

Oliver and went to Madam Terez’s place.”

“You were on the streets?” Delores’ eyes narrowed in disbelief. “And now you’ve

got Viscount Danbury spreading his coin around London on you?”

She grabbed Franny’s shoulder and spun her around. Franny stumbled backward

into the mirror, pinned there by the older woman’s surprisingly strong hands.

“What kind of hold have you got on him, you little bitch?” Delores snarled. “Have

you got his child and think you can squeeze what you can out of ’im? Tell me now or

Cecily French

I’ll cut the dresses to pieces myself! And by God, it better be the truth!” She pointed at

the dress-filled wardrobe.

“No!” Franny protested. “I only met Phillip yesterday at Madam Terez’s. He needs

a mistress for two weeks and Madam thought I’d suit. I only had one dress to my name

and it was half rags anyway. The dresses were Phillip’s idea, I swear. You can ask

Madam Terez if you want.”

“I’ll do just that.” Delores relaxed her grip, but suspicion still gleamed in her eyes.

“You better treat Phillip Graves like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you, or

you’ll answer to me.”

“Why are you talking like this?” Franny demanded, stepping aside. “He got me off

the streets and away from Oliver Sidlow. Promised to help me when the time is up. I

owe Phillip. Why should I hurt him?”

Something in Franny’s pleading tone must have convinced Delores of her honesty

because the anger vanished from her face and tears shone in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Miss

Francesca—”

“It’s Franny. Phillip said he’d call me Franny in private.” Watching Delores take out

a handkerchief and pat her eyes, Franny asked, “You make it sound like someone hurt

him.”

“Oh, he’s been hurt all right,” Delores said sadly. “Brokenhearted. Losing your wife

and baby son in childbed will do that to a man.”

Franny’s breath froze in her lungs and she clutched at the mirror. “What did you

say?” she whispered.

“His wife Justine died giving birth to their only child eight years ago,” Delores

repeated, wiping her eyes again. “The baby died at the same time. Shouldn’t have

happened to such a nice couple. Shouldn’t happen to anyone, for that matter.”

Tears of her own stung Franny’s eyes. “And he’s never married again?”
“No.”
“But how do you know all this?” Franny asked. It seemed odd information for a

dressmaker to have.

Still sniffling, Delores put away her handkerchief. “’Cause I made all his wife’s

dresses,” she said proudly. “Lord save us, they were both so young when they married.

She was a tiny thing, like a porcelain doll, all blonde hair and blue eyes, but she

wouldn’t ever let ’im give her any lip. I used to laugh at the way they teased each other.

A marriage made in heaven if ever there was one.”

She looked back at Franny. “Some say he buried his heart along with them eight

years ago. None of the women he’s bedded since care tuppence for him, and he knows

it. They just want his gifts and his money, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Good thing he’s

one of the richest men in England by birth, not counting what his wife brought to the

marriage, or he’d have been broke long ago.”

Temporary Mistress

Sadness clawed at Franny’s heart and a sob rose in her throat. “That’s awful,” she

choked.

“Never goes to their old house,” Delores continued. “That’s why he lives here.”
She tucked her handkerchief into her belt and gave Franny another long stare. “But

you seem different somehow. Almost like you’d care about him, given a chance.

You’re…”

Her voice faltered, as if searching for the right word, and Franny asked, “I’m

what?”

“Innocent,” Delores finished.
“Me? But I’ve been on the streets!” Franny protested. “I lost my innocence months

ago!”

“But you’re still fresh,” Delores said softly. “Eager for what life has to offer. It

shows in your eyes. You haven’t had it ground out of you yet like some street girls.

You’re no common dolly mop. It shows in your face.” She gave Franny a smile and

tucked one of her new handkerchiefs into the sash. “So you be nice to him, hear me? Be

really nice.”

“Of course,” Franny murmured.
Voices in the outer rooms alerted them to the men’s return. “Francesca?” one of

them called.

Phillip. “In here,” she answered. “We’re trying on the dresses.”
“Then let us see you, please.”
Franny smoothed her hair and at Mrs. Jennings’ nod, walked to the door of the

front parlor. She stopped to gather her courage and then stepped inside.

“’Pon my soul!” Gregory Keller’s mouth fell open and he raised the quizzing glass

in his hand to peer at Franny. “By all the devils in hell, Phillip, you’re going to do it

again.”

“Sir?” Franny blurted. Her trembling hands itched to bunch the dress’s fabric

between her fingers because Phillip’s stare was turning her knees to jelly.

Finally, he smiled and nodded. “If you like, Greg, you can go ahead and write me

the check for a thousand pounds right now, because no one is going to defeat her.”

“A thousand pounds?” Franny repeated and she stumbled for the nearest chair.

“The dresses cost a thousand pounds?”

“No, my dear, he’s referring to the contest,” Mr. Keller explained, tucking the

quizzing glass inside his coat pocket. “Surely he’s told you about it.”

“Enough, Greg.” His friend’s pronouncement turned Phillip’s smile into a frown of

annoyance. “I’ll tell her about it later.”

Suspicion curled Franny’s hands around the ends of the gilt chair. “Tell me what?”

she demanded.

Cecily French

Casting Mr. Keller another annoyed glance, Phillip sighed and said, “He’s referring

to the beauty contest at a house party we’ll be attending in two weeks.”

“So what’s that to do with me?” Franny asked.
“You, my dear, are one of the contestants,” Mr. Keller supplied before Phillip could

answer. “And from where I’m standing, you’re going to carry off first prize, just like all

Phillip’s mistresses have done all but two years the contest has taken place.”

“You stand to win a thousand pounds because of me?” Outraged surprise

catapulted Franny out of the chair. “Then I want half of it!” The men’s roar of laughter

only added to her indignation. “What’s so funny?” she demanded. “If you’re gonna

stick me in some contest and I win, then sharing the purse with me is only fair.”

“Saucy bit of petticoat, isn’t she?” Mr. Keller gasped through his laughter.
Franny choked back the sorrow and rage rising in her throat. “I’m not a petticoat,”

she said stiffly. Glaring at Phillip, she asked, “Is this why you needed a mistress so

quick? So you can win money at some bleedin’ house party?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “That and the woman scheduled to begin her duties as my

mistress is temporarily indisposed. To arrive at the party without a beautiful woman is

grounds for expulsion from the group.”

“Then you really oughta give me half the prize money,” Franny insisted. “’Specially

if my being with you is gonna keep your arse from being tossed out of this la-di-da

group!”

To her horror, Franny burst into tears and plopped back into the chair to cover her

eyes with her hands. Between sobs, she choked out, “You don’t need the money, my

lord. Five hundred pounds is most likely small change to you.”

“Good Lord,” Mr. Keller said. “She can subtract?”
Franny’s fury took her to her feet again. “Yes, Mr. Keller,” she snapped. “I can

subtract. And read and write. Why does everyone think that because I’ve had to make

my living as a whore that I’m stupid?”

“What would you do with the money?”
Phillip’s question tore Franny’s attention away from Mister Keller. “What did you

say?” she sniffed.

“I asked what you would do with the money.” He made his way to the chair

opposite hers and sat. His nod suggested she should do the same.

Fumbling for the handkerchief Delores had tucked in her sash, Franny gulped, “I’d

buy a house in the country where I could learn to garden. Maybe become a dressmaker

like Mrs. Jennings. Or I could learn to play the piano.”

Mr. Keller’s sudden cough brought Franny’s anger back in a flash. “Don’t you

laugh at my dreams,” she rasped. “Don’t even dare. You’ve never known a day’s

hunger or cold in your sweet life. You can have whatever you want whenever you want

it just by opening your purse, so don’t you laugh at the likes of me who can make do

with one penny when most others would need two.”

Temporary Mistress

She lowered her head, listening to the roaring of her heart under the wall clock’s

faint, steady click. Lord I’ve done it now. Phillip will toss me back on the streets for sure.

But to her amazement, Mr. Keller rose from his chair and bowed. “I beg your

pardon, Miss Talbot,” he said solemnly. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you or your

dreams.”

“’S’all right,” Franny conceded, looking at Phillip from beneath her eyelashes. Relief

slowed her heart’s surge as she determined his expression to be not one of anger but

interest. Oliver would have beaten the hell out of her if she had ever dared to talk to a

customer that way.

“I think,” he said, “that we’ll go to the theater tonight. Did Mrs. Jennings bring the

opera cloak with her?”

“I did, my lord.” Mrs. Jennings called from the doorway.
“Good,” Phillip said. “Then she’ll wear that tonight. Now if you will excuse us,

Franny and I have some things we need to discuss.”

“Then I’ll see you later,” Mr. Keller said quickly, a smile returning to his face.

“Come, Mrs. Jennings, we can share a cab.”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Jennings nodded and coming forward, knelt to give Franny a quick

hug. “You remember what I told you,” she whispered. “Be good to him and he’ll be

good to you.”

“I will,” Franny promised.
Mrs. Jennings looked at Phillip. “She’s a nice girl, my lord. Let her have her share of

that prize money for her dreams. Everyone needs a dream.” And with that, she

gathered her cloak from the corner hall tree and joined Mr. Keller at the door.

“So,” Phillip said when it closed behind them. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing,” Franny said hastily. “Just her telling me to be nice to you.”
His smile launched her heart back into quickstep mode.
“Well,” he drawled. “Why don’t you show me how nice you can be?”

“What did you have in mind, my lord?”
“You know,” Phillip said softly, “I rather like the way you say that.”
“Do you?” A flush spread across her face and down to her shoulders and the need

to see if it covered the rest of her body surged through him.

Nodding, he said, “Yes. I don’t believe any of my other mistresses have called me

that unless they were peeved at me. When you call me that, you sound respectful.”

She smiled shyly. “I don’t have any reason to be anything else.”
Something inside Phillip began to stir, but he quickly pushed it back down. “That’s

very nice of you,” he said, holding out his hand. “But I can think of better ways for us to

be nice to each other. Come here.”

Cecily French

Still smiling, she came to him and let him fold her into his arms. Lowering his head,

he brushed his lips against hers in gentle greeting while his hands roamed over her

back and down to her rump. His cock stirred at the feel of her round, tight cheeks

against his palms and he pulled her closer so she could feel his need.

“I think,” he said, “that we’re both wearing way too many clothes, don’t you?”
She giggled. “Don’t think Mrs. Jennings would like it if we messed up one of her

dresses so soon.”

“Then we won’t,” Phillip agreed and led her into her room to stop beside the bed.
A shadow crossed her face. “I’ve done it before in my clothes,” she admitted.

“Fellas would just raise my skirts and fuck me where I stood. Or rip my dress to get at

my breasts. Not a nice feeling, to have your only clothes shoved around you by some

cock-hard bastard.”

“That’s a shame,” Phillip said softly. “Sometimes fucking, as you call it, in one’s

clothing can be very exciting, if it’s done correctly. But there’s no need to destroy one’s

clothing.”

“If you say so, Phillip.”
“But that lesson can wait,” Phillip promised. “For now, just take off your dress,

please. Slowly. I want to watch.”

Her violet gaze smoldered. “Then I want you to do something too.”
“What’s that?”
“Take off your clothes first,” she said. “I want to watch you and see how hard you

get.”

Desire to forget his promise and raise her dress above her hips so he could plunge

into her waiting folds right now nearly made Phillip stagger backward. He pulled a

long breath into his lungs and expelled it. “As my lady wishes. Does my lady wish to

undress me herself?”

She shook her head, the black ringlets bouncing against her shoulders, a distinctly

saucy smile lighting up her features. “I want you to do it.”

“Hmm.” Phillip tapped his chin. “I’ll have to sit to take off my boots.”
She pointed at the wide, over-sized, high-backed chair. “That should do, my lord.”
The task was quickly accomplished. After tucking his stockings inside his boots,

Phillip stood. “Shirt first?”

“Yes.”
“I don’t believe,” he said, unbuttoning the cuffs, “that I’ve ever undressed like this

for a woman. Plenty of women have undressed me, but I’ve never done it while they

stood there and watched.”

Her eyes fastened on him like a falcon waiting for her prey. “Keep going.”
Slowly, Phillip pulled his shirt over his head and draped it over the chair. Then he

unfastened his trousers and pushed them along with the undergarment down his legs

Temporary Mistress

and sighed in relief as his throbbing penis quivered its gratitude to escape the confines

of his trousers. After putting his clothing on the oversized chair, he spread his arms

wide to meet Franny’s wide-eyed gaze. “Does my lady like what she sees?”

“Lord,” she breathed, “and last night I thought you were big. Does it grow in the

daytime, then?”

He took himself in his hand. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice husky. “As you can see,

just being near you swells me, hardens me so I can barely stand. It needs relief and

soon. It needs to be buried inside you, my lady.”

“Then forget about me undressing slowly,” she said.
“Wait a minute,” he said as she started to pull off her dress. He sat in the chair and

spread his legs wide. “Leave on your stockings.”

Her stripping off her dress and shift could have set a record for clothing removal

but she carefully hung the dress in the wardrobe and stowed the rest of her garments in

the drawers. Her skin gleamed like ivory in the morning light, the tips of her nipples as

rosy as her lips, and Phillip’s mouth watered at the thought of suckling them again.

“Come here,” he said.

She joined him and stared down at his trembling, rigid cock. Gently her fingers

flickered across the tip and she sighed. “So big,” she said. “And so very pretty.”

A guttural groan broke from Phillip’s throat. “I don’t know if a man wants his dick

called pretty, my lady.”

She winked at him. “Have you got a name for it? Lots of fellas call their cocks

something.”

“William. Henry. George,” Phillip rasped, grasping the arms of the chair. “I don’t

care what you call it. I need to be inside you. Get in the chair and on your knees.”

She did as he asked, and fighting against the urge to plunge into her waiting flesh,

Phillip moved one of his hands to slide a finger inside her. Warmth covered his finger

and he sighed.

“You’re so wet, my Franny,” he murmured, releasing his other hand to tilt her chin

back. “So very hot and wet. Are you ready for me? Because right now, all I want is to be

inside you and feel your muscles lock around me while I feast on your breasts.” He

gave her a wink before adding, “Do they have names? Or are they just your breasts?”

She managed to giggle between her ragged breathing. “I’ll let you name them

later,” she gasped. “I want you to touch me the way you did last night. On my nubbin.”

“You mean here?” He stroked the spot.
“That’s it,” she gasped again.
“Now lower yourself,” he said. “I want your breasts in my mouth while I finger

you to the brink. Brace yourself with your hands if you need to do so.”

She lowered herself to grip the arms of the chair. Phillip found her swollen bud and

began his ministrations while his mouth fastened on first one breast and then the other.

Her moans quickened his strokes and she began to squirm.

Cecily French

“Phillip,” she moaned. “Oh my. Phillip.”
He withdrew his finger and ran it across her mouth before kissing her, long and

deep. The taste of her on her own lips nearly brought his seed spilling forth.

“I like that,” he whispered, grabbing her hips. “I like kissing your juices off your

mouth. I didn’t think I could get any harder, but after doing so, I am.”

Her glazed eyes searched his face. “Not even if I do this?”
She moved one hand to fondle his length and Phillip groaned. “Lord, yes.”
“Then come to me, Phillip. Come to me now.”
She balanced herself and taking him in her hand, sank onto it. “Oh my,” she

moaned again. “You feel so good, Phillip.”

He could do it. Screw her right here in the chair until she was screaming her release.

But he couldn’t afford to release his cum inside her. He needed the bed.

Grinding his teeth, Phillip managed to stand and keep himself buried while she

wrapped her legs around him. Lips still fused together, he carried her to the mattress

and managed to arrange her to rest against the pillows.

“You feel so good, my Franny,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “You can hold all

of me like you were built to do so.”

She wiggled her hips while giving him a dreamy smile. “Happy to oblige, my lord.

But that’s enough talk for now.”

“As my lady wishes.” Phillip drew back and when she whimpered in protest, he

plunged inside her and slowly began to thrust.

She moaned again and her hands cupped his butt. “You’ve a lovely arse, so you

do,” she said between pants.

“Should I name it too?” Phillip groaned. He pulled back and hovered above her,

“We can have a naming contest for our favorite body parts when we’re done if you

like.”

He slid back inside her, finding a steady but increasing rhythm, as he moved within

her slick warmth, back and forth, back and forth. Her hips moved in time with his and

she pulled his head down. Her kiss threatened to devour his mouth, and Phillip cried

aloud as passion threatened to stall his withdrawal from her sweetness. Her scream of

fulfillment echoed his and he pulled free just in time. The sound of their slowed

breathing filled the room, the scent of their lovemaking permeating the sheets as they

curled together, her head in the hollow of his shoulders. After several minutes of

silence, Phillip murmured, “So now what, my Franny? Shall we go for a drive? Buy you

some jewelry?”

“I’ve a better idea, my lord.”
He peered into her eyes. “What’s that?”
Naughtiness twinkled back at him. “Let’s do it again.”

Temporary Mistress

Chapter Seven

“Oh my,” Franny breathed as she peered out the carriage window. “This is where

we’re going?”

“It is,” Phillip said. “Have you never been to the theater?”
“No,” Franny admitted. “Sometimes they do Christmas plays at church, but that

isn’t quite the same thing, is it?”

He chuckled, but his reply was kind. “Not quite. But Christmas plays at churches

can be a great deal of fun.”

Surprise raised Franny’s eyebrows. “You’ve seen them? Plays at churches?”
He hesitated and only the shift of his mouth gave any indication her question

danced close to the edge of a dark and forbidden territory. A territory closed to

everyone.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I have. But tonight—” Lightness entered his voice again.

“Tonight we will be seeing a production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

It’s a comedy and one of my favorites.”

“Shakespeare,” Franny repeated reverently. She tugged at her elbow-length gloves

and smoothed the bodice of her ivory gown. Holding up the matching carved fan he

had given her just before leaving his rooms, she asked, “Do I look all right for going to a

play?”

His gaze took her in, from the silver-jeweled band holding her hair in place, past

the shimmering folds of her gown, to the tips of her shoes peeking from the hem.

Diamond teardrop earrings dangled from her ears and a single diamond nestled just

above the valley between her breasts.

“You’re beautiful, Francesca,” he said, picking up her hand to brush his lips against

it. “Very beautiful indeed.”

His praise warmed her almost as much as his mouth had earlier warmed her body.

Her mound tightened at the memory of him using his tongue to do the most amazing

things there. Things that had her screaming as she came over and over again until she

thought she would die from pleasure. No wonder reaching that brink was called “the

little death”.

And this was all in just over twenty-four hours.
She settled the images into the memory box in the corner of her mind. The one

where she kept only good things. Smiling, she said, “Thank you, Phillip. I’ll try to make

you proud of me.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Proud?”

Cecily French

“I mean, if some of your friends see us together,” she explained. “Do we have seats

close to the stage?”

“I have a private box, Franny. If some of my friends are here, they might join us.

And I have no doubt you will do me proud.”

Their carriage finally rolled to a stop. A liveried coachman opened the door and

bowed. “What time shall I return, my lord?”

“After midnight.” Phillip took her cloak from the seat, stepped down and turned to

offer Franny his hand. His smile started the warmth sliding over her again.

“I feel like Cinderella arriving at the ball,” she said, taking his hand to slide across

the seat. “’Course we won’t be dancing here, will we?”

“Not exactly,” he agreed.
She stepped down and he settled the cloak over her shoulders. Seeing the crush of

people ascending the steps to the candlelit building above them, she sighed in pure

pleasure. “This is so exciting! Look at all the people! Oh, and look at your horses’

plumes!”

Two great black horses stood hitched to their carriage, decorated heads twitching.

Franny approached them and held out her hand to one. Its mouth nuzzled her palm

and it whinnied gently, as if disappointed to find it empty.

“Oh,” Franny sighed again. “What a beauty you are! And you as well,” she told the

other horse, stroking its nose. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beauties!”

Behind her, Phillip cleared his throat. “Francesca…”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “What?”
He crooked his finger at her and she walked back to him. Leaning forward he

whispered, “Rule Number Nine. A man’s mistress does not make much over his horses

in public.”

Franny blushed. “Sorry. Guess I have a lot to learn about being a mistress, don’t I?”
“Rule Number Ten,” he answered with a grin. “Don’t apologize so much. Now,

come. I put your fan inside the cloak’s pocket. Let’s get through this crowd.”

He took her arm to lead her inside, and after leaving her wrap in the cloakroom, led

her up the stairs. More than one person nodded in their direction, but Phillip continued

to weave Franny through the throng, up another flight of stairs and down a corridor to

a door. He opened it and ushered her inside.

Franny’s gaze swept over the candlelit box and out over the theater before looking

at Phillip. “Look at the curtain! Real red velvet! Isn’t this grand?”

He tilted his head, as if not quite understanding her words. “Do you always get so

excited about small things?”

“Small things?” Franny repeated.
“Patting the horses,” he said. “Seeing a red velvet curtain. Your reaction earlier

when I gave you the fan.”

Temporary Mistress

Frowning, Franny asked, “Is that Rule Number Eleven? A gentleman’s mistress

shouldn’t show her happiness?”

“No,” he admitted. “I just can’t remember the last time—”
“That your mistress showed you her happiness at just being with you?” Franny

asked. “No one has ever given me a fan before, Phillip. Or taken me to the theater. And

if patting your horses in public makes me the wrong kind of mistress for you, maybe

you ought to go back to Madam Terez and see if she’s got a greedy sourpuss to take my

place.”

His features struggled to form an expression and at last they settled into a smile.

“You do speak your mind, don’t you, my Franny? Forgive me. Perhaps it’s been too

long since I allowed myself to enjoy simple pleasures.”

“Well, sometimes steak and kidney pie is better than oysters if you’re eating with

friends as my mother used to say.”

Phillip slapped a hand over his mouth to stop his peal of laughter. “Did she

indeed?” he managed to ask. “Do you know how to make steak and kidney pie?”

The scowl hovering around her mouth relaxed into a grin. “As a matter of fact I

do,” she said. “If you can get Mister Fancy-Hat-Emil out of the kitchen, I’ll make it for

you sometime.”

A burst of music stopped Phillip’s reply and he pointed at the chairs set before the

edge of the box. “We’ll talk about it later. The play is starting.”

They sat and Franny leaned forward. “All these people, just come to see a play,” she

whispered. “Imagine that.”

Phillip took a tiny pair of opera glasses from his inside coat pocket and gave them

to her. “Use these,” he whispered in return. “It will make everything bigger.”

For the next hour or so, the power of Shakespeare wove a tapestry around them,

pulling them into a realm of fantastical fun where all, with the possible exception of

Puck, were made sport of and magic reigned.

But no magic was as powerful as that of watching Franny’s awe and delight at the

actions on the stage. Candlelight graced her face, making it as lovely as anything Phillip

had seen in years. Her genuine laughter prompted his, and for the first time in a long

time, Phillip felt the tug of an old buried emotion. Happiness. Careful, he told his heart.

Careful.

As the curtains closed on Act Two, she sat back in her chair and wiped her eyes.

“Oh, Lord!” she laughed. “Puck has messed things up, hasn’t he?”

“He has indeed,” Phillip agreed. “Come,” he called at the knock on the door.
It swung open and an aproned couple entered, one carrying a hamper, the other a

bucket of ice with a wine bottle inside. After unpacking a cold supper from the hamper

and setting it along with the wine bucket on the table in the corner, they bowed and left

without a word.

Cecily French

“Refreshments,” Phillip said. “Watching plays always makes me hungry.”
They applied themselves to the meal of cold chicken, salad and fresh fruit, then

washed it down with the wine. Watching her eat, Phillip recalled her earlier words.

“Have there really been times you haven’t had enough to eat?”

She shrugged. “Growing up in the East End with a father who only worked when

the fit took him didn’t make for regular food in the house. My mother took in sewing to

help and sometimes worked at a tailor’s, but even then, meals weren’t much.”

“Well then, you must eat to your heart’s delight,” Phillip said, filling her plate

again.

The door to the box swung open to allow the entrance of a tall, stout man in a puce,

brocaded coat and trousers that did little to hide his paunch. He staggered forward to

grip the back of one of the chairs near the box’s ledge and Phillip caught the faint scent

of whiskey.

“’Lo, Graves,” the man greeted. “Decided to take in a play, I see. Saw you when you

came in. Who’s your pretty friend?”

Phillip swallowed his annoyance. “Mr. Daniel Hargrove, allow me to introduce

Miss Francesca Talbot. Francesca, this is Mr. Hargrove, a member of one of my clubs.”

Franny rose and curtseyed. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mister

Hargrove,” she said.

“Upon my soul!” Hargrove staggered back a step and took out a quizzing glass to

peer at Franny. “A curtsy? Since when do light-skirts curtsy?”

Franny’s face paled and she quickly sat down. “I’m sorry, Phillip,” she whispered.

“Which rule did I just break?”

Phillip’s jaw tightened. “None of them,” he told her gently. Glaring at their

uninvited and unwanted visitor, he asked, “Did you need something, Hargrove?”

“Jus’ wanted to thank you fer saving my arse,” the man slurred. “Yer advising me

not to invest in them stocks saved me a pile. Whole investment club beholdin’ to you.”

“A gentleman doesn’t let his friends throw good money after bad,” Phillip said

coolly. “Anything else?”

Hargrove belched and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Suppose not,”

he said, staring at Franny. He belched again and gave her a slow wink. “If you don’t

like the play, there’s a private room just down the hall with a bed where you and Phillip

can screw like minks until it’s over.” He ran his tongue over his lips and added,

“Wouldn’t mind tastin’ of your mound maself.”

Phillip moved out of his chair to grab Hargrove by the collar and drag him to the

door. Yanking it open, he put his foot on Hargrove’s large rump and pushed him into

the hall, slamming the door behind him.

He returned to Franny, who sat with her head bowed. “I’m sorry, Phillip,” she

choked. “I’m sorry.”

Temporary Mistress

For a moment, astonishment rendered Phillip speechless. “For what?” he

demanded.

She looked up. “I don’t know,” she said plaintively. A single tear coursed down her

cheek. “But I must have done something wrong, or else why did Mr. Hargrove talk to

me like that?”

Fury at Hargrove sliced through Phillip with the quick efficiency of a knife. “Don’t

be,” he commanded. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

She nodded, but Phillip could see a very real fear staining her face. “Then you’re

not mad at me?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Even sober Hargrove is an ass, and that’s being kind.”
“You’re not gonna beat me?” Her shoulders relaxed.
He took her hand and bowed his head over it. “Hear me now, Franny. I have never,

ever struck a woman. You have no reason to be afraid of me. Ever.”

A slow relief made its way over her features. “What he said about the investment

club,” she said. “Was that what you and Mr. Keller had to do this morning?”

“You remembered that?” Still holding her hand, Phillip led her back to their chairs

near the edge of box.

She nodded. “My mother taught me to always pay attention ’cause it’s respectful.

You also might hear something useful.”

“Did she indeed?”
Franny nodded, looking out over the theater, her expression thoughtful. “Do people

really do that? Come to the theater and screw instead of watching the play?”

“Only those with no sense of style,” Phillip said. “Which excludes the two of us.”
“Hmmph,” she said tartly. “More like those with no manners. Keep your screwing

at home where it belongs.”

A fanfare heralding the intermission’s end covered Phillip’s laugh, and they once

again turned their attention to the play. But the evening’s magic had dimmed

somewhat, thanks to Hargrove. Phillip considered calling him out, but when sober,

Hargrove was more than a decent shot. Phillip had no intention of dying, at least not

before the house party.

Besides, even sober, Hargrove wasn’t worth the powder.

* * * * *

“What are you doing?” Lifting his head from the pillow, Phillip propped himself on

his elbows to stare across his room at Franny, who sat in the wingback chair in the

corner, sewing.

She looked up from her work and smiled. “Sewing up the rips in your shirt,” she

explained. “Sorry that I—”

“Tore it nearly to shreds last night?”

Cecily French

Color stained her cheeks. “Yes,” she said shyly.
“Got you excited in the carriage ride back, did I?” Phillip wiggled his eyebrows.

“All ready to have your way with me?”

A saucy smile replaced her blush. “As I recall, I did.”
“I meant now.” Under the sheets, his cock stirred and Phillip held out his hand.

“Come to bed.”

“Breakfast is waiting,” she said, pointing toward the outer room. “You don’t want it

to get cold, do you?”

“Did you make it?”
“No, just ordered the same thing as yesterday.”
“Then breakfast can go hang. I’ll order another. Come to bed.”
Her eyebrows drew together in thoughtful consideration and Phillip sighed in

exasperation. “What is it?”

“Just doesn’t seem right to waste food like that,” she said.
“Then next time wait until I’m awake, my sweet Franny,” he growled. “Right now

I’m hungry for you and only you.”

She laid the shirt over the chair’s arm and sat back, a new wickedness lending a

sparkle to her eyes. “I think I’m going to make you wait until after I’ve shaved you.”

“What?” Shock forced Phillip into an upright position. “You’re going to do what?”
“I’m going to shave you,” she repeated softly. “Did Madam Terez tell you I worked

at a barber’s?”

“No,” Phillip admitted. “She didn’t.”
Now it was her smile that was wicked. “Has a woman ever shaved you before?”
His cock hardened further at the thought. “No,” he said again.
“Well then, my lord, you’re about to have a new experience courtesy of one Franny

Talbot. Water’s ready and so’s the towel.”

She stood and walked to the table, took a small towel from around a stone jug and

draped it over her arm. “Need to soften your whiskers up,” she said and pointed at a

large, ladder-back chair. “You can sit there.”

Obediently Phillip rose and, taking his dressing gown from the foot of the bed,

pulled it on and loosely tied the waist. He ambled to the chair, sat and spread his legs.

“So,” he said. “Shave me. But I want you to do it in my shirt.”
This time it was she who was startled. “What?”
“I want you to wear my shirt while you shave me,” Phillip said. “And leave it

unbuttoned, please.”

She grinned and, like last night, something inside him turned over. Something old-

fashioned and sweet. By all that was holy, how had she survived Oliver Sidlow’s

brutality and kept her innocence intact? Because even if her virginity was long gone,

Temporary Mistress

Franny possessed none of the necessary coarseness a girl of the streets needed to endure

the hardship of such a life. Innocence still clung to her like money to Midas.

“Me wear your shirt while I shave you?” she asked through a peal of laughter.

“That should be interesting.”

She turned and took off her wrapper. Phillip’s breath caught in his throat as she

pulled the shirt she’d mended over her bare skin. Its tails slid past her sweet rump

down past her knees. Pulling it around her, she laughed again. “You’re an awfully tall

man, my lord,” she teased. She came to stand before him and said, “Lean your head

back.”

He did as she asked and she put the warm, damp towel over his face. The scent of

sage flooded his nostrils and Phillip sighed in contentment. “Where did you get the

herbs?” he asked, the towel muffling his voice.

“I keep a little bag of herbs in my reticule,” she said. “I’ve some that’s good for

headache, for stomachache, and some that’s good for sleep. A cup of chamomile tea will

send you to dreamland. I put some dried sage in the jug and then poured hot water

over it. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmmm,” Phillip agreed, listening to her padding across the carpet. A minute or so

later, the aroma of steaming coffee entered the room and she took the towel from his

face. “Here,” she said, giving him a half-filled cup. “Drink this while I get the soap

ready.”

He sipped, watching her prepare the mixture and deftly strop the razor from his

dressing table. A sudden apprehension knotted his muscles and he wondered if she was

about to cut his throat. He put the cup on the floor and forced his mind and body to

calmness. Bowl in hand, she approached him and he readied himself to fend off her

attack.

She swirled the soapy mixture with his shaving brush, bringing it to a froth, and

then spread it over his face in gentle dabs, being careful to avoid his eyes. A hum came

from her throat and Phillip relaxed enough to lower his lids.

“You’ve got lovely cheekbones,” she said, breaking her hum.
“You worked for a barber?” he asked.
She nodded. “My uncle on my father’s side had a little shop. He taught me how to

shave a man’s face and to trim hair too. He let me help him sometimes.”

Phillip considered her statement before asking, “Then if you know how to do all

that, why didn’t you go on working for him?”

The brush stopped. “He caught fever and died,” she said at last. A note of sadness

entered her voice. “And no one else seemed to want a lady barber. Maybe I’ll do that

when our time is up. Use part of the money from that contest to set up my own barber’s

shop. Or maybe a dress shop.”

Recalling her earlier conversation with Keller, he asked, “You would really use the

money to do that?”

Cecily French

She carried the brush and bowl back to the dressing table and returned with the

razor and a hand towel over her shoulder. Putting her finger under his nose, she gently

tipped his head back. “And why not? You could bring all your future ladies to me and

I’d set them up proper. Not that I’d want to take business away from Mrs. Jennings. But

those fancy ladies will always need dresses and that way no one would ever know…”

Her voice trailed away and very gently she applied the razor to his face. The stroke

of cold steel’s blade through the warm soap on his skin was having an interesting effect

on the speed of Phillip’s heart.

Or maybe it was her warmth flowing over him. He listened to the near-silent

scraping of steel on skin for a few minutes before asking, “Know what?”

“That I was ever a whore,” she said. “You could tell the ton I was a friend of yours

or something like that.”

You’re not a whore. The words screamed in Phillip’s brain. You’re an innocent.
Then why not send her on her way? his conscience demanded. You’re just as bad as all

the others who got what they wanted by putting a coin in her hand after shoving their pricks into

her cunt. You’re just using her to win that prize money.

She began to hum again and Phillip froze as the familiar tune opened a door to the

past he had slammed long ago. His eyes snapped open and the razor stopped. “What is

it?” she asked.

“Where did you learn that tune?” he rasped.
Her gaze searched his face as she wiped the remaining soap from his face. “My

mother sang it when I was a little girl, but I never learned the words. Do you know it?”

O beautiful mouth, you have uttered that dear gentle yes, which is my entire delight…

Justine’s voice sang the Italian lyrics to him from the past, her rich alto soaring above

the piano he had bought her as an engagement gift.

He grabbed his cup from the floor, stood and stalked to the outer room. Damn it,

his hands were shaking.

“Phillip? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He kept his back to her.
“Did your wife sing that song for you?”
The cup shattered as it fell and hit the table, sending coffee over the carpet. He spun

about and found Franny watching him from the doorway. “How did you know I had a

wife?”

“Mrs. Jennings told me,” she said simply. “When I told her I’d been on the streets,

she thought I was after your money until I told her how you helped get me away from

Oliver. I’m so sorry about your wife and baby.”

He prayed she wouldn’t try to touch him right now or say anything else. He hadn’t

heard that tune in years. Apparently he hadn’t buried his heart deep enough if just

hearing a song could do this to him.

Temporary Mistress

Silence stretched out, blanketing the room. Franny gripped the doorframe, her heart

slamming in painful rhythm against her ribs, feeling herself drowning in Phillip’s

fathomless gaze and wishing he would look anywhere but her face. The marble set of

his features was nothing like his laughing countenance of yesterday. Standing before

her was the loneliest man she had ever met and she swallowed the tears rising in her

throat.

Then the wall clock’s bright chime broke the silence’s spell and Phillip blinked as

one newly awake. Outside the windows came the clatter of hooves striking the street

and a sudden burst of sunlight brightened the room.

“Well,” he said. “Shall we get dressed and have breakfast? Perhaps it won’t be too

cold.”

His light bantering tone had returned and relieved, Franny nodded. “That sounds

lovely,” she agreed. “I won’t be a minute.”

She turned but his voice stopped her in mid-step. “Franny?”
“Yes?”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “That was the best shave I’ve ever had. Thank you.”
The tears returned to Franny’s eyes, but she managed to blink them back before

they escaped. “You’re welcome, Phillip.”

“And I think it’s safe to say, no one so pretty has ever sewn up my shirt before,” he

added.

She looked down to inspect her sewing. “Don’t think it will rip quite so easily next

time,” she said. “I stitched everything good and tight.”

“I don’t know,” he drawled. “You have a surprising amount of strength in those

two hands. Do you have any other surprises in store for me?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “After all, we have twelve days.”
“Then we should make use of every minute,” he said. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Cecily French

Chapter Eight

Franny let him lead her back to her room, his hand encircling hers, filling her palm

with his warmth. The scent of shaving soap tickled her nostrils and she breathed in his

essence. “You smell good,” she whispered.

“So do you,” he said, taking them to the bed. He tilted his head and a mischievous

light brightened his eyes. “I think you should leave the shirt on,” he said. His eyelids

lowered but Franny could still see the light sparkling there.

“As my lord wishes,” she said as she pulled apart the sash of his robe and eased it

off his shoulders. She ran her hands over the muscled wall of his chest, her fingers

delighting at the touch of the fine hair, covering it. “You’re such a handsome man,

Phillip. Never seen a man as fine as you.”

“Thank you,” he said, returning his gaze to her face.
“So strong too,” Franny continued, smoothing the hard, flat planes of his stomach.

She giggled and grabbed his butt. “Sweet bit of arse on you too, my lord.”

“Feeling naughty today, are we?” His eyes brightened.
“Perhaps just a bit,” Franny admitted. “Would you like it if I touched you here?”

She cupped one hand around his sac, gently hefting it.

He expelled a ragged breath. “I certainly would.” He moved her hand to wrap

around his cock. “You can touch me there, too.”

She moved her hand down his length and up again. “It’s so smooth,” she said,

unable to keep the marvel from her voice. “And so hard.”

“You may kiss it, if you want.”
Franny’s hand stopped. “Really?” she gulped. “Men like that?”
“Oh, yes,” he sighed, his head tilting back. “Yes.”
Franny’s pulse took off at a gallop. “Well,” she whispered. “I’ve not ever done it,

but if it’ll make you happy, I’ll try. Perhaps you’d better sit.”

His fingers lifted her chin. “If you don’t like it after a few moments, there are other

things we can do.”

He leaned down to kiss her. A sigh lifted Franny’s chest and with her still holding

him, he ran a finger around her nipple in a slow, steady motion while his other hand

slid down her belly to rest between her legs, starting a throbbing ache.

“You’re so beautifully wet and creamy, my Franny,” he breathed against her ear. “I

can hardly wait to taste you again.”

Franny’s already rapid breathing quickened and her free hand clutched his

shoulder. “Then perhaps I’d better taste you first,” she said shyly.

Temporary Mistress

He sank onto the bed and perching on the edge, spread his legs. She knelt and took

him in her hands again. Very carefully, she raised his cock, opened her mouth and took

him inside. The faint salty taste of his flesh ran over her tongue and just as carefully she

began to move her mouth up and down his length while balancing his balls in her hand,

gently squeezing them.

“Oh my God,” he moaned, his hands threading through her hair. “Oh, yes, Franny.

Yes.”

Something awoke within Franny and an instinct as old as time quickened her

mouth’s work. She pulled back and ran her tongue over the top of his cock, shifting her

hand to hold him. His cock throbbed and quivered in her palm and she gently nipped

its head. A small drop of liquid oozed out and she lapped it, swallowing it down. “You

taste good,” she said.

“I’m glad you like it,” he gasped, his fingers threading through her curls.
She glanced up at him and his expression heightened her desire. She had never seen

that look on a man’s face before, but she knew it was ecstasy.

And she had put it there.
“Don’t stop,” he gulped, his chest rising and falling. “For sweet heaven’s sake,

don’t stop.”

Her heart in furious motion, Franny set her mouth to work again, using her tongue

to lick his length, then take as much as she could inside her mouth. It was difficult

because he was so long. She sucked, licked and nibbled until his huge intake of air

signaled something was about to happen.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her up and onto the bed. He moved them back until

his back rested against the bank of pillows. “Get on your knees and straddle me.”

“Like this?” Franny asked, bracing her hands on the mattress.
A lazy grin spread across his face. “Move your sweet arse down a bit, my Franny.

Here, let me help you.”

Her knees inched backward until he grabbed her hips, lowered her to thrust his

cock inside her. “Push down,” he murmured against her mouth as his hands began to

lift her hips until she was almost out of him, only to push her down his length again.

Pleasure exploded along Franny’s skin, setting it aflame while her inner muscles

clenched about him. “Phillip,” she gasped between kisses. “Oh, Phillip.”

“You have a very talented mouth, my Franny.” His fingers found her nubbin and

stroked it. “Very talented indeed.”

“R-r-really?” Franny’s brain scrambled to remember how to breathe. Mercy, he felt

so fine and strong, pounding in and out of her.

“Oh, yes.” His glazed eyes roamed her face, while his hands’ movement increased

in speed. “But now I think I need to taste something else.”

“No,” Franny protested as he lifted her off his cock and turned her on her back.

Cecily French

“Patience, Franny, patience.” His voice caressed her as he lowered his mouth to

lave her hardened, aching nipples. She moaned as his fingers played with her bud again

and a scream rose in her throat.

“Patience,” he teased again, moving down on the bed. “Does that feel good?”
“Phillip Graves, you’re a devil straight from hell to tease me like that,” she gasped.
“Then let me take you to heaven.” His mouth had barely begun to feast on her

mound when a shudder racked Franny’s body and he quickly entered her again. Her

legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in deeper until if felt as if his cock was

slamming against the very walls of her insides. The shudder became a wave and she

pulled his head down to bury her tongue in his mouth, until she broke free to scream

her release. Her cry of satisfaction heralded his own as he pulled free and collapsed

beside her, spilling his seed onto the sheets.

* * * * *

“I want to know where the hell that slut is!” The man’s gloved hands shoved Oliver

Sidlow against the soot-crusted wall just before they knocked off his ancient hat and

closed around his throat. Gray hate-filled eyes gleamed behind the half-mask covering

the man’s face. “Where is the bitch who cut me?”

“I can’t breathe!” Oliver rasped. “’Ow can I tell ye anything if I can’t breathe?”
“Maybe I should cut you an extra windpipe,” the man snarled. “She was one of

your cunts. Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” Oliver whined. “Swear to the Lord God, I don’t know!”
Unexpectedly, his tormenter released him and stepped back. “Then you’re going to

find out,” he spat. “I’ve not been able to leave my home for days because that bitch cut

open my face. I had to tell my mother I was attacked by a pickpocket. If she weren’t

such an idiot, she might be suspicious.”

Is that so, Momma’s boy, ’cause if you told her you were dipping your wick in some cunt’s

honey pot, you’d have hell to pay at home too. “Can’t be too careful with mothers,” Oliver

agreed in what he hoped was a suitably servile tone.

“So where is the little bitch?” the man demanded again.
“Ran off,” Oliver admitted, rubbing his throat. “I ain’t seen her in a week.”
The man shoved him against the wall again, and this time produced a knife as his

other arm held Oliver in place by the throat.

“Well then,” he whispered. “I’m giving you another week to find her. If not—”
He pressed the knife to Oliver’s face and slowly drew it across his cheek, the point

breaking the skin. A trickle of blood slid down Oliver’s cheek and his bladder

threatened to explode from fear.

Temporary Mistress

“This is just a taste of things to come,” the man said, the mad glint returning to his

eyes. “You don’t find that girl, I might not stop at your face. I just might trim something

lower on your person.”

He moved to place the knife against Oliver’s balls.
“You’d have to be content with just eating them whores of yours instead of fucking

them. Can’t do much without your balls.”

Bile moved from Oliver’s stomach to his mouth. “I’ll find her!” he squeaked. “I

swear I will!”

This time the knife’s point cut through Oliver’s trousers. “What’s her name?”
“Franny,” Oliver panted. “Franny Talbot.”
“Franny Talbot,” the man repeated. “One week, Sidlow. Or you’ll be singing

soprano when I’m done with you.”

He stepped back again and pulling the hood of his cloak over his face, walked out

of the alley and into the Bethnal Green street, but not before stepping on Oliver’s old

top hat. A minute later the sound of hooves and wheels against the cobblestones told he

was gone.

“Damn that Franny!” Oliver smacked the wall with his fist. “I shoulda beat that slut

harder the first time she tried to run off. I ain’t gonna lose my ballocks ’cause of no

Franny Talbot.”

He retrieved his flattened hat and dusted it with his elbow. “My best one,” he

muttered, trying to reshape it. “Gives me double reason to find that Franny and fuck

her meself ’fore I give her to that gent. Mebbe Alice at the Black Dog knows.”

He left the alley and headed for the noisy pub just outside where he ordered a pint.

Seated in a corner booth, he considered his first move. “Alice’s bound to ’ave seen her,”

he said to the booth’s battered wooden top. “She knows everything that ’appens in this

neighborhood.”

“’Ey, Alice!” He waved at a woman delivering pints to a nearby table. “Come ’ere!”
“Keep your pants on, Ollie,” Alice shouted. “I’m workin’.”
“Bitch,” Oliver muttered. “Women is all bitches anyway, only good for one thing.”
“What ’cha want, Ollie?” A scowling Alice arrived at his table, tray in hand with his

usual mug.

“I wanna know if you’ve seen one of my girls, Franny Talbot, or ’eard anything

about ’er. You’re friends with her, ain’t you?”

“Mebbe I am, and mebbe I ain’t.” Alice set down the pint and swiped at her nose

with a dirty dishcloth. “Why’d you want to know?”

“I got a gent wanting to enjoy ’er company, if you know what I mean.”
Alice grimaced. “She run off on you, Ollie?”

Cecily French

Oliver grabbed her wrist and lowered his voice. “Listen to me. I know you’re doing

the dirty with a fella who ain’t your old man. And your old man’s got a bad temper, so

you better tell me what you know.”

“Leggo!” Alice squirmed beneath his grip.
The man’s earlier threat surged through Oliver and he tightened his hand. “Let’s

put it like this. You’ve got just a few days to find out where Franny Talbot is, or I’m

going to your old man. Got it?”

“Awright!” Alice broke free. “And you can go to hell, Oliver Sidlow.”
“Pleasure seein’ you again, Alice.” Oliver slapped at her departing arse as she

hustled back to the bar. Picking up his mug again, he smiled. If threatening to tell

Alice’s old man she was screwing around on him didn’t get Oliver the information he

needed, nothing would.

And then Franny Talbot would pay for the trouble she had caused him. In more

ways than one.

Temporary Mistress

Chapter Nine

“What a beautiful day!” Franny exclaimed as she twirled her new parasol’s handle

between her gloved fingers. Its lace-edged dome hung over her head like an upside

down teacup, and her smile turned Phillip’s lips up into one of his own. The hired

carriage moved at a leisurely pace through Hyde Park and Phillip waved at one or two

men passing on horseback. Sunlight poured down in gentle waves, adding just enough

warmth to the morning to make for a pleasant journey after purchasing Franny’s

parasol.

“And look at all the pavilions!” She pointed at the gaily striped tents filling this part

of the park. A gentle breeze lifted their flags into a fluttering dance. Vendors costumed

in medieval garb strolled about, calling out their wares.

“Perhaps it’s a fair or carnival of some kind,” Phillip suggested. “There’s a man on

stilts and over there is a puppet show.”

She moved her parasol to her other shoulder. “Thank you for this. I’ve never had a

parasol before.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he answered. “All fashionable ladies carry them to protect

their complexions from the sun.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t do for their skin to turn all brown,” she agreed. “They

wouldn’t want to get freckles either. But a buttermilk mask would help with that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a solution for everything?”
She blushed at his question. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Guess your other ladies never

said things like that.”

“No,” Phillip said slowly. “They didn’t. But it’s rather refreshing to hear someone

be so candid rather than to always say what’s expected. I’ll say this for you, Franny.

You’ve yet to be boring.”

Her returning smile lit up her face, bathing it in happiness, and Phillip’s heart gave

a queer little twist. It had been a long time since he’d seen pure and simple happiness

on a woman’s face. Not just because of the new parasol or a ride in the park but because

she was Franny. Her happiness was as much a part of her as her violet eyes or dark

hair.

Like Justine’s had been. Phillip gripped the top of his walking stick.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Oh, right.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “You’ve got a way of getting real still

when something’s bothering you.”

Cecily French

“Why don’t we get out and explore what’s happening?” Phillip asked quickly.

“Driver, stop here and come back for us in an hour.”

“Very good, my lord,” the man called over his shoulder and drove the great horse

over to the side of the carriage path. They stopped and Phillip jumped out to lower the

steps and assist Franny to the ground. After raising the steps again, Phillip took her arm

and guided her over to the footpath. Her fingers curling around his biceps sent a

decided shiver up his arm. He slowed his stride to allow for her shorter one to match

his and they strolled in companionable silence.

“Tell me again about the party,” she said at last.
“It’s held by members of my club, Rogues’ Gallery, at an estate in Kent about an

hour outside London,” Phillip told her. “The members have one mutual purpose in

life—to live it to its fullest, enjoying every possible pleasure. We’ll journey there this

Friday and leave on Sunday after the midday meal.”

“How many other ladies will be there for the contest?”
Ladies may not be the best description for them. Phillip swallowed his first answer and

replaced it with a simpler one. “Three others,” he said. “All beauties like yourself. There

are actually four other members, but the rules prohibit the host from offering a

contestant.”

Another question hovered in her eyes, but instead of her typical forthright quizzing,

she only nodded. “I’ll make you proud of me, Phillip,” she said. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said, and the earlier twist returned to his heart. Spotting a

lemonade vendor, he said, “Let’s have some refreshment before we start our

exploration of the park’s events.”

“That would be nice,” she agreed.
They strolled to where the vendor was pouring cups of lemonade for the knot of

people crowded around him. After promising to return their cups, Franny and Phillip

walked to a bench situated in front of two tents. A strolling group of musicians stopped

to serenade them with trumpets and horns, and a long-absent feeling crept into Phillip’s

bones. A feeling of contentment. He drained his cup and darted a gaze at his

companion. Twin ebony curls framed her cheekbones and a color no cosmetics could

give blossomed in her cheeks. She was quite the loveliest creature Phillip had seen in

years.

And for another few days, she was his. A sudden desire flooded his brain, running

straight to his groin. Its twitch suggested a departure in the next few minutes would be

prudent, especially if he didn’t wish half the ton to see his cock straining against his

form-fitting breeches.

Thankfully the vendor waved at them, indicating Phillip needed to return their

cups. He turned his head and found Franny watching him. “Are you finished?” he

asked under the still-blaring music.

“Yes.” She handed him back her cup. “May I wait here and listen to the end of their

song?”

Temporary Mistress

“Yes. I’ll be right back,” he said. He stood and was halfway across the grass to the

waiting vendor when a familiar voice called, “Good afternoon, Danbury. Taking the air,

as it were?”

Phillip stopped and watched not one but two familiar men approach. As usual, his

university friends were dressed with a simple elegance that would make Brummell

proud.

“Good afternoon, Anthony, Brandon.” Phillip gave a quick bow to the Marquis of

Pemberton and Viscount Dowling respectively. “How goes it with you?”

“Tolerably well,” Anthony Dyson said. “But we’ve had the most interesting piece of

news this morning at the club. Word is that Lucia will not be present at our annual

gathering due to a broken ankle.”

“And that you have found a replacement,” Brandon Hightower added. “A veritable

diamond, according to Greg Keller.”

“And finally,” Anthony concluded, “that Alfred Grimsley has gone and gotten

himself engaged and so will not be one of the judges at our little contest. Amos is livid,

even threatening to cancel the whole affair.”

“There will be ice skating in hell before he does that,” Phillip snorted. “He’ll find

someone.”

“So who is this diamond?” Brandon asked. “Rumor has it that Lucia is not happy at

all at being replaced, even temporarily.”

“Then she shouldn’t try dancing in shoes that were made for sitting,” Phillip said,

giving the cups to the vendor who had joined them. “In fact, the lady in question is

right over there, listening to the band.” He turned and froze. The band was gone.

So was Franny.
“Damnation!” he swore, sprinting back toward the bench with Anthony and

Brandon on his heels. Only a white lace parasol propped against one of the benches

proved recent occupation and Phillip cursed under his breath. Surely to God, Franny

knew the dangers for a well-dressed woman walking alone in Hyde Park. She might be

mistaken for a…

But then a baby’s shrill cry and the sight of a crooning Franny emerging from one of

the pavilions with the child against her shoulder stopped Phillip in his tracks. Concern

knotted her features, but anger had darkened her violet eyes to onyx and she fastened

her gaze on Phillip and his friends.

“Someone left him in the tent in a carriage,” she said, her voice trembling. “Alone.”
“Shhh,” Anthony commanded. “What’s that?”
A keening moan of someone obviously in the middle of a splendid bout of

lovemaking came from the other tent. Curling his finger at Brandon, Anthony crept

toward it, jerked back the flap and peered inside. “Good Lord!” he shouted. “What do

you think you’re doing fucking in a public place?”

Cecily French

Twin screams sounded as the two men charged inside. A minute later they ushered

out a disheveled couple. The woman was struggling to stuff her breasts back into her

dress and the man, his newly limp dick flapping against his leg, was trying to pull on

his trousers. Their attire, rumpled and grass-stained as it was, marked them as a

nursery maid and a footman.

“See ’ere now! What’cha doing wit’ that baby?” The nursery maid demanded,

stuffing her unbound hair under her cap. “He’s under my care, so he is!”

“Rescuing him from the likes of you!” Franny shot back, thrusting the baby into

Phillip’s arms. “Here, hold him while I teach this little bitch a thing or two about

leaving a baby alone. Mind his head.”

She lurched toward the woman, her hands already curled into fists when Anthony

pulled her back. “That will do, my dear,” he said. Scowling, he stared at the guilty

couple. “I want the name or names of your employer, and I will have it now,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?” The woman’s attempt at bravado earned her a slap to the

back of her head from her lover.

“I am the Marquis of Pemberton,” Anthony said coolly. “And this very tall

gentleman,” he gestured at Brandon, “is Viscount Dowling, who is quite capable of

doing remarkable damage with his fists. We want your employer’s name and now.”

“The D-D-Duke of Laramore,” the man stuttered.
Anthony’s scowl deepened. “I thought I recognized the duke’s livery, one you have

no right to wear. Well, since you have chosen to have a public fuck instead of carrying

out your duties, my friend and I shall escort you to the nearest magistrate while the

couple behind us returns the duke’s son to his parents. You’ll wish we’d let you drown

yourself in the Serpentine, for that is a far kinder fate than what you’ll receive from the

duchess after we tell her what happened. Hold them, won’t you, Brandon?”

“I’d be delighted.” Brandon seized the couple by their arms, setting off wails of

protest. Anthony turned and bowed to Franny. “You must excuse my language,

Miss…?”

“Talbot,” Franny supplied, mesmerized by Phillip’s expression as he stared into the

baby’s face. A mask of wonder and disbelief had spread over his features as he cradled

the gurgling child in his arms and Franny blinked hard at the tears pricking her eyes.

Dear Lord, had he even seen a baby since his own child had died?

The child, however, seemed to find the whole thing amusing because he let out a

laugh of pure delight, waving his arms and grabbing one of the buttons on the still-

stunned Phillip’s coat.

Finding her voice, Franny said, “Careful he doesn’t pull it off and try to eat it, my

lord. Babies will try to eat anything.”

Temporary Mistress

“Will they?” His voice was hardly more than a whisper. He gave the baby back to

Franny and looked past her to the marquis and then at the sniveling couple, still held

firmly by Viscount Dowling. “What the hell are they still doing here?”

“We were just waiting to wish you a good afternoon before we take them to see my

brother the magistrate,” Dowling said cheerfully. “You remember my brother, George,

don’t you? The one with five children? He’s going to love this. Come, Anthony. This

matter wants addressing right away. Give my best to Laramore, won’t you, Phillip?

Good afternoon, Miss Talbot.”

Franny watched Phillip’s features relax. Clearing his throat, he said, “Anthony

Dyson, Brandon Hightower, this is Miss Francesca Talbot. Francesca, these are the

Marquis of Pemberton, and he of the mighty grip, Viscount Dowling.”

“My lords.” Franny executed a perfect curtsy, no easy feat for a woman holding a

squirming baby.

The marquis raised his hat and bowed. “Your servant, Miss Talbot.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Viscount Dowling told her in the same

cheerful voice. “You’ll excuse me for not bowing, but I have my hands full. Come,

Anthony, let’s get this vermin away from Miss Talbot. A lady should never be exposed

to such filth.”

“And look at all these people watching!” The marquis pointed at several onlookers.

“Nothing to fear, ladies and gentlemen. We have the matter well in hand.”

He took the footman by the arm and hauled him away. After a moment of struggle,

the viscount picked up the nursery maid, threw her over his shoulder and followed the

marquis. The onlookers stared after them, then at Franny and Phillip and the baby

before drifting away.

After a moment, Franny asked, “What do we do now?”
A flash of pain—either present or remembered—passed over Phillip’s face. “Let’s

take the child to his parents.”

Cecily French

Chapter Ten

“You want me to do what?” Lady Alexandra Fortescue handed him a glass tumbler

of brandy before pouring one for herself.

“I want you to help me concoct a story about Franny’s background to tell the

Laramores tonight when we dine with them this evening.” Phillip took a long swallow

of his drink before adding, “If anyone had told me I’d have a hand in saving the life of

the Duke of Laramore’s heir, I’d have said that person was a candidate for the

madhouse. I presume you’re invited?”

His late solicitor’s widow studied him over the rim of her glass. “Of course.”
Early afternoon sunshine flooded the Berkeley Square drawing room, creating

prisms of color on the glass chandelier. The ever-present lilies perfumed the air with the

scent of cloves, while from outside came the faint trill of birdsong.

“What did you tell the Laramores about Franny when you showed up at their home

without a chaperone?” Alexandra asked.

“That she’d been staying with you and you were indisposed with a slight headache.

That’s why you weren’t with us at Hyde.”

Alexandra raised one eyebrow. “So you’ve gone and involved me anyway.”
“I had to tell them something,” Phillip insisted. “And believe me, after they heard

about what happened at the park with their son, they weren’t asking too many

questions.”

“We’re both bound for the madhouse if you think we can pull off this scheme of

yours,” Alexandra told him. “And exactly what are you planning on telling everyone at

the Laramores’ dinner party this evening about your Franny?”

“We can tell them her parents were missionaries, or worked for someone in India

for all I care,” Phillip growled. “But I won’t have Franny embarrassed. And with you

claiming to be her unofficial patron, no one will question any story we concoct about

her background. No one has ever questioned you about anything, Alexandra. May I

count on you helping us?”

“You’re going to a great deal of trouble to protect a light-skirt, Phillip,” she said.

“Why?”

“Can you imagine Laramore’s reaction if he knew his child’s savior was a—” The

word prostitute died on Phillip’s lips. The image of a common whore didn’t fit Franny,

no matter how many men she’d been forced to service during her time on the streets. “I

don’t want her to be embarrassed or ashamed,” he said. “Franny doesn’t deserve to be

censured for her past. She’s a victim of her stepfather’s greed, may he rot in hell.”

“Is she your victim as well?”

Temporary Mistress

Alexandra’s quiet question drove the guilt he had been carrying deeper into

Phillip’s heart. “I’ve taken care of her,” he said stiffly. “Helped her from a life-

threatening situation to one of safety. And Franny was agreeable to our—” He

struggled again to find the right word. “Our arrangement,” he finished.

“And she is to be your escort to the Rogues’ Gallery house party?”
“Yes,” Phillip said. “And I’ve agreed to give her half the prize money when she

wins.”

“You’re sure she’ll win?”
“Wait until you see her,” Phillip boasted. “She’s a diamond.”
“Well then, I suppose I need to meet your Franny so we can get started.” Alexandra

sighed, putting her glass on a table.

“Thank you,” Phillip sighed in relief. He finished his drink and handed the glass to

Alexandra, who put it beside hers.

“Where is she?”
“Waiting in the outer parlor,” Phillip said. “I’ll go fetch her.”
He crossed the large, elegant room and opened the door. “Come in, Franny,” he

called.

She rose from the velvet chair where she waited and joined him. “What did you tell

her?” she whispered.

“Never mind.” Phillip took her arm and led her back to Alexandra. His friend’s

eyes widened and her hand clutched the arm of the loveseat. Her lips parted and for a

long moment, she openly stared at the woman by Phillip’s side. “Good Lord,” she

whispered. “This is your Franny?”

“Yes ma’am.” Franny curtseyed.
“Franny, this is Lady Alexandra Fortescue,” Phillip said. “Alexandra, this is Franny

Talbot.”

Alexandra continued to stare at Franny. Finally she said, “I’m delighted to meet

you, Miss Talbot. Please be seated.” She patted the cushion beside her and gestured at

the tea tray on the table beside her. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

Franny looked at Phillip. At his nod, she sat and said, “Yes, thank you, my lady.”
After Alexandra served them, she asked, “Are you from London, Miss Talbot?”
“Yes, my lady, from the East End.” Franny sipped her tea and looked at Phillip

again. “Is it all right for me to tell her that?”

“Yes, but not to anyone else,” Phillip told her. “Alexandra is going to help us come

up with something to tell the Laramores and their guests tonight about your

background. Aren’t you, Alexandra?”

He glanced back at her and frowned. Alexandra was continuing to stare at Franny,

her eyebrows drawn together in a worried concern, her knuckles bone-white from

Cecily French

gripping her cup. She cleared her throat and said, “Yes. Do you mind telling me about

your parents, Miss Talbot?”

“They’re dead,” she said simply. “Papa died when I was fifteen, and a year later

Mama married another man. I won’t call him ‘Father’ or anything like it because he was

a perfect rotter. My father’s uncle tried to help us, but he died too. Mama died six

months ago.”

“And your mother’s family was from the East End as well?”
“She never told me,” Franny said. “All she would say is that her parents didn’t like

Papa because he worked in a warehouse. So when she married him anyway, they

disowned her. I never met her parents. Papa only had his brother.”

“I see,” Alexandra said absently. “And now you’ve met Phillip.”
“Yes, my lady.” Franny smiled at him, but said no more and Phillip gave her full

marks for saying nothing about their arrangement to someone she had just met, even if

she was Phillip’s friend.

“Well, I think it best if we told the Laramores that you are the granddaughter of my

late husband’s groundskeeper in Lancashire,” Alexandra said finally. “I don’t think

anyone at the party will have known him, so we’ll be safe. I’ll say I’ve always had an

affection for you and that I decided to treat you to holiday in London before you go to

train at a teacher’s seminary. Will that suit?”

“Most excellently,” Phillip said. He took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and

noted the time. “I’m going to leave Franny with you for the afternoon so you can coach

her on her ‘background’. I have an appointment with my solicitor and then with my

banker. Can you take her back to my rooms when you’re finished?”

Alexandra nodded. “Of course. We can’t have her riding alone in a hackney cab.”
“Thank you, Phillip,” Franny said. “I won’t disappoint you tonight, I promise.”
Damn both his solicitor and his banker for their “must see you today” notes. The

old biddies of the ton were less fussy than the two men who demanded his presence in

their chambers when all he wanted was to be alone with Franny. Their lovemaking after

returning from the Laramores’ had been a delicious feast of long, slow kisses over each

other’s bodies. The taste of her skin had very nearly branded itself on his lips so that

even when tasting something else, it lingered on his mouth.

“I’m sure this won’t take more than two hours,” Alexandra said. “You’re sure you

have no objections, Miss Talbot?”

“None at all, my lady.”
For the first time since Franny had entered the room, Alexandra smiled. “I assume

her new wardrobe has something fitting for tonight. Shall I send over my hairdresser

for her?”

“Franny styles her own hair,” Phillip said proudly.
“Does she indeed? Well, we mustn’t keep you waiting, Phillip. Excuse me for just a

moment, Miss Talbot.”

Temporary Mistress

Alexandra rose and escorted Phillip into the outer parlor, closing the door behind

her. “I hope you’ve jewelry for tonight as well?” she asked. “You can’t have her going

to the Laramores’ without at least a necklace and matching earrings.”

“I’ll not have her turned into a peacock, even if we are dining with a duke and his

lady,” Phillip said. “But I’ve already bought her the earrings. I’ll purchase a necklace as

well.”

Alexandra’s eyes narrowed again. “Be careful, Phillip,” she warned. “Don’t leave

Franny with too many memoires. She just might want to make your arrangement

permanent.”

“Nonsense,” Phillip said, taking his coat and hat from the footman. “Franny

understands all this is temporary.”

“We’ll see,” Alexandra said, as he opened the front door. “We’ll see.”

* * * * *

Sweet heaven, she’s beautiful. Phillip stared at the sleeping Franny, face against the

pillows and the sheets sprawled at her feet, exposing her beautiful, tightly rounded

rump and long, slender legs. A smile creased her lips and she expelled a long peaceful

sigh. Her eyelids trembled, then fluttered to open and look up at him. Her smile

widened and she yawned. “’Lo, Phillip. Your meetings lasted a long time.”

Too damn long. “Were you waiting for me?” he asked, ridding himself of his coat

and cravat before coming to stand beside the bed.

She rolled over and raised her arms above her head, showing off her breasts to

perfection. “Wasn’t much else to do,” she yawned again.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, pulling off his shoes and stockings and casting them

aside. Beneath his breeches his cock ached, straining against the fabric, demanding to be

freed and find its way into her waiting sweetness.

All trace of sleepiness vanished from her eyes. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Good,” he replied, putting his hand on the breeches’ buttons.
“Wait,” she said, sitting up. “Will you let me do that?”
Pleasure, hot and fast, slammed into Phillip, and he lifted his hands. “As my lady

wishes.”

She scooted forward on the bed, her breasts swaying, full and luscious and waiting

for his mouth. Her fingers undid the buttons in a maddeningly slow fashion, serving to

harden him further. He slid his hands into her ebony curls. “Wench,” he muttered.

“Why are you taking so long?”

“Sometimes waiting for something makes having it all the sweeter,” she teased.

“My mother used to say waiting for pudding to finish steaming would make finally

eating it all the sweeter.”

Cecily French

But the last button was reached and she tugged the breeches down past his arse to

his ankles and Phillip kicked out of them. His member sprang free and she sighed in

appreciation. “Lord, Phillip, you’re a lovely man,” she praised, taking him in her hand.

“Who’d have thought a cock could be so pretty?” Her other hand slid around to cup his

bottom’s left cheek. “And your bum is just perfect. Nice and tight.”

“Lots of horseback riding,” he said through gritted teeth as her hand began to move

his cock up and down. His fingers curled in her hair and he gasped, “Put your mouth

on me.”

“Move back,” she whispered. “So I can try to take all of you.”
He did as she said and she knelt on the floor before him. She hefted his ballocks in

her hand while her mouth carefully surrounded him, moving back and forth as her

tongue slid over the cock’s turgid skin while her teeth gently nipped at him. Phillip

ground his heels into the carpet as his heart slammed into his ribs, threatening to buckle

his knees and send him to the floor beside her.

“Damn,” he moaned, feeling his seed surging to the end of his penis. “Franny.

Franny.”

She extracted her mouth from him. “You taste so good, Phillip,” she said. “Salty

and spicy and warm.”

“I need to be inside you, Franny,” he rasped, pulling her to her feet and gently

lowering her back onto the bed. “I need to be inside you now.”

She nestled against the pillows and opened her legs.
Taking one of his hands, she placed it under the thatch of curls. Her juices flowed

over it. “I’m ready for you, Phillip,” she said softly.

He had to taste her before he entered her. Had to have that sweetness running over

his tongue. Had to hear her scream as she approached the pinnacle of her arousal then

gasp again as he slid into her folds and have her clamp her muscles around him in a

tight, exquisite grip.

He moved down the bed and propped himself on his elbows before spreading her

legs to enjoy the feast. The heat from her folds warmed his mouth and his tongue found

the waiting bud, hard and tight. She began to squirm, but he held her in place as he

continued to nibble and eat.

“Phillip,” she panted. “Phillip, please.”
“Please, what?” he murmured as he licked every drop of her juice. “Stop? Don’t

stop?”

“You’re a fiend,” she gasped again. “I want you inside me now.”
His penis throbbing warned he needed to do as she asked, but he couldn’t resist

returning her tease. “Don’t you want me to use my fingers?

“No, fiend. Your cock inside me. Please?”

Temporary Mistress

“As my lady wishes.” And Phillip drove himself into her with such force that her

hips lifted off the bed and her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling his shaft deep

inside her. She screamed and grabbed his bottom as if it would drive him deeper.

He began to pump, burying his face against hers, breathing in their mingled sweat

and essence. Her moans racked his body as her hips and bottom moved in time to his

thrusts until he was gasping for air, his lungs nearly bursting with the effort of loving

her.

Then as her scream signaled her completion, he pulled out and once more gave his

seed to the sheets.

Cecily French

Chapter Eleven

“So where is she, Mary?” Oliver lowered his knife from in front of the woman’s

eyes to her throat and placed the tip against the jugular. “Where is Franny Talbot?”

The redheaded woman started to sink to the filth-encrusted alley cobblestones, but

Oliver grabbed her by her collar and hauled her up. “I said, where is she?”

“I-I don’t know,” Mary quavered, her eyes frozen wide with terror.
“You’re lying,” Oliver accused. “I had it from Alice at the Black Dog that Franny

was at Madam Terez’s house ten days ago. You’ve worked there for years. Did you see

that little bitch or not?”

“I—”
Oliver moved the blade’s tip a fraction across Mary’s throat and a stream of blood

from freshly cut skin dribbled from the wound, running down her neck and seeping

into the frayed collar of her dress. The scent of it mingled with that of Mary’s fear

threatened to arouse Oliver. He liked women to be afraid of him, to have them beg for

mercy before he screwed them, but Mary wasn’t worth undoing his breeches for.

“I’ll cut your tits and throat as sure as I’m standing here,” he promised. “London

won’t miss one old whore.”

“Awright,” Mary gulped. “Franny Talbot went off with Viscount Danbury.”
“Danbury?” Oliver hissed. “Are you sure?”
“I was right there when Terez offered her to his lordship.” Mary’s voice took on a

defensive note. “Swear to God, she did.”

“What else?” Oliver pressed the knife to her throat again.
“I swear that’s all I know! Danbury took her straight out of there. Ain’t heard

nuttin’ else ’bout no Franny Talbot and if Madam knows anything, she ain’t talkin’.”

“And you ain’t gonna be talking either,” Oliver warned. “Not if you want to keep

that pretty tongue in your mouth. Kinda hard for a whore to suck a man’s cock without

it.”

This time Oliver let her fall. Weeping, Mary grabbed his knees, terror screwing her

features into a hard, ugly mask.

“Please, Oliver,” she begged, shoving a lock of unkempt hair from her face. “I won’t

say nuttin’, I swear I won’t. Just don’t hurt me.”

“I’ll be watching you, Mary,” he said, holding up the knife as satisfaction at his

power over her raced along his skin. “I’ve got eyes and ears all ’round this part of

London. You can piss wrong and I’m gonna know about it. One false step and I won’t

stop with your tongue.”

Temporary Mistress

“I’ll be quiet,” she panted. “I hear anything else, I’ll find you and tell you.”
“Good girl,” he said. Abruptly he jerked her head back and sawed off a loose strand

of hair. Mary screamed, but a hard slap sent her sprawling to the cobblestones again,

sobbing into the dirt. After giving her a savage kick to the ribs, Oliver returned the knife

to its sheath and sauntered out of the alley. Time to find his contact with the news of

Franny Talbot’s whereabouts and to get a promise that when the gent was finished with

her, he would leave what remained of her to Oliver.

* * * * *

“Lord Phillip Graves, Viscount Danbury, Lady Alexandra Fortescue and Miss

Francesca Talbot,” the butler intoned.

Moving her head ever so slightly to feel the brush of her new pendant diamond

earrings against her skin, for the last time, Franny inhaled silently, placed her gloved

hand on Phillip’s arm and walked into the drawing room. Heads turned and for a

moment fear nearly stilled her progress, but she found no recognition on the men’s

faces.

Of course, gentlemen of the ton would hardly be likely to frequent Madam Terez’s

establishment, especially married ones. Everyone in whoring London knew she didn’t

hold with adultery and saw herself as offering training to young bachelors and comfort

to widowers. And she’d bet her last farthing, none of these men would diddle an East

End dolly mop.

“Steady.” Phillip’s murmur caressed her ear. “You’re doing splendidly.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed back.
“And I’m glad you chose that gown.” Franny felt his eyes roam over her rose-

colored dress. “It makes your skin shimmer like porcelain. But I wish you’d worn the

necklace I bought you.”

Franny touched the simple locket on the chain around her neck. “This belonged to

my mother,” she whispered. “I always wear it on special occasions.”

But perhaps she should have worn the diamond necklace Phillip had purchased.

Lady Fortescue’s questioning stare had lingered on the necklace when she inspected

Franny’s ensemble.

“Ah, Danbury.” A dark-haired man wearing a golden brocaded coat came forward.

“Delighted to see you again. You also, Miss Talbot.”

“Your Grace.” Franny’s knees dipped into a curtsy.
“And Lady Fortescue,” the duke continued. “Our party is now complete. Come,

Miss Talbot. Let me introduce you to our other guests.”

Franny took his extended arm and for the next half-hour allowed herself to be

introduced to some of the ton’s brightest members. Lady Alexandra followed, filling in

the details of Franny’s “history” so all Franny had to do was comment on her delight of

being in London for the first time under Lady Alexandra’s care.

Cecily French

And to her amazement, no one questioned it or asked for more information than

was offered. Everyone was satisfied that a wealthy solicitor’s widow—a solicitor who

had taken care of the affairs of every man present—should choose to introduce the

granddaughter of the late of Sir Harold Fortescue’s groundskeeper to Society.

“She’s lovely,” one woman commented as the duke walked Franny toward his wife,

who sat waiting on a corner sofa.

“Here you are, my dear,” the duke said. “You and Miss Talbot must get to know

each other better.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and added, “I’m afraid, Miss

Talbot, my wife’s nerves are still on edge after this afternoon. Her doctor insists she not

allow herself to become excited this evening, so you must keep her company for a bit

and get better acquainted.”

“I would be delighted, Your Grace,” Franny told him.
She watched him stroll back to stand next to Phillip and Lady Alexandra before

giving her attention to the duchess. Tears sparkled in the woman’s eyes and the lump

stood out in her throat.

“My dearest Miss Talbot,” she whispered, “I don’t know how I can begin to thank

you. We waited for years, the duke and I, to have a son. We have three daughters that

we adore, but—”

“You can’t leave them the title,” Franny finished. “We were all only too happy to

help.”

The duchess opened the fan dangling from her wrist and applied it in a trembling

motion. “You understand the importance of what happened today not being made

public?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Franny said. “You have my solemn vow I’ll never breathe a

word of it.”

“How can we reward you?” the duchess asked. “You have only to name it.”
Franny darted a glance at the other guests, who were listening to Phillip’s account

of trying to control a runaway horse. No one was paying them the least attention, so

taking hold of her courage, Franny patted her hostess on the arm.

“There’s no need for that, Your Grace,” she said. “The most important thing is that

your son is home safe and sound.”

Fortunately the sound of the pianoforte starting muffled the duchess’ sob and they

gave their attention to the woman in a blue dress playing a lively tune. She played

several other selections to generous applause before the butler returned to announce

dinner.

And for the rest of the evening, Francesca Talbot chatted and mixed with London’s

elite, listening more than she talked, feeling all the while Phillip’s gaze upon her as he

stood just beyond her reach.

But when their eyes met, a shiver of delight coursed over her skin. He was pleased

with her. She had not embarrassed him and she silently released a sigh of relief.

Temporary Mistress

And then too soon it was over and they were climbing back into Phillip’s carriage,

with their host following them down the front steps of their great mansion.

“I hope we may see you again soon, Miss Talbot,” the duke said, closing the

carriage door. “Danbury, don’t be a stranger. Lady Alexandra, you are always welcome

here.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Franny said. “It was an honor to have met both you and

your lady.”

He bowed and then raised his head. Even in the faint moonlight, Franny could see

the play of emotion on his face as he struggled to keep his composure.

“Rather it is I who thank you,” he said at last. “All of you.”
He bowed again and the carriage pulled forward. Franny let out a long breath and

looked across at Phillip. “Well?” she asked.

The sparkle in his eyes was unlike any she had seen during their short

acquaintance. Admiration, satisfaction and something very like affection blended

together to start a surging of something dangerously like love in Franny’s heart.

Love for Phillip. Foolish and impossible though it was, she was falling in love with

Phillip Graves, Viscount Danbury.

But he only smiled and said, “Well done, Francesca. Well done indeed.”
“More than well done, I should say,” interjected Lady Alexandra. “Franny has

charmed the ton like no young lady I have ever known. No giggling, no simpering, no

silliness. It’s a triumph.”

“Thank you.” Franny’s cheeks burned at their praise.
The carriage pulled to a stop at Lady Alexandra’s home. Phillip got out and helped

her to the sidewalk, and Franny leaned forward as he started to shut the door.

“Thank you for your help, Lady Alexandra,” she said. “I’ll never forget this night.”
“My friends call me Alexandra, Franny,” the older woman said. “It was my distinct

pleasure. Good night.”

Phillip escorted her up the front steps and then returned to climb in beside Franny.

The horses trotted forward and a comfortable silence filled the coach’s interior. After a

quiet moment, Franny asked shyly, “Do you really think it went well tonight?”

“It couldn’t have been better if we’d planned it,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if

the Duke doesn’t try to reward you in some way.”

“Then you don’t think he knows that I’m-I’m a—”
Franny’s voice faltered.
“What you are, Franny, is the victim of circumstances not of your making.” Phillip’s

eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Which is why I think that for our remaining time

together, we should simply be friends. I will not have you think I’ve taken advantage of

you.”

Cecily French

“You haven’t,” Franny protested. “You needed a temporary mistress. I understood

that. And you’re offering me a way out of life on the streets or even a place like Madam

Terez’s. I can’t let you do that and not offer you something in exchange.” Tears pricked

her eyes. “And you’ve been good to me, Phillip. The clothes, the theater, all that. I’ll

have memories I’ll treasure all my life. You’ve saved my life.”

He leaned forward and taking her hand, raised it to his mouth. Even with the

barrier of gloves, the heat from his mouth seared through the cloth, starting a craving

need to be in his arms, being filled by him.

“Well,” he said at last. “We’ll see. But for tonight at least, I think we’ll retire to our

chambers without the usual coupling.”

An unfamiliar note in his voice sent a frisson of unease crawling up Franny’s spine.

“What’s wrong?”

He made a face. “I shouldn’t have sampled three kinds of His Grace’s port after

dinner. I’d forgotten more than one small glass of the stuff gives me a headache.”

“Oh dear,” Franny said sympathetically. “Perhaps some chamomile tea would

help.”

“I think not.” He paused and gave her a wolfish smile. “But I’ll make it up to you

tomorrow, if you like.”

Even after all their couplings, he could still make her blush, and grateful for the

darkness hiding her face, Franny simply said, “As my lord Viscount wishes.”

* * * * *

“She’s dead, my lord. She’s dead.”
“And my son?”
“Him too. I’m sorry.”
“No. No. NO!” The strangled cry ripped from Phillip’s throat. “Sweet Jesus, NO!”

Gasping for air, he pushed aside the sheets and tumbled onto the floor. Terror and

agony clawed at his insides, sending him to his knees, and he curled into a ball against

the bed, wrapping his arms around his trembling legs.

They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. The ancient words beat with the force of a

battlefield drum in Phillip’s memory while his heart threatened to shatter into countless

pieces as he fell again into the old, fathomless chasm. A chasm without light or warmth

or any hope of escape.

“No,” he whispered, clutching at his nightshirt-covered knees as sweat mixed with

tears ran down his face. “They can’t be dead. They mustn’t be dead. Not my wife. Not

my son.”

“Phillip?” A gentle voice called just out of his reach.

Temporary Mistress

“You had to take them both?” Phillip shouted to the darkness surrounding him.

“Both? What kind of God does that to a man? Is that how you run your Universe?

Damn you, sir!”

“Phillip,” the voice called again. “I’m here, Phillip.” A soft hand touched his arm

and a tiny spark of warmth flickered over his skin. “I’m here, Phillip.”

“They’re dead,” he said to the voice. “My wife and son. They’re dead.”
“I know, dearest, I know.”
“I should have done something,” he choked. “I should have saved them.”
“You’re not a doctor,” the voice soothed. “What could you have done?”
“If one had been spared— Why wasn’t one spared?”
“I don’t know, dearest.” The voice’s owner moved to sit beside him and gather him

into her arms. “If I could wish them back, I would. I’m so sorry, Phillip. So terribly

sorry.”

“Franny?” he whispered. “Franny?”
“Yes, Phillip. I’m here.” Lips brushed his forehead in a whispering caress. “I’ll stay

as long as you need me.”

And by some magic, perhaps the magic of just pronouncing her name, the field of

darkness parted to show Franny beside him, her eyes made brilliant by the unshed tears

pooled in them. She brushed the sweat-soaked strands back from his forehead and

kissed it again.

“Let me help you back into bed,” she urged, tugging on his arm. “You’ll be more

comfortable there.”

Moonlight spread around them, covering the carpet with a shimmering radiance,

helping to drive away Phillip’s personal darkness. With a strength that belied her

slender form, Franny pulled him up and onto the bed, tugging at his arms until he

rested against the pillows.

“There,” she said, pulling the sheets around him. “Let me get you something cool to

drink.”

His heart’s rampaging tempo slowed as she went to the dressing table and poured

water from a jug into a tumbler. Carrying it back, she placed it in his now-stilled hands.

“No more port before bed for you,” she teased.

Phillip drained the tumbler’s contents in long, slow swallows before gasping,

“Thank you.”

She took the tumbler. “More?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I’ll let you get some rest.” She started to stand.
“No,” Phillip repeated, taking the tumbler from her and putting it on the floor.

“Stay with me, please? Just sleep with me?”

Cecily French

Surprise parted her lips and the tears returned to her eyes. But she nodded and

said, “As my lord wishes.”

Phillip moved to make room for her and she crawled beneath the sheets beside him.

He scooted them both down so her head came to rest in the space on his shoulder

designed for just that. She wrapped her arm around his chest and he breathed in her

floral scent, sensuous and sweet. He breathed in again and this time he did not fear as

the returning darkness soothed him into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

“Are you nervous?”
Phillip’s question tore Franny’s exploration away from the surrounding landscape.

Declaring the day too beautiful to ride in a closed carriage, they had lowered the top

once outside London to allow for maximum enjoyment of their hour’s journey.

More like my heart’s breaking. For in three days’ time, her arrangement with Phillip

would be over. She’d have for herself a small fortune and the means to start a brand

new life.

A life without Phillip.
“A bit,” she admitted. “After all, you say you’ve not seen the other ladies coming to

the house party. And the judges, when do they arrive?”

“Not until the last night,” he said. “This weekend is mostly about enjoying oneself.

Now, you must understand that the other guests will be watching the contestants in an

informal way. They have no vote, but they will give the judges their opinions. Are you

going to tell me what talent you’re going to demonstrate?”

“No,” Franny said. “But you can bet I won’t be playing the piano or harp. And you

really don’t want me to sing. Sounds like a cat with its paw caught in a mangle.”

He chuckled. “But I’ve heard you humming,” he said. “Surely your singing voice

can’t be so bad.”

“Trust me,” Franny said firmly. “It is. You’ll just have to wait and be surprised.”
She turned her head to stare at the trees while she mentally recited the passage of

Shakespeare she had memorized. Hard to do with Phillip always around.

It had been especially hard because since his nightmare, his ardor toward her had

increased. Marathon lovemaking had filled their days, and when they weren’t in bed,

he was telling her about his boyhood, university days and finally the death of his wife

and infant son.

But between the lovemaking and the confessions, Phillip was exhausted and fell

asleep earlier than usual, giving Franny enough time to creep into the library and read

by candlelight. She hoped he would approve of her choice.

Phillip leaned forward and pointed. “If you look over the trees, you’ll see Amos

Quincy’s house.”

Temporary Mistress

“Oh my,” Franny gasped, glancing at the turrets. “Does Mr. Quincy live in a castle,

Phillip?”

“No,” he said, laughing. “But he had the turrets built so he could pretend that he

does.”

She squeezed his arm. “I’ll make you proud of me, Phillip,” she said, repeating her

old promise.

“I know you will,” he said patting her hand. “Ah, here’s the driveway.”
The horses surged ahead as if catching their excitement. They rounded the drive’s

curve and came to stop at the steps of large, yellow-brick mansion. A man in a brocaded

coat waited at the foot of the steps.

“Hallo, Danbury!” he shouted, unfolding the carriage’s steps ahead of the

coachmen. “I was up in the tower and saw you coming in my new telescope! Is this

your lady?”

If only I were. Franny swallowed the lump in her throat.
“She is,” Phillip said, climbing out and helping Franny down. “Amos Quincy, may I

present Miss Francesca Talbot. Francesca, this is Mr. Amos Quincy.”

Franny curtsied. “Mr. Quincy,” she said.
“My dear, Miss Talbot, the pleasure is distinctly mine.” Mr. Quincy bowed. “Gad,

Phillip, wherever do you find your women? If it were up to me, I’d declare Miss Talbot

the winner right now.” He gave Franny a friendly wink and added, “That’s only

because as host of the party, I can’t offer a contestant. Strictly against the rules.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that score, Amos,” Phillip agreed. “But now,

I’m for something to drink. What say you, Francesca?”

“That would be nice,” Franny agreed. “And then perhaps a look at Mr. Quincy’s

gardens?”

“How do you know I have gardens?”
Franny spread her hands. “How could someone live in the country and not have

gardens?” she asked. “Especially on such a beautiful estate such as this?”

Mister Quincy roared with laughter. “By Gad,” he gasped. “You’ve found a jewel,

Phillip. Yes, my dear. We’ll look at the gardens and the maze too. Have you ever played

hide-and-seek in a maze?”

“No,” Franny admitted. “But it sounds like great fun.”
“Is everything in order for this weekend?” Phillip asked as Mr. Quincy took Franny

by the arm and guided her up the steps. “Did you find Grimsley’s replacement?”

“Sent one himself and swears to his honesty, so all will be well,” Amos assured.

“Come, Miss Talbot. Let me show you your rooms. I’ve a maid waiting to take care of

you as Phillip said you would not be bringing your own.”

“He said you would do that,” Franny said before Phillip could answer. “It was very

kind of you.”

Cecily French

The appreciative twinkle in Phillip’s eyes nearly made her laugh out loud. Nice

touch, the twinkle seemed to say.

After they were shown to their rooms—joined by a dressing room—and introduced

to their maid and valet, Mr. Quincy left them alone “to freshen up”.

“Or anything else you might have in mind,” he said, giving them a sly wink. “No

one else has arrived yet, so there’s no sense in serving a meal. My cook would have

forty fits if I asked for luncheon for three when there are far more people due to arrive.”

“Yes, perhaps a quick nap before they arrive,” Phillip said smoothly and Franny bit

back her giggle. “And then you can show us your gardens.”

“And the maze,” Franny added.
“I’d be honored.” Chuckling, Mr. Quincy left, closing the door and leaving them

alone.

“A nap, my lord?” Franny affected a bewildered tone. “Are we tired?”
“Tired of waiting to take you to bed,” he growled, stripping off his coat and tossing

it aside. “Do you have any idea of how lovely you look in that yellow dress?”

“I think you’d rather see me without it,” she teased.
“Thank God for a woman with a grasp of the obvious,” he said, crooking his finger.

“Come here, my Franny.”

She joined him and soon their clothing began to litter the carpet.
“Wait,” Phillip whispered as she started to roll down her stockings. “Leave them

on. I have a hankering to do you in those stockings.”

He brushed his mouth over her ear and his breath’s warmth started a throbbing

between Franny’s legs and tightening her nipples to a dull ache. His fingers slid

between her thighs and she whimpered in anticipation.

“You’re already so warm, my Franny,” he sighed. “So beautifully warm and wet.

Do you know how much that excites me?”

“Show me,” she gasped, her breaths coming in bursts.
He guided her hand to his cock and it throbbed against her palm. “This much,” he

groaned. “I thought I would kill Amos for just touching your arm. No one touches you

but me, Franny. No one.”

“Then touch me,” she gasped again. “Everywhere. My bum, my nubbin, my

breasts, my honey pot. Everywhere.”

He pulled her to him, burying another groan in her neck as he picked her up and

eased himself inside her. His length filled her until she wanted to scream at just the feel

of him. “Oh, Phillip. You feel so good. So good and wonderfully hard.”

“Do you want me to take you standing up?” He moved his mouth against her ear,

his tongue tracing the edges while his hands cupped her bottom, holding her fast

against him.

“The bed.”

Temporary Mistress

“Not the floor? The bureau?” His wink made Quincy’s earlier one look like a

schoolboy’s. “Or maybe the table?”

“The bed,” she insisted. “I’m not an acrobat.”
“As my Franny wishes.” He walked the few steps necessary and laid them down,

still joined, into the waiting sheets.

“That valet must have known what we were going to do,” Franny sighed as

Phillip’s mouth caressed her eyelids. “Had the bed turned down and everything.”

“I’ll have Amos raise his salary,” Phillip said, wriggling his hips against hers to

increase her already rapid breathing. “What do you want me to touch first?”

“Surprise me,” Franny moaned, feeling him quiver inside her. “But you better be

quick ’cause I don’t think I want you out of me for too long.”

“Ah, but Franny.” A proprietary gleam shone in his eyes. “No one will be here for

hours yet. I intend to feast on every delicious inch of you slowly until you’re ready to

beg for me to be inside you again. You’re going to have to hold back your coming as

long as you can because I’m going to make love to you like I never have before.”

“Then do it,” Franny begged. “Please.”
Give me another memory. One to last when you’re gone. Make love to me as if you did love

me.

And to her delight, he did. His clever mouth and fingers stroked and pulled and

suckled. His lips fastened onto her nipples for a long, slow taste while his hand covered

her mound just before he moved down to place his mouth on her, his tongue flickering

against the swollen point of flesh buried beneath her folds.

“Ahhh,” Franny rasped. “Oh, Phillip.”
“Does that feel good, my sweet Franny?” he murmured, his mouth barely slowing

in its work.

“You know it does, you fiend,” she sighed, her hands threading through his hair.

“Oh. Ohhh.”

“Good,” he echoed and Franny swallowed her scream as his tongue lapped against

her.

He raised his head. “I’m going to kiss you now, Franny. I want you to taste your

juices on my mouth. I want to show you just how much you excite me.”

“Yes,” she agreed, tugging on his arms. “But I want you inside me when you do.

Please, Phillip. I can’t wait much longer.”

He moved and slid into her with a maddening slowness, just before his mouth

covered hers and she tasted herself imprinted on his mouth. “I taste good, don’t I?” she

whispered.

“Food for the gods,” he whispered back. “I could eat it for days and days.”
I would let you eat it forever if you would only ask me to stay, darling Phillip.

Cecily French

She arched her back and pulled him into her while reaching for his ballocks,

cradling them in her hand.

“Wench!” he gasped. “Ah, Franny, what you do to me.”
“Show me,” she said again. “Show me.”
She moved her hand and he pulled back to thrust into her again and again and

again. All chance of a slow, lazy tryst vanished as passion met need in a blinding frenzy

of skin on skin and hips working against hips until the precipice loomed, sending them

over the sides in a maelstrom, their twin screams ringing in their ears and Phillip pulled

free.

Temporary Mistress

Chapter Twelve

“And finally, we have a recitation from Shakespeare by Miss Francesca Talbot,” Mr.

Quincy announced.

“What? No more singing or playing the pianoforte?” one of the guests called.
“I’m afraid not,” Franny said. “You want to continue enjoying yourselves, don’t

you?”

The guests laughed and Franny flushed in pleasure at the approval on Phillip’s face.

All of yesterday and today had been like a lovely dream and any fear she had about the

other contestants vanished upon meeting them. All three were as gracious as they were

lovely and seemed to have no ambition greater than simply enjoying themselves.

“After all,” Violet, Gregory Keller’s contestant had said, “the gentlemen’s

contributions to the winner’s purse winds up going to the charity of their choice.”

“That’s right,” Susannah, Brandon Hightower’s contestant agreed. “And we all get

lovely new clothes.”

“You’re such a fashion plate, Susannah,” had teased Abigail, Anthony Dyson’s

contestant.

Susannah had laughed. “Well, Brandon has to spend his money on something,” she

said. “It might as well go to making me look good. He’s generous in that regard. And I

must say Franny, Phillip’s taste in clothing for you is magnificent.”

Franny blushed. “Thank you,” she said. No reason to tell them the clothing had

originally been intended for someone else. After all, Phillip had bought it, so that made

it hers.

“And I can’t remember the last time I saw Phillip so relaxed,” Violet said. “He’s

been smiling. Really smiling. You are obviously very good for him, Franny. Too bad it

won’t last.”

Franny had swallowed the tremor rising in her throat before asking, “Why do say

that?”

“Oh, my dear, half of London knows that you are a—how should I put this—a fill-

in for Phillip’s next mistress, Lucia Hampson.” Violet gave her a sympathetic look.

“More’s the pity, because Lucia is a perfect bitch. But her lovemaking skills are rumored

to have no equal. Pity men think more with their cocks than with their heads.”

“There ought to be more to being a man’s mistress than just being able to give him a

good fuck,” Susannah agreed with an unladylike snort. “I mean, you have to get out of

bed sometime.”

“And I heard Lucia had been boasting she’s got Phillip by the balls and intends to

be sure he keeps his coming arrangement with her,” Abigail said. “And unfortunately

Cecily French

it’s true, because Phillip always keeps his word. He’d be better off with you, Franny, if

what my eyes tell me is true.”

“And what is that?” Franny had whispered.
“Because you love him,” Abigail said simply. “I’ve known most of Phillip’s

mistresses. They’ve been fond of him in their fashion, but they’ve not loved him.” She

had looked at the other women for their nodding confirmation before continuing. “You

do. It shines through you. I’m so sorry, my dear. Phillip buried his heart years ago. You

may have come closer to unearthing it than anyone ever has, but in the end, he’ll go

back to his old life, keeping a mistress for five months before finding a new one and

starting all over again.”

“Come now, Miss Talbot, don’t keep us waiting,” Mr. Quincy urged. “Do let us

hear your ‘Romeo, Romeo’. Or are you going to give us the tamed shrew Kate’s

speech?”

Heart beating in quickstep tempo, Franny stood and walked to the center of the

large room to face the guests. Far in the back sat the four masked judges. They had

arrived that morning and according to the rules of the contest, had remained masked,

keeping silent while mingling with the guests.

If not for Phillip’s encouragement at how well she was doing, the idea of being

judged by men wearing three-quarter masks would have made Franny uneasy. One of

them in particular gave her the chills, but she didn’t know why. All of them, according

to Mister Quincy, were men of good character.

But now everyone was waiting on her. She stopped and her searching gaze found

Phillip’s smiling face. Speak to him, said her heart. Speak to him as if you were the only two

people in the room. She returned his smile, took a deep breath and began. “The quality of

mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place

beneath. It is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes…”

Portia’s gentle plea from The Merchant of Venice filled the room and Franny’s voice,

quiet at first, caressed the words, becoming lush as her confidence grew. Her eyes shone

in perfect assurance of her knowledge of her speech and Phillip’s throat tightened. She

was magnificent, this temporary mistress of his. A jewel plucked from the hell of the

East End and no one here was the wiser.

“But mercy is above the sceptred sway; it is an attribute to God himself. And

earthly power doth then show likest God’s when mercy seasons justice.”

Her voice stopped and she inclined her head just as applause thundered through

the room.

Quincy was openly wiping his eyes. “By damn, Danbury,” he choked under the

continuing applause. “When you’re done with that gel, I’ll take her off your hands.

Might even offer to marry her.”

“Not tonight,” Phillip warned. “Not tonight.”

Temporary Mistress

As the applause died away and Franny returned to her chair among the other

contestants, Amos stood. “Well, I think that should do it,” he said. “The judges have

already told me they have evaluated our contestants on everything else except the talent

portion. We’ll give them ten minutes to decide and then we’ll announce our winner.

Ladies, if you don’t mind waiting on the verandah?”

Nodding, the contestants rose and left the room through the French doors. In the

back, the judges also left, leaving the guests to mingle and compare their own notes.

“Miss Violet sang beautifully,” noted one.
“As did Miss Abigail,” said another. “And her touch on the pianoforte was quite

fine.”

“And I’ll swear that all the angels in heaven swooned when Miss Susannah played

the harp,” argued a man in brilliantly patterned waistcoat.

“All the ladies did admirably,” Amos put in diplomatically. “Any one of them

could easily be La Belle Dame. Ah, here are refreshments!” He gestured at the footmen

setting bottles of champagne on a large table. “Let’s drink to all the ladies, beauties all,

and then when the judges have done their duty we’ll drink to the—”

Screams from the verandah split the air. The guests charged toward the still-open

French doors as Violet, Abigail and Susannah stumbled back into the room, eyes wide

with terror.

“Amos!” gasped Violet. “It’s Franny. She’s—”
“Where’s Franny?” Phillip demanded, pushing his way through the people around

her.

“That man has her.” Abigail’s breaths came in short bursts. “One of the judges.”
“The tall one,” a trembling Susannah added. “He had a knife and he—”
“He what?” Phillip roared. “What did he do with Franny?”
“He put the knife to her throat and forced her down the steps and into the maze,”

Susannah gulped. “Oh Amos, I think he’s going to kill her. He said he would make her

pay for cutting his face.”

Recalling Franny’s description of her escape from Oliver Sidlow, bile flooded

Phillip’s mouth. The judge must be the man who had raped Franny so violently that

she’d disfigured him with a paring knife. How in hell had he found her? “Who is that

judge, Amos?”

“Thomas Caunaught,” Amos said grimly. “Second son to the Earl of Pennington.

Grimsley said he’d make a good judge.”

“I’ve heard rumors something had happened to Caunaught,” Gregory Keller said.

“He hasn’t been seen in weeks.”

“And he runs with a rough crowd,” Anthony added. “But why would Franny cut

his face?”

Cecily French

“Because the bastard raped her,” Phillip snarled. “After her father sold her to a

whore-master. Caunaught must have learned Franny was under my protection. Easy

enough to learn where I would be this weekend.”

“For God’s sake, it doesn’t matter why!” Abigail shouted. “We’ve got to save

Franny.”

“Caunaught not only has the advantage of darkness,” Amos said, “but he’s played

hide-and-seek in the maze by moonlight more than once. He’ll easily find his way out.”

“Well, so can I,” Phillip said. “Let’s hope Caunaught’s memory fails him. Are the

torches in the maze lit?”

Amos nodded. “I’d thought we’d play hide-and-seek after the contest was over.

Didn’t want the ladies to get lost and become frightened.”

“Then let’s go,” Phillip ordered. “If Caunaught puts so much as a scratch on

Franny, his face isn’t the only thing I’m going to cut.”

He bounded through the French doors, nearly stumbling down the verandah stairs

in his haste.

“We couldn’t have saved them, my lord. Nothing could.”
The ancient words that had destroyed his life rang in his head. Back then, there had

been nothing he could have done to save the ones he loved.

But now after years of blocking his heart, love pounded there again. Love for the

dark-haired beauty who had agreed to be his temporary mistress and who he now

hoped would agree to be so much more.

Nothing he could do to save Franny? By God, they would see about that.

* * * * *

“Where are you, you little bitch?”
Franny slapped a hand over her mouth to keep him from hearing her panicked

gasps for air. The acrid scent of her own fear filled her nostrils and she stumbled more

than once, trying to remember the directions through the maze that Mr. Quincy had

taught her this afternoon.

A fierce sense of pride shot through her. She had slammed her heeled shoe on top

of her attacker’s soft leathered one, after he dragged her off the verandah and down the

steps, giving her just enough time to for her to dash deeper into the maze. The sight of

his scarred face lent her a frisson of courage. Let Mister High-and-Mighty-Scared-Face

think twice before messing with Franny Talbot!

But now in her fear, she had dashed up and down the lanes, turning corners

without thought, until she had no idea of where the maze began or ended.

And where, oh where, was Phillip? A sob rose in her throat, but she gulped it

down. This was certainly not the way she wanted their last night to end.

Temporary Mistress

But he would come for her. Surely he would, even if it were only to be certain his

investment in her was not undone.

After all that money he had spent on her—
“Gotcha!” A powerful pair of arms grabbed her, pulling her against a thick chest. A

hot breath raked her ear as a hate-filled voice said, “I’m going to enjoy fucking you one

last time, you bitch. And you’ll be begging for mercy before I’m done with you.”

“You don’t know who you are dealing with.” Franny struggled against his iron

grip. “Phillip will come after you.”

“He won’t fuck you with his finger after I’m through with you,” the voice

promised. “Because after I carve up your face, I’m going to do the same thing to your

tits and then your twat. No man will ever touch you again.”

“Drop the knife, Caunaught!” Anthony Dyson’s voice rang from the end of the lane.

“Now!”

Caunaught. At last her attacker had a name. Caunaught.
“Go to hell, Dyson,” Caunaught shouted. “One step toward me, and I’ll gut her

before you can move.”

“You can’t win, Caunaught!” Hightower shouted back, and peering through the

torchlight at the end of the lane, Franny glimpsed a crowd of people standing behind

him and Dyson.

But where was Phillip?
“Oh, really?” Caunaught sneered. Slowly, he moved the knife at Franny’s throat,

piercing the skin and sending a trickle of blood streaming down her neck to seep into

the neckline of her dress. “That’s what I’ll start with,” he threatened. “Now unless you

want to watch me cut her again, step back.”

“You’ll not get far,” Keller added his shout. “Not with Phillip standing about five

feet behind you.”

“Don’t take me for a fool,” Caunaught sneered. “That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“Which is why it still works,” Phillip called. With years of practice, he easily threw

the knife from his boot at Caunaught’s back. It thudded through the man’s coat, driving

deep into his shoulder. Screaming, Caunaught fell forward and Franny sprang free. She

turned, eyes still wide with terror, and for a moment her gaze pinned Phillip where he

stood.

But as she slid to the ground, he lurched forward and gathered her into his arms.

“Franny,” he whispered against her hair. “Franny.”

“God, someone help me!” screamed Caunaught, trying to grab at the knife impaled

in his shoulder. “Why isn’t someone helping me instead of that bitch?”

“Gladly,” Anthony promised, bounding forward with Greg and Brandon on his

heels. Placing his foot on Caunaught’s back, he jerked the knife from his shoulder,

producing another scream and a volley of curses.

Cecily French

“Your aim was off, Phillip,” Greg scolded. “You should have aimed for the bugger’s

heart.”

“He wouldn’t have to stand trial then,” Phillip said, still cradling Franny against

him.

“Brandon, don’t you have another brother who’s a magistrate for this district living

nearby?” Anthony asked.

“I do,” Brandon said grimly. “And one who takes great offense to ladies being

mistreated, but unfortunately he’s in London.”

“She’s not a lady,” Caunaught moaned. “She’s nothing more than a fucking street

whore from Oliver Sidlow’s tribe.”

Greg stepped forward and jerked Caunaught to his feet. “Miss Talbot is a lady,” he

said pronouncing each word carefully. “Insult her again at your own risk.”

“She’s a fucking street whore,” Caunaught repeated and spat on the ground. “And I

intend to let every last member of the ton know it.”

“As you wish.” Greg’s fist to Caunaught’s nose sent the man to the ground again,

clutching his face.

“Brandon, pick the bastard up,” Anthony ordered.
“Let’s get him to a surgeon before we take him to your brother. I’ll not have him die

from blood loss before that happens. Grab his other arm, Greg.”

“My pleasure.” Greg gripped the still-moaning Caunaught and shook him like a

drowned rat. “Shut up, you bugger,” he said.

“Is Franny all right?” called Violet. Abigail and Susannah hovered behind her, the

torches’ glow showing their worried faces.

“Just fainted,” Phillip said. “Greg, you and the others take that vermin posing as a

man away.”

His friends tramped back to the lane’s opening, dragging Caunaught with them,

and the ladies followed.

“Franny, sweetheart,” Phillip choked. “Wake up. Please wake up.”
Her eyes remained closed and for a moment, panic tore through Phillip. Only the

slow rising and falling of her chest proved to him that she was alive. Gathering her up,

he stood and walked out of the maze, up the verandah steps and back into the house.

With the exception of the Rogues’ Gallery Members, the other guests had

reassembled in the room, their faces tight with anxiety. Phillip laid Franny onto a long

sofa and signaled for a snifter of brandy. Holding her up again, he held the glass to her

lips and managed to get a small amount of the liquid into her mouth. Sputtering, she sat

up and the terror returned to her eyes. “That man,” she rasped. “Caunaught? Where is

he?”

“In my wine cellar,” Amos Quincy announced. “Greg has gone for the surgeon

while Anthony and Brandon are wrapping Caunaugth’s wound. Miss Talbot, are you

quite all right?”

Temporary Mistress

She turned her gaze to Phillip, who nodded. “You’re safe now. Is Caunaught the

man who—”

He stopped, realizing they were not alone. This was not time to question her about

her attacker. But from the guests’ expressions, they had heard everything Caunaught

had said in the maze. One thing to have a mistress, quite another for her to be a street

whore.

“Everyone out,” Phillip ordered. “Franny and I need to be alone.”
“Come along, everyone,” Amos added, waving them toward the outer room.
“I’m sorry, Phillip,” Franny said after everyone had gone. Tears rolled down her

cheeks. “I’ve spoiled the party. You’ll never win the prize now.”

“Damn the prize,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s just money.”
“But now your friends know I’m a whore,” she whispered. “A street whore, not

some high-born lady. Caunaught will be sure everyone in London knows no matter

what happens to him. Men like him can’t keep their mouths shut.”

“I don’t give a damn what the ton thinks,” Phillip insisted. “I’ll bring charges

against him for trying to kill you.”

“You sit in the House of Lords,” she reminded him. “Alexandra told me that

afternoon you left us alone. Your reputation will be ruined if everyone finds out your

temporary mistress is from the streets. I can’t let that happen to you. It’s a good thing

our two weeks is almost over. You can’t let your name be sullied by the likes of me.”

“But—”
A commotion behind him drew their argument and astonishment took Phillip to his

feet. Alexandra stood in the doorway and she was not alone. A tall, dark-haired man

waited behind her, his eyes fixed on Franny. He grabbed the doorframe as if he needed

it to keep from sliding to the floor and leaned against it, breathing heavily. In the

candlelight, something about him looked vaguely familiar.

“Phillip,” Alexandra said, coming forward. “The servants said someone tried to

attack Franny. One of the judges?”

“Yes.” Phillip said, still staring at the man in doorway. “Thomas Caunaught. I put a

knife in his shoulder. Amos has locked him in the cellar until the surgeon arrives.” He

looked past her at the man and asked, “Who are you?”

Taking a deep breath, the man slowly entered and came to stand beside the sofa,

looking down at Franny. “Sweet Savior,” he said at last. “It’s Anne.”

“My name is Francesca Talbot,” Franny corrected. “And Viscount Danbury asked

you a question. Who are you?”

“I’ve good reason to believe that I am your mother’s younger brother,” the man

answered. “My name is Jermaine Sykes. Is your father Vincent Talbot?”

“He was,” Franny said, her hands bunching the fabric of her dress. “He died when I

was fifteen. My mother died six months ago. And her name was Anne, but she never

said anything about a brother or any of her family.”

Cecily French

“She wouldn’t have,” Sykes said softly. “After she eloped with Talbot, my father

disowned her. Even when my mother was on her deathbed, begging him to try to find

her only daughter, he refused. He seemed to think that it was a disgrace for a man who

owned shares in one of London’s biggest import-export firms to have a daughter who

eloped with a warehouse worker.”

“I knew Anne Sykes,” Alexandra added. “We were at finishing school together and

when you brought Franny to me, Phillip, I thought you had brought me a ghost.”

Sykes knelt beside Franny and peered at her. “You look just like her,” he said.

“Since my father died last year, I have spared no expense to try to find my sister and

any children she might have had. Seeing you, you must be her daughter.”

A wild expectant hope set Franny’s heart into a frenzied beating. “Why do you say

that?”

In answer, Sykes pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, opened it and showed

it to Franny. Taking it from him, she gasped and tears formed in her eyes. A tiny

miniature portrait of a dark-haired girl with eyes so blue they were nearly violet stared

up at her, wearing an exact replica of her own locket. “It’s my mother,” Franny

whispered. “It’s my mother.”

“Your grandmother had that painted on Anne’s sixteenth birthday,” Sykes told her.
“And I daresay the locket you’re wearing is the one—” His voice broke and he

struggled to compose himself. “The locket you are wearing is the one I gave her for the

same birthday. There can be no doubt, Miss Talbot. You are my niece.”

He stood and looked at Phillip. “Thank you for saving her, my lord. I understand

from Alexandra you took her under your protection when her life was in danger?”

“Something like that,” Phillip admitted. “And while I hate to spoil this reunion, I

need to finish talking to Franny. Alone. Amos?” he called to his friend who had silently

re-entered the room. “Did you and the others hear Caunaught insult Miss Talbot?”

“I certainly did and I’ll swear in court that Miss Talbot has been staying with

Alexandra ever since you rescued her,” Amos declared.

“And so will I,” Alexandra declared. “Everyone in the ton knows Thomas

Caunaught is a scoundrel of the worst sort. Even the Regent refused to invite him to

Carlton House, and that speaks volumes to his lack of reputation. Franny Talbot is the

long-lost niece of Jermaine Sykes, a gentleman of excellent family and character, which

makes her a lady. If Caunaught tries to claim anything else, he’ll be branded a liar. The

Duke of Laramore will see to that.”

Amos beamed at them. “Well, I think that settles the question of Miss Talbot’s

background quite nicely. Come with me, Mr. Sykes. You’ll soon learn what Phillip

Danbury wants, he gets, and right now he wants to speak with your niece alone.”

“But don’t go too far?” Franny asked her uncle, taking his hand.
“Just in the next room,” Sykes replied, a smile replacing his earlier expression of

concern.

Temporary Mistress

“Of all the people in London to have found Franny’s family, only you could have

done it, Alexandra,” Phillip said, his voice breaking. “I am forever in your debt.”

“As am I,” Sykes said.
She smiled at them. “You certainly are,” she teased. “But we’ll talk about that later.

Come, gentlemen. Let’s give them their moment alone.”

They departed and Phillip and Franny were alone again. Kneeling, he stroked her

hair. “Who says stories don’t have happy endings?”

“Yes,” Franny said grinning. Then she sat back, her mouth pursed as if she had

bitten into a lemon. “What I want to know is how did Caunaught get himself invited to

the party? If that rat Oliver had something to do with this, I’m going to feed him to the

fishes as soon as we get back to London.”

Her declaration produced a burst of laughter from Phillip. Getting to his feet, he

helped her up and twirled her around. “By heaven, you are a jewel, Franny Talbot.”

She was trembling when he stopped their mad dance and tears glistened on her

eyelashes. “I’m so sorry, Phillip,” she said. “I think I broke Rule Eleven.”

“What’s Rule Eleven?” he demanded.
“A man’s mistress never spoils the annual house party.”
“Spoiled?” Phillip said scornfully. “It will go down in history as one of the most

successful parties the Rogues’ Gallery has ever held. People will be green with envy

that they weren’t invited. “

“But what about all those rules that I’ve broken?”
As gently as he could, he took her by the arms. “Hear me now, Franny Talbot. All

other rules, broken or kept, are undone by Rule Twelve—which, by the way, is the very

last one.”

“What’s Rule Twelve?” she gulped.
“That the only rule that matters is to love one another, and only each other, from

this day forward to the end of time.” Phillip’s voice shook but his hands on her arms

were steady. “To love each other as husband and wife.”

“Husband and wife?” she repeated.
Phillip nodded. “Yes, my dearest Franny, husband and wife. Will you marry me?”
“What about that other mistress of yours?” she demanded, folding herself into his

arms. “What’s she gonna say about you not keeping your arrangement?”

“I’ll just have to remind her of another rule,” Phillip said, kissing her fingers one by

one.

“I thought you said there were no more rules after Rule Twelve,” she teased.
“Ah, but the rule I will tell Lucia isn’t mine exactly, but everyone knows it.”
Her grin set his heart dancing. “And which rule is that, my Lord Danbury?”

Cecily French

“Thou shalt not commit adultery,” he whispered. “How can I possibly have a

mistress when I’m going to marry the bravest and most beautiful woman in London

just as soon as we can get back to London and get a special license?”

“I like that rule,” she whispered back.
“Then you’ll marry me?” He squeezed her hands.
“Yes, my lord.” Franny managed to speak past the tears clogging her throat. “Yes.”
“Then let’s go back to London tonight,” he said. “Right now. Roust the Archbishop

out of bed and have him perform the rites. Your uncle and Alexandra can be our

witnesses. Then tomorrow we’ll celebrate our nuptials by finding Oliver and having

him arrested before coming back to watch Caunaught be charged for assault or

something like that.”

“But what about the contest?” Franny forced a disappointed note into her voice.

“Don’t you want stay and see who wins?”

His smile as he leaned in to kiss her was all a bride could hope for. “But my dearest

Franny,” he whispered. “I already have.”

The End

About the Author

Raised in the Southeastern United States, Cecily French grew up loving books,

classical music and the theater. When not writing sensuous and erotic romance, she

enjoys reading, going to the gym, taking care of her devoted canine companions and

wishing she could afford to hire a gardener. She currently resides in Tennessee, where

she works as a therapist.

Cecily welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email

address on her

author bio page

www.ellorascave.com

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