My Fair Mistress by Tracy Anne Warren Page A

would stay warm. A pair of delicate, engraved silver cups sat nearby, waiting to be filled. Darting a glance toward the bedroom, she saw he had made preparations there as well: a fire burning in cozy contentment, the bed’s counterpane and sheets turned back, pillows plumped in silent invitation.
    The butterfly wings in her stomach fluttered anew, a thousand strong this time. Laying a hand against her middle, she considered what it meant.
    Dear heavens, I want him. For the first time in her life she was looking forward to sleeping with a man, genuinely craving all the intimate things he would do to her, what they would do to each other, this afternoon in that bed.
    She grew a little dizzy at the thought.
    “So how was your morning?” he asked in polite inquiry as he released her hand.
    My morning? Why was he asking about such mundane topics when he could be hurrying her into the bedroom and tumbling her down onto the mattress? Perhaps he thought to set her at her ease again. After all, this was only their second time together. A real gentleman would never rush a lady, and Rafe Pendragon, as she was coming to realize, had manners as refined as those of the best peers of the realm.
    He crossed to the hearth.
    “My morning was fine,” she said, watching as he poured out a cup of wine. “I kept to my usual schedule.”
    “And of what, precisely, does that entail?”
    “Oh, nothing special. Breakfast and my morning ablutions. Today, a meeting with my housekeeper to review the week’s menus and any staff concerns. A few minutes of sewing.”
    He offered her the wine.
    “Embroidery, I assume.”
    “Yes. I’m stitching handkerchiefs at present.” She accepted the cup, the metal’s gentle warmth radiating pleasurably against fingers she only now realized were chilled. Raising the drink to her mouth, she sipped, enjoying the contrast of flavors, sweet but tart, robust yet mellow.
    When she was finished, he took the cup from her.
    “I thought we’d share.” With their gazes locked, Rafe turned the cup so he could place his lips where hers had just been.
    A quiver ran down her spine as she watched him drink, his strong throat working as he swallowed. Moisture glistened on his mouth when he was finished. He licked it away.
    Turning, he walked to one of the wide wing chairs and sank down. He patted his knee.
    “Come here.”
    Breath hitched in her lungs. Does he really want me to sit on his lap? she wondered.
    He gave her his answer by beckoning again, holding out a hand for her to take. For a long moment, she stared, tracing the shape of that hand—the strong, masculine palm and long, elegant fingers that were capable of giving so much exquisite pleasure.
    With her knees on the verge of buckling, she hastened forward and let him tug her down onto his lap. His arms tightened around her hips to pull her close.
    “Hmm, even better than I imagined,” he murmured low.
    So he’s thought about holding me like this before? she mused. Her nipples peaked beneath the material of her bodice at the idea, finding herself liking it. She liked as well the unmistakable evidence of his arousal thrusting against her thigh with a boldness that didn’t seem to discompose Rafe in the slightest.
    He stroked a palm over her back, the caress evoking a shivery kind of lassitude.
    “So, what’s on these handkerchiefs of yours?” he inquired.
    “What?”
    “Are there flowers, mayhap? Something light and feminine for you to tuck into your reticule?”
    She blinked. Is he really talking to me about handkerchiefs? Inhaling deeply, she tried to clear her brain enough to respond.
    “They’re…um…they’re not for me. I’m embroidering monograms actually, for my brother. His birthday isn’t too far distant. A man can always use handkerchiefs, I thought.”
    “Very true. A most considerate gift, especially since you are making them with your own hands.” Rafe bent forward and pressed his mouth to her throat, his fingers gliding upward