A Masked Deception Read Online Free PDF Page B

untied his neckcloth and unbuttoned his shirt. Aroused, Brampton had carried her to the bedroom.
    What had been wrong with the afternoon? he wondered. Lisa had made every effort to please him, using all the arts and wiles he and previous lovers had taught her. And he had been pleased—pleased to throw off the restraint he practiced in his wife’s bed. He had taken her with fierce, unleashed lust.
    He did not feel that he was doing anything particularly wrong, visiting a mistress while his wife sat at home receiving visitors after the ball of the night before. The practice of keeping mistresses was well accepted in his circles. In fact, it could be argued that such arrangements protected the tender sensibilities of the wives. They gave their husbands an outlet for their wilder passions. Brampton tried to imagine using his wife as he had used Lisa this afternoon. He tried to feel amusement at the thought, but felt only guilt.
    Guilt? Yes, he admitted that he had no right to make her into a figure of fun, even in his imagination. He certainly did not love her, he did not even find her attractive, but she had won his grudging respect in the short duration of their marriage.
    He had lengthened their stay at Brampton Court from one week to two, finding himself oddly contented in the country. He had not spent much time with his wife, but more than he had planned. He had discovered to his surprise that she could ride and had mounted her on a quiet mare from his stables. She had not told him that riding was one of her favorite pastimes, that at home in Leicestershire she had often taken out her father’s horse, riding him demurely except on those occasions when she could get away without an attendant; then she would wait until she was out of sight of the house, hitch her skirts inelegantly, swing one leg over the saddle so that she was riding astride, and gallop until her cheeks and eyes glowed.
    Brampton had patiently reduced the speed of his own mount to suit the sedate pace of hers and had ridden with her all over the estate. He remembered one afternoon in particular. He had taken her to visit some of his tenants, poor cottagers who were wideeyed and agog at meeting the new countess.
    They were sitting inside one of the cottages while the woman of the house, flustered, pressed cider and cakes on them. A small toddler, newly come inside from a game of building mud pies, waddled up to Margaret and put a dirty hand on her skirt. Margaret smiled down at the child.
    “Tommy, come away,” hissed his almost frantic mother, making a dive for him.
    “Oh, please, Mrs. Hope, don’t mind him,” Margaret had smiled. “He is a darling.” And she had touched the child’s soft blond curls.
    “Oh, my lady, he’ll soil your lovely habit,” Mrs. Hope had protested.
    “I have other clothes,” Margaret had replied, “and this will wash. I so rarely have the chance to cuddle a child.” And she had lifted Tommy to her lap and laughed as he reached for and pulled the earrings that dangled within his reach.
    “Ouch!” she had protested, and she imprisoned his fingers in hers and eased them away from the earring. And she had glanced across at her husband, a laugh in her eyes. It was only then that Brampton had realized that he had been staring, mesmerized.
    He had discovered during the rest of that two-week honeymoon that his earlier opinion that she was dull was not correct. She was quiet. She seemed to have little sense of humor. And she made no attempt to use her femininity. But she had good sense and a bright mind. Her conversation was never silly or tedious. If she had nothing to say, she simply said nothing.
    And for some very curious reason that he could not fathom, Brampton had come to look forward to the few minutes he spent in her bed each night. He had missed the ritual when, a few days before their return to London, she had had to inform him, blushing painfully (almost the only open sign of emotion he had ever seen in her)