Read My Lady, My Lord for Free Online

pillow beside his, and bits of feminine clothing lost within the bedclothes. It was one of the two rules he ever held to. No matter how tempting a siren’s feathered boudoir seemed at three, four, or five o’clock in the morning after a satisfying interval of mutual pleasure, no matter how exhausted or inebriated, he always returned home. Otherwise, he simply did not sleep until the next night.
    But this was not his bed. His bed was solid, smoothly fashioned mahogany, its deep blue draperies lacking even a suggestion of trim. A man of simple tastes—honest play, fast horses, and beautiful women—needed no more.
    This bed was far from simple. Covered in lace-edged linens and frothy pink and white pillows, draped with a striped pink, gold, and white satin canopy, gold tassels trailing the painted white bedposts—this bed was clearly a woman’s creation. A woman who enjoyed her femininity to the utmost. Ian had made love to plenty of women in beds like this, though few so opulently light of character. But he’d never slept in one.
    Again, a peculiar lack tickled at his senses. Something was not right. Something was missing. Something...
    Something he should have felt as he stared at the maid’s breasts. Something that should have at least suggested its existence when he recalled the last few women with whom he’d shared this sort of luxuriously feminine couch. Something that was with him every morning at waking, more faithful than the most loyal hound, more reliable than the finest Swiss watch.
    He slid his arm beneath the coverlet and brought his hand to his waist.
    His heart slammed against his ribs.
    He pressed his fingers into his abdomen. Through the thick linen nightshirt, soft flesh sprang back. He held his breath, and his hand stole lower.
    Oh, God. No. No.
    No.
    No.
    No.
    Pulse racing faster than his latest Ascot winner, he bunched the fabric beneath his hand to his waist. Sucking in air like a drowning man, he reached downward.
    He yanked his arm back and bolted upright. His chest jiggled. He slammed a palm over it and cupped a supple mound. His other hand slapped up, encompassing an identical shape. Breathing fast now, he pulled at the laces of the nightshirt, barely seeing the pink satin ribbon and rich embroidery, until the fabric gaped.
    His head spun. His stomach roiled. He gripped the nightshirt and tore it down the center.
    Two perfect female breasts, their beautiful pink tips velvety, perched gracefully above a smooth, slender waist, a delicate navel inches above a thatch of soft brown hair. Thighs any man would pay to put his face between, creamy and round, stretched along the counterpane, the torn nightshirt falling to either side.
    Ian kicked his feet free. They were small, shapely, with narrow ankles and, like his legs and chest, devoid of hair.
    Dear God.
What was happening?
    He lifted a trembling hand. The fingers were slender and long, the nails carefully manicured but not painted, the palms tender and uncallused. A woman’s hand. A
lady’s
hand. He knew the difference. He’d enjoyed the touch of plenty of both.
    But not this one. He would remember a ring like the one on the third finger of this left hand if it had come anywhere near him. The sapphire was set in the gold at such a sharp angle that he would have insisted a lover remove the piece before commencing pleasing activities. Ian liked his sport lively, and occasionally outré, but bloodletting didn’t interest him—though some of his friends found that sort of thing appealing. Not Ian. When he made love to a woman, the fewer accoutrements involved the better. The female body was plaything enough.
    Something about this ring seemed familiar, though. It wasn’t in the current fashion. He’d bought plenty of baubles for women over the years, but he’d never seen anything like this in a jeweler’s shop. It looked vaguely like a weapon.
    He lifted his hand to his face. His fingertips brushed smooth cheeks and brow, full lips, a lilting