Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (53 page)

It had gone too far. Her fine words about controlling her life were meaningless. He must have known, even then, how he could change all that. He also knew how to be gracious as the victor. ‘I shall not let you go,' he whispered against her cheek. ‘But no more decisions now. We'll talk again tomorrow. You need to sleep.'

‘I shall not sleep.'

‘You will. I'll take you up. Come, can you stand? Take my arm.'

‘Lord Verne,' she said, pressing her lips with the back of her hand.

‘My lady?' he said, smiling at the gesture.

‘You have compromised me. It was most unfair of you.'

‘My lady, only you and I know what has passed between us. To the rest of the world, we met on the road and dined together. That's all. We sleep in different rooms and tomorrow I shall be offering you a lift in my carriage while I ride outside. Now what could be more correct than that? Whatever agreement we reach in the morning will be the result of an amicable discussion taken over breakfast, although I should warn you that my mind is already made up. I dare say yours might take a little longer.'

Exactly what this so-called discussion would be about Annemarie was not sure, for he had not proposed anything more specific than wanting her, which she dismissed as meaning wanting what she had, in spite of his denials. The need for sleep, however, was greater than her need to understand, so she allowed him to draw her hand through his arm as he opened the door, walking out into the passageway to the distant sound of laughter coming from the taproom.

But as he walked back to his room, Verne recalled Mrs Cardew's advice that, if he wanted to make headway with Annemarie, he must first find the mother. Better than that, he thought, would be to help Annemarie to find her, and to do that, she must venture out into society, with him. What better reason than that did he need to stay close to her, as he'd told her he would?

Chapter Four

B
y dawn, the Swan at Reigate was already preparing for the day. Annemarie's room faced east, the rain had stopped and the clouds had scattered to allow a watery sun to brighten by the minute. Creeping back into the warm bed, she watched Evie move quietly round the room while she pondered over the events of last evening, hauling back for examination each word, gesture, look and touch. Clinging desperately to her original plan to get rid of the letters and return to Brighton without any more interference, she refused at first to contemplate an alternative, telling herself that what had happened was no more nor less than a man taking advantage of the situation. What made Lord Verne any different from the rest in that respect?

Perhaps she ought not to have asked herself a question that was so easy to answer. The differences were impossible to ignore and the more she thought about them, the louder the warning voices became. Remember what happened a year ago, they said. Don't allow it to happen again. Revenge is what you seek, not beguiling words about wanting and pursuing and possession, however sweet the accompanying kisses that melted your knees. Stay in control, the voices told her. If it's too pleasurable to let go of so soon, why not use it to your own advantage instead of his? Lure him on. Let's see what he means by his persuasive methods. Suggest some real commitment, something more serious than a flirtation that will tie up his time and his money. Make him work hard to reach his goal. The letters.

The temptation became more and more irresistible, not to shake him off so soon, but to keep him guessing as to whether, or when, where or how she had passed the letters on, to whom, for how much, and for what purpose. He would think, naturally, that her intention would be to discredit the Prince Regent. So let him think so. After all, there was some truth in it. He would have deduced by now that the silly slip about visiting Christie's was to find out where Lady Hamilton lived so that she could be given the money when the letters were sold. So let him think what he liked. Make him hang on, turn his pretence of desire into reality and then stop all contact. Tell him the letters had gone. Damage his pride, just as hers had been. Make him suffer.

Of course, she assured herself, she was not in the least influenced by that flutter in her throat she'd begun to feel when she thought about him. Not at all. The sweet melting of her body in his arms last night had nothing whatever to do with any longing to repeat the experience, or even to go further, eventually. She could control all that. True, she had not done so far, but she could, once her strategy was in place. After all, if her mama and papa had been lovers, then so could she take a lover, and if she had suggested last night that her parents might not approve of an unorthodox relationship, she was also reasonably certain that her father would not judge her and that Lady Benistone would probably never know. Less certain about the reaction of the others—Cecily, Oriel and her fiancé, and Marguerite, too—she decided she could not be expected to mould her life around their concerns when she was being offered a chance like this. She would take it. She'd be a fool not to.

Smiling, she rolled out of bed and sent Evie for some hot water. When she was gone, Annemarie pulled out the portmanteau from under the washstand, took a quick peep at the lock, then toed it back again. Today she would be taking his Highness's letters to London in one of his own most comfortable carriages. And now, with good reason, she was about to suggest a liaison with a man who, only yesterday, she had asked to leave her alone. The contradiction of messages gave her butterflies.

* * *

The butterflies were still performing their dance when Annemarie entered the breakfast parlour an hour later to find Lord Verne already taking a cup of coffee before the food arrived. He was dressed immaculately in a snuff-brown cutaway coat, pale doeskin riding breeches and a crisp white shirt under a creamy-striped waistcoat with a gold seal and fob-watch hanging below. She thought she had rarely seen any man so well set-up at this early hour when most men of his sort would have been abed. Her father would have been up hours ago, but he was in every sense an exception.

She took the hand extended to her, accepting the touch of his lips upon her knuckles that afforded her a closer look at the thick brushed-back waves of dark hair and the tan on his lean cheeks that had not yet worn off. As he stood erect, she could not help wondering how much she would enjoy deceiving a man like him while preventing him from doing what he'd been sent to do. Would he accept her sudden change of attitude without question? Would he believe that his lovemaking had made her biddable and pliant? She would have to tread carefully to convince him that she was sincere.

‘Good morning, my lord. You were right. I
did
sleep.' This was going to be the most bizarre conversation of her life, she thought. ‘I think I was halfway there before...er, before...'

‘Before you closed your eyes. Yes, at least halfway,' he said, laughing. ‘I hope your memory is unimpaired, however. It would be a great pity if our conversation was all for nothing. Will you take coffee?'

‘Thank you. Is breakfast ordered?'

‘Yes, it's best to get one's order in early. Those stagecoach passengers had to stay overnight, you know. Heaven only knows where they all slept.' He pulled out a chair for her, then poured the coffee into her cup and, as she watched his strong hands on the handle and lid, she recalled their shocking explorations last evening and the way she had not stopped them.

Outside the window, rooftops shone with sunlight and rain. ‘We'll be there in no time,' he said, cheerfully. ‘They may have cleared a track through the landslide by now, but we'll go round to the west. Are you sure you want to go to Park Lane, not to Montague Street?'

A line of starlings strutted along the roof-ridge, jostling for position. ‘Yes, but I've been thinking,' she said.

‘About our conversation?'

Before she could continue, the breakfast was brought in and laid upon the white tablecloth, dish after dish. Yet as Lord Verne helped himself to the eggs, bacon and hunks of warm bread, she knew that as soon as there was a lull in proceedings, he would expect an answer and now there was no time to backtrack. ‘About something you said.'

He waited, knife and fork poised. She was not finding this easy. ‘Good,' he said. ‘So you
did
remember.'

‘About...oh, dear...this is
so
indelicate...about wanting me.'

‘Ah.'

‘Could you...perhaps...elaborate? Did you have something particular in mind? Or was it simply how you felt at that moment? You will not shock me, my lord, by explaining. I am not an innocent girl.'

The knife and fork were laid down as Verne gave her his full attention. ‘Believe me,' he said, softly, ‘it was not said lightly, on the spur of the moment. I did not expand on the notion because I didn't want to alarm you. Did you think I might have been insincere?'

‘It had occurred to me,' she said, lifting the cover off a jam pot to look inside. ‘It's difficult to know, isn't it?'

‘I can see why you would think so. Did
you
have something specific in mind?'

Yes, I have it in mind to be your mistress, my lord.
No, she couldn't say that. He would immediately suspect something. Hostility one day, a close relationship the next. No, it was inconceivable.

‘You expressed a desire to help me back into society, my lord,' she said, speaking to her plate. ‘And I suppose...well, I've been thinking it may not be such a bad thing to have someone like you to...be...er, to be seen with. Which, of course, would set tongues wagging. So...well...then I thought that, if I were to go one step further, I might suggest becoming...er...something closer?'

‘Closer than a friend, you mean? More like a mistress?'

There, the word was out in the open, like a weight falling from her shoulders. Piling a spoonful of golden honey on to her plate, she scooped it on to the corner of her toast and took a bite, nodding in agreement. ‘Mmm,' she said.

The bacon and eggs remained untouched as he supported his lower lip with his knuckle, weighing up what it had cost her to make the suggestion after such recent antagonism. Whatever deep game she was playing, it had little to do with a desire to take her place in society once more, of that he was certain. It had even less to do with a sudden reversal of her feelings towards him, despite her participation in their lovemaking, for Lady Golding's antipathy towards men would not be dispelled by a few hours of overnight reasoning. There had to be more to it than that, something that concerned him personally. Or the Prince Regent personally. Or those damned letters. Or all three.

‘I'm sorry,' she whispered. ‘Say no more about it. I thought you would—'

His hand reached out across the table to stop the retraction. ‘No, please! I was a little...well...surprised, that's all, and delighted, of course. I have no problems whatever with that. None at all. I can see many advantages, one of which would mean that you would be free of duties at Montague Street and this would give you the chance to do the things you used to do. In my company. Protected. I've never been one to think that a man's mistress should be kept hidden away and ignored in public as if there was some shame in the connection. I have my own good reasons for wanting an alliance of the kind you suggest, too, you see.'

‘Other than the usual one, you mean?'

He smiled at that, sure that they were thinking along the same lines. ‘Yes, other than that, although I won't deny the pleasure we'd both find there. It's all these social functions I'm duty-bound to attend. Like you, I want a regular partner of whom I can feel proud, a woman I can admire for more than one reason and who has a certain position in society already. A beautiful intelligent mistress would be ideal, even if our agreement lasts no longer than this Season.'

‘Well, thank you for admiring me for more than one reason. That's very gratifying, my lord. And for making it sound as if such an arrangement might benefit yourself as much as me. I would have thought you could have your choice of any single woman in the country, especially as an escort in such close contact with the Prince Regent, able to guarantee a place at all the best functions. But I have little experience at this kind of thing. Being a mistress, I mean. I imagine one is expected to set out certain...er...requirements? To avoid misunderstandings? Is that what one does?'

By the sound of things, he thought, she had already given the idea some detailed consideration, for she was coldly matter of fact about it, meant to convince him that he'd had no effect on her feelings and that it was a business arrangement devised to serve her some particular purpose, not necessarily one of those she had mentioned earlier. He was therefore prepared for a very precise list of benefits meant to test both his dedication and his pocket. She was a wealthy woman: she would expect him to match her standard of living, or to exceed it.

‘My lady, I do not expect there to be anything you could ask of me that I would balk at, unless of course you wished to use a team of white mules to draw your carriage, or bathe in asses' milk twice daily. With all these foreigners in town, that could be a bit difficult to acquire. You will need a house in London, naturally. That goes without saying. With stabling for your horses. A place in Mayfair, perhaps?'

‘Mayfair...yes...would be perfect. Near enough to Father and my sisters, and to Mrs Cardew.'

‘And to me.'

‘Yes, to you, too. I would wish to live there permanently, you see, not to use the address only for...for assignations. That would not serve my purpose at all.'

And what exactly
is
your purpose? he wanted to say. But she had outlined a perfectly acceptable reason that would have to suffice until he could discover more, and he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth when she had offered him more than he could ever have expected so soon. If there was an ulterior motive, he would have to wait for it to be revealed. ‘I can understand that,' he said. ‘A London home of your own would be much more convenient for you, wouldn't it? I would not like to deprive your father of you altogether, but you would be glad to have more space, I'm sure.'

‘Nevertheless, I feel a little selfish leaving my sisters to manage without my help. You have not met my older sister, have you? She's engaged to be married to Colonel Harrow. Your breakfast is getting cold.'

‘Harrow? Fourteenth Light Dragoons? Is she indeed? Well then,' he said, picking up his knife and fork, ‘perhaps we're both urgently in need of some socialising. I'm sadly out of date, it seems. We shall do well together, my lady.'

Annemarie could feel nothing but relief, now that her proposition was understood without the dreaded need to explain herself. For one thing, she could not have explained herself any better without revealing something of the artifice, the year-old pain, the lacerated pride and the loss, especially of her beloved and treacherous mother, about whom he need be told no more than he already knew. And now, for the first time, it began to occur to her that, once more in contact with the
beau monde
, she might hear something of Lady Benistone's whereabouts, some clue that her sisters hadn't been able to discover. If Oriel and Marguerite required a convincing explanation of her uncharacteristic behaviour, that would be as good as any. It would not be far from the truth, either, for if Papa would not bestir himself to search for her, then she would. Whether Lady Benistone had resorted to her former way of life, had fallen on hard times, or was happily settled with her lover Annemarie had no way of knowing until she could make enquiries.

Memories of her mama's beautiful face formed into the folds of the white napkin on her lap, sad violet eyes filled with regret, the lovely mouth trembling with wretchedness, the soft bloom of her cheeks streaked with tears. Like a sudden premonition, and without warning, Annemarie's breath was drawn up into a sob too noisy to prevent it being heard. Raggedly, it fell out again as her hand flew to hold her forehead, but by that time Verne was beside her, lifting her bodily out of her chair to hold her against him as if he knew what the matter was without being told.