His Mistress by Morning (6 page)

“You freed his spirit, Charlotte,” she added softly. “And discovered your heart as well.”

“I just can’t believe it,” Charlotte said, glancing up and into the lady’s clear eyes. “I don’t believe any of this.”

“Believe what you will,” Quince said, rising to her feet, basket settled on her hip. “But this is your wish, so you’d best make the most of it.” With that, she turned to leave, and Charlotte sprang to her feet, catching her by her arm.

“You can’t leave me like this,” she told her. “I don’t remember any of this. And I most decidedly don’t know what to do.”

“Let him love you, and the rest, well…” Quince’s wrinkled face softened, her odd green eyes sparkled. “And in the meantime, don’t fret so much. Soon the memories of your old life will fade and you’ll have nothing but
the love you desired above everything else. I’m rarely wrong about these things.”

Rarely wrong?
That was supposed to reassure her?

“Of course there is always a price, some necessary changes, but look now,” Quince was saying, nodding toward the Marlowe house. “Isn’t he worth every one of them?”

Charlotte turned to see the viscount coming down the steps of his father’s town house.

He had changed from the clothes he’d been wearing earlier and was now a sharply and fashionably dressed Corinthian. His hat tipped at a rakish angle, his breeches taut and snug, and his rich wine-colored coat and bright waistcoat were all out of character with the somber man she’d known.

She turned to tell Quince to put him back the way he’d been, but the woman was gone, having disappeared as easily as she’d arrived.

Charlotte stared at the empty space for another moment or two until her gaze fell upon the posy of simple violets on the bench, tied with a blue ribbon. She picked them up and held them to her nose, inhaling their deep, sweet scent. When she looked up, she found that the driver had brought around Sebastian’s carriage and he was about to climb into it.

Without a second thought, the violets still clutched in her hand, she made her way toward him, drawn by that inexplicable attraction.

She started to step off the curb, but a carriage rolled into her path, the driver yanking his horses to a stop just in time. Startled, she glanced up at the man clutching the reins and in an instant forgot the fact that she’d just been nearly run down.

“If it isn’t the enchanting Mrs. Townsend,” he sneered. “A bit lost, aren’t you?” He tossed the reins to the tiger clinging to the back and jumped down from his seat. As he came striding around the front of the horses, she realized who he was.

Lord Lyman. One of the most eligible and notable men about town. Why, just last week, her mother had declared him perfect as he’d ridden past them in the park.

But perfect wasn’t the feeling running down her spine as he stalked toward her.

“So what say you,
madame
? Shall we ride off for an afternoon of delights?” His brows waggled up and down, while his gaze never strayed from the top of her bodice. Before she realized what he was about to do, his hand snaked out and caught her by the elbow, yanking her close.

Charlotte gasped, not just from the shock of being mauled like this but also at the memories, images that had no place in her thoughts, that came tumbling forward like a bad dream.

A dark corner at the theater. His hand on her elbow, tight and unyielding, just as he was holding her now
.

“You’ll be mine, you little bitch. You’ll be mine before the Season is out.”

She tried to shake him loose, to free herself from his cruel clutches, but he held her fast, proof of his power over her
.

“Never, milord. You’ll never gain my favor.”

“I don’t want your favor, just the
pleasure
of your company.” He pulled her closer until his hot breath stung her earlobe. “I’ll take you hard and fast. Teach you some manners, you overpriced bitch. Some respect.”

A chill of fear filled her heart
.

His other hand reached out and curled under her breast, squeezing hard. “Trent won’t last another month with all his debts, and then you’ll come looking for protection. Begging for my help. See that you don’t.”

Charlotte shook the dreadful recollection from her mind. How could these thoughts be hers? She’d never met, let alone spoken to, this man before, and yet here he was holding her and she knew he was the very devil. Knew it from the bottom of her heart.

“Let me go,” she said, issuing forth every bit of the old, staunch, and haughty Finella she could muster.

He only laughed and pushed his face closer.

“You’ll have me because I have the gold to buy you. And have you I will,” Lyman said, a cruel sneer turning his otherwise perfect countenance ugly. His gaze continued sweeping over her breasts, his desire a dark, frightening light in his otherwise pale blue eyes.

There was one thing Charlotte knew for certain: Neither she nor Lottie would ever have anything to do with this man. And like Quince had said, she felt a power within herself that she’d never suspected she possessed, but here it was, rising up inside her like a torch blazing to life in the darkness.

Words, thoughts, deeds that no Mayfair miss, no shy spinster would ever consider, let alone utter, came to her lips, along with the nerve and daring to match them.

“Over my dead body, you bastard,” she said, spitting at him and trying to wrench herself free.

But while Lottie might have been able to handle the likes of Lyman with the nerve of a fishwife, Charlotte was no match for this bounder.

He reeled back from her, his face contorted with rage. “A whore in the bedroom and a whore on the street, as I see it.” And then he struck her.

She felt, more than saw, the blow. It sent her reeling backward, and she toppled over, her head clipping the curb, an explosion of sparks lighting her vision as she struggled to stay conscious.

For a moment Lyman leered over her and she thought he meant to boot her completely into the gutter. But just as suddenly, the man flew up and backward.

“How dare you,” came the black words from her rescuer.

Charlotte’s lashes fluttered open.
Lord Trent
.

Strong and tall, he held the smaller man in the air, his feet swinging.

“How dare you!” Lyman seethed. “You’re no better than that strumpet.”

Trent replied by smashing his fist into the man’s face. “If you ever dare to speak to Mrs. Townsend again, if you even whisper her name, I will thrash every last bit of life out of you, you miserable little cur.”

She didn’t know what was more shocking—the cold, deadly intent in Lord Trent’s voice or the fact that he looked ready to kill the other man in front of half the
ton
on her account.

“Leave him be,” she said. “’T’isn’t worth the gossip.” She nodded in both directions, where all the traffic had come to a halt and nearly every curtain on the square was parted with a pair of eyes watching the row.

So instead of giving the man the accounting he deserved, the viscount hoisted Lord Lyman up and heaved him into his carriage, where he landed with his head down, his legs pedaling helplessly in the air.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Lyman choked out as he struggled to right himself.

“You’ll try,” Sebastian scoffed.

“My seconds will call tomorrow,” Lyman sputtered as he climbed shakily into the driver’s seat of his expensive phaeton.

“If you can find anyone who considers your honor worth standing up for.” Sebastian tipped his head and clucked at the restless pair, sending them dancing out into the traffic at a fast clip.

Lyman barely remained in his seat, and his hapless tiger could do nothing more than cling precariously to the back.

Lord Trent turned immediately to Charlotte, closing the distance between them in an instant and catching her up in his arms. “Good God, Lottie! Are you hurt? That bastard didn’t harm you, did he?”

Charlotte found herself folded up against Sebastian’s chest, warm in his embrace, surrounded by his solid strength.

She inhaled deeply, caught by the fresh scent of bay rum and that masculine air that had bedeviled her senses earlier. His hands roamed over her, not as they had before, but carefully and gently. “That bastard,” Sebastian repeated, holding her out at arm’s length and giving her a worried once-over. “If he ruffled one hair on your head, I swear I will—”

Charlotte gazed into his eyes, awe unfolding in her heart at the depth of his concern for her. The ringing in her head, the pain on her forehead was nothing compared to this.

He loved her
.

She knew it without even hearing the words from his
lips. She’d always wondered what it would be like to have a man look at her, to see in his eyes the admiration and affection that sprang freely from his heart.

And here it was. Staring back at her. Lord Trent loved her. Just as she’d wished, just as she’d always dreamed, just as she’d desired. Not only that, he loved her enough to pitch a fight over her! Who would ever have thought such a thing of sensible, practical Sebastian Marlowe?

“Dear God! You’re bleeding!” He turned his furious continence toward Lyman’s carriage where it was just disappearing into traffic. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

Charlotte didn’t care that she was injured, didn’t care about the impropriety of being held in his arms in the middle of the square, didn’t care that he was willing to commit murder for her.

Lord Trent loved her
. Oh, the very wonder of it.

“You need to be seen by a surgeon,” he said as his hand dove inside his jacket and yanked out a handkerchief. Then ever so gently he put it up to her forehead. “Does that hurt?”

She shook her head slightly. “No.” Charlotte had to imagine that she could bear any pain with him holding her thusly.

But he wasn’t satisfied with her answer, and after another glance around at the curious stares being leveled in their direction, he said, “I must get you off this street.”

He caught up her hand and put it over the handkerchief at her temple. “Hold this in place—unless you want to explain to Finny how you got blood all over your gown.” Then without any further warning, he swept her up and started toward his house with her in his arms.

“Lord Trent!” she protested. “This isn’t necessary.”

“It is absolutely necessary,” he shot back, boldly crossing the street with great heroic strides. It was as if he relished the chance to be her knight-errant, her protector.

She glanced back toward the spot where she’d fallen. “Oh, dear, you mustn’t do this!” she protested. “Put me down at once.”

“I will not.”

She glanced back again. Her head throbbed, and the encounter with Lyman had toppled her sensibilities completely. Well, nearly. “You must stop. You forgot my hat!”

He laughed. “Delirious over that monstrosity? You
have
been hit in the head.”

“My hat,” she repeated. She had to imagine it had cost a fortune, and she certainly wasn’t going to leave it in the street.

“Only you,” he muttered as he turned and went back. Balancing her in his arms, he managed to lean over and snatch it up. “Now I insist you see the surgeon.” His thick, stern tone brooked no protest. Back across the street they went, causing a wave of whispers and gaping.

When they were halfway up the steps, the front door swung open and Fenwick hurried out. “My lord! One of the maids said there was a ruckus in the street and that you—” His words tumbled to a halt, and he gaped at the sight before him. “Heavens!” he finally managed. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Mrs. Townsend was hurt, she needs a surgeon.” Even as Sebastian’s foot started to cross into the Marlowe house, Fenwick let out an anxious protest. “My lord!”

Sebastian turned around. “What is it, my good man?”

Fenwick took a deep breath, as if considering his words
carefully. Instead he just nodded at Charlotte. “Do you think it is advisable?”

The viscount looked down at her and cringed.

At first Charlotte couldn’t figure out what the two of them were about, until she realized just exactly what Fenwick’s protest had to do with.

Her
.

Certainly before it had made no difference if Miss Charlotte Wilmont had come and gone, but bringing a lady of Mrs. Townsend’s ilk into the Earl of Walbrook’s noble house, and in broad daylight no less, was another matter.

“Perhaps you can call me a hackney,” she offered. “I can wait out here.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Fenwick agreed.

The viscount’s brow furrowed. “Nonsense! And have Lyman or one of his ilk come along? Or worse, have Lady Parwich across the square see you?”

Even Fenwick couldn’t argue with that. Notoriously high in the instep, Lady Parwich would have a field day with such an
on dit
.

Whatever is Mayfair coming to? You’ll never guess who I saw loitering about the steps of the Marlowe house like a common—

“Agreed,” Fenwick finally said, though his assent held only a modicum of accord. Sighing deeply, he waved the pair in, looking heavenward, as if he sought redemption for this most unholy visit.

Sebastian started across the threshold, when the most wicked of smiles tipped his lips, his serious expression taking a moment’s holiday as he looked down at her. “You owe me a pony, madame.”

“A pony?”

“Yes, and I want the entire twenty-five pounds,” he asserted. There was a glittering light of amusement in his eyes, as if he was suddenly and immensely proud of himself.

She struggled a little bit in his arms, and he hoisted her closer in response. “Whatever for?”

“Don’t you recall?”

Believe me,
she would have liked to tell him,
there is very little I recall today
. Instead, she shook her head.

“I bet you twenty-five pounds that one day I would carry you across that threshold. And now I have.” He winked at her. “Not quite how I imagined, but a wager is a wager.”

Her hand fell away from her temple, the handkerchief clutched in her fingers. “I don’t think—”