His Mistress by Morning (9 page)

“Cheated? For me?” Why, she’d never heard anything so unromantic in her life. Not only was she his mistress but he’d also gambled to have her!

“It was that or see Rockhurst win your favors,” Sebastian said so matter-of-factly that it made her believe that such wagers were commonplace. “So I cheated. Stole you right out from beneath his easy grasp. I don’t think he’s quite forgiven me. I know I wouldn’t have.”

Perhaps to the fallen women of London that might sound delightful, but not to a proper miss from Mayfair, Charlotte wanted to tell him. She turned a bit in her seat, away from him.

“Oh, Lottie, now what have I said?”

“I thought you loved me.” She heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Not that I was akin to a pile of coins to be won.”

“Of course I love you, you silly chit!” he exclaimed. He wheeled the carriage around the corner so fast that she had no choice but to catch hold of his arm again or tumble out. “I might not have loved you then—wanted you devilishly bad, I’ll admit, not that every man in London doesn’t desire Mrs. Townsend—but loved you?” He shook his head. “You know that came later.” His features softened and he winked at her, driving the truism of his words deep into her heart. “And you know why.”

Oh, heavens,
she wished she did. This seemed an important enough thing that she should remember.

They slowed to stop at an intersection and waited for a mail coach to pass through. “Whatever has gotten into you today?” he asked, turning to face her. “You’ve turned as missish as one of those Bath ninnies my sisters run about with. All this ‘Lord Trent’ nonsense and fishing for compliments. I thought we were well past all that.” He gave the reins a toss, and the horses jumped back into the traffic.

“I suppose I just needed to be sure.”

“Sure of what?” He heaved a sigh. “Is this because of Miss Burke?”

“I don’t see her charm, is all,” she said quite honestly.

The rich little heiress had been the bane of her existence in her other life, and now it seemed Quince’s changes hadn’t rippled far enough. Why couldn’t Lavinia
Burke have ended up a poxy tavern wench in this world? Or some fishmonger’s wife?

“She has her charms,” he teased back, the sparkling light in his eyes a devilish lure.

“Yes, ten thousand a year of them,” she shot back.

He whistled at the sum. “Has a way of making the most unlikely of ladies popular.”

“Harrumph!” Charlotte sputtered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“But she hasn’t your fine eyes or sweet temperament,” he told her, gauging her aggrieved stance with a gaze that twinkled with mirth.

“Oh, now you are teasing,” she said back. She ignored his laughter and looked out at the unfolding countryside before them. They’d finally left London behind, and now nothing but green meadows and soft breezes lay before them.

The spring had been wet one day, sunny the next, and the result was that the grass had grown in lush and rich, the wildflowers thick with blossoms.

Having lived her entire life in London, with only the rarest of trips into the countryside when she’d been a child, Charlotte had forgotten how fresh and clean the world could be. She inhaled deeply, the air filling her lungs with its rich bounty.

Even Sebastian seemed to appreciate their surroundings. He sat back in his seat, the reins held lazily in one hand, while his other arm was thrown scandalously around her shoulders. His tall beaver hat, tipped at a rakish angle, only added to his mischievous, devil-may-care appearance.

“What a lovely day,” Charlotte said, changing the subject and going to the only safe one she could think of.

“Very lovely,” Sebastian told her, his deep gaze suggesting that he wasn’t discussing the fine spring day.

“Stop teasing me,” Charlotte said, swatting at him, amazed at her own daring.

“Now, now, madame—first I come to blows with Lyman and now you strike me down—”

Charlotte had forgotten about the other man. Lord Lyman had challenged Sebastian to a duel. How could she have forgotten such a thing?

“He wouldn’t dare if only you’d—” Sebastian bit off his declaration and looked away. “Well, I suppose there is no use going over that again. You’ve made yourself clear on that subject.”

If she’d what? What subject?

“Thought I must admit, it was a fine sight to see him with his arse in the air,” he told her. “I’ve wanted to smash that smug fellow’s face since Eton, but I’ve never had the chance. I suppose I should thank you for that, even if it’s made him as mad as a hornet.”

“He’s going to send seconds!” she sputtered. “He’s going to kill you. Oh, Sebastian, you cannot fight a duel. Not for me.”

“What? You’re afraid for me?”

“Yes!”

“You needn’t worry,” he told her with a laugh.

“But he’ll shoot you!”

That wicked brow quirked again. “Think so little of my skills with a pistol, do you, madame?”

“Well, I—” She had no idea if he was skilled with a pistol. She’d never given it any consideration. Men didn’t usually come to blows over her, nor end up facing each other at dawn over her honor. “I just don’t want you harmed.”

His eyes widened. “You needn’t fear for my poor life.
Lyman makes plenty of threats, but he never has the courage to make good his complaints. He’s a cur and a coward.”

Oh, thank heavens
. Charlotte let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Besides, even if he does call me out, I can’t think of a better reason to have grass for breakfast—your pretty face would be my last thought.” He grinned at her.

Charlotte didn’t even want to think of him lying facedown in a field, that is until she looked up and spied that mischievous light dancing in his dark eyes. “Oh, you bothersome man! You’re teasing me.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “It wouldn’t be your face I’d be recalling in my last agonies, but your bonny pair of—” His gaze fell longingly to the low line of her bodice.

“Oh, you are dreadful,” she told him, pulling her pelisse around her shoulders. “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, then I am not going to waste another moment worrying about you.”

“I was being very serious,” he said, feigning mock horror. “I’d think how a man chooses to spend his last moments on earth reflecting on his life would be a very important matter. And I consider your bosom a pair of the most perfect boons this side of heaven.”

Charlotte’s face flamed. “You are shameless!”

“I hope so. Never would have caught your fancy if I wasn’t. But here I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t have left your bed this morning.” He leaned over and stole a kiss from her lips. When her mouth turned into a moue of surprise, he whispered into her ear, “We’d be there still if I’d had any say in the matter. And you would be in a better mood.”

Charlotte’s neck tingled at the warmth of his breath.
Or was it the viscount’s scandalous proposition that made her quiver? Whatever could he mean, that they would be there still?

Why, it had been ages since she’d awakened in his arms…. Was he suggesting that he might have spent all that time kissing her, touching her, pulling her beneath him and…

She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, trying to ignore the way her breasts seemed to grow heavier, her thighs tightened.

“What, Mrs. Townsend? No tart opinion regarding my lament? That will teach you to drink too much—makes you positively cat-faced the next day.” He grinned smugly and after a few minutes gave her a nudge. “You’re quiet over there. Plotting out what to wager on Rathburn? Because I think you are going to lose today.”

“Wager?” She shook her head. “I don’t have any money to—”

Sebastian snorted. “Any money? Lottie, I’ve never known you not to have at least fifty pounds in that reticule of yours. Never know when you are going to run into your favorite bookmaker or a good game of dice.”

Fifty pounds? Such a sum? She tugged the strings open and cautiously poked her hand inside. Deep down, inside a pocket sewn into the lining, she could feel a wad of bank notes tied together with a ribbon.

She pulled them out and stared down at the small fortune in £2 notes in her hands.

The viscount let out a low whistle. “Good thing Griffin doesn’t know you like I do, or we’d never have been rid of him. He’d be pestering you still to loan him enough to build his time carriage—”

“Time machine,” she corrected.

“Waste of money, more like it.” He nodded at her purse. “Will you have a care, and stow that fortune? I’m not of a mind to go another round for you today.”

She nodded and carefully stuffed the notes deep inside her reticule. Like he’d said, there must be at least fifty pounds. What was she doing wandering about with such a sum in her purse as if it were pence?

“Tie those strings tight,” Sebastian said as they crested a small rise. There beneath them a wide, green field came into view.

Charlotte gaped, for she’d never seen such a sight. Why, it seemed all of London had come out to Lord Saunderton’s, the lure of racing and a fine day too much to resist. A vast array of carriages, curricles, and phaetons stood alongside an impromptu track that ran in a great oval over nearly the entire heath.

Horses of all sizes and colors were being paraded along, while hordes of people milled about, shouting wagers and challenges and words of encouragement for their favorites. The thick stomp of hooves punctuated their cries, while there was the ever-present din of neighs and whinnies as the animals seemed to be doing their best to show their fleet spirits and eagerness to run.

At the far end of the field, tents had been set up, fluttering ribbons tied to their lofty poles. Around them vendors with smoking grills and barrels of ale and casks of wine were doing brisk business to keep all the patrons well fed and jovially inclined to wager heavily.

“Well, I never,” was all she could say. Of course she knew these sorts of races existed, but the way her mother and Finella had clucked their tongues over the events that often unfolded (fortunes lost, gentlemen ruined), she had thought them dark and dangerous affairs.

To her eyes it looked like a glorious fair, something magical and scandalously tempting, all at once.

Sebastian pulled the horses to a stop. “Now some ground rules before we venture into that madness.”

Charlotte turned to him. “Rules?”

“Yes, rules, minx. I won’t see you ruined down there. Try not to wager more than you can afford.”

“Me?” she asked, truly askance. But even as she made her protest, she felt her gaze being pulled back to the field, her sights settling on a large black Arabian that was giving its trainer a wretched time as the poor man tried to lead it. The unruly beast stood out with its powerful, thick chest and long, strong legs.

That one, Lottie, my girl. He’ll make you rich,
a winsome voice whispered in her ear. And even more annoying, it sounded like her own.

“Lottie! Are you listening?” Sebastian was saying, giving her a nudge in the ribs. “Demmit, woman, you’ve got that look in your eyes already.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she said, sitting up straight and trying her best to keep her gaze focused on Sebastian.

The other unruly beast in her life.

He heaved a sigh and glanced down in the direction where she’d been staring.

“Now I know you have the devil’s own luck when it comes to horses, but Saunderton’s got a few surprises today. Wants to see Rockhurst humbled. You’d best not play too deep—lest you find yourself in dire straits.” He reached out and with one finger tipped her chin up. “Lottie, I can’t pay my own debts, let alone yours if you do yourself in down there. Have a care so we don’t have to—” His brow furrowed. “Well, you know what I mean.”

She could guess. Besides, what did she know about betting and horses and racing…other than the way that unmanageable black kept catching her eye.

He turned her face toward his again. “Lottie—”

“Sebastian, I swear I will—”

“Well, bless my soul, it’s Mrs. Townsend!” came a cheerful cry in the crowd.

And suddenly a new kind of temptation began.

C
harlotte glanced up to find a short, stubby man in a patched coat and a tattered gray cap waving enthusiastically at her. As he came closer, she could see stubs of pencils and paper tickets sticking out of the various pockets covering his coat.

“I knew you couldn’t resist, I knew it,” he declared. “Says to meself just this morning, ‘Self,’ I says, ’tis too fine a day not to have Mrs. Townsend about.’ And here you are, pretty as a strawberry roan.”

The man held out his hand to help her down, and Charlotte didn’t know what else to do other than let him assist her.

Sebastian tossed the ribbons to a lad who’d come running forward and gave the boy hasty instructions about seeing the horses walked and watered. He then came striding around the carriage and took her hand out of this interloper’s grasp.

“Away with you, Merrick,” he said. “Mrs. Townsend isn’t betting today.”

This brought the industrious and agitated Merrick to a sudden and complete halt. “Not betting? Not betting? How can this be?” He posed these questions to Charlotte, ignoring Sebastian entirely. He leaned closer to her. “We’ll send his nibs here off to see the boxing and you can come along with me. I’ve got a fine one to show you, mum. A great beast of an animal. When I saw ’im arrive, I says to meself, ‘Self, that’s the sort of horse Mrs. Townsend likes.’”

“The black Arabian?” Charlotte asked before she could stop herself.

Merrick slapped his hand on his thigh. “Spotted him already, have you? Should have known you would. Unruly wretch of a beast. Never won a race ’afore. But he’s got the blood of Eclipse in ’im.”

“A likely claim,” Sebastian muttered.

Again, Mr. Merrick ignored her companion and continued his enticing banter. “Mrs. Townsend, if you’d only take a closer look at ’im. He’s your sort—obstinate and arrogant.” With that, he shot a significant glance at Sebastian.

Charlotte covered her mouth to keep from revealing the smile there. Dear heavens, what a brash, outspoken fellow this Merrick was. And he smelled something terrible, like horses and onions and sour ale, but there was also something about him that she liked immediately.

The bookmaker continued abashedly. “Now if you’d come over and give this beastie your fine blessing, I just know you’ll tame ’im into running ’is heart out for your fair favors.”

There was something so delightfully impish about Merrick that Charlotte found herself enthralled. She turned to Sebastian. “May we?”

He took a step back and stared at her. “Now here’s a day to mark in your book, Merrick,” he declared. “Mrs. Townsend is asking my permission!”

Both men laughed.

Charlotte didn’t see what was funny about that, but she forced a smile to her lips anyway. “I was just being polite.”

This pushed both men into gales of laughter.

“Mrs. Townsend!” Merrick said, slapping his knee yet again. “You are in a fine mood today. Sly as ever.”

Whatever was wrong with being polite? Though from their astonished looks, apparently Cyprians were allowed to avoid good manners. So instead of deferring to the men around her, apparently being Lottie meant she could order them around, hold them at her beck and call.

An oddly unsettling sense of power ran down her spine. Charlotte looked up from beneath the brim of her hat to find Sebastian winking at her.

“’Tis your money, Lottie, my love,” he said with a laugh. “But remember the last time Merrick had one of his ‘great beasties’ for your blessing, the devil came up lame before the race even started. You had to cut back your millinery visits for a month.”

Emboldened by the light in his eyes, she teased him back. “I believe I have hats enough for this month.”

He laughed again, grinning at her with a joy that melted her heart. “You have hats enough to last you two Seasons, but that won’t stop you. Win or lose, you’ll be sporting some new confection by the end of the week.” His fingers playfully ruffled the ridiculous plumes atop her hat, then curled to cup her chin, stroking her cheek. “Do as you wish, madame. You know that as long as you hold my heart, I am powerless to your whims.”

Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat as he claimed her with this simple but oh-so-very-intimate gesture.

He was powerless? The man must be joking. For his touch sent a thrill racing through her limbs, all the way down to the tips of her shoes. Her knees quaked, and, by their own volition (for surely she would never have thought of such a thing), her lips pursed, actually pressed together as if ready for another kiss. Something heady and thorough, not like that stolen peck in the carriage.

“Ahem,” Mr. Merrick coughed. “Yer horse, Mrs. Townsend? I’d hate to have you not get your wager in on time.”

She broke her gaze reluctantly away from Sebastian’s, still all too mesmerized by his revelation.

“Of course, sir,” she told the man. “The horse. How could I forget?”

How could she remember anything when Sebastian looked at her thusly?

Merrick beamed. “Mrs. Townsend, you are the finest woman alive.” He tipped his hat off and bowed to her. “I says it every night when I says my prayers. ‘God,’ I says, ‘take extra care of Mrs. Townsend. She’s a most excellent lady despite what they says about her.’”

After this amazing speech, she glanced over at Sebastian, only to find him strolling over to the man’s side and throwing a companionable arm over his shoulders. “It wouldn’t be that percentage you get, Merrick, every time she wagers with you that has any influence on your great affection for the lady, would it?”

Merrick shrugged him off and turned his full attention to Charlotte, launching back into his list of seemingly impossible virtues that this sterling horse possessed.

Charlotte listened closely, nodding when it seemed
appropriate though she barely understood a word he said.

“The pair of you are incorrigible,” Sebastian said. “And Merrick, you’re the very devil to keep tempting this woman with racehorses.”

“Milord, how can you say such a thing?” Merrick turned and shook his head at Charlotte. “He doesn’t understand because he hasn’t your eye for cattle, mum.”

She leaned over toward Sebastian. “I have an eye for cattle?”

“Oh, that and a good many other things,” he said wryly. “Now, lead on, my good man. Let’s take a look at this paragon on four legs that has caught my lady’s eye and has you convinced will make her the richest woman in London.”

Even as they started through the crowd, heads turned and watched them approach. Like a brisk breeze, news of their arrival—more to the point, Mrs. Townsend’s presence—spread through the crowd like a two-year-old let out to pasture.

The greetings and whistles were disarming enough, but Charlotte found herself dazzled by the vice and revelry surrounding them.

In the distance, an elevated boxing ring had been constructed. Inside, a pair of men pummeled each other, O’Brien and McConnell, she imagined, while the spectators shouted bloodthirsty cries of encouragement.

They wove their way through a maze of tables offering amusements of all sorts: dice, roulette, and cards.

“Mrs. Townsend!” came a merry cry from a man in a bedazzling suit of mulberry with an emerald waistcoat. “A game of quinze?” His companions wore an equally glittery array of bright coats and gold-trimmed waist-
coats, while large jeweled stick pins and blooming cravats only added to their ostentatious display.

“Don’t even think about playing with those sharpsters,” Sebastian told her, at the same time tugging her in the opposite direction. “Or you’ll walk back to town.”

Charlotte shot one last look back at the trio, relieved not to have to join their party. She hadn’t the least idea how to play quinze.

Let alone assess a racehorse.

Oh, heavens, what had she wished for? How could this Lottie be the sort of woman that Sebastian Marlowe would love? As well as, suffice it to say, most of the men of London? A woman of loose morals, a penchant for all sorts of vice, and, apparently, no manners.

Charlotte brushed the plumes out of her eyes and took a deep breath. Her mother and Cousin Finella’s years of lectures on propriety were about as useful to her now as the lessons in Latin and comportment they’d also insisted upon.

“Have a care with your reticule,” Sebastian was saying. “Seems a rather unruly lot today.”

That,
Charlotte decided,
is an understatement.

Tulips and mashers strolled through the crowd, while a collection of rather scurvy-looking fellows lurked about the fringes.

She tightened her strings and tucked her purse close.

There was cock fighting, a wrestling match, and, alongside the track, an impromptu footrace between the grooms.

“You’re extra quiet,” Sebastian commented as they strolled along. “Plotting your return to the tables with Trowbridge and his lot? Or are you trying to reconcile
your accounts in your head so you know just how much you can afford to lose on this nag?”

“Neither,” she said quickly.

“Oh, you can’t fool me,” he said. “You have that look in your eye—like you can’t quite decide which direction to go—a little boxing, some roulette, or see if that fine fence you love is here with some new bauble you might fancy but I haven’t the blunt to purchase but you’ll wheedle me into buying anyway.”

“I wouldn’t—,” she began and then realized that this Lottie would. This woman he thought her to be was capable of all sorts of things she hadn’t the least idea how to manage.

A lady could tempt a man to buy her jewels? However was that done?

The horse, an agitated bundle of Arabian nerves, paced and pranced at the end of the trainer’s lead, while the jockey, a slight lad all of fifteen, tried to gain his seat.

“I don’t see it, Lottie,” Sebastian said. “I doubt he’ll make the first corner before tossing that boy into Sussex.”

Sussex? Charlotte had to imagine the poor jockey would end up halfway across the Channel. Besides, what did she know of these matters? Horse racing, indeed! But she couldn’t shake the vague memories plaguing her thoughts.

Long legs. Fine chest. Narrow head.

Despite the way the animal pranced and tossed, Charlotte could see it running through a pack of competitors like a champion, passing them all, hell-bent for the finishing line.

She shook her head. Whatever was she thinking?

“He’ll be at Tatt’s in a fortnight ’iffin he doesn’t win this week,” the trainer was saying to another fellow. “Blood or not, his nibs won’t be wasting more money on ’im if he don’t win.”

“Who’s his owner?” Sebastian asked.

“I am,” came a deep, rich voice behind them.

“Rockhurst!” Sebastian exclaimed. “I should have known this ill-mannered beast belonged to you.”

“Ill-mannered?” The earl crossed his arms over his wide chest. “Rather reminded me of you, Trent.”

Charlotte turned around to find the infamous Earl of Rockhurst standing behind them. How was it that the man kept turning up wherever she might be? Worse yet, he cast the same deeply assessing, thoroughly scandalous look of longing at her as he had in front of Arbuckle’s.

Charlotte gulped. While Hermione thought Rockhurst the most “dashing” man who’d ever lived, Charlotte found his restlessness disconcerting.

Of course, she found the changes in Sebastian rather unsettling as well, but that was a different matter.

In the meantime, Sebastian greeted the earl like a long-lost brother, the two men slapping each other on the back and trading a few playful jabs.

Sebastian and Rockhurst friends? Now
that
was disconcerting.

And then into this masculine world came tumbling the earl’s infamous wolfhound, Rowan. Infamous because he went nearly everywhere with his owner—and kept at bay more persistent matchmakers and footpads alike.

Charlotte had always eyed the massive dog with some trepidation, and today was no exception. Especially when the animal came to a loping halt beside his owner and,
after a moment’s pause, turned his great head and stared at her. Then he growled, low and menacing.

“Rowan!” The earl caught the dog by his collar and gave him a shake. “That is our good friend, Mrs. Townsend. Whatever is the matter with you?”

But the dog would not stop, growling and barking at Charlotte as if she were a threat to King and country.

Rockhurst finally caught him by the lead and tugged him into a sitting position. “Enough, you witless beast!”

The dog gave one last bark, then settled down, lying at the earl’s feet, his eyes still fixed on Charlotte.

Shaking his head, the earl turned to Charlotte. “My apologies, madame. I haven’t the least notion what is wrong with him.”

“No matter,” Charlotte said, casting one more glance down at the wary dog. Her spine tingled, and she could have sworn the hound knew the truth. Knew she wasn’t Lottie.

“Merrick, have you convinced Mrs. Townsend to bet on my fine horse?” Rockhurst was saying to the bookie.

“I was just letting her have a gander, milord,” Merrick replied. “Fine animal, this.”

As if on cue, the horse gave another disgruntled snort and toss of his head and left the poor jockey clinging to his seat.

“Yes, fine beastie,” Merrick said, flinching even as he made his sales pitch. “He’ll run like no one has ever seen.”

“Straight for the nearest mare, if he’s anything like his owner,” Sebastian commented.

Rockhurst snorted and cut between the viscount and Charlotte, smoothly taking her hand from Sebastian’s sleeve and placing it on his, escorting her around his
horse, separating her from Sebastian’s steady presence. “Such a beast needs only the civilizing influence of a rare beauty.”

She wondered if he was talking about the horse, his dog, or himself.

Now the horse, Charlotte found mesmerizing—the Arabian’s scent, the solid, commanding way his hooves pounded against the ground, and the way her heart raced as in her mind’s eye she saw this animal running, its mane fluttering wildly, its tail undulating with every fleet and pounding step. She’d never been so close to such a magnificent creature. “Does he have a name?”

“No, not yet,” Rockhurst said. “Hasn’t really earned one yet. But if you will, would you name him, Mrs. Townsend?”