Rules for Being a Mistress (26 page)

“Perhaps she is afraid Colonel Vaughn will run off with the money,” Benedict suggested dryly. “A not unreasonable fear, apparently.”

“She’ll be twenty-one in six months. She’ll have her independence then. With fifty thousand pounds, she could live anywhere. She could be queen of Ireland.”

Benedict bit his lip. “She is not yet twenty-one?” he said sharply.

“No, but soon. She’ll be her own woman then. Besides, her father’s in India now, and will be for the rest of his life, if
I
have anything to say about it. She’s just stubborn, that’s all. Too proud to give up Castle Argent. But she expects
me
to give her the money she needs to keep the place up. Meanwhile, my mother never shuts up about her humiliation, as she calls it. These women! I’m caught in a leaky boat between Scylla and Charybdis.” He picked up the hand of his nurse and kissed it. “Is it any wonder I crave pleasant company?”

Benedict was silent.

“I tried to get her married to any number of gentlemen who would have been happy to sell me that house for considerably less than fifty thousand pounds,” Kellynch said wistfully. “But she has a suspicious nature where men are concerned.”

“No wonder she has no interest in marriage,” said Benedict.

“You think she should keep the house? A house she cannot afford?”

“No,” said Benedict. “I think she should sell it.”

“And so she will—if
you
stop giving her free money!” said Kellynch. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I will give you a thousand pounds if you will promise me never to give her money again. Two thousand?”

“I can not be bribed, Your Grace.”

“Every man has his price.”

“And every dog his day,” Benedict retorted.

“Do you gamble? Dice? Cards? What is your game?”

“You may set me down here, Your Grace,” Benedict said coldly.

Kellynch’s lip curled contemptuously. “You don’t gamble?”

“No.”

“Why not? Did you lose your liver when you lost your arm?”

“No, but thank you for your kind inquiry.”

Kellynch looked at him shrewdly. “What can I do to tempt you?” he mused. “You seem to like rescuing silly little girls from naughty tradesmen. Was Cosy grateful when you sorted her collier? I’ll just bet she was. Do you like being a hero to women, is that it?”

“I would like to be set down, Your Grace.”

“As luck will have it,” said Kellynch, smirking, “I have recently come into possession of some bills belonging to a certain lady who is currently residing in Bath.”

Benedict clenched his jaw.

Kellynch saw the weakness and did not hesitate to exploit it. “Ten thousand pounds’ worth of naughty tradesmen’s bills! Just imagine how grateful she will be! She’ll throw her legs around your neck.” He laughed immoderately.

Benedict regarded him in stony silence.

“Ladies, I think I have secured the gentleman’s interest at last. Shall we play for the lady’s bills, Sir Benedict? No! Let us remove skill from the equation. Let it be by luck alone that her fate is decided. Let us draw cards. Have we a new pack, Kitty?” he asked his nurse.

Kitty made a fan of the cards.

Benedict drew a queen.

The Duke of Kellynch flung his deuce down in disgust.

“You win,” he said angrily.

On the morning Lord Redfylde came to Bath, Serena awoke with a cold hand pressed over her mouth. For a confused moment, she thought she was only having the nightmare again. She often dreamed of the first time her brother-in-law had come to her bed. She often woke up, screaming. She would scream until Peacham came running to comfort her.

But this time it was not a dream. Redfylde was in Bath. Redfylde was in her bed, his smooth naked body as powerful as a panther’s. When she was sixteen, she had fancied herself in love with her sister’s husband. How wonderfully kind he had been, opening his home to her when her father died. For years, he treated her with nothing but brotherly affection. He managed her financial affairs, supplying her with pocket money, and paying all her bills. In return, she had adored him. How she had envied her elder sister Caroline!

Then, when Serena turned twenty-one, Redfylde informed her that her debts were heavy. She had spent her inheritance twice over, and there was nothing left for her to live on.

Not once had her brother-in-law ever warned her that she had been living beyond her means. Not once had he warned her that she was running low on funds. Indeed, quite the opposite. He had encouraged her in extravagance, and allowed her to throw elaborate parties at his elegant London mansion. “Why did you not tell me?” she had cried, shocked, humiliated, and angry. “I could have retrenched!”

By then, it was too late to retrench. She owed thousands of pounds. She was in danger of being sent to a debtor’s prison. Redfylde agreed to pay her debts. He even agreed to continue keeping her in the style to which she was accustomed. All he wanted in return was one little thing.

He still wanted it. Pushing up her nightgown, he turned her onto her stomach. Pressing her head down into the pillow, he ordered her to kneel with her bottom in the air. Without a word, she obeyed him. She was never permitted to speak on these occasions, and if she broke this supreme commandment, her punishment would be swift and severe. She could feel his hands prying her buttocks apart. She sank her teeth into the pillow, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed that it would be over soon as he forced the smaller of the two portals. She did not know if he preferred the infertile place, or if he merely feared making her pregnant, but in moments of reflection, she found it oddly amusing that, after all these years, she was as much a virgin now as when she had first entered his house at sixteen. Slowly retreating, he instructed her to open her legs wider. Again, she silently obeyed. She had long ago ceased to fight him. It was easier this way. She tried to think of other things as he did his beastly work.

“Did you think you were free of me?” he asked, biting into her shoulder.

She knew better than to answer, but she had thought just that. When Caroline died, he had given her a choice. She could either remain in London and become his mistress, or she could move to Bath where she would raise his four daughters. She had chosen Bath. She had thought he would stay in London, and leave her in peace. She had been wrong. As he plunged into her bowels, she mulled over what dress to wear to the Upper Rooms that evening; she would have to rethink her wardrobe now, because the bastard had bitten her shoulder, leaving a mark.

“I own you,” he murmured. His contempt and loathing made her burn, but she could not have argued, even if she had been permitted to speak. He
did
own her. He had bought up all her debts, and he still held them. He was now her only source of income. All she had, and all she would ever have, flowed from him. This was the price she paid to keep up appearances.

Afterward, she helped him dress. She was allowed to speak then, but only to thank his lordship for the “honor” he had bestowed upon her unworthy body. He left her. She summoned her maid, bathed and dressed as usual, then went down to greet her brother-in-law formally in the drawing-room. Although well past forty, he was a well-preserved, handsome man. The silver rinse in his hair, she was obliged to admit, made him appear almost god-like. His buff-colored pantaloons fit him like a second skin, and his coat, rather unusually, was made of yellow kid leather and must have cost a small fortune.

The picture of aristocratic elegance, she served him coffee.

“What brings you to Bath, my lord?”

“London,” he said, “was a bore. Every girl I met reminded me of my pathetic, mewling wife. Fawning, stupid, sickly creatures, all. Just like Caroline. Someone ought to teach these people a lesson,” he grumbled. “They can’t keep bringing out these boring, pasty-faced girls year after year, and expect men of my exalted rank to stoop to marrying them. I was so bloody bored, I decided to pay you a visit.”

“My lord,” she said, “you flatter me.”

“How do you like being a nursemaid to my brats?” he asked her when the servants had all departed. “Has it made you rethink your curious decision
not
to become my mistress? Would you like to come to London with me now?”

Serena bowed her head. The bastard actually believed that she
liked
what he did to her. Because she no longer fought him. Because she acquiesced to his brutal commands. She feared what he might do if he ever guessed how much she loathed him. “You know I can never be your mistress, my lord,” she said calmly. “You are my sister’s husband. I could bear the humiliation for myself, but I could never live with the guilt if I damaged
your
reputation.”

She could taste the bile and vomit rising in her throat as she flattered him with these lies.

“In that case,” he said, eating one of the cakes left over from her dinner party, “I think it is only fair to tell you that I lost your bills in a card game last week. You have a new protector now, and I doubt he will be willing to defer payment. I expect he will visit you soon.”

“You bastard,” she gasped, struggling to breathe.

He smiled, pleased with himself. “You will like him, I think.”

Serena was on her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. “Who is he?” she demanded.

“Are you going to hit me with your little fist?” he asked, amused. “Remember that time you fell down the stairs? That was the last time you made a fist at me.”

Serena forced herself to sit down. “Who is it, my lord?” she asked calmly.

Redfylde laughed. “It is the Duke of Kellynch. You’re in for a treat, from what I hear.”

Serena snatched up the coffeepot, just as the door opened. “Lord Ludham,” the butler intoned, and Felix Calverstock breezed in.

Serena had a fantasy in which she told Felix everything. In her fantasy, Felix killed Redfylde in a duel. Then he took her in his arms and asked her to be his wife. Of course, this was absurd. If she ever told Felix her dark secret, he would look at her with disgust and horror. And if he challenged Redfylde to a duel, it would be Redfylde who left the field alive, not Felix. Either way, Felix would never, ever marry Serena if he knew.

“My lord!” Ludham cried, striding up to the marquess and thrusting out his hand. That he admired the older man was blatantly obvious. “I saw your gig outside. Did you drive from London? What magnificent bays! Where did you get them?”

Redfylde gave the earl two fingers to shake. “Tattersall’s, of course,” he replied easily, “but they were bred in Ireland. The Duke of Kellynch’s Red Rogue was their sire. Their dam can be traced back to the Barb.”

“Miss Vaughn says the best horses in the world come from Ireland,” Ludham said, enthusiastically joining his two favorite subjects: horses and Miss Vaughn. “She’s convinced me I must visit something called the Dublin Horse Fair. Hullo, Serena,” he added carelessly. “You are looking flushed. Are you feeling quite the thing?”

“I am perfectly well, Felix,” she answered, smiling. “Coffee?”

Redfylde crossed his long legs and yawned. “Who,” he asked, “is Miss Vaughn?”

Ludham blinked at him as if such ignorance were incredible. “Who is Miss Vaughn?” he repeated in astonishment. “Only the prettiest girl in Bath!”

Redfylde glanced at Serena in amusement. “Indeed. You are not very chivalrous to your cousin, Felix. Surely, there are other ladies in Bath who at least
share
the title.”

“I think not!”

Serena said severely, “Rose Fitzwilliam is a very pretty girl, Felix!”

Redfylde interrupted her. “Matlock’s daughter? Or, should I say: Westlands’s little castoff?” he sneered. “I met the Fitzwillliam chit in London. She is pretty, I grant you, but nothing out of the common way. Westlands must have had some reason for crying off. Some scandal in the girl’s past has come to light, no doubt.”

“Past?” said Serena. “The child is but seventeen.”

He only smiled. “I did not come to Bath in pursuit of young ladies who have been thrown away by other men. All in all, it was a most disappointing crop of debutantes this year. Perhaps I will go to the continent and choose a little French wife. A little marquise.”

“You would not disgrace Caroline’s memory with a French wife,” said Serena hotly.

He smiled at her. “Would I not?”

“Serena,” Ludham said urgently. “Tell him how beautiful Miss Vaughn is, and he will not go to the continent. Words fail me anymore. I can’t do her justice. I wish I were an artist. She makes me wish I were an artist, that is all I can say.”

Redfylde laughed. “Matchmaking, Felix? Why don’t you marry her yourself, if she is such a beauty?”

“She won’t marry me,” the younger man replied.

“Felix!” cried Serena. “You didn’t ask her?”

“Yesterday,” he replied mournfully. “She won’t marry me because of the divorce. I can’t say I blame her. The scandal has been dreadful. What woman would want to be touched by it?”

“She refused you, a British earl? Only because of a little scandal?” Redfylde snickered in disbelief. “She must be a very prim and proper miss.”

“Quite the contrary,” Serena snapped. “She is the most shocking flirt!”

Redfylde quirked a brow. “I am not easily shocked,” he drawled.

The word that Lord Redfylde had come to Bath spread through the town like wildfire. Mr. King was beside himself with joy. If Lord Redfylde had left London for Bath, surely the fashionable crowd would soon follow. The master of ceremonies visited Redfylde as soon as possible and personally begged the honor of his lordship’s presence in the Upper Rooms for the Monday dress-ball. Rather too ambitiously, he promised the marquess lively conversation in the Octagon Room, brisk play in the card room, a hearty tea, and, of course, pretty dancing partners. Redfylde thought it would be amusing to rattle the cages of the local virgins before he returned to London for the more sophisticated pleasures he preferred.

It was as though a royal visit had been announced. All of Bath dressed itself in its finest clothes and assembled in the Upper Rooms, breathless with anticipation. The marquess was late, and Mr. King broke his own rule and did not begin the ball precisely at nine o’clock. His lordship arrived thirty minutes later, with Lady Serena at his side.

The crowd parted for them, bowing and scraping. The gentlemen bowed, the ladies curtseyed. The silver-haired marquess looked devastatingly attractive in the stark black and white of his formal evening dress. His noble countenance was undeniable, his expression haughty, and his smile cruel. The ladies shivered to see him, and the men gnashed their teeth in envy. There was no competing with such an aristocrat.

He took his place at the top of the room, and all of Bath lined up to meet him. His pale eyes flicked away hopefuls as if they were mere fleas as Mr. King made the introductions. Lord Redfylde spoke only once during this reception. Glancing across the room at a girl of modest good looks who was staring at him, wide-eyed as a frightened doe, he said contemptuously, “I suppose
that
is the famous Miss Vaughn, of whose beauty I have heard so much.”

The gentleman who was being presented to the marquess at that moment, looked up, startled, from the bow he was performing. “My lord?”

Redfylde waved him away. “Who gave you permission to address me? King!”

Mr. King had never left the marquess’s side. “My lord?”

Redfylde yawned. “No more of these insipid people. Bring Miss Vaughn to me now. Let me have a look at the famous beauty.”

Mr. King could not conceal his dismay. “Miss Vaughn does not attend balls, my lord. Her mother, Lady Agatha, is too ill to chaperone her, you understand, and her relative, Sir Benedict Wayborn, has been called away to London.”

Lord Redfylde looked annoyed. He turned to Serena. “My dear, I think you had better invite this girl to tea for a private showing. Would tomorrow suit you?”

Serena inclined her head. “Yes, my lord.”

As little as she wanted to entertain the Irish girl, Serena was unprepared for the humiliation of receiving Miss Vaughn’s regrets, hastily scrawled on the back of an old laundry list. Her hand shook with rage as she revealed the message to her brother-in-law. “Who does she think she is?” Serena cried.

“Who, indeed?” Redfylde said thoughtfully. “She is poor and unmarried. You tell me her father is a rogue, and her mother is an old fright in a red wig. Yet she does not attend balls, and she does not jump at the chance to take tea with Lady Serena Calverstock. One might almost think the lady has no interest in securing a husband or a place in society.”