Harlequin Historical February 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: The Major's Wife\To Tempt a Viking\Mistress Masquerade (45 page)

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ISBN-13: 9781460325216

TO TEMPT A VIKING

Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Willingham

All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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UNEXPECTED TREASURE…

Humiliated and betrayed by men, Lady Annemarie Golding has isolated herself from society. After a chance discovery of some intimate letters that could tarnish the Prince Regent's name she sees an opportunity to get revenge on erring husbands everywhere.

Only Lord Jacques Verne stands in her way. An aide to the Prince, he has his orders to obtain the letters—at any cost. His pursuit of Annemarie is deliciously persuasive…but if she agrees to become his mistress can she be sure it's truly her he wishes to possess?

“Charming, romantic…a feast for the history lover.”—
RT Book Reviews
on
Scandalous Innocent

“What kind of man do you take me for?
A rogue, like Mytchett?”

“Leave him out of it, if you please.”

“Gladly. But answer my question.”

“I cannot!” she retorted, squirming against him. “All I know is that you have your orders and that's why you're here. How should I know what kind of a man you are, my lord? You must have heard how skillfully I form opinions in
that
direction.”

“Yes, I have. Stop struggling and listen to me. This is not what you believe.”

“You will never convince me of that, my lord. If I did not own something you'd been told to get hold of at any cost you would show no more interest in Lord Benistone's scandalous daughter than in any other widow.”

* * *

Mistress Masquerade
Harlequin® Historical #373—February 2014

Available from Harlequin®
Historical and
JULIET LANDON

The Maiden's Abduction #132
The Widow's Bargain
#717
One Night in Paradise
#733
The Bought Bride
#766
His Duty, Her Destiny
#802
A Scandalous Mistress
#836
Dishonor and Desire
#860
The Warlord's Mistress
#869
The Rake's Unconventional Mistress
#932
Scandalous Innocent
#1044
Mistress Masquerade
#373

Did you know that these novels are also
available as
ebooks? Visit
www.Harlequin.com
.

MISTRESS
MASQUERADE

Juliet Landon

Author Note

The Regency, a period between the years 1811 and 1820, was dominated by George, Prince of Wales, eldest son of King George III and Queen Charlotte. He was a man of many facets, both attractive and ugly.

In 1811 George was required to take over his father's duties because of a severe illness showing similar symptoms to insanity, projecting the young man into a situation he was unable to manage to anyone's satisfaction—not even his own. This was not all his fault, but he was not a strong leader in any sense, preferring lavish displays of wealth and waste that drained the coffers dry at a time when funds were needed for the wars against Napoleon.

My depiction of him as an art-lover is fact, for he did indeed employ knowledgeable friends like Lord Hertford to act as buyer for his “newest toys,” Carlton House and Brighton Pavilion, on which he poured vast sums of money, while at the other end of society thousands lived in terrible poverty after a series of bad harvests and severe winters.

In an otherwise intelligent and cultivated man, his insensitivity on a personal level was breathtaking, and it seemed to me, as a writer, that to include him in a story of this kind I must choose whether to concentrate on the sadness of his position or on his utterly reprehensible behavior toward those he had once called his dearest friends. To allow Annemarie to rediscover her natural compassion I chose the former.

Emma Hamilton was one of those Regency characters whose colorful life needs no embellishment. Her story of “rags to riches” both fascinates and repels us at the same time. It is an astonishing saga of how she exploited every attribute and talent she possessed to survive in a man's world, becoming the mistress of several men in the process, including Lord Nelson. There is no evidence that she and the Prince Regent were actually lovers, but they were close friends—until Emma's difficulties and demands became too much for him, when he failed to respond to her pleas for help.

Selfish to the last, George felt no responsibility to those he had once loved, though he kept thousands of love tokens, letters and mementos. Again, one cannot help but find some sympathy for a woman like Emma Hamilton, so ill-used by her family and all those she had helped, who had taken full advantage of her generosity. Her ambition, apparent greed and amoral behavior sometimes appear at odds with her naivety, innocence and longing for approval while expecting the same kindness from those she loved. I truly believe she could not tell her friends from her enemies most of the time. And that, sadly, was one of the greatest tragedies in her life, for she lived in the heart of a political and greed-ridden society whose loyalties dissolved faster than hers. Combine those expectations with a man like the Prince Regent and there is a recipe bound to collapse—like his protestations of eternal love.

Two such complex characters, so much to like and admire, so much to despise; their true stories are indeed stranger than fiction.

My main sources of information were
The Prince of Pleasure
by J. B. Priestley, which is now out of print, but there is plenty about George to be found in Ian Kelly's brilliant book
Beau Brummell,
published by Hodder and Stoughton in 2006.

Kate Williams's book,
England's Mistress,
is all about Emma Hamilton and is excellent reading (published by Arrow in 2007).

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Chapter One

London. June 1814

L
owering his morning newspaper with a loud crackle, Lord Benistone put down his magnifying lens and stared vacantly at the pot of marmalade, then across at his three daughters. ‘Poor unfortunate woman,' he muttered. Two of them knew by the way he spoke that he was more likely to be thinking of their mother at that moment than the woman who featured, yet again, in
The Times
.

‘Obituaries?' said Annemarie, his second eldest.

His eyes warmed at her assumption. ‘No, love. Not obituaries. Lady Emma Hamilton again. Another sale. She can have little more to sell now. You should go, Annemarie.'

‘To an auction? I think not, Papa. All the world will be there.'

‘I could request a private view for you. I can send a note to Parke at Christie's. He'd allow it. I know you'd like something of hers, wouldn't you? A memento? As an admirer?'

He'd got it wrong. Words of feeling were not his strong point. ‘Not so much admiration as sympathy,' she said, ‘for the way she's been treated since Lord Nelson's death. All those wealthy friends and greedy relatives, and not one of them willing to help her out of her debts. She must be desperate by now.'

Her younger sister Marguerite's opinion was only to be expected, particularly on a subject about which she knew little. At sixteen-and-a-half, she had still not learned the art of discretion. ‘I shall not be wasting
my
sympathy on a woman like that,' she said, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away. ‘She's brought it all on herself.'

It took much to make their father angry, but this hit a raw nerve and his hard stare at his youngest daughter would have made a bold man quake. ‘Marguerite,' he said, softly, ‘I wish you would try to acquire the habit of thinking before you speak before it's too late to make a lady of you. For one thing, no woman brings it
all
on herself. And for another thing....tch! Never mind. You wouldn't understand.'

Even Marguerite knew then that he was thinking of their mother.

Oriel, the eldest sister, glanced at her sideways and pushed the plate back into place with one finger. ‘Unladylike,' she said. ‘And I think an apology is called for.'

‘I'm sorry, Papa,' Marguerite whispered. ‘I spoke rashly.'

‘No harm, child,' he said, nodding. ‘No harm.' The morning sun caught the top of his silvery hair as he looked again at Christie's announcement. ‘You go and take a look, Annemarie. I don't know whether she'll have saved the best or the rubbish till last, but you may find something to take down to Brighton with you.' At sixty-eight he was still a handsome man, in spite of the lack of exercise.

‘What are you looking for?' said Oriel. ‘I wouldn't have thought anything of Lady Hamilton's would be to your taste. A little too flashy, perhaps?'

‘I've no idea. Something small, I suppose.'

Annemarie saw the flicker of amusement pass across her father's face at that. There was barely a square inch of space at their Montague Street home that was not occupied by his well-known collection of antiquities, and he knew as well as she that by sending her to Christie's auction rooms in his stead, his own curiosity would be assuaged without the temptation to buy. Even Lady Hamilton's last pieces would reveal something of quality, if not rarity, for she and Lord Nelson had been presented with gifts from every corner of the world. Annemarie was due to return to her own house at Brighton the next day, so it seemed like a last chance to find something that would fit. Something small.

* * *

Only one hour later, a note was delivered to Montague Street assuring Lord Benistone that Mr Parke, Christie's senior valuer, would be delighted to show Lady Annemarie Golding over the most recent acquisitions.

* * *

So it was that, by mid-afternoon, she had chosen not the small thing she'd intended, but one of a pair of matching bureau dressing-tables made by the elder Chippendale, no longer in the height of Regency fashion but exactly what she needed for her bedroom. She would have bought its twin also, but did not need two of them as Lady Hamilton and Lord Nelson apparently had. Widows such as herself only needed one of anything. The generous price of it, however, was certain to relieve the poor lady's acute embarrassment more than all the other clutter she was selling, except for its twin which Mr Parke assured Lady Golding he would sell for at least as much. Even so, he pointed out that he knew of no one who would want to purchase the pair and was relieved to have got one of them out of the way so quickly.

* * *

It was delivered to Montague Street that very same day and, smoothing a gnarled hand over the rosewood surface, Lord Benistone bent to examine the delicate inlay, the pretty brass handles, the honeyed tones of the veneer, his fingertips reading the patterned woods as if they were words. ‘I'll have it packed straight away for you,' he said, ‘and ready for the wagon first thing in the morning. Will that do?'

‘Thank you, Papa,' Annemarie said, glancing round the great hall where the brown bureau looked so ill at ease amongst the white carved reliefs and contorted stone figures, the smooth busts of Roman matrons, the urns and plaques. There was no point in repeating the countless invitations to go with her to Brighton. He would never leave his beloved collection, not even for a few days of bracing sea air, especially now when the whole of Europe was flocking to London for the end-of-war celebrations. The possibility of meeting other antiquarians was too good to miss. She could hardly blame him when she was using the same reason to escape to deserted Brighton where she was unlikely to meet anyone who knew her.

The other reason, she had to admit, was that the beautiful house on Montague Street had become more like a museum than a home and she longed for the white-and-pastel space of her own elegant rooms where she was not swamped by sculpted pieces of enormous proportions or paintings covering every vertical surface. They were even stacked against the furniture now, finding their way into the bedrooms, preventing the housemaids from cleaning and the housekeeper from keeping order. Entertaining had been out of the question for years unless the guests were fellow-collectors, making for some very one-sided conversations. It was not difficult for any of them to understand why their mother had left last year, although the manner of her leaving was another thing entirely. That would be even harder to understand and not a day passed when Annemarie did not feel the wound it had left.

They never spoke of it, papa and his daughters, but now it seemed as if something had tweaked at that raw nerve again as the day of Annemarie's departure drew nearer and his usually clear voice faltered as his hands ceased their caress of the rosewood. ‘This thing will be all right,' he whispered, ‘but it's you I'm concerned about, lass. You've been more affected by what happened than your sisters and, at twenty-four years old, it's time you found somebody else to take care of you properly. Holing yourself up by the sea is hardly the right way to go about it, is it? And when I'm no longer...' His voice trembled on a sob as the thought took over. ‘I ought to have seen it coming, oughtn't I?'

Annemarie had not seen him like this before. Taking him into her arms, she hushed him with mothering sounds and felt him tremble as if a cool breeze had ruffled him. Then he was still again, composed and dignified, determined not to be seen caring too deeply for his loss. It was affairs of the heart that had been his undoing. That, and a disastrous misdirection of his attention. Perhaps there was more of him in young Marguerite than he cared to admit.

Withdrawing from her comfort, he sniffed and pushed a tear away with a knuckle, smiling thinly at the unusual lapse. ‘You're so like her,' he said, touching her cheek. ‘Oh, I don't mean like
that
. I mean in looks. The way she was when I first saw her: same glossy black hair, velvet skin, amethyst eyes. A beautiful creature.'

She smiled. What loving father did not think his daughters beautiful?

* * *

Later, she tried her persuasions on Oriel. ‘I wish you were coming with me,' she said as they watched Marguerite disappear with a swirl up the wide staircase still in a state of agitation from breakfast.

‘And I wish you were staying here with us,' Oriel said, tucking her hand through her sister's arm. Upstairs, a door slammed and her soft grey-blue eyes rolled heavenwards before turning to Annemarie's.

‘She means no harm, love.'

‘She doesn't have the sense to
mean
anything,' said Oriel ‘That's the problem. We never know what she's going to say...or do...next. That's why it's best if I stay here to keep an eye on her. Besides....'

‘Yes, I know. You have Colonel Harrow. I would never drag you away from him, just to keep me company.'

Oriel blushed, her smile lighting up her serenely lovely face like sunshine on water. Annemarie picked up the hand that was through her arm to check on the sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring. Colonel Harrow was fortunate to have won her and not for the world would Annemarie have claimed priority when the couple had so recently been reunited after his return from the Peninsula Wars. Oriel's relief to find him unharmed after so much hard fighting against Napoleon's forces had moved them all to tears of joy, especially after Annemarie's own late husband had fared less well. As a couple, Oriel and William were now able to take part in the celebrations that would last for months, if the Prince Regent could find the funds to pay for them.

Oriel shared in the study of her ring. ‘It's not only that,' she said. ‘It's Father too, isn't it? He prefers it if one of us is here to show his visitors round the collection and Marguerite is no help because she doesn't know the first thing about it. At least we can tell Egyptian from Assyrian.'

Giggling at the mental picture of Marguerite's carefully cultivated ignorance, Annemarie could not suppress the uncharitable retort, ‘Yes, and the longer she refuses to learn, the less likely she'll be asked to help. She knows that, the little minx. And Papa knows it, too. He should take a stronger line with her.'

‘He did at breakfast though, didn't he?'

‘He should do it more often.'

‘She takes notice of Cecily,' said Oriel, wiping a finger over the stone curls of a Roman's beard. ‘This one hasn't been dusted lately.'

‘Thank heaven for Cecily. She's a saint.'

Father's widowed cousin Cecily was in a perfect position to visit their London home as one of the family while keeping her own luxurious house on Park Lane as an escape from the comings and goings of visitors to their papa's “museum”. Quite often, Marguerite would stay overnight with her when a chaperon was required for an evening event, an arrangement that suited them all for a variety of reasons. Cecily had been the one to sponsor Marguerite's coming-out ball last summer, and now she was just as likely to appear at the Montague Street breakfast table as Marguerite was at hers.

‘You ought not to be travelling down to Brighton on your own, though,' Oriel said. ‘You know Father doesn't like it above half. Won't Cecily go with you?'

‘I would not want her to,' Annemarie replied. ‘I'd rather she stayed where Marguerite is, while she's flitting about from party to picnic every day. She's quite determined to go to Lady Sindlesham's ball tonight, you know, and Papa doesn't seem at all concerned. Cecily is needed here. Anyway, love, I shall hardly be on my own with a maid and two coachmen, shall I? I'm not likely to come to any harm between here and the coast.'

‘You're getting to be a recluse, Annemarie. It cannot be good for you.'

‘It's best,' she said, not wanting to explain.

‘Think of all the evening dresses. You know how you love dressing up.'

‘Don't, Oriel. It doesn't help.'

But it was true. To wear the newest fashions had always been one of her weaknesses, but without that
frisson
of excitement at the admiration they caused, the exercise seemed pointless when the stares she received would be laced with pity and curiosity to see how she was surviving last year's scandal. She was not prepared to face that. Not yet.

Oriel's arm squeezed hers, understanding. When Mama was with them once again and Annemarie began to show signs of taking her place in society, she and her handsome colonel would name a date for their marriage. It was typical of her that she would not put a seal on her own happiness before everyone else's was assured. But never once had the two older sisters doubted that, one day, Mama would reappear and that their lives would then begin a return to normality.

It gave her sister no pleasure to keep them waiting, but for the life of her, she could find no way forwards.

* * *

The well-dressed delivery man touched the brim of his top hat. ‘Thank-ee, m'lord. Very generous, m'lord. Any time.'
A real swish beau, that one,
he said to himself, watching the long stride disappear round the corner. It was one thing to be in such a cove's good books, but that man could do some serious damage if the opposite applied, if those shoulders and that deep barrel of a chest were any indication, yet the blue superfine sported not one crease. Pocketing the gold coin, he patted the embroidered lettering on his black-velvet lapel that said, ‘Christie's of London' before climbing up on to the wagon to sit beside his mate. ‘It don't get much easier than that, Rookie,' he grinned.

‘Blabbermouth!' replied Rookie, good-naturedly flipping the reins. ‘Giddup!'

Returning to the front of Christie's Auction House, the admired beau climbed into his own conveyance, a cream-and-black curricle of exquisite delicacy, took the reins and whip into his gloved hands, nodded to his groom and moved away along King Street heading northwards, quite unaware of the admiration he had aroused.