His Lady Mistress
Authors: Elizabeth Rolls
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
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“Why do you want me as your mistress?”
And why am I even asking?
Verity wondered.
Max blinked. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“No.” She couldn’t imagine why he would want her. According to her aunt and cousins, she had nothing to recommend her. Oh, she knew why Godfrey wanted her. Because she was defenceless and he was a swaggering bully.
But Max—
Lord Blakehurst
—was not of that ilk. She had not the least idea why a man with a reputation for taking beautiful women as his mistresses would want her.
“Because I desire you, of course.…”
Dear Reader,
In 2009 Harlequin will celebrate sixty years of providing women with pure reading pleasure.
Harlequin Historical has been romancing readers since it first launched in 1988. If you dream about the Regency rake in
Pride and Prejudice,
the warrior in
Braveheart
or the cattleman in
My Darling Clementine,
you will love the world of Harlequin Historical. With six books a month, step into the past and discover that love is timeless.
For something short, scandalous and highly sexy be sure to look for Harlequin Historical Undone—available as eBooks at www.eHarlequin.com.
Happy anniversary,
The Harlequin Historical Editors
E
LIZABETH
R
OLLS
HIS
Lady Mistress
Award-winning author
Elizabeth Rolls
lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia in an old stone farmhouse surrounded by apple, pear and cherry orchards, with her husband, two smallish sons, three dogs and two cats. She also has four alpacas and three incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawn mowers. The kids are convinced that writing is a perfectly normal profession, and she’s working on her husband. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books, and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at [email protected] or visit her Web site at www.elizabethrolls.com. Look for her next book,
Lord Braybrook’s Penniless Bride
(June 2009), which features characters introduced in
His Lady Mistress.
Available from Harlequin Historical and Elizabeth Rolls
The Dutiful Rake
#712
The Unexpected Bride
#729
The Unruly Chaperon
#745
His Lady Mistress
#772
The Chivalrous Rake
#804
A Compromised Lady
#864
Contents
Prologue
Autumn 1817
V
erity huddled into the murk by the chimney stack, watching through the shifting veil of rain as the two men, little more than dense shadows in the pouring blackness, carried their grisly burden from the cottage to the cart. The horse between the shafts tucked his tail in and stamped restlessly, snorting as the stench of death reached him. The boy at his head murmured in shaking tones and held his lantern higher.
‘One, two, three…’ A thud followed as the men swung the body on to the back of the cart.
Her heart tightened.
Oh, God! Please be gentle.
‘Right. Got everything, Jake?’
‘Aye…oh, hang on, where’s the…?’ Jake vaulted into the cart and scrabbled around. ‘No. Here ’tis, Bill.’
‘What?’
‘Thought we’d damn near forgot the stake. Won’t do to forget that an’ all. Rector be really put out, he would.’
A snort greeted this. ‘’Taint him as has to drive it in. Is it? Well, come on. Best get it over with.’
‘Aye. Here, lad, hand over that glim. You get on back to bed. And don’t be thinkin’ on this. ’Tis a cryin’ shame. But there ain’t nothin’ to do ’cept obey orders.’
Orders.
Her gut roiled as the lantern changed hands and the cart lumbered off. Slipping from the shadows, she followed, just close enough not to lose the sickly light in the blinding rain.
At the end of the village street a swift rattle of hooves sent her scurrying for cover in the lych gate of the churchyard. All that she could see of the approaching rider was that he was tall, and wore a heavy cloak. Clenching her teeth against their betraying chatter, Verity strained to hear what the rider said to the men. The words were muffled in the curtain of driving rain, but the deep accents were unfamiliar. It must be the fashionable stranger who had put up at the inn earlier in the day.
She bit back a sob of fury as the horseman rode out at the same slow pace as the cart. It was none of his business! Did he just want a sensational story to tell his friends? Her fists balled in impotent rage. She must not reveal herself. Surely he would not stay long. She could still do what must be done. Blinking rain out of her eyes, she followed the cart and rider out of the village.
The rain swiftly penetrated her threadbare cloak, chilling her to the bone. She shivered uncontrollably, fiercely pretending that it was just the cold, that there was nothing to fear.
Doggedly she repeated the litany over and over in her mind.
There is nothing to fear. No bears or wolves. Ghosts don’t exist. There is nothing to fear…
Except the dark and fear itself. She had never been out this late at all, let alone by herself…
You aren’t alone. The cart is ahead…no one else will be out on a night like this anyway…
A shudder racked her at the thought and she forced her mind away…
nothing to fear
…except her own self-loathing.
Finally the cart reached the crossroads. Trembling with exhaustion and cold, Verity shrank into the hedgerow, crouched on the wet turf, scarcely noticing the branches clawing at her
and the icy trickle of water down her back. With a shaking hand she pushed back draggled, soaking hair and peered out of her sanctuary. At least the rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking up so that the moon cast a fitful, nightmarish light.
The lantern had been set down and gleamed on the sodden ground. Close by it she could see a dark, gaping shadow.
One of the men leaned over it and swore. ‘Bloody ’ell! Damn grave’s about half-filled up with water. Gawd! What a miserable business!’
‘Never mind that,’ answered the other. ‘Least we ain’t diggin’ it right now. Get him in an’ be done with it. Quicker the better, I say. Give me a hand here, then.’
Verity watched avidly as the two went to the back of the cart.
‘Wait.’ The stranger had dismounted. ‘One of you hold my horse. I’ll lay him in the grave.’
A choked sob tore free. How
dare
he? That she had condemned the poor broken creature in the cart to be flung into his grave by a curious stranger.
‘What the hell was that?’ muttered one of the men, shifting uneasily.
Verity put the back of her hand against her mouth and bit down hard.
‘Nothing,’ said the tall stranger. ‘Just some beast out hunting.’
‘On a night like this?’ scoffed the other. ‘Nay. ’Tis easy to see you’re from Lunnon! Any sensible creature’s deep in its hole by now.’
The stranger’s tone mocked. ‘Very well, then. What shall I say? That some other poor wight who lies here is crying his welcome to the newly damned?’
Horrified gasps filled the air.
‘Don’t ’ee say it!’
‘Whisht now!’
They stood back as the stranger lifted the body from the
cart. Verity could only watch as the tall figure walked easily to the grave with its tragic burden.
Despair flooded her as she braced herself to see the corpse slung carelessly into the mire. Shock lanced the pain as the bearer knelt in the mud and eased the body to its final resting place. A faint splash told her that the deed was done, and far more gently than she had expected. Shaken, she watched as the man straightened and threw something in after the body.
The murmur of his deep voice came to her. ‘We commit his body to the ground—’
‘Here, now!’ a scandalised voice interrupted. ‘Can’t have that! Rector said so. ’Tis in the prayer book! Them as lays violent hands on theirselves—’
‘To hell with what the Rector said!’
The men shrank back before the sudden fury and the stranger continued. ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’ The deep voice faded into silence and tears of gratitude mingled with the rain on Verity’s cheeks. Whoever he was, little though he knew it, he was her only friend in this nightmare darkness and she would pray for him all the days of her life.
The older of the two men spoke up hesitantly. ‘Ye’d best stand back, sir. Unless ye wants to handle this bit too.’
‘No, I thank you!’ The stranger jerked back, his voice rough. ‘Can’t you leave the poor devil be, now? Just tell the Rector you did it! This ghost won’t trouble you. Let him rest!’
‘Nay, sir,’ the man averred. ‘Rector says as how it’s got to be done. You go along now, sir. ’Tis a nasty, but it’s got to be.’
A savage oath greeted this and the stranger stepped away.
One of the others knelt over the grave and raised his arm. Numb with horror, Verity saw lamplight slide wetly on steel and heard the first brutal thud as the sledgehammer struck against wood. Again and again the fearful blows landed in a merciless rhythm, ghastly in its very steadiness. Retching,
loathing her cowardice, Verity pressed her hands over her ears, but still the sounds penetrated, pounding in her blood as though her own heart was impaled.
Nearly senseless, she sank fully to the ground, uncaring of the bitter cold leaching into her. Even as she realised that they were filling in the grave, the hammering echoed in her soul in pitiless torment.
It remained only to wait until they left so she could make her farewell.
At last they were gone, and Verity, listening to the final, fading splash of hoofbeats, crept stiffly out of the hedge. Cold shuddered through her as she approached the grave. The weather had cleared slightly and moonlight gleamed through a gap in the clouds, lighting her way to the disturbed sods.
With a despairing whimper, she dropped to her knees in the mud, tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Papa, forgive me! I didn’t understand…Papa…I’m sorry…I never meant this…I love you…’
Still weeping, she reached into her satchel and brought out her offering. Small and pathetic though it was, she could do no more. If she put up a cross, no matter how humble, it would be torn down. Even a bunch of flowers would be removed if anyone saw it.
Furtively she scrabbled in the wet, cold earth, preparing it for her hidden garland. He would forgive her…he must. He had loved her once…
‘What the hell do you think you’ll find there? A few miserable trinkets, you cur? I heard you behind us, all the way. I went away to flush you out.’
The harsh voice speared her and she cried out in startled terror as a fierce grip took her shoulder and spun her around to fall helpless on the muddy grave.
Savagely the voice continued, ‘Didn’t they tell you? All a suicide’s possessions go to the Crown. You’ll find nothing here, boy. Now leave the poor bastard alone before I give you the thrashing you deserve!’