His Mistress By Christmas (3 page)

“You may say a prayer to that effect if it eases your distress. Now then.” Veronica again took Portia’s arm and started toward the foyer. “It’s time to meet my adventurer.”

“. . . and then, on the very next page, when you were surrounded by natives . . .” The young, dark-haired woman gazed up at Sebastian with a worshipful look. He’d seen that look before. “Why, my heart was quite in my throat. I felt I was there beside you.”

“There is no greater compliment than that for a writer,” Sebastian said. “I’m delighted you enjoyed my account of the incident.”

Sebastian favored her with his best Sir Sebastian Hadley-Attwater smile. The very one he had practiced for moments exactly like this. The smile that told young women that, while he was grateful for their admiration and flattered by their adoration, there was no possibility of anything between them beyond a pleasant conversation. And while this one was quite lovely, she was also entirely too young. Young women were as dangerous as anything that might be encountered in the wilds of an uncharted jungle.

“If I didn’t know you had survived, I would have feared for your life. If you had died . . .” She heaved a heartfelt sigh. “It would have been dreadful. Simply dreadful.”

“I agree.” He chuckled. “I would have considered my death dreadful at the very least. I am quite glad I avoided it.”

“As are we all, Sir Sebastian.” She fluttered her lashes. “I would have been devastated.”

It was at once a benefit and a curse of fame that women, particularly young women, who had read his accounts of travel and adventure thought of him as a heroic figure. And often as their own hero. He’d learned through the years to walk the fine line between encouragement and rejection; he did want them to continue to buy his books and attend his lectures, after all. What he didn’t want was their assuming a personal connection that existed only in their own minds. That path led to nothing but the kind of trouble he had thus far managed to avoid. Of course, older, experienced women were a different matter altogether.

“Sir Sebastian.” A gentleman stepped forward.

Sebastian cast the young woman a smile that carried just enough regret to allow her to believe he was not both relieved and grateful to turn his attention elsewhere. “Yes?”

“When one traverses the far reaches of the Nile,” the gentleman began, “it was my understanding that . . .”

Sebastian adopted an attitude of complete attention, but his mind wandered. This was a question he had answered any number of times and could answer in his sleep.

Where on earth was Portia? And more to the point, where was the woman she’d been sitting beside? There had been something most intriguing about the way she had met his gaze directly, even boldly. He’d met bold women before, but he didn’t expect such boldness from a friend of Portia’s. A woman who would wear a hat like the one she wore—tall, feathered, flowered, beribboned, and no doubt fashionable even in its extremity—was a woman who knew her own mind. Certainly such women were often annoying, but they were also more interesting and less likely to see his fame rather than himself. This was a lady he looked forward to meeting.

“You must realize that the Nile, and its environs,” he began, “present unique difficulties. . . .”

Not that he wasn’t happy to see his cousin, or any of his family, for that matter. Indeed, it had been far too long. His fault entirely, as he freely acknowledged, and as his brothers had mentioned when he had dined with them at their club. And as his mother had pointed out when he had visited her shortly after his return to England and on every obligatory visit since then. His older sister, too, had chastised him in person when he had called on her, prompted by a chance encounter with her husband. Chastisement that continued in writing every time he turned down an invitation to one of her soirees. Even his two younger sisters, who had always held him in high regard, had had a few well-chosen words when he had encountered them quite by accident. London was considerably smaller than most people realized. He had had every intention of calling on all of them, as well as Portia, but somehow hadn’t yet managed it. He’d only been back in England for a few months, and between his writing, his lectures and other public appearances, and purchasing a house, he’d had very little time to spare.

“But as man has inhabited that area of the world for centuries, it is not as difficult . . .”

It was a feeble excuse, which, he argued to himself, was better than no excuse at all and was preferable to accepting that he avoided his family whenever possible. In truth, even though the rest of the world viewed him as a success, his family had never been quite able to see him as anything but the irresponsible scamp he had been in his youth. To his public he was Sir Sebastian, adventurer, world traveler, and man of significant accomplishment. To his family he was, and always had been, the son who had never quite lived up to expectations.

“And indeed,” he continued,” the machinations of government and bureaucracy in that region do tend to . . .”

That, however, he was determined to change. Indeed, he had changed, matured, if you will. His thirty-third birthday was two days after Christmas, at which time he would come into the inheritance his father had left to him. If and only if his older brothers decreed him worthy and responsible. It wasn’t merely the inheritance he wanted: it was the family acceptance it represented. His first step to acquiring a veneer of responsibility had been to purchase a house, a permanent, respectable place of residence. He had decided as well to stay in England for longer periods and curtail his travels.

Truth be told, he had grown tired of never staying in one place past a season or two. Tired of calling his traveling trunks home. Tired of admittedly delightful women who had come and gone through his life and parted with him as easily as he parted with them. Whereas once he had cured his restless nature with travel and adventure and women, he had wondered more and more in recent years if the restlessness in his soul could be eased only with permanence and family and home. Perhaps it was time for a new type of adventure.

“I see,” his questioner said thoughtfully. “That does explain—”

“Sir Sebastian.” Miss Bramhall bore down on him with the unrelenting momentum of a ship under full sail, Sir Hugo in hot pursuit.

He winced to himself, then adopted a pleasant smile. “Miss Bramhall. I assume you wish to continue our discussion.”

“Indeed I do.” She glared at him. Perhaps someone should tell her the old adage about catching more flies with honey.

“But might I say, before you continue, that I think you have an excellent point.”

“I do?” Suspicion sounded in her voice. “Of course I do.”

This might be easier than he thought. “Women are indeed making great strides.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, we are.”

“The issue of membership is one well worth discussion.”

The older woman studied him. “Then I may count on your support?”

“Absolutely not!” Sir Hugo’s voice thundered behind her.

Miss Bramhall huffed in frustration and turned to face the director. “I don’t believe you were part of this conversation.”

“I am part of every conversation that has to do with the workings of this organization.”

Sebastian noted the crowd around him had dissipated. Obviously, no one wished to be part of this confrontation. Nor did he. He wisely took a step back.

“Sir Sebastian has nothing to do with this debate,” Sir Hugo snapped. “Why, he’s not even a member of the board.”

“Nor does he wish to be,” Sebastian said under his breath.

Miss Bramhall drew herself up like a warrior preparing to do battle. “Is he or is he not a member in good standing of this organization ?”

Sir Hugo snorted. “You know full well he is.”

“And is he not one of your most well-respected and bestknown members?”

“We have other members far more accomplished.”

“Always nice to hear,” Sebastian murmured and took another discreet step back. With any luck he could slip away unnoticed in another minute.

“Regardless, his opinion, as well as the opinions of all the members, should be taken into account.” Miss Bramhall’s eyes narrowed in a menacing manner. “Do you not agree?”

“Every member’s opinion is valued,” Sir Hugo said in a lofty manner. “Every member, regardless of their accomplishments, is given a say in the governing of this organization. And were I to put this issue up for a vote . . .” His gaze locked with Miss Bramhall’s. “You would lose.”

“Aha!” She aimed an accusing finger at him. “Because it’s an organization made up entirely of cowards! Narrow-minded, selfabsorbed men who dwell in the muck and mire and safety of the traditions of half a century ago!”

Sir Hugo sucked in a hard breath. “Not at all! We are most progressive ! We are known for our progressive views on any number of issues!”

“Ha!” She snorted. “You, Hugo Tolliver, have not been progressive since the moment you learned to walk upright!”

He gasped. “You go entirely too far, Charlotte Bramhall! But then you always have.”

“And you have never gone far enough!” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to Sir Hugo. Fire flashed in her eyes. Her voice was too low for Sebastian to make out her words, much to his relief, but the look on Sir Hugo’s face was more than enough to tell him this was a conversation that had moved far from its original topic. Obviously, there was more to the enmity between Miss Bramhall and Sir Hugo than club membership for women.

He’d been in difficult situations before, and this was an opportunity to flee if ever he’d seen one. Sebastian quickly took another step back, turned on his heel, and came face-to-face with the woman in the hat. Or rather his face to her hat.

She smiled up at him. “Looking for escape, Sir Sebastian?”

He stared down into dark brown eyes lit with amusement and grinned. “Not very courageous of me, I’m afraid.”

Beneath the hat, mahogany red curls framed her face. She raised a brow. “You? The fearless Sir Sebastian Hadley-Attwater? Whatever will we tell your admirers?”

He shifted his glance from side to side. “Perhaps we could keep this between the two of us, then. I should hate to shatter anyone’s illusions.”

“Mine are certainly shattered.” She shook her head mournfully. “From your books I thought nothing frightened you. I believe you were once cornered by a rampaging tiger in the jungles of India.”

“That was not nearly as terrifying.” He glanced at Miss Bramhall and Sir Hugo, who were still arguing, although they had moved out of the flow of traffic in a futile effort to be discreet. He shuddered. “And was far less dangerous.”

She laughed, a delightful unrestrained laugh that made the feathers on her hat quiver in a most delightful way. Perhaps there was something to be said for outrageous hats, after all.

“I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, I do hope so.” Laughter continued to dance in her eyes.

“You know my name, but I have no idea who you are.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem the least bit fair.”

“It’s not, I suppose.” Her gaze met his as directly as it had from across the room. But now he could see something of a challenge in her brown eyes. Or an invitation. “I am scarcely ever concerned with fair.”

He laughed. “But how can I call on you if I don’t have your name?”

“And do you intend to call on me?”

He leaned close and lowered his voice. “I suspect you intend me to.”

She turned her head slightly to stare into his eyes, her face just inches from his, her mouth no more than a kiss away. “And if I don’t?”

His gaze slipped to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Then I shall be devastated. My heart will be crushed as thoroughly as dust beneath your feet.”

“Oh, we can’t have that.” Her eyes widened in an innocent manner he didn’t believe for a moment. “I quite detest dust.”

“Her name is Lady Veronica Smithson,” an indignant voice sounded off to one side. “And I am Lady Redwell. Portia? Your cousin? Although apparently you have forgotten.”

He straightened, stepped away from Lady Smithson, and turned to his cousin. “Portia!” He took her hands and kissed her cheek. “I was just coming to look for you.”

“Humph.” Portia sniffed. “I doubt that.”

“Come now, Portia, you shouldn’t and you know it. I was quite pleased to see you in the audience this evening.” He favored her with an affectionate smile. “How are you, little cousin? You look as lovely as ever.”

“Don’t try that with me, Sebastian,” Portia said, but a charming blush washed up her cheeks. He’d always been able to make her blush. “I am quite annoyed with you.”

He ignored her. “No, I was wrong. I think you are lovelier than ever.”

“It won’t work,” Portia warned.

He considered her thoughtfully. “Dare I hope the blush in your cheek and the sparkle in your eyes are due to a new gentleman in your life?”

“Sebastian!”

Lady Smithson choked back a laugh. He inclined his head toward her and lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “My mother says the entire family thinks it’s time.”

Lady Smithson’s voice matched his. “It’s my understanding they are doing everything they can to encourage her in that direction.”

“I am still standing here, you know.” Portia huffed and straightened her shoulders. “Yes, Sebastian, I may well be lovelier than ever, for whatever it’s worth. However, all the compliments in the world do not make up for the fact that you have been in London for some time now and have not called on me.”

“My apologies, Portia. I meant to. Indeed, I still mean to. But what with one thing and another . . . Say.” He drew his brows together. “Why haven’t you called on me?”

“Me?” Portia’s eyes widened. “Why, I couldn’t possibly. I—”

“Don’t tell me it wouldn’t be proper.” He slanted Lady Smithson a knowing look. “Portia has always been overly concerned with propriety, you know.”

“Has she? I hadn’t noticed.” Lady Smithson’s wry smile belied her words.

“You’re my cousin and as close to me as one of my sisters.” He cast Portia a chastising look. “Surely you knew I was back in London? I’ve made no secret of my presence.”