The Counterfeit Mistress (28 page)

“I am fortunate that you did, however. I am in your debt.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss on it. “I do not want you in my debt. I do not want it to be like that.”

She turned her body toward his so she could look in his eyes. So serious he appeared. And, perhaps, a little confounded. It would be cruel to make him wonder, especially when her heart almost burst from relief and emotion.

Stretching her fingers into his hair, she drew him closer. To her surprise he rested his head on her breast. She kissed his crown. “It could never be like that. Only debt. I love you too much to think of you that way, even though I will always be grateful that you did not lose faith in me after all the deceptions. The rest of the fortnight is yours, and however longer you want.”

He straightened and looked at her. He did not appear nearly as joyous as she had hoped. In fact, he frowned.

She had misunderstood. Erred somehow. She began to speak again but his fingers came to rest on her lips, silencing her. “No, do not speak. Allow me. Here is the thing—” He paused forever, chewing over just what the thing was.

Finally, she took pity on him. “You do not have to declare yourself too. You have proven your affection in ways few women ever know.”

“Yes, I must. It would be cowardly if I do not. I lack practice, that is all.” He cleared his throat, collected himself, and his face found its confident, hard angles. “You cannot know how happy I am to hear you say you love me. I am not a man it is easy to love, I suspect. I am no great prize and am appealing to women mostly for the accidental inheritance of title and estate. I do not dance attendance well, and am hopeless when it comes to the flatteries and dissembling expected by society.”

“You are most appealing, sir, in ways that have nothing to do with your title or—”

Again those fingers silenced her lips. “You must let me speak. Please.”

She nodded meekly.

“I wanted you for months before we ever spoke. You were correct about that. You knew. I still want you. I always will. If you will give me as long as I want, we are speaking of a lifetime, darling. You need to know that. It is not mere desire that makes me want you now, or affection, but love. I have been a long time coming to know that emotion. I do not love easily. I do not think I stop loving easily either. This will not pass, ever.”

He astonished her. Had any man ever said this better? Or as honestly? She only had to look at him to know he meant every word.

He took her hand. “You are in my heart all the time. In my head too. When a man feels like this—The earrings were not a parting gift, Marielle. Nor baubles for a mistress. They are a gift to my lady, so that she might look favorably upon my proposal of marriage.”

Marriage. She startled enough that the pearls tapped her again. “I am not Marielle. I am Marianne. Do you think to let others continue believing I am the niece of a comte? If the truth comes out—”

“Of course it will come out. We have no reason to lie, and it would not be honorable for me to present you as other than you are. As for your name, you will always be Marielle to me but you can use any name you want. I already told you that.”

Emotions jumbled inside her. Love and worry and a poignant regret. “I do not think you have carefully considered this. Even Southwaite did better in his match with Emma. I will love you forever, and all the more for offering this, but—”

“I am not a man who speaks rashly. And no one, no man, will do better than I if you agree, Marielle.”

He believed that. She could see that he did. She also saw indescribable warmth in his gaze, and some astonishment at himself and this love.

“Of course, I agree, Gavin. I would be honored to marry you.”

He embraced her fully, encompassing her in his possessive arms. He gave her a deep kiss full of desire and love.

She nestled against him, listening to his heart, enjoying the protective, caring closure of his arms. Happiness moved her so much she wanted to cry from it.

“Will Ravenswood be our home when we are not in town?” she asked, picturing the chambers and imagining some improvements they should make.

“Of course.”

“Will I be allowed to have my female friends visit?”

A pause. A good ten-count passed. She bit back a laugh. Lord Kendale had perhaps not thought everything through as thoroughly as he believed.

“Certainly,” he said. “I will even sit in the drawing room and listen to the gossip and such.”

“That will not be necessary. You can go off hunting and riding with the others. You do not have to change. I would be a poor wife if I did not accept your Kendale ways.”

“If you insist,” he murmured against her hair. He sounded very relieved.

They shared the excitement and contentment in silence a little longer.

“Will I be allowed to have some female servants at Ravenswood?”

He stilled. A statue in stone would move more.

“I expect you will need some.”

“Old Pete can hardly dress my hair.”

“Of course not.” He kissed her temple. “How many is ‘some'?”

“I think six would do.”

“Six?”

“It would help even things out there a bit.”

He sighed. “I suppose it would.”

She giggled, and turned so she could face him. “I am joking, darling. A lady's maid, and Dominique as a companion are all I really need.”

He brightened. “That would be fine. That is, whatever you want will be fine.”

“I promise not to ruin everything. You can still have a barracks in the cellars, and send men off on suspicious missions. I won't ask about them or interfere in any way.”

“You can ask. They think of you as one of them, after France. It is another reason why you are the perfect wife for me.”

No one else would think her the perfect wife for him, but if he did, that was all that mattered. “No one will ever love you more or be more loyal, I promise you that, Gavin.”

He took her face in his hands, in that caring way he had. “I know. I am sure of it. I am sure of you. And I am so glad that I felt compelled to solve the mystery of Marielle Lyon.”

Keep reading for a special look at the previous novel in Madeline Hunter's latest Regency quartet

The Conquest of Lady Cassandra

Available now from Jove Books

AUGUST 1798

“W
ith each passing minute, I am more relieved that it will be a small wedding,” Emma admitted. She gazed into her looking glass while her maid fitted a headpiece onto her golden-brown crown.

“I am wishing with each passing minute that it were larger,” Cassandra said. She gestured for the maid to move aside and took over with the headdress. Covered in white silk and decorated with tiny pearls and a discreet white feather, the confection looked stylish but subdued, and appropriate for a bride who was a mature woman and not some girl fresh from her first Season.

Emma's age was one reason for the small wedding. The others were the location in the country, the dispersal of good society throughout the realm in August, and perhaps a desire on Emma's part not to be the center of an assembly.

“At a large wedding, one can avoid people whom one wants to avoid without being obvious,” Cassandra continued while she worked two hairpins into place. “You, as the bride, can't, of course. But a guest can.”

Emma looked at her in the reflection. “Do you anticipate being cut by some of them? Is that why you did not come down from town until yesterday?”

“Actually, I was thinking there may be some guests that
I
might want to avoid,” Cassandra said, with a laugh. “I delayed because my brother insisted on visiting. You are a good friend to concern yourself with my reception by society, but you worry for naught. Southwaite's relatives and friends would never insult him and you that way.”

She wished she could share with Emma the real reason she had delayed leaving London. Emma possessed great sense, and could advise her on how to handle the threats her brother Gerald, the Earl of Barrowmore, had made about Aunt Sophie. A year ago, Emma might have found a way to loan her the money, which had suddenly become so critical if she were to thwart Gerald's nefarious plans.

But it would be selfish to darken a friend's wedding day with tales of woe. Emma was about to become the new Countess of Southwaite, and her freedom to help a friend was circumscribed by larger duties. Also by a husband who did not much like that friend.

Emma turned in the chair. Her expression suggested she guessed at Cassandra's inner turmoil. She pulled Cassandra into an embrace and rested her head against Cassandra's body.

“Thank you for coming, even if it was later than planned. Had you not, I would have prepared all alone today, with only a maid, and had no one to laugh with me to keep my nerves calm.”

Cassandra stroked her hand down Emma's head and along the curls that fell over her shoulder. At twenty-five, Emma was older by two years, but when it came to worldly things, Cassandra had often thought of Emma as a younger sister. She savored their embrace, especially because if she could find the means to take Aunt Sophie out of Gerald's reach, there would not be many more.

“You are my best friend, Emma, and a most exceptional friend you are too.” Among Emma's remarkable qualities had been the ability to disapprove without scolding, and to accept a friend's choices without demanding explanations. “Nothing could have kept me away.” She reached for her reticule where it rested on a chair. “Now, a bit of paint on your cheeks and lips.”

“You know I do not paint.”

“Just a touch, Emma. Only this once, so you do not look like a terrified ghost.”

Emma made a face at herself in the looking glass. “I am a bit pale, aren't I? Do I really appear a little terrified too?”

“More than a little. There is no accounting for it either. It is not as if a great mystery waits for you when you go to your chamber afterward. Has he been a gentleman this last week, and stayed away so that he did not leave your bed the morning of the ceremony?”

Emma blushed. “How did you guess? He behaved most properly.”

“How annoying that must have been.”

Emma's face turned bright red. They caught each other's eyes and laughed.

“He probably wants to make you eager for the
official
first time,” Cassandra teased.

“I think the presence of his aunts and sister restrained him. He became a paragon of virtue the day they arrived.”

“That is because his aunts are ruthless gossips. They probably assume that only your being with child would explain this wedding at all. I would not be shocked to learn they took turns keeping watch at night to see if they could catch him sneaking in your door.”

“Hortense probably brought a spyglass just for that purpose.” Emma giggled. “In truth, though, more likely Darius did not want to scandalize Lydia.”

Cassandra dabbed some paint and rubbed Emma's cheeks until it faded to a light blush. The Earl of Southwaite, whom Emma would marry within the hour, treated his sister Lydia like a schoolgirl, even though she was twenty-two. In order to preserve her innocence, he had forbidden her to be friends with Cassandra, which was one of several reasons why Cassandra did not overly favor him.

Considering Southwaite's prejudice against her, she had not expected an invitation to this wedding. Emma had obviously prevailed. Despite his faults, he did love Emma to the point of intoxication.

It remained to be seen if, a few months hence, the husband still indulged his wife should Cassandra remain in England. She did not expect either of those things to come to pass. As a result, these preparations with Emma possessed a poignant quality.

“All done.” She moved so Emma could see the looking glass again.

Although not a great beauty, Emma's eyes held beguiling sparks, and her attention compelled one with its directness. She now focused deeply on her own reflection.

“It is time, and I am as ready as I will ever be. Will you walk down with me, Cassandra? If I falter when I see the guests, you must pinch me and push me forward.”

“The man you love is waiting for you there, dear friend. He is all you will care about when the doors open.” She fell into step with Emma anyway, so that they would face the waiting world together at least one more time.

A
man had only to look at Lady Cassandra Vernham to begin imagining scandalous things. That rumors claimed she at least dabbled in the art of pleasure did nothing to discourage such thoughts when they invaded.

She stood near tall windows upon which rain formed arabesque rivulets. She had just disengaged from one conversation, and now examined the guests, planning her next social sortie.

Her dark curls in their fashionable, reckless abandon appeared almost black in the overcast light. Her large blue eyes implied an innocence that the full redness of her lips contradicted. The creamy, frothy dress flattered her body too well, emphasizing its feminine lushness.

Not for the first time in his life, Yates Elliston, Viscount Ambury and heir to the Earl of Highburton, thought that Cassandra Vernham looked good enough to eat. The room's colors and sounds blurred as his imagination feasted. His mouth kissed and tasted shapely, snowy legs, and moved up her body while his hands raised the creamy dress to reveal—

“Damn bold of her to come.”

The pleasant fantasy, which had reached the curve of an extremely sensual thigh, vanished. Yates turned to see his friend Viscount Kendale glaring in Cassandra's direction.

“The bride invited her. They are very close friends,” Yates said. The noise in the drawing room reasserted itself, rising around him like an orchestra tuning its instruments.

“She has to know that Southwaite dislikes her.”

“He permitted her invitation in order to indulge Emma,” Yates said. “If he does not mind her presence, why should you?”

“I am not blinded by love the way he is, that is why. I saw the way you were looking at her just now, for example. With all the women available to you, and damned eager to accommodate you from what I can tell, there is no need to set your sights on
that
one.”

Kendale alluded to the fact that six years ago Cassandra had refused to marry Baron Lakewood, one of their friends, after he had compromised her. Both of their reputations had paid a high price for her capriciousness. Worse, the prior spring, Lakewood had died fighting a duel over a woman. Presumably that woman had been Cassandra, since he had never stopped loving her.

“I was merely considering some business that I need to conclude with her, and planning how to do so.” The delay in settling that business had been inexcusable, even if family duties made it explainable.

“The hell you were. I know that look. Unless—you are not contemplating seduction as an act of revenge, are you?”

Not at the moment, but the unworthy idea had entered his mind more than once over the years. It had been the ignoble attempt of a randy mind to find excuses to do what should not be done. Cassandra Vernham had never married. A gentleman should not seduce her innocence, even if the latest
on dit
said she no longer had any.

From the looks of him, Kendale could not decide whether to disapprove of the idea, which meant he appreciated the conundrum. Normally Kendale adhered to rigid notions of honor, but Cassandra's suspicious independence put her outside any strict way of viewing those ideals.

“It is a different sort of business that I must conclude with her. Much less pleasurable.”

Across the drawing room, Cassandra strolled away from the windows. With the grace and self-possession befitting the daughter of an earl, she attached herself to a small knot of guests. Within two minutes, she was at its center. After her addition to the group, both the conversation and guests' expressions changed from careful and wary to free and lively.

“Hell of a way for Southwaite to start his marriage. Now it will be almost impossible to force the break between his wife and that woman,” Kendale said.

Yates almost explained the obvious—that Southwaite was too much in love to refuse his new wife anything. He had married Miss Fairbourne, hadn't he? Despite her common birth? Most of the guests did not approve of that any more than they did Cassandra Vernham.

“I suppose we must do our duty as charged.” Kendale raked his dark hair back with his fingers. “Hell of a thing.”

“She is holding her own without our help.”

“We promised the bride.”

“So be it. Fortunately, you will be at your post only until breakfast. I must take over then. We should line up in a quarter hour, I think.”

“What am I supposed to talk about? Should I ask her about the most recent gossip attached to her name?”

“Are you even aware of it? I had no idea you followed the scandal sheets, Kendale.”

“I read nothing and heard nothing. Yet I still know what the gossip would say. As do you.”

Indeed, Yates did. “The rumors remain vague. The men remain nameless,” he said, thinking aloud, once more calculating his obligations as a gentleman.

He would not mind knowing how true those rumors had been. While not complete, her fall had been far enough to make her fair game for his imagination, and thus unacceptable as a friend for the new Lady Southwaite. Presumably Southwaite would deal with that problem in the following weeks.

Cassandra smiled and sparkled as she extricated herself from her current group and walked away, greeting all whom she passed.

Kendale forced his scowl to fade. “Here I go. Fifteen minutes, you said. You must take over if it is one second more.”

C
assandra prayed that the servants would call the party to breakfast.
Now.

Until ten minutes ago, she had managed the forty guests in the drawing room very well. Then her situation had turned hellish. For reasons she could not fathom, Viscount Kendale, one of Southwaite's best friends, had not only addressed her but had decided to stick to her side.

She walked this way and that, and he followed like a shadow. She tried to engage other guests in conversation, and his face hovered above her shoulder. Anyone generous enough to throw a question his way received a minimal response. To say that polite conversation was not one of Lord Kendale's skills would be a kind way to describe his lack of social grace.

He had served in the army, so one expected better of him. Most officers were very amiable. Presumably, those who were not avoided society. Kendale's unexpected inheritance of the title meant he could hide no longer. Someone must have advised that at parties he attach himself to a woman who could cover his artlessness.

It appeared that today he had chosen her.

She stopped trying to converse with others, in order to spare everyone. She and Kendale stood near the windows while a long silence stretched.

“Regrettable weather.” It was the third time he had commented on the rain. His handsome face remained a stoic blank, and his green eyes looked over the gathering.

“Fortunately, this is an expansive and comfortable house, so inclement weather will not dull the festivities.” If he insisted on that topic, she would make the best of it. “Also, the storm should keep any boats carrying spies from trying to slip to the coast, and thus ensure that Southwaite and you do not have to leave, and ride out to save the realm in the middle of his wedding day.”

Kendale's expression firmed. His eyes turned steely. “Our efforts to secure the coast from uninvited guests are small and uncelebrated, but I trust not worthy of your mockery.”

“I do not mock you, Lord Kendale. Indeed, I am one of the few who knows enough about your activities to give what celebration there may be. Your bravery in this summer's earlier adventure has been described to me. Also, I would never insult a man whom I know my dear friend Emma holds in such high esteem.”

His gaze shifted to the bride and groom. “I would have preferred if Miss Fairbourne had been discreet about that. It should not be fodder for gossip by—” He caught himself. He drank more punch.

By such as you.
That was what he had started saying before better sense stopped him. That, or something worse perhaps.

Really, the man was not to be borne. Here she was, doing a good deed by tolerating him, and he had the effrontery to almost insult her outright.