All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
William Shakespeare, 1564—1616
A fortnight.
Wren carefully closed the door to the nursery and quietly made her way along the gallery, down the stairs to the entry hall, past the massive dining room, through the kitchens to the back door. Drew had issued an ultimatum and given her a fortnight—the length of time it would take for his father’s body to arrive home from Ireland—to get used to the idea of becoming his mistress.
Wren grabbed her black stole from the hook by the door where she’d left it when she’d entered the main house. She wrapped the wool stole around her shoulders as added warmth against the chill of the evening and walked down the white gravel path that led from the mansion through the gardens to the dowager cottage. Drew had been full of ultimatums today.
A footman, dressed in black mourning garments, had delivered a note to the cottage shortly after Drew had left it. The black-bordered note, penned in Drew’s distinctive hand, informed her that the sixteenth marquess of Templeston would be keeping country hours while in residence at Swanslea. Breakfast and dinner would be served at the accustomed time. She was expected to join him at the table for both. The supper she’d shared with Kit and Ally in the nursery this evening had marked the end of their simple quiet meals for a while.
Wren had apologized to Ally for the change in their evening routine as they’d bathed Kit and gotten him ready for bed. Ally was disappointed, but not surprised. She understood. Household routines invariably changed whenever the master of the house arrived. It had been so with her father and with the last marquess of Templeston and so it would be with the new one.
Wren kicked a pebble across the path. She’d assured Ally that their routine would have to be altered for a few days to accommodate the new marquess. But the change in routine was temporary. It would last only until the funeral guests arrived. Perhaps as long as a fortnight. The fortnight she was supposed to spend getting used to being Drew Ramsey’s paramour.
Drew, it seemed, had no intention of sleeping or eating alone. He’d granted her one last evening alone with Kit and Ally, but from now until the first of his guests arrived, Drew expected her to take her meals alongside him at the massive table in the formal dining room.
Wren followed the gravel trail past the carefully trimmed rows of boxwoods bordering the beds of kitchen and medicinal herbs and around the displays of topiary and statues. The moon had risen, illuminating a stone bench in the center of a square of green lawn surrounded on all sides by a profusion of early blooming roses. Wren sank down on the bench and breathed in the heady aroma of the roses. The bench was wet with dew and the moisture soaked through the thin fabric of her gown and undergarments. But it didn’t matter. No one would see the damp circle on the back of her dress in the dark and her thin silk pantalets and stockings would dry before morning. No one would know that she’d sat on a wet bench in the rose garden during the dark of night contemplating her future.
There had been dozens of times over the last six years when she had dreamed of sharing her bed and breaking her morning fast with Drew, but she’d always dreamed of being his wife. Not his mistress. And now, Drew had given her a fortnight to get used to the idea of having her heart’s desire. If she would only agree to sacrifice her self-respect and her romantic dreams of being his wife.
Wren frowned. She had secreted her girlish, innocent dreams away and kept them well guarded from the harsh reality of her life when she’d married a man old enough to be her father. She’d been fond of Bertrand and had spent most of her life thinking of him as a kind, elderly uncle. When her world crumbled around her head, Bertrand had come to her rescue, offering her his name and his protection. Wren had married him with a profound sense of gratitude.
And Bertrand had understood. He had married her knowing her heart was otherwise engaged. He hadn’t minded and had willingly accepted whatever affection she offered. Despite having been a lifelong bachelor, Bertrand liked having a young bride to show off to his friends and colleagues and had found married life quite satisfying.
Wren wished she could say the same. But marriage to Bertrand had held no surprises for her. It was exactly what she’d expected it to be. She’d been surrounded from dawn to dusk by elderly scholars, stacks of dusty Greek and Latin tomes, and scores of preserved biological specimens. Her marriage hadn’t been demanding, but it hadn’t been exciting or satisfying either—especially for a young woman who had been held in Drew Ramsey’s arms and who had shared his passionate kisses.
Wren sighed. Her desire to be a good wife to her elderly husband had led her to become his secretary, his sometime research assistant, and his housekeeper. When Bertrand fell ill ten months after they married, she’d spent endless days and nights at his bedside, nursing him. She had lost everything when Bertrand died. The house they’d shared had been provided to supplement Bertrand’s modest income at the museum and Wren had been forced to vacate to make room for the scholar hired to replace him at the new term. Wren glanced down at her black skirts. She’d forsaken her bright colors when her elderly husband died. She’d donned her first set of mourning clothes and moved into the dowager cottage at Swanslea with her father. Three years later she was still living in the cottage at Swanslea and still wearing mourning.
Merciful heavens, but she was heartily sick of black! So sick of it that during the past year, she’d begun using her clothing as a secret canvas, painting fanciful designs on her undergarments. She spent hours decorating her black silk pantalets and her black silk stockings and those decorations had become a series of greatly embellished studies of exotic flora and fauna.
Wren lifted her skirts a few inches. Twin circlets of bright green vines and crimson star-shaped blossoms wrapped themselves around her ankles. She flexed her feet and smiled at her secret handiwork. These miniature works of art were private indulgences, little bits of color used to relieve the seemingly endless yards of black fabric.
Wren stood up suddenly, lifted her arms to the sky, and began twirling around the lawn. Soft laughter bubbled to the surface as she repeated the intricate dance steps she’d learned long ago, moving in time to music only she could hear. Wren stepped up onto the bench and executed a graceful pirouette. She wondered, suddenly, what Drew would think if he knew she had spent her evening dancing in the moonlight like a pagan queen.
She paused in mid-turn. Thoughts of Drew always brought back memories she thought she’d forgotten. But there it was. Another unforgettable memory. Wren smiled. The last time she’d danced, she had danced with Drew. At the duchess of Kerry’s ball. She breathed deeply, remembering the way she’d felt when he’d held her in his arms and led her around the ballroom, how it felt to smile up at him and see an answering smile reflected in the depths of his deep brown eyes. And she remembered how bereft she’d felt when the ball ended and she had been forced to bid Drew good night and accompany her aunt home.
The pain in the region of her heart caught her unawares. She dropped down onto the bench and pulled her knees to her chest, gasping for breath. Her shoulders shook from the force of her sobs as Wren laid her face against her knee and allowed the hot tears to come.
It hurt so much to remember. It hurt so much to know that there had been a time when she would have given anything to see the smile in his eyes. A time when she would have given anything to be held in his arms again. A time when she would have given anything to feel that cherished again. So why was she balking at the idea of becoming his mistress now? Because she was very much afraid that she wouldn’t feel as cherished as his mistress as she had felt as his wife-to-be. Because it wouldn’t be the same. Drew wanted her again. Not because he loved her, but because his injured pride demanded satisfaction.
She knew what Drew wanted, but what about her? What did she want? The answer to her questions came instantly. Lo
ve. And security. She wanted Drew to look at her with love in his eyes, to offer her sanctuary in his arms and in his heart once more. Wren tried to scoff at her foolish ideals. She wanted the impossible. She’d lost his love when she’d broken faith with him; and now she wanted the one thing she knew he couldn’t give her.
Why wasn’t she more willing to bargain? She had something he wanted—something other than Kit and the cottage. Why couldn’t she give up on her romantic dreams? Why couldn’t she allow him to take what he wanted? It would be so much easier than fighting him. And anything was better than living in fear.
Wren frowned. She wasn’t a virgin. Procreation wasn’t a mystery any longer. She knew how it felt to have a man inside her, how it felt to conceive a child. She knew what to expect. She understood how it would be between them. So why didn’t she go to him and get it over with? Because she knew that whatever happiness she would feel at sharing his bed would be overshadowed by the knowledge that she’d sacrificed the last of her innocence in order to share it.
Wren let go of her knees and began mopping the tears on her face with the hem of her dress. She should know by now that crying never did her any good. It made her feel worse than before and left her with a headache, a sore throat, red swollen eyes, and a stuffy nose.
She dried her eyes and raised her head. She caught a whiff of a tantalizing aroma and saw a tiny pinpoint of orange light across the garden. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there in the pavilion atop the hill in the center of the maze. His cigar had given him away.
Wren peered into the darkness for a long moment. She wondered if he’d seen her, wondered why he hadn’t made his presence known. Or had he? She stood up and stared at the darkened pavilion. The tiny orange glow had disappeared. Wren squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. The faint aroma lingered. She exhaled softly, then turned and retreated to the cottage, feeling more confused than ever before.
Calling himself ten kinds of a fool, Drew quickly lowered his arm and hid the glowing tip of his cigar with his hand. She’d seen the orange light and knew he was there in the dark watching her. Drew exhaled a stream of smoke. He’d been witness to her exuberant dance and to her display of grief and Kathryn wouldn’t thank him for spying on her during her most private moments. Nor would she forgive him.
He heard her soft sigh and listened as the sound of her footsteps—the soft tread of leather against gravel—faded from his hearing. Drew wanted to follow her. He wanted to see her safely to her cottage door and once she reached the door, he wanted to see her safely to bed.
But Drew stayed in the pavilion long past time for her to reach the cottage. He stayed where he was, tamping down his need, fighting the urge to go to her and beg for what he wanted, beg for what he needed and for what he’d waited so many years to recover. He crushed out his cigar and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, adjusting his position in a futile attempt to allow more room for the burgeoning arousal pressing against the front of his snug trousers. He stayed in the pavilion until the damp and the chill forced him to return to the house. He entered his father’s study and helped himself to a large brandy before sinking down in the chair before the fireplace.
He must have lost his mind. There was no other explanation for his abrupt about-face. He had kissed her and the years of pain and torment had fallen away as if they had never existed. He forgot everything except the feel of Kathryn’s lips against his own—the feel of her body pressed against his. Drew shoved his fingers through his hair, struggling to come to terms with the rapid turn of events.
Kathryn was right. He’d finally lost his mind. Hadn’t he told her he saw no reason for Swanslea Park to come equipped with a mistress not of his choosing? Hadn’t he told her he wanted her to permanently remove herself from Swanslea? So why was he begging her to deck herself out in black crepe and veil and stand up with him at his father’s funeral? Why was he demanding that she get used to the idea of becoming his mistress?
Because he wanted her. Drew exhaled as he admitted the truth. It was as simple and as complex as that. He wanted her. He had wanted her before their aborted wedding and he’d wanted her after it. He’d been rocked by the need to make Kathryn Markinson his the first time he’d met her and the years since hadn’t changed that. He still wanted her.
The fact that she’d been his father’s mistress should be abhorrent to him. Hell, it was abhorrent to him—so abhorrent it made his gut clench. Drew wished it had never happened. But if Kathryn hadn’t become his father’s mistress, Kit would not have been born. And after meeting Kit—after meeting his half-brother—how could he wish he’d never been born? The knowledge that she mourned his father’s death as much as he did should deter him. But it didn’t. His need for Kathryn transcended pride and nobility. Drew had fought a battle with his better judgment and lost to that most powerful of adversaries—lust.
Mourning or not. Swathed in black crepe or not. He wanted Kathryn in his bed. And he intended to have her there. It seemed that where Kathryn was concerned, he had no conscience.
Drew frowned down at the empty brandy snifter in his hand. He had given her a fortnight to become accustomed to the idea. He’d allotted that space of time in which to court her. Drew pushed himself up from the depths of the comfortable leather chair, crossed over to the sideboard, and poured himself another brandy. He could already hear the snickering of the ton. There would be no end to the gossip once they discovered that he’d resumed a relationship with the woman who’d made him a laughingstock six years earlier. And he dreaded hearing what St. Jacque would have to say.
He set his glass of brandy down on the lamp stand and untied his cravat and unbuttoned his shirt collar. He sank onto his chair, stretched out his legs, and studied the blue-orange flames consuming the coal in the fire grate and reflecting off the highly polished leather of his black Hessians. While his other acquaintances in the ton would gossip behind his back, speculate as to his mental faculties, and snicker at his gullibility, his best friend would call him a flaming idiot to his face.
And he couldn’t say he’d blame him. Drew snorted in self-contempt. Julian wouldn’t hesitate to speak the truth as he saw it or bother couching his disapproval in politeness. The friendship they’d struck up as children had flourished through school days and the university, survived the excesses of youth and more than a fair share of courtships and love affairs, and been melded into an unbreakable bond by the death and destruction of war.
He lifted the globe of brandy and inhaled the aroma, swirling the liquor in the glass before taking a bracing swallow. His bond of friendship with Julian was constant and true, enduring triumph and tragedy and death. Too much death. First his mother and the brother or sister she’d carried, then the scores of soldiers he and Julian had commanded, and now his father’s untimely death.
Drew sighed. Soon there would be another death. Although he couldn’t envision a life without him, Drew doubted Julian would last the summer. The field surgeon had removed much of the grapeshot after Waterloo, but neither he nor the subsequent surgeons Drew had found to attend Julian had been able to remove all of the iron balls or repair all of the damage they had wrought. Several of the wounds failed to heal and Julian was slowly succumbing to them.
The bond of friendship between them would survive even Julian’s death. Drew swallowed another mouthful of brandy and raked his fingers through his hair. It had survived everything else—including his courtship of and aborted wedding to Kathryn. When Kathryn failed to show up for their wedding, Julian had urged him to forget her. But he didn’t want to forget her. He wanted her. And he wanted to know why she’d decided she didn’t want him. When she refused to see him, Drew sent Julian in his stead. But Julian fared no better. Kathryn refused to see either of them.
A week passed and with his wedding canceled and his plans for the future abruptly altered, Drew joined Wellington in his campaign against Napoleon. St. Jacque bought a commission and followed him. He’d
spent most of the campaign of the Hundred Days avowing that Drew was lucky to have escaped leg shackling himself to Sir Wesley Markinson’s heartless spawn of a daughter.
After Waterloo, Drew had devoted his energy and his considerable resources to helping Julian recover from his injuries, studiously avoiding the mention of anything that might upset him. Including Kathryn. He had carried his memories of her into battle, but Drew hadn’t spoken her name aloud in over six years. He managed a wry smile, imagining Julian’s inevitable reaction to the news that, in the space of a single day, he had allowed himself to fall under Kathryn’s spell once again.
There was no doubt about it. Andrew Ramsey, sixteenth marquess of Templeston, was a first-rate fool. A first-rate fool with an almost overwhelming need to turn back the clock. To return to the brief interlude following the Congress of Vienna, before the Hundred Days, when Napoleon had been safely confined on Elba and Drew had met and courted Kathryn. He wanted to go back to the time when life had held such promise. Before Kathryn had left him waiting at the altar, before the scandal and gossip. Before he’d run away to Belgium to kill his heartache along with Napoleon’s soldiers. Before his father had mysteriously assumed the role of Kathryn’s benefactor and lover.
There was a part of him that had always wondered what would happen if he chanced to meet Kathryn Markinson again. And now he knew. Drew downed the rest of his drink and blew out the lamps. He sat in the dark, stared at the soft glow of the coals, and remembered.
He had kissed her.
And time stood still.
The question that had plagued him for the past six years had been answered. Now he was left to wonder if she’d take him up on his ultimatum and how he was going to manage to face her across the breakfast table in the morning.
Chapter Ten
Once a Mistress Page 13