My Lady of Misrule
Wicked Winter Nights, Book One
Amy Rose Bennett
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Also by Amy Rose Bennett
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Amy Rose Bennett
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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This book is available as an ebook at most online retailers.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of fiction or are used in a fictitious manner, including portrayal of historical figures and situations. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
First edition: October 2018 in the limited edition Seduced Under the Mistletoe Anthology
This edition: November 2019
Cover design by Wicked Smart Designs
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ISBN Mobi: 978-0-9954283-9-3
ISBN ePub: 978-0-9954283-8-6
Chapter 1
St James’s, London
St. Nicholas Day, 6th December, 1818
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Sir Tristan King groaned as he rolled over in his tester bed to avoid the sliver of weak sunlight penetrating a chink in the dark blue velvet curtains of his room. It was winter, God damn it! Why wasn’t it overcast or raining, perhaps even snowing?
And what the devil had he been thinking yesterday? Behaving like a twenty-year-old buck rather than a man of thirty-four had not been wise, to say the least. Indeed, his body was now punishing him for his foolhardiness. He ached from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Even the fine linen sheets and goose down quilt seemed to abrade his skin.
After a day and night spent doing too much of everything for far too many hours, he was well and truly spent: bare-knuckle boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s; a hard ride to Richmond and back to fulfill the terms of a dare thrown down at White’s by Lord Preston; and then carousing and whoring into the wee small hours with Preston and his other, equally dissolute bachelor cronies at Pimpernel House, one of his favorite brothels.
Good God, he really needed to slow down before he did himself an injury.
Oh, that’s right, he did have an injury. Several. As Tristan adjusted his head upon the pillow, the tenderness in his jaw, left eye socket, and cheekbone reminded him that he and his friend Lord Skene had been set upon by several thugs in a back alley when they’d quit a Jermyn Street gaming hell of dubious repute around four o’clock in the morning. They’d made short work of the thieves but not before the burliest of the group had landed a couple of decent blows to Tristan’s head.
He winced as he gingerly probed his cheek and eye. He really shouldn’t have been swayed by bloody Skene. The Scots earl had the constitution of an ox and had nary a scratch on him after the altercation. Thank God his friend was heading back to his northern estate for the Yuletide season otherwise Tristan was sure he’d be meeting his maker before Twelfth Night arrived ...
A light rat-a-tat on the door and the sound of his valet’s voice had Tristan groaning again. What the hell was Sullivan thinking? The man had helped him to bed so knew very well what state his master had been in. Not only that, Sullivan had been in his service for years: first as his batman when Tristan served as a cavalry officer in His Majesty’s army, and after Waterloo, as his valet. The man should bloody well know better.
The knock came again and Tristan croaked out, “What is it?” As soon as the door cracked open he growled, “Is the house burning down? Because that’s about the only excuse I’ll accept for disturbing me.”
Sullivan slid into the room and very carefully closed the door with a gentle snick. “I’m so, so sorry, sir. But there’s someone here to see you and she’s already been waiting for several hours...”
She?
Tristan pushed himself up onto one elbow and let out a sharp hiss as pain lanced through his side. He’d forgotten about the blow to his ribs. Bloody bastard street thug.
Aloud he muttered, “What do you mean? Who’s waiting for me?”
Sullivan abandoned his study of the Turkish rug beneath his feet and met Tristan’s narrow-eyed glare. “The Countess of Harlow, sir. Mr. Dennison suggested she return this afternoon, but she insisted on waiting. She’s been here since nine o’clock and as it’s now getting onto noon...”
Christ. Minerva was here? What the deuce?
His physical pain temporarily forgotten, Tristan sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. Minerva Covington, Lady Harlow, was the widow of his dearly departed friend, David. In fact, he’d known the countess for years as the Kings of Ashwood Park in Hertfordshire and the Covingtons of Ivywell Hall were neighbors. Minerva and his sister Julia were also close friends.
Indeed, David and Tristan had been the best of friends since childhood. They’d played together, attended Eton and Oxford together. Kicked up their heels about Town and on the Continent together. After David had died two years ago following a tragic riding accident at his country estate, Tristan had encouraged his lovely young widow to reach out to him if she ever needed assistance. It had been several weeks since they’d last crossed paths at Julia’s Russell Square townhouse, and at the time, Minerva had seemed well enough. But clearly that was no longer the case.
Swallowing down his panic, he asked, “Is the lady all right? What’s wrong?”
Sullivan held out Tristan’s velvet banyan. “I don’t rightly know, sir,” he replied as Tristan thrust his arms into the robe. “Mr. Dennison mentioned she seemed troubled, to be sure. But he didn’t feel it was his place to question her.”
With swift movements, Tristan tied the banyan at his waist then strode over to the washstand. “Where is she?”
“The drawing room. I heard her maid has just rung for a third pot of tea. Hot water is on its way up by the way,” Sullivan added as Tristan sloshed cold water into the china washbasin and splashed his face. “Would you like me to shave you, sir?”
Glancing up into the washstand mirror, Tristan grimaced at his dripping reflection. He didn’t want to keep Minerva waiting any longer, but he looked like hell. Worse than hell. Shaving away his fearsome black stubble would barely improve his thoroughly disreputable appearance. Aside from a swollen empurpled eyelid, he was sporting an impressive bruise on his cheek, a split lip, and his good eye was more bloodshot than blue.
“I think that would be a good idea, Sullivan. But be quick about it. Lady Harlow has been kept waiting long enough.”
As soon as Tristan entered the drawing room, Minerva rose from
the damask upholstered settee before the fire. One look at him and she gasped, her lovely face blanching as her hand flew to the snow-white fichu at her throat. Her young maid on the other side of the room emitted a high-pitched squeak and bumped into a potted palm, almost upsetting it.
“Sir Tristan. Oh, my goodness.” Minerva’s alarmed gaze traveled over his frightful countenance. “Are you all right? If I’d known you were injur—I mean, indisposed—I wouldn’t have intrud—”
Tristan held up a hand. “I know I don’t look it, but I’m quite fine, my dear Lady Harlow.” Sullivan’s close shave hadn’t helped much at all. Neither did his gentleman’s garb. He still resembled the worse kind of ruffian. “My boxing partner and I simply got a bit too enthusiastic yesterday.” Well, it wasn’t a total lie. He had sparred with Skene for a good hour before they’d set out for White’s.
Minerva’s liquid brown eyes were troubled as her gaze continued to linger on his face. However she nodded then addressed her maid. “You may leave us, Betsy. I’m sure Sir Tristan won’t mind if you wait in the front parlor.”
“Y-yes, milady.” The whey-faced girl bobbed a swift curtsy then retreated from the room as if she were fleeing the beast in a fairytale. Silly chit. If Tristan’s face didn’t hurt so much, he might have laughed.
Concern replaced amusement when he turned his attention back to his guest. “Now, my dear Minerva,” he said gently, dispensing with her title now the maid had gone. “What brings you here? I hear you’ve been waiting for nearly three hours. The more pertinent question is: are you all right?”
Color flooded Minerva’s cheeks. “I’m... I’m physically well,” she replied carefully. “But...” Her gaze dropped away from his and her fingers curled into the emerald green velvet skirts of her gown. “Oh, dear. This conversation is not an easy one to have. I scarcely know where or how to begin.”
Tristan gestured at the arrangement of chairs before the fire. “Perhaps we should sit.”
“Yes...”
Minerva perched at one end of the settee and Tristan took the other end. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, nodding at the teapot, urn, and fine bone china tea set on the low table in front of them. “I’ve just made a fresh pot.”
Tristan inclined his head. “Thank you.”
He studied Minerva as she dispensed his tea just the way he liked it. Her color had returned to normal but there were shadows beneath her fine brown eyes. And was there a slight tremble in her long, elegant fingers as she passed his cup and saucer to him?
Taking a sip of tea, he continued to watch Minerva over the rim of his cup. A tall woman with generous curves, she’d always been the epitome of cool refinement. But today there was an uncharacteristic tension about her body; her back was ramrod straight and she grasped her own cup so tightly, her knuckles stood out starkly against her fine porcelain skin. Good Lord, was she actually gnawing at her lower lip? He’d never seen her do that before and it bothered him more than he could say.
“So... ” Tristan put down his cup. “Would it help if I told you that I’m glad you’ve come to me? If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask.”
To Tristan’s surprise, Minerva released a derisive huff. “You might not be so glad in a moment.” Reaching for her reticule, she pulled out a slightly crumpled sheet of folded parchment then handed it to him. “Last night, I was going through some of David’s old papers. It’s taken me some time to muster the strength to go through the last of his things. And I found this letter...” She swallowed and when she spoke again, her voice cracked. “From another woman... David’s mistress. Or should I say, ‘whore’?”
Oh, no. Tristan knew who the author of the missive was even before he glanced at the flowing script. Damn, bloody damn. Long buried guilt clawed its way up his throat. He couldn’t deny Minerva’s assertion. Because it was true.
Minerva’s eyes were bright with tears, her tone hard with accusation as she said, “Did you know about her, Tristan? Did you know my darling, devoted husband kept a lover? A woman named Delilah, of all things. You were his best friend after all.”
Without thinking, Tristan scrubbed a hand down his face then winced as he encountered abused flesh. “Yes. I did know, Minerva. And I know it probably won’t help you to hear this, but I never felt comfortable about the situation.”
“You’re right.” Her full mouth flattened into a hard angry line. “It doesn’t help.” She stood abruptly and with a flick of her velvet skirts, paced over to the bow window, which looked out upon the narrow, and currently lifeless, courtyard garden at the back of the house. The cold gray daylight filtering in through the lead glass panes caressed her auburn hair, picking out strands of copper and gold within the deep mahogany waves.
Minerva wasn’t pretty or beautiful in a conventional sense, but when David had first introduced his then fiancée to Tristan seven years ago, he’d thought her a handsome woman with a lush figure and striking features; her mouth might be a little too wide, and her nose a little too long, but she had the loveliest eyes, their color as rich and warm as hot chocolate. And then of course, there were her bountiful curves, which even a sedately arranged fichu or the cascading fall of her gown couldn’t hide.
Tristan had never quite understood why David had felt the need to look outside of his marriage to satisfy his carnal desires. But then, he’d never questioned his friend about his reasons for keeping a mistress. There were some things gentlemen didn’t talk about. Just as there were topics one didn’t discuss with other gentlemen’s wives. No matter how long they’d known each other.
“I just don’t understand why he would do such a thing.” Closing her eyes, Minerva leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the glass pane. The bleak despair in her voice sliced through Tristan’s heart. “I know it’s not uncommon for married men to keep mistresses. And that some tonnish wives take lovers after they’ve produced the required heir and a spare. But I thought... I thought David and I were different. I truly believed that he loved me. What a fool I’ve been.”
Fuck. Discarding the letter, Tristan rose to his feet, but indecision froze him to the spot. He had the sudden, and perhaps completely inappropriate urge to gather Minerva into his arms and offer her comfort. But he also sensed she bristled with anger beneath her cloak of anguish and would reject such a gesture on his part.
“You’re not a fool, Minerva. You were a wonderful, caring, loyal wife and David was the one who behaved like an utter idiot. But you’re wrong about one thing. He did love you.”
Dashing away a tear, Minerva straightened and shook her head. “Apparently not enough.”
Taking in Minerva’s pale face, the pain in her eyes, an odd poignant emotion—tenderness laced with remorse—tightened Tristan’s chest. Feeling like an utter idiot himself, if not a downright duplicitous, cowardly dog, he crossed to an oak cabinet where he kept several decanted spirits and poured out two measures of brandy into crystal tumblers. He was nothing but relieved when he approached Minerva and she accepted a glass without hesitation. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d hurled the drink into his face.
Minerva took a small sip, then another. “Did you know her? This Delilah?” Swirling the brandy about her glass, she made a study of the amber whirlpool.
“Not really. I knew of her.” While Tristan didn’t want to lie to Minerva, he was also reluctant to recount all the sordid details of David’s affair. Not to protect the memory of his friend by any means. But doing so would surely make Minerva feel worse.
“It sounds like David was a generous protector. From what I read in Miss Lacey’s love-note, I gather she had a townhouse, jewels, and an allowance.” Minerva’s voice had a hard yet brittle edge to it as she added, “She must have been quite an extraordinary lover considering the small fortune David appears to have bestowed upon her.”
Tristan took a sizeable swig of brandy to mask his guilty expression. “I really couldn’t say.” On occasion, David had waxed lyrical about his exploits with
Miss Delilah Lacey. After making a name for herself on the stage and at Pimpernel House, one of the more exclusive brothels around Covent Garden, she’d become the ton’s most sort-after courtesan. It wasn’t until the Duke of Carlisle had parted ways with her that David had managed to secure her services exclusively for himself. Even though their arrangement had lasted several years, it appeared David had kept his secret well hidden from Minerva.
Tristan had never thought to ask his friend if his wife was aware he kept a mistress. And David would have been well within his rights to tell him to mind his own business if he had. Of course, it had also been convenient for him to assume Minerva had known about her husband’s infidelity and hadn’t cared.
Clearly, he’d been wrong.
To Tristan’s surprise, Minerva reached out and placed a hand upon his forearm. The light touch of her fingers was not unwelcome. Indeed, his flesh seemed to tingle beneath the sleeve of his superfine coat.
Unaware she was having such a singular affect upon him, Minerva caught his eye. “I’m sorry for being so rude before, Tristan. For snapping at you.” Her mouth curved into a bitter smile. “It’s not your fault my husband was a faithless liar. An adulterer.”
“No apology is necessary, Minerva. I only wish...”
Minerva’s raised a finely arched brow, waiting for him to continue, but Tristan shook his head as uncertainty paralyzed his tongue. What did he want to say? That if Minerva had been his wife, sharing his bed, he would never have betrayed her? That he would have desired her and no one else? But how could he say such a thing when it might be misconstrued? And it might not be quite true considering his rakehell tendencies and sexual proclivities...
My Lady of Misrule: Wicked Winter Nights, Book One Page 1