Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1)

by Larissa Lyons

  How could she find that attractive? But then her nostrils flared and her mouth watered at the memory of his divine scent as though her other senses overrode that of sight. Aye. She found him easy on the eye, if easily intimidating.

  But initial impressions were often erroneous. After all, hadn’t she found Mr. Hurwell pleasant and agreeable during their first few meetings? Enough, certainly, to countenance a marriage to the man when her father pushed to secure her future.

  Perhaps time with Lord Tremayne might soften his harsh edges (and ultimately find a razor blade scraping those whiskers to perdition).

  Was she as bird-witted as her former husband’s stupid cuckoo clocks? For beginning to yearn for a man she knew nothing about? Or could Sarah’s earlier claim possibly be correct—was she fortunate enough to have found the answer to her unspoken prayers?

  “Can you do this, do you think? Be intimate with him?” Sarah asked intently. “It’s not too late to call a halt, but I truly believe he’s a gentleman in every sense. He isn’t addicted to drink nor to gambling. Doesn’t overindulge at the table and isn’t a pinch farthing when it comes to the ready—he kept Louise dressed in style and she always had pin money to fritter.” Sarah gave an indulgent snort. “From what I can tell, his worst vice is his propensity toward tardiness, a minor inconvenience at best.”

  Now that she’d seen him, been intrigued by his manner and enticed by his scent, something akin to panic squeezed her chest at the thought of not going through with her intended plans for the evening.

  “Aye! I want to go home with him tonight.” Good heavens. She sounded overly excited about the prospect. This was supposed to be something she had to do, not something she wanted to do. Dorothea tempered her tone. “Well, if I absolutely must have a protector, then I believe Lord Tremayne will do.”

  Quite nicely.

  “If you’re sure?”

  Why was Sarah expressing doubts now? It had been her idea to begin with! Dorothea might have been brought up to never remotely consider such an arrangement, but she also knew hunger. The newly added lace at her cuffs reminded her she also knew fear.

  After finally meeting a titled gentleman in want of a mistress, one who took pains to considerately make mincemeat of her mutton, was she sure? She was positive that being with him far surpassed any other alternatives open to her at present.

  “I am,” Dorothea said with an emphatic nod, guilty excitement tingling in her belly. “But does he not need to approach me?” And before the clock struck midnight? She’d been acutely aware of the eleven resonant bells a while ago, chiming out her doom if he didn’t get on with it.

  “Fie! More often than not, men must be shown what they need. Are you game?”

  Before Dorothea could nod her assent, Sarah grabbed her hand and was resolutely tugging her in the direction of the three men.

  A short while earlier…

  “Who’s the runt?” Daniel nodded toward the lanky kid grinning at him from a distance. It was a touch eerie—the cub didn’t appear to be gawking at anyone else.

  Now that Penry had spoken his piece and Harry echoed the points with convincing—and enviable—ease, and between them they’d managed to sway at least three of the others to give their cause due consideration, it was past time to secure his little widow.

  But something about the way the kid had been staring at him all evening set off alarm bells. Like the ticking of an overloud clock one couldn’t ignore, Daniel had the feeling an explosion was about to detonate.

  A feeling he shrugged off—why borrow trouble that didn’t exist?

  “That’s Everson’s youngest.” Penry waved the cub over. “He’s a huge admirer but you need—”

  “Admirer of what? Loose women?”

  “Tell me I didn’t just hear that.” Penry shot him a dark look. “You’re under duress else I wouldn’t let that slide without a slap.”

  A slap? As in challenge him to a duel? Over a jest? A quip barely slighting the man’s mistress? When had Penry become so protective? And what was he nattering on about now?

  “…to meet you.” Penry spoke so low, Daniel saw his lips move more than heard him. “Fair warning, though, he—” Penry broke off when the boy raced the last few steps and reached them in a blink. “Tremayne, this eager fellow here is Thomas Everson, Jim’s youngest. But he prefers to go by Tom,” Penry said with the ease of long acquaintance.

  With not more than a score of years under his belt—if that—the young buck stood taller than either of them, six-four or better, and his lack of muscle made him appear as long and thready as a weed. He had a shock of red hair and the type of fair skin that blushed abominably. Young Tom also had a smile wider than Penry’s slab of a dining table.

  “Tom, as you already know, this here is Daniel Holbrook, the Marquis of Tremayne.”

  Daniel gave a slight bow to acknowledge the introduction. Very slight—he wasn’t used to looking up to anyone. Not since reaching his majority and the height of six-three, not since escaping the estate and his brute of a father.

  Tom didn’t look anything like his sire. Everson was a stout, beefy fellow well into his fifties. Without a daughter to his name, he was known more for his brood of nine sons than his talent in the ring, but Daniel had always found him a jovial, good-natured companion when they sparred. One who’d bluster on about anything with a smile on his face—even when Daniel’s fist had just connected with it.

  Everson was often accompanied by a son or two, but Daniel didn’t remember ever seeing this one. Tom beamed at him and thrust his hand out in a casual show of greeting not found among mere acquaintances, never found from a pup to a peer.

  Startled by the gesture as much as surprised to find himself grinning back, Daniel clasped Tom’s outstretched hand. But holding on to the smile almost killed him when the boy started to speak.

  “Muh-muh-muh-mmmmu-mmmmmm-ister Holllllllllbrook, ssssssssir,” Tom forced out Daniel’s seldom-heard surname while holding his gaze, the boy’s own expression as guileless as could be.

  Kaboom! The bomb went off. Pieces of shrapnel, of syllables, exploding around him.

  “Ahmpa.” The nonsense syllable blasted through the debris. “Mmmmmeannnnn Lllllllord-lord T-t-t-t-t-tr-trey-mayne!”

  Was this a joke? A cruel jest? Penry getting in a dig after that thoughtless loose-woman crack? But no, Tom continued his laborious speech—and his clutching of Daniel’s hand—with both enthusiasm and unbridled excitement.

  “I’ve ad-mmmmred you ahmp sin-sin-since that-that-that-that match in Do-Dover.”

  And Penry, when Daniel shot a panicked glance his direction, only looked apologetic. His expression screamed a guilty I tried to tell you.

  Realizing there was no help from that quarter, Daniel felt his head fight against him, his neck muscles objecting when he forced them back, returning his gaze to the boy’s. Who was still smiling, still exuberantly massacring everything he uttered. Still gripping Daniel’s hand.

  “Ffffffellled Thomp-ah-son fas-fas-faster than lightning, you did.” A garbled breath, a few unintelligible sounds, then, “’Twas a beaut, my lord, a beaut of-fa-fa a fight, it was. Made me pa-pa-pa-roud to see it-t-t-t!”

  Daniel was exhausted. Simply listening, without cringing, required so much strength. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold himself together. Every muscle screamed in protest, bunched tight from his ankles to his armpits.

  But the kid wasn’t finished—with his speech or with pumping Daniel’s arm. “Yessirreee, ever since that-that-that-jab-you-you-lan-lan-landed in the fourth round, I’ve been affffffff-ter Papapapa to ’duce me…”

  Tom went on, haltingly at times, furiously fast at others but always exuberantly, putting to shame the agony Daniel experienced each time he even thought to open his mouth.

  He endured more accolades than he deserved, more praise than he warranted, but through the remainder of the painful recitation, the inarticulate articulations, he never tried to retrieve his hand and he never�
��not once—allowed his gaze to falter from the young man’s.

  It was excruciating.

  As though he watched a mirror image of himself—though one nearly half his age who truly had things worse off than he did. A reflection that hurt, not so much because looking at it made him uncomfortable—which admittedly, it did—but because seeing this side of it, seeing how his image could have been projected into the world had he possessed a father like Everson, someone encouraging instead of cutting, someone constructive instead of destructive, made Daniel long for what he’d never had. Never have.

  A different father and older brother. A different childhood. Acceptance, tolerance, lack of self-consciousness.

  It made him long for a different life. A past not punctured with doubt and shame. A future not burdened with the expectation of failure.

  It made him long to be anywhere but here.

  Tom’s speech was riddled and rutted with so many stops, starts and stumbles, it was a wonder he still stood. Still garbled out admiration that only scraped Daniel raw.

  Finally, after his jaw had already started cramping in sympathy, the boy wound down. And just then noticed he still maintained possession of Daniel’s hand.

  “Oh-oh-oh-suh-suh-suh-suhrry, so sorry!” Tom’s grip had tightened during his monologue and Daniel suspected it had been totally involuntary. Holding on to a lifeline so he didn’t drown. One he now dropped like a hot coal. “Geh-geh-geh-geh-get-t-t-t ’cited and for-g-g-get-t-t.”

  And still the kid was smiling.

  Deuced amazing.

  Damned impressive.

  How was he still going? Daniel couldn’t fathom it. Tom had to be exhausted, the lack of air caused from all the muscles in his mouth and larynx seizing up on him, freezing out his breath, starving his body…

  But dammit, he kept charging forward.

  “Seen you at other b-b-b-b-bouts-bouts, I have-have-haveh. Never miss one if-if-if-fff-I-can-help-help-help-ah-it but that one’s mmmmmmmmmy-my-my fav’rite!” He glanced at Daniel’s hand and his cheeks flushed crimson. “Ap-p-ologize, I do! Ackpm. For-got-got-got myself.”

  Giving his mangled fingers a ginger stretch, Daniel raised his beleaguered hand to the boy’s shoulder when Tom paused for a breath.

  He gave a gentle squeeze. Forgiven. Nothing to forgive, in fact, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. Not after witnessing—after living—Tom’s butchered speech.

  So he nodded. And thought fast. But talked slow. “Honored.” Daniel brought his hand back to his side and felt strangely bereft. “High…praise you…”

  Deliver? Bestow? Dammit! What else? Think, man, think. Don’t start mumbling like an idiot!

  5

  Past vs Present vs Passion

  “Father, father, where are you going?

  O do not walk so fast!

  Speak, father, speak to your little boy,

  Or else I shall be lost.”

  The night was dark, no father was there,

  The child was wet with dew;

  The mire was deep, and the child did weep,

  And away the vapour flew.

  William Blake, “The Little Boy Lost”

  Don’t be an idiot!

  Oh, God. Memories swamped him, made his ears ring. Strangled his tongue.

  How many times had he heard that in his youth?

  Don’t mutter like a dolt! Stop yammering like a fool! Only idiots can’t speak their mind. Guess that makes you an idiot, then, don’t it? Get out of here, idiot-boy, can’t stand the sight of you!

  It hit him like a lightning bolt. One that flashed fierce and hard, sizzled through his veins as though his blood had caught fire. Not once had he thought of young Everson as an idiot. As something to belittle. Not once!

  But himself? At the mere possibility of tripping over a letter or two, Daniel started thinking like his father. Condemning and cruel.

  Nausea roiled through his gut as the force of his memories outweighed the knot of dinner by a stone.

  And Tom Everson was still waiting. Penry still watching his every move like a mother hen protecting chicks from a fox.

  “High p-praise— Arghem.” He cleared his throat to mask the fumble. As though he swallowed metal spikes with every sound, it felt scratched raw. “You shower on me,” he somehow managed to say without mangling. Without running for the carriage as though Death chomped at his heels. “High…praise…in…deed.”

  When would he ever be rid of the old man’s legacy? When, goddammit?

  Peripherally he caught sight of Sarah and Mrs. Hurwell, heads together in conversation, eyes darting his direction. By damn! He’d forgotten all about her. His new mistress.

  If he hadn’t blundered that beyond salvaging. Ignore her during dinner. Neglect her afterward. Go home empty-handed and mistressless. Listless. Lonely.

  Again.

  But he couldn’t abandon the boy, not even if it meant missing out on the pretty widow. Not after the courage the kid had just displayed. Was still showing, in fact.

  “Wellllll deserved, mmmmy-my-my lord, well de-deserved! Muh-muh-muh-ight you work with me, Llllllllllord Tremayne? In-in-in-the-the-ring?”

  Only a heartless bastard would turn the boy down. Would be so cruel.

  “Will-will-will you t-t-t-t-teach me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  And don’t look at me like that. I can’t be around you and be reminded.

  Of what I never had.

  That I’m turning into him.

  Devil take me! I’m turning into him—the man I loathe most in all the world. I’m sitting like him, thinking like him, acting like him.

  Fire burned along his lip, the old scar reminding him he’d never be free.

  But he had to say something else. Couldn’t leave it at that. Couldn’t bear the dimming of the eager features, hated seeing the excitement falter into embarrassment, the hero-worship turning to hurt.

  ’Tis nothing to do with you, Daniel wanted to shout at Tom. But in truth it had everything to do with him.

  Daniel couldn’t be around Tom Everson and not constantly remember, not forever compare. He couldn’t interact with the boy without seeing the life he could’ve had, had his father not been such a loathsome monster.

  Daniel fought the constriction in his throat to force out, “Not just you…boy. I…don’t…train.” Mayhap not, but he did sound like a hard arse. “New fighters. Only spar with …those ex…p’renced.” He’d left off a syllable or two but couldn’t bring himself to care. He only wanted to escape.

  By damn, his insides had been dipped in burning coals, his whole body overly warm in places, searing hot in others. His neck burned, blistered by the fear. He had to get away before the rest of him turned to ash.

  A light, joyful laugh drew his reluctant gaze across the room. Mrs. Hurwell, flushed from wine and he knew not what else, looked more fetching than ever. She caught his glance and gave him an encouraging, if timid, smile.

  His fiery gut clenched with the renewed thrum of desire. Oblivion—for a few moments at least. That’s what time with her body promised.

  But he couldn’t stomach talking to her for God’s sake, not now. Not for the amount of time required to do the pretty before he plunged inside her to pound away his past.

  Damn. He balled his sore hand at his side, contemplating: the woman or his sanity?

  Who needed a new mistress? His bruised fingers should be sufficient for the task. If he yanked his pipe long enough, maybe he could jerk the growing pain right out the tip along with his spunk.

  “Tremayne.” At the unmistakable warning from Penry, Daniel wrenched his gaze back to Tom.

  The kid was blinking fast, trying to hide the hurt. He didn’t quite succeed. The smile he flashed was as wide as ever, but it didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “I-I-I-I-I unnnnnnnnn-der-der-sta-sta-sta-stand,” he spoke softer and without any inflection. “Should’ve known beh-beh-beh-ter-ter-ter. Mmmmmmnnnnnnn. Ap. Ap. Mmmmnnnn.”

  Daniel missed the eag
erness that’d characterized Tom’s earlier efforts. But God help him, he couldn’t miss how Tom’s elocution had faltered, grown worse, less comprehensible. Leading him to believe the boy now shuffling back and forth on his feet had practiced the lines beforehand, rehearsed what he’d come to say.

  But never thought to rehearse a rejection.

  “Un-un-understandstandstand, I d-d-d-do. Papa told me not-not to pester you-you-yyyyyyyyyou. Should havvvvvvvvv-eh-eh listennnnnned. Mmmmmm…”

  When the word refused to come despite several seconds’ effort, when his lips persisted in staying glued together despite his obvious efforts to pry them apart, Tom jerked his head to the side and reached up to slap his face, a hard thwack Daniel felt slam across his mouth. The slash of a cane instead of a palm. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

  Tom looked back at Daniel, unshed tears welling in his eyes. The sight punched him in the stomach harder than any blow he’d ever received. “F-fa-fault. Meh-meh-meh-mine.”

  Daniel wanted to take the rejection back. Wanted to offer to meet the brave young man next week. To teach him everything he could.

  He wanted to offer to be his friend.

  But he did none of those things. Throat tight, neck aching with the strain, teeth and tongue trembling, he fisted his throbbing fingers tighter and inclined his head in a curt show of acknowledgment or dismissal—he knew not which, and he wasn’t about to linger long enough to figure it out.

  Before he could stop himself, Daniel pushed past Penry and stepped around Tom.

  “Tremayne!” Penry called him back. But he kept moving forward, blindly racing for a way out.

  You’ll burn in hell, Satan spawn, his sire had screamed at him once (more than once if he were honest). He very well might burn, Daniel knew. But it wouldn’t be for the sins his father falsely attributed to him. It would be for running away and crushing a young man’s spirit. For sacrificing another man’s dreams to preserve his own delusions of manhood.