The Accidental Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Not at all, he thought.

  A minute later, a knock sounded at the door, a different serving girl from the one who’d waited on him downstairs coming in to clear. Once the dishes had been removed, the innkeeper returned with a round pewter plate containing a selection of apples, dried figs, and a wedge of blue-veined cheese.

  “Help yourself,” Ethan suggested once the others had departed.

  “Thank you, but I am well satisfied.”

  Taking up a knife, Ethan sliced a fig in half, then added a sliver of cheese on top. He washed the combination down with a swallow of brandy. “Delicious.”

  She said nothing.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” He drew a fresh cheroot from his coat pocket.

  “No, not at all,” she replied in her mock baritone, the husky quality beginning to make his blood hum.

  After lighting the cigar, he enjoyed a drawing puff, exhaling an elegant stream of smoke at a sideways angle, away from her.

  He couldn’t help but notice her interest in the process. Likely she was used to withdrawing from the room with the ladies in order to allow the gentlemen to partake of a pipe or cheroot. But as he reminded himself, she was currently in the guise of a young man, an adolescent male who would be inclined to enjoy the camaraderie of such an exclusively masculine act.

  Which gives me a rather naughty idea, he mused.

  Sending another plume of smoke toward the ceiling, he met her gaze. “Care for a try?”

  The V formed again on her brow. “Oh, I don’t know—”

  “I can see your curiosity; nothing wrong with that. Most young men your age sneak the occasional puff when they know they won’t be caught.” He extended the cigar lengthwise for her to take. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”

  Clearly she was tempted, this woman who played at being a boy. What else might she be tempted to try if given the proper incentive? Just the right sensual provocation?

  A long moment later, Ethan was wondering if he might have overestimated the extent of her daring after all when she reached out and took the cheroot from his hand. Balancing the rolled tobacco between her fingertips the way one might hold an extremely delicate, rather volatile weapon, she slowly raised it to her lips.

  “A shallow puff only,” he warned. But his admonition came too late, “Jack” drawing in a robust inhale that made the tip glow red.

  For an instant, the world hung motionless on its axis as each of them took in the magnitude of her act. Expelling a cloud of smoke from her mouth and nostrils in a rapid gust, she fell into a violent paroxysm of coughing, gagging and gasping for air, a faintly green cast tingeing her skin.

  Good God, she isn’t going to cast up her accounts, is she? he thought, suddenly worried he oughtn’t to have prodded her into eating such a large nuncheon.

  But as she continued to cough and wheeze, struggling desperately for her next breath, her normal pink color returned. More than returned, he noticed, color ripening over her cheeks and forehead as though she’d stood face-first in front of a blazing kitchen spit.

  Locating a pitcher of water, he poured a glass and came to her side. “Here, drink this.”

  Waving him away, she shook her head and continued to cough.

  Catching her hand in his own, he set the glass inside. “Drink,” he ordered.

  Still coughing, she obeyed, taking small, hesitant sips of the water, then longer, deeper gulps.

  “More,” she begged, her voice raspy with strain.

  He poured another glass for her, then stood back and watched as she swallowed it all.

  “Augh!” she exclaimed, smacking her lips against what she clearly considered to be a disgusting taste.

  Then, as if only just realizing she was still holding the cheroot, she flung it onto the table, uncaring whether or not the tip continued to burn.

  Acting fast, he caught the cigar before it could roll onto the floor and cause damage.

  “No need to treat a fine smoke in such a disrespectful manner,” he stated, tamping out the end on a nearby dish.

  “Fine smoke! That…thing…is utterly vile.”

  “That ‘thing’ is an imported Cuban all the way from the islands. I take it that was your first time trying a cheroot?” he drawled, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

  “First and last,” she declared in a lovely, very feminine contralto, having obviously forgotten her ruse in the midst of her distress.

  “Then you won’t be wishing to acquire the habit?”

  “No, most definitely not. I cannot fathom why you, or anyone else, would want to.” She smacked her lips again. “Ugh, awful!”

  “It is a nasty predilection, I agree, but then I suppose that is why women do not generally take up the pastime.”

  She froze, the color fading from her cheeks. “What?” she squeaked before forcing her voice to drop low into the old baritone. “I’m…I mean, what?”

  Tossing back his head, he let out a laugh. “You might as well give up the charade. Although I must confess you’ve put on a bravura performance. Had everyone fooled, I believe. Except me.”

  Her vivid eyes grew round as marbles as she stared at him in obvious consternation, the internal battle she waged clearly visible on her face. Abruptly her shoulders drooped as she gave up the fight.

  “How long have you known?” she asked.

  “Since about ten minutes after you first walked into the public room downstairs.”

  Her lips parted. “All that time and you didn’t say a word?”

  He gave her a grin. “No, I did not.”

  The frown returned. “Then you put me through all that misery for nothing?”

  “I don’t recall any surfeit of misery. You ate a generous meal and enjoyed your very first cheroot—an admirable way to pass the time, in my estimation.”

  “For you, by amusing yourself at my expense, you mean?”

  “By letting you spin out your game a bit longer. I was intrigued to see how long you would persist, and I must say you held steady to the very last. Now, why don’t you tell me who you really are and why you’re dressed in those clothes?”

  Lily stared at him another long minute, then straightened her shoulders.

  He knows, she cursed inwardly. Damn and blast, he knows! Now what am I to do?

  Bluster her way through the best she could, she realized, and hope she could repair the mess. Telling him the truth was out of the question. Despite his generosity to this point and the undeniable magnetism of his charm, she really knew nothing about the man. Confiding in him and hoping she could count on his discretion was not an option, at least not one she was willing to take. After all, her whole future depended upon keeping her secrets intact. Anything less could spell doom for her, or worse, marriage to her stepfather’s brute of a business associate.

  Luckily there was no chance of the marquis and her stepfather ever meeting. For one, Gordon Chaulk didn’t go to London—he considered such visits an expensive waste of time. For another, her stepfather could only dream of moving in the same exalted social circles as those in which the marquis must dwell. Despite her respectable lineage, she could hardly imagine such a thing herself. But that was neither here nor there. Right now she needed to find a way to extract herself from her current predicament.

  Do not panic, she told herself. Use your brain and all will be well.

  “If you must know,” she declared a minute later, “I am dressed in this fashion as a lark.”

  Her audacious statement wiped the lazy grin from his mouth. “A lark?”

  Next to her hip, she crossed her fingers. “That’s right. A friend of mine and I wagered that I could travel in male attire and no one would suspect a thing. You, my lord, have just cost me two guineas.”

  Emotions chased over his sculpted features, running the gambit from amazement and incredulity to irritation. He waved a hand toward her. “So this disguise is nothing more than a silly prank?”

  “I don’t think it’s silly, but yes
, I am having a bit of fun. After all, why should men be the only ones who can play adventurous games?”

  He shot her a scowl, his golden brows scrunched up in a way that didn’t lessen his attractiveness one iota. “A foolhardy way to entertain yourself, if you ask me. Do you have any idea the sort of trouble in which you could have landed?”

  Her heart warmed at his outrage on her behalf. She thought again of how he’d stepped in to save her from the burly oaf downstairs and realized that he really was quite gallant.

  “I am perfectly well, as you can see.”

  He scowled harder. “You might not be well were I another sort of man, were I the variety given to taking advantage of lone females who put themselves at risk for a bit of pin money.”

  “But you said yourself my disguise fooled everyone.”

  “Everyone but me. And how do you know I won’t importune your favors? I could lock that door right now and ravish you on this very table.”

  Her breath caught in her lungs at the lurid idea, her pulse skittering wildly beneath her skin. “Will you?”

  He pinned her with a smoldering look, leaning over her so that she could feel his size and sheer male power. “I could, but luckily for you, I would never force myself upon a woman.”

  Lily didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Then I have nothing of which to be afraid.”

  Stepping back, he resumed his seat. “You might at least have a care for your reputation, since it is obvious you come from good family.”

  “I do care, which is why I haven’t told you my name.”

  A faint twinkle gleamed in his amber eyes. “You mean your name isn’t really Jack?”

  She laughed.

  “So you won’t divulge the truth?”

  Tipping her head to one side, she pretended to consider his offer. “Alas, I don’t believe I shall.”

  “I didn’t realize before that you possess a cruel streak. At least tell me your first name.”

  Another laugh bubbled past her lips as she shook her head.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “So who is Jack? Your father or your brother?”

  “Neither, since I don’t have a brother and that wasn’t my father’s name. Actually, Jack was my dog when I was eight. And now, if I am not mistaken, I must say my farewells or I will miss my coach. Thank you for the meal and the company, even if you were wicked to lead me on the way you did.”

  “I believe that makes two of us,” he remarked. “As for the coach, I fear you have missed it.”

  “What!”

  Leaping to her feet, she raced to the window and peered down into the inn yard below, finding it bustling with hostlers and horses, carriages and patrons. Scanning the fray, she easily located the mail coach with its distinctive maroon and black panels.

  She sighed in relief that the coach had not left without her after all. “But you are wrong. The coach is still here.”

  Strolling up behind her, Vessey stretched out an arm, planting a hand onto the window near her head. “Strange, but I don’t see a coach to Bristol, though perhaps that is because there is no coach to Bristol, at least not one due for several hours yet. Before I came upstairs to dine, I asked my man to check on the matter. He informed me there have been two mail coaches here since your arrival. One headed to Exeter and another to London.”

  Too late she realized her careless mistake.

  “So which is it?” he murmured near her ear. “Exeter or London? Methinks London the more likely choice.”

  Shivering, she closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Very well,” she admitted. “You are correct.”

  “Since London is my destination as well, I will give you a ride.”

  She whirled, stopping short as she found herself standing practically inside his arms, his body so near she could smell a delicious hint of cloves and musk on his skin and feel the warmth that radiated like a small furnace from his large, male body.

  Tipping back her head, she met his gaze. “I cannot ride in your coach.”

  He bent closer. “And I cannot allow you to journey unaccompanied to London. We have already discussed how dangerous it would be.”

  It will be dangerous with you, she thought. But not for the same reasons.

  “I will be fine in the mail coach. No one will suspect.”

  “You did not think I would suspect. Now, I really must insist,” he stated in a low rumble that trailed like silken fingers over her spine. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something untoward were to occur to you.”

  “But we shall not see each other again. You would never know.”

  Something darkened in his eyes. “A circumstance that would trouble me greatly.”

  And in that moment, both of them knew he was not merely talking about her safety.

  Her heart beat like a bird in her throat. She knew she should refuse, find the strength to slip away and return to traveling on her own. But she sensed he would not let her escape quite so easily, that he might even follow her onto the mail coach and make sure she had an escort, whether she wished one or not.

  Besides, it might be fun traveling with him. Given the elegant cut and quality of his garments and the fact that he was a marquis, she knew his coach would be far more comfortable than anything provided by the Royal Mail Service. And she had to admit she enjoyed his company and would be far safer with him than alone. What could it hurt to pass a few more hours together before they parted for good?

  “Go on, Jack,” he urged. “Say yes.”

  She hesitated a few seconds longer, knowing she ought to say no. “All right, yes.”

  Chapter Three

  “PENELOPE.”

  Lily relaxed more fully against the dark-blue velvet coach seat across from Lord Vessey and shook her head. “No.”

  “Margaret.”

  His vehicle, which was every bit as luxurious as she had suspected it would be, raced along the turnpike toward London. Fitted with polished brass fixtures, supple tan leather appointments, and springs so lithe even large ruts in the road could barely be felt, the coach was one of the finest she had ever seen. Certainly the finest in which she had ever ridden.

  “Afraid not,” she said, reveling in her present comfort.

  He stroked a thumb against his chin in a moment of silent consideration. “Jane.”

  She sent him a sympathetic little half-smile. “Come now, my lord, do I really look like a Jane to you?”

  “What you look like is a vexing minx who thinks herself quite clever. Come on, now, let’s have it. What is your name?”

  “Oh no, you won’t worm it out of me so easily. It is my secret to keep and yours to find out.”

  “I’ve been making guesses this past hour and I assure you there is nothing remotely easy about it.” He pinned her with an assessing stare. “Bertha.”

  “Bertha!” A laugh shot past her lips. “You are growing desperate, I can see.”

  “Not at all. Believe it or not, I’ve known a few Berthas and none of them ever likes to admit to their name. Brunhilde, then.”

  “Now you are just being ridiculous. Who in the world is named Brunhilde?”

  “I feel certain Prinny has at least one Cousin Brunhilde tucked away in some remote Hanoverian principality. Good God, I never thought! You don’t have one of those impossibly tongue-twisting Latin names like Agrippina or Domitilla? Now that I would wish to hide.”

  “No, my name is really quite ordinary and very easy to pronounce.”

  “Aha! Finally a clue. Perhaps I’ll figure it out after all.”

  Perhaps he will, she thought, wondering why she had divulged even that amount of information. She barely knew him and yet felt comfortable in his presence in a way she could not before recall ever feeling with a man. He set her at ease, enough so that if she was not careful, she might make another unfortunate error like the one she’d made about the London-bound coach.

  How easy to fall victim to his charm, she thought, something against
which I must guard and guard well!

  Nonetheless, she could hardly deny her attraction, not when the very sight of him left her jittery, pulse stuttering, her breath shallow as if she couldn’t quite draw in enough air. She might be innocent, but she recognized her desire for what it was.

  Being confined in the coach with him barely two feet away left her insides as warm and gooey as a melted marshmallow. Though she tried not to notice, she couldn’t help but be aware of his long, powerful frame as he sprawled in negligent grace against the seat across from her.

  Wide and strong as an ancient oak, his shoulders filled his chocolate-hued coat to perfection, leaving him without a need to resort to the padding some men used to conceal their flaws. The rest of him was every inch as delicious—strong arms, solid chest, muscular legs encased in a pair of buckskin pantaloons that hugged every inch of his taut thighs and calves with glovelike perfection.

  In fact, as far as she could tell, Lord Vessey had no imperfections, none that were visible, anyway. From his wavy golden hair to his Hessian-clad feet, he was masculinity personified.

  She swallowed against the sudden knot lodged at the base of her throat, wondering how many miles yet they were from London.

  “Rose.”

  His voice, silky and robust as a tot of heated rum, interrupted her musings.

  “What?” she murmured.

  “Your name. Is it Rose? You said it was ordinary and easy to pronounce and yet I am sure it is lovely as well. As lovely as you.”

  Her heart thudded.

  What a providential guess, she thought, and one far too close for comfort. If he proceeded along the logical path and continued listing flower names, he would surely come across her own.

  “It is not Rose,” she stated in a dismissive voice. “Good try, however. And now, if you would not mind terribly, I find myself rather tired and would like to sleep for a while.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course, please rest. I promise to wake you when we reach the city.”

  Giving him a shallow smile, she angled her shoulder into the nearest corner and closed her eyes.

  Five minutes later, though, she was still awake, unable to find just the right spot despite the plush accommodations.