The Mistress Diaries

by Julianne MacLean

  Vincent faced his brother squarely. “You have concerns about my sincerity? Now I believe I’ve heard everything.”

  They stared at each other in grim silence. “It has been three years since MaryAnn’s death,” Devon said. “I have been punished for it long enough, don’t you think?”

  “Three years. Practically a lifetime.” All of a sudden Vincent could not bear to be in such close proximity to his brother, who had betrayed him so callously and was now self-righteous enough to accuse him of brotherly negligence.

  “If you will excuse me.” He pushed away from the door and entered the drawing room. He approached his fiancée, who was sitting on the sofa looking exquisitely pretty with yellow combs in her glossy black hair. She wore a bright satin gown with an embroidered sunburst on the skirt and a dozen tiny white bows along the hem.

  “Letitia,” he said, bowing his head. “I must apologize for my absence this afternoon. I was making arrangements for our honeymoon. Will Rome suit you?”

  She raised an arched eyebrow. “I suppose. It will give me time to forgive you for abandoning me today—which I did not appreciate.”

  Vincent wet his lips. He had no interest in placating a spoiled female who had some very misguided notions about how attentive he was going to be as a husband. But when he looked across the room at Devon, who was expecting him to let them all down brilliantly by jilting her within the week, he decided to at least make a token effort. He would get through this engagement to the wedding day.

  Lowering himself slowly onto the sofa cushion beside her, he looked around the room at his family. His mother was keeping his father entertained by the fire with hopeful predictions about the weather. His sister Charlotte was adjusting the lace on Rebecca’s gown at the neckline.

  He turned on the cushion and smiled affably at his fiancée. “Again, I do apologize.”

  “Apology accepted.” But then she let out a sharp little sigh of displeasure and began to deliver what sounded rather like a lecture. “I am not a fool, Vincent. I know why you are marrying me. It is only because I am beautiful, and because your father, for some preposterous reason, thinks I am the cure to this weather.”

  Vincent looked her in the eye. He decided not to dispute what was fact. “You are most certainly a beautiful woman, Letitia.”

  “And I have no illusions about our marriage being a love match.”

  His silence caused her to shoot a look at him. “I hope you know how lucky you are to be engaged to me.”

  “Of course,” he calmly replied.

  Somewhat appeased, she took a sip of champagne, then watched the duke for a few moments. “I pity your mother, being married to him. He’s a bit of a lunatic, isn’t he?”

  Vincent, too, looked across at his father, who was warming his bare feet by the fire. “He is simply growing eccentric in his old age.”

  “If he were my father, I believe I would have him carted off to an asylum.”

  Vincent leaned closer and spoke in a firm voice. “But he is not your father.”

  “Oh, of course, I know that,” she blurted out, stumbling backward over her words. “And it is not my place to judge.”

  “No, it is not.”

  She wiggled her bottom on the sofa seat and smiled sweetly at him. “What a delightful couple we shall make, Vincent. I am very pleased by our engagement.” She held out her hand to admire her ring. “I am quite certain that my diamond is larger than Rebecca’s. Don’t you think so? And she is the future duchess.” She laughed. “Imagine that.”

  He wished he could go to the billiards room and knock some balls around.

  “She must be jealous,” Letitia rattled on. “She simply must be. And surely your brother is jealous, too, over the fact that you shall be married to me. I suspect that is another reason why you proposed to me.” She smiled flippantly. “Because it is obvious to anyone with a brain in their head that you two despise each other.” She looked at Devon, who was now whispering something in Rebecca’s ear.

  A footman approached with a tray of champagne, and Vincent gratefully helped himself to a glass.

  “You are not sentimental, are you?” his fiancée asked with a knowing look in her eye, as she watched him swallow the entire contents of the glass in one gulp.

  He wiped the corner of his mouth and set the empty champagne flute on the end table. “No, I am not.”

  She nodded and smiled coolly. “Then I believe we shall be a good match, Vincent, because I am not sentimental either.”

  He looked toward the door and wondered how long he would have to continue sitting here.

  Chapter 9

  I am now positively certain that sexual desire in its extreme can cause a genuine case of temporary insanity, even in the most rational, sensible, morally upright individuals.

  —from the journal of Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  May 20, 1874

  For one full week Cassandra dwelled in the cozy seclusion of her bedchamber with nothing to do but rest and recover. Her new maid brought a steady stream of quail soup and buttered biscuits, which Cassandra devoured. It was positively glorious, every last bit of it, from the lazy naps in the afternoons to the boredom and monotony. Even her red, sniffly nose was a tiny piece of heaven when she could blow into an endless supply of clean, starched handkerchiefs, each one lovingly embroidered with tiny pink and purple flowers, and folded neatly in a stack on her bedside table.

  The best part of all, however, was the pure, unadulterated euphoria over this second chance at life. She pondered her good fortune almost continuously in the charming blue bedchamber—lolling upon the overstuffed chintz chairs and floral coverlets, sitting dreamily by the window, watching the blackbirds swoop over the garden below. She passed the quiet hours eating and reading and spending some of the most magical moments singing to June, snuggling with her on the enormous bed.

  Little June spent many hours with the nursemaid as well—the kind and capable Aggie Callahan. Mrs. Callahan’s daughter. When Cassandra required rest, Miss Callahan was at hand, scooping June up into her arms and cooing gently as she carried her to the nursery for a nap.

  As that first week drew to a close, Cassandra no longer felt like a cold, empty tomb inside. She was much stronger. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she rejoiced at the return of color to her cheeks, which were no longer gaunt, but soft and rosy. Even her hair appeared thicker and shinier.

  On the seventh day she felt ready to take her happiness one step further. She would get dressed and venture outdoors.

  She could hardly wait to explore the house and grounds. She didn’t care that the sky was overcast or that the wind was howling past the windowpanes like a weeping ghost. All she wanted was to breathe the fresh air. She wanted to smell the damp, spring earth in all its mucky glory, tramp through the matted grasses, and walk down the steep hill to the river.

  Donning her gown, she went to June’s room, a small yellow nursery on the top floor with oval windows and a mahogany cradle, which had been sent down the same evening Aggie arrived from the palace a week ago.

  Cassandra found Aggie sitting in a rocking chair in the corner, sewing a small bonnet. The nurse raised a finger to her lips to politely say Hush.

  Nodding as she entered, Cassandra tiptoed to the cradle. June was sleeping soundly, a tiny bundle of sweetness and joy beneath a soft white baby quilt.

  “I am feeling much better today,” she whispered. “I am going outside to explore.”

  Aggie smiled and nodded so as not to wake June. Cassandra tiptoed back out into the corridor and quietly closed the door behind her.

  A moment later she was swinging her cape over her shoulders and walking out the front door. She paused on the cement steps, looking down the hill at the deep, meandering river below, flowing steadily toward the west. She glanced up at the overcast sky. The wind was brisk. Her cape was hugging her legs. The clouds were rolling fast overhead, swirling and changing, and the leafless branches of
the two big oak trees were like vibrant paint strokes against the sky.

  Gathering her skirts in her fists, Cassandra descended the stairs and circled the brick house. She wandered through the gardens, marveled at the statues of naked cherubs, and knelt down to spend time pulling a few dead weeds out of the soil, which were left over from the previous autumn season.

  Before long, she heard a horse whinny from the lane and rose to her feet. Feeling almost sick with fear that someone had come to accuse her of trespassing and might send her packing—for all of this seemed too good to be true—she crept to the front of the house and peered around the corner. She discovered immediately that it was not that particular horror. It was quite another one entirely. It was Vincent, looking far more gorgeous than any man had a right to be.

  Dressed in a long black overcoat and top hat, he stepped confidently out of his coach like the great English lord that he was, and looked up at the front of the house.

  Cassandra remained hidden around the side, watching him. Under one arm he carried a black leather portfolio. In the other gloved hand he held an elegant walking stick with a shiny brass handle. The wind blew his dark hair around his clean white shirt collar as he started up the steps.

  Perhaps she should reveal herself, she thought, suspecting he was here to present the formal contract for their arrangement, but for some reason she could not move her feet. She could do nothing but remain hidden around the corner, silently watching.

  He went into the house. Less than a minute later he came out again and paused on the step. Looking to his right, he spotted her standing with one hand on the corner of the house. Their gazes locked. He made no move to approach, nor did he offer any form of greeting.

  She found herself frozen in place, entranced by how frustratingly handsome he was. It was simply not fair that any man could be so spellbinding, especially a man as wicked and coldhearted as this one. A man she had sworn to hate because of those very characteristics.

  Although she supposed she could not continue to judge him so excessively. After all, he had agreed to raise her daughter when she’d come to him a week ago, and was now her very generous benefactor. She could not deny there was some goodness in that. He was atoning for his sins on some level, perhaps. She flirted with the idea that he might even possess at least a fragment of a conscience, despite the fact that he was engaged to one woman and supporting another.

  And doing God knew what else with how many more.

  “Mrs. Bixby informed me you are feeling better,” he said to her from the step.

  “I am, thank you.”

  She realized that her hair had become windblown and a few locks were loose around her neck. She tried to tuck them back into place.

  Vincent strode purposefully down the steps and approached. “I am here on business.”

  She glanced at the black leather case he held under his arm. “That is the contract, I presume? Shall we go inside and look it over?”

  He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary at the present time. Since we agreed you would have your own solicitor, I took the liberty of enclosing a list of every reputable firm in London. Choose whomever you like and send for him. The man you select can look over the contract with you and make any changes you require.”

  He held the case out.

  “It is important,” he added, “that you go over every detail carefully before you sign. I will do the same when I look at your changes…that is to say, if you have any, which I am certain you will.”

  Somewhat taken aback by this very clear and easy transaction, Cassandra accepted the case. “Thank you.”

  They stood in the garden, saying nothing for a few seconds, then he spoke with cool detachment. “You look much better.”

  “I am a hundred times so. I have been treated most kindly. I’ve been eating and sleeping, and today, for the first time, I felt strong enough to come outside and look at the gardens. They will be lovely when the sun appears and works its magic.” She looked up at the white sky. “If it ever does appear.”

  But he had no interest in the sun. He cast his eyes downward at her cloak and shabby dress. “You are wearing the same clothes you had on a week ago, Cassandra. Have you nothing else?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Then I shall provide you with a new wardrobe.”

  “But you have done so much already.”

  “If you are to raise my daughter in a standard acceptable to me, you cannot go around looking like a milkmaid.” There was a chilly edge to his voice, which she had become accustomed to, and which in no way resembled her memory of him from one year ago. “That is not what you are.”

  “And what am I, exactly?” she asked, curious all of a sudden about the contract, and worrying that she would lose all her personal freedom in this strange bargain she had accepted. “All I know is that I am a guest here with my daughter. But who am I in relation to you? What is my status? Will June know you are her father?”

  His expression was stern. “She will know me as a friend, and if you live a quiet life in the country without calling too much attention to yourself, no one will ever guess our true connection.”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “It all sounds very cloak and dagger to me.”

  “Well, it would have been much easier on everyone,” he said with a clear degree of censure, “if you had not shown up on my doorstep after seeking the advice from a quack doctor who would declare you on death’s door when you were merely nursing a sore throat.”

  She was taken aback. “I see. You would have preferred never to know about June? Pardon me, but I find that hard to believe, when you have just handed me a contract to protect your rights as her father.”

  He did not flinch in the slightest. In fact, he barely reacted to her explicit retort. He merely stared at her while a raven squawked in the skeletal treetops above.

  “Perhaps while I am here,” he said, “I shall visit June.”

  She could not help but laugh in utter disbelief, while a wild gust of wind whipped at her skirts. This was quite unbelievable.

  “Of course,” she replied. “You are welcome to see your daughter, although she was sleeping when I last looked in on her.”

  “I can sit in the nursery and wait.”

  Cassandra regarded him as she led the way up the steps to the door. The idea of this man sitting in a nursery with a baby was rather strange and incongruous.

  “I don’t have much experience with men and their children,” she said, “but I doubt my own father ever set foot in the nursery to see any of his children, let alone wait for them to wake from a nap. He certainly had no interest in me until I walked through the door with a baby in my womb and the mark of a harlot on my forehead.”

  Vincent lifted his chiseled chin as he followed her. “Similarly, my father had trouble remembering my name. He knew me only as ‘that other one.’”

  She glanced back at him. “Really? Is that true?”

  “He only had eyes for his firstborn.”

  “Your older brother, Devon.”

  “Yes.”

  She hugged the leather case to her chest and sighed. “So we have something in common after all. And here we are, parents ourselves. Shall we go inside?”

  He gestured with a hand. “After you.”

  She pushed through the door, where Mrs. Bixby was waiting to take their coats.

  Vincent was notably quiet as they climbed the stairs, but when they reached the top, he clasped his hands behind his back and said, “So tell me, Cassandra, how am I doing? Am I curbing my wanton flirtatiousness, which you find so terribly offensive?”

  She stopped and turned around. “Yes, I suppose so,” she replied, surprised by the question. “Thank you for your effort. It is much appreciated.”

  He bowed slightly. “You’re welcome, and I appreciate the thoughtful encouragement.”

  But then he grinned at her, and there it was—evidence of that charmingly dangerous rake he had been a year ago. The rake who whisked her
out of a ballroom and all but ravished her in a carriage. It was the first time he had shown that lighter side of himself since she came here to Pembroke.

  Her lips felt dry all of a sudden. She slowly wet them. “You do realize you just spoiled it.”

  “How?”

  “With that smile, that mischievous look in your eye.”

  “What look?” But clearly he knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “That look. The one you have now.” She gestured toward him. “That wicked glimmer, that teasing air. You are like a hungry black cat who wants to cause trouble.” She turned and started climbing the stairs again. “I do not like cats.”

  “You prefer dogs?”

  “Yes.”

  They continued along the second floor corridor toward the back stairs, which led up to the third story of the house.

  “I suppose I am beyond hope, then,” he said, following her up the steps. “I will either have to promise never to smile in your presence, or you will have to accept me the way I am—as a rake and a scoundrel. Perhaps I should have put something about that in the contract.”

  She stopped, gripping the railing and looking down at him again, a few steps below. “That won’t be necessary. I am a rock, you see, and therefore shall weather your boundless charisma. And no one is ever beyond hope. Look at me. One week ago I was handing my child over to a housekeeper on your doorstep.”

  He did look at her. His gaze swept from the top of her head down to her toes, then back up to her eyes again. He rose up another step so they were face-to-face, and blinked seductively. “But now you have your life back, and you are looking like your old self again—quite healthy and attractive, I might add. Except for the hideous dress.”

  She placed all five fingertips on the hard wall of his chest and pushed him back down to the step below. “Put that flattery away, if you please. I know what kind of man you are, and I thought we agreed there would be none of this. I won’t stay if there is. I shall leave.”