The Mistress Diaries

by Julianne MacLean

  For a long time they lay there saying nothing, just looking up at the sky.

  “If I were to agree to be your mistress,” she carefully asked, “how long would it last? Until the excitement wears off? What if it wore off for one of us and not the other? What then?”

  He turned his head toward her. “Then we would return to the terms of the contract. You would always have what you need to raise June, no matter what happens.”

  “I don’t know if I can love someone that way, Vincent. I am not sure I can enter into something knowing it will be temporary, no matter how pleasurable it is at any given moment.”

  He rolled onto his back again and, almost physically, she felt him retreat into his callousness. The change was like night and day.

  “Sometimes I wonder if it is just the label of mistress that offends you,” he said, “because you seem to enjoy the rest of it.”

  Her temper flared. “And you seem to enjoy punishing me and pushing me away with your cruel mask of indifference whenever you feel I am not giving you exactly what you want. Try to keep your bitterness toward MaryAnn and your brother separate from me, please. I am not her, and I have never betrayed you. At least not yet.”

  He looked at her in shock.

  “And it is not just the label of mistress that offends me,” she continued. “It is the whole idea of it. You forget that I was part of an adulterous triangle once. My husband’s mistress spoiled any chance I had for happiness in my own marriage. If it were not for her, we might have had a chance.”

  “Well, perhaps you need to separate your bitterness toward your husband from what exists between us,” he countered.

  She folded her hands over her stomach and looked up at the sky again.

  A moment later, after their tempers had cooled somewhat, he spoke without hostility in the darkness. “Isn’t it clear to you that we cannot be just friends, Cassandra? There is something more between us, and we must see it through. Somehow we must find a way to be together.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps we can simply guzzle each other like wine and toss the glass away before you are married.”

  He rolled onto her again and touched her face. “I would never toss you away. The contract will protect you against that.”

  “That is not what I am talking about, Vincent, and you know it.”

  He was hard again. She could feel him against her thigh.

  “I suppose I do.”

  She closed her eyes, and despite all her fears and self-recriminations, her body was responding to the heat of his touch.

  “Take the pleasure, Cassandra,” he whispered in her ear, seducing her with his lips and his potent sexuality. “Let me give you this at least. Agree to be my mistress.”

  She began to slowly spread her legs. “I thought you said it would take an ox to move you.”

  “It was no lie. I merely underestimated my resilience.”

  Her head was telling her one thing—that she could not survive this; that she would end up with a broken heart, shattered into a thousand unrecognizable pieces—while her body was demanding something else entirely.

  In the end it was her body that won out. She could no longer fight this.

  She cupped his buttocks in her hands again, and with a firm thrust, pushed her hips upward to pull him inside. He filled her completely, and passion surged to her core.

  From that moment on, all that mattered was the wicked bliss of his body slowly driving in and out of hers, filling her with sweet, slow agony.

  She lay her head back in the cool grass and allowed passion to overtake her.

  Chapter 15

  My thoughts keep drifting back to those words he spoke on the riverbank: “What if I were to find a way to marry you?”

  I confess I cannot help myself. I am imagining myself as his wife. I suppose while I am at it, I might as well imagine myself as Queen of England, too.

  —from the journal of Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  June 26, 1874

  Vincent was in the library the next morning, lounging in a chair and staring up at the ceiling in a blurry haze of sexual arousal, when the door burst open and startled him out of his mood. He lifted his head off the back of the chair to discover Letitia sweeping into the room like a dust mop, slamming the door shut behind her with a resounding crash.

  “You, sir, are a cad.”

  He relaxed and tipped his head back again. “But my dear, you and I both know that is yesterday’s news.”

  “I thought we agreed you would be discreet,” she accused him.

  The comment roused his attention. He sat up and looked at her. “What exactly are you referring to?”

  “I am referring to your tawdry mistress and bastard child in the dower house!” she shouted, then instantly calmed her voice: “Vincent, my love. We are not even married yet.”

  He had the distinct impression she was advising him that such activities would be quite acceptable after the wedding day, but not before.

  He rose to his feet. “Wherever did you hear that?”

  “I was out this morning with my maid,” she explained, “and we drove past your house of sin and debauchery. I said, quite innocently, ‘What a charming house. Who lives there?’ My maid was able to answer the question.” She glared at him. “Servants hear things you know.”

  “Ah, yes, I suppose they do.” He would have to remedy that. They would begin anew when they reached Langley Hall.

  “Well?” she said. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

  He paused a moment, while her simmering anger rose again to a rapid boil. “I confess all. I am guilty as charged. My lover is living not five miles from here in the Pembroke Palace dower house.”

  Vincent watched her carefully, not unmindful of the risk he was taking. She could easily decide she would prefer not to marry him after all. And where would that leave him? Free of her, to be sure, which would hardly leave him broken hearted. Quite to the contrary, he might even be inclined to hold a party where there would be dancing. But he would be without an acceptable bride to protect his inheritance.

  Suddenly, he found himself imagining the possibility of wedding Cassandra instead, as he’d suggested to her last night on the riverbank, and he realized that if he did marry her, he would not only be forsaking his brothers, but would be marrying a beautiful woman for love.

  Love…

  Love?

  Oh God.

  Letitia strolled closer. “Who is she?”

  “Someone I met a year ago,” he replied, feeling both disturbed and shaken. What the devil had happened to him over the past few weeks? Had he become that lovesick young fool again? Had he forgotten the promises he made to himself—to never be that weak again? Bloody hell, he might as well throw himself into the path of an oncoming train. It would be much quicker than this alternative.

  “That is all you are going to tell me?” Letitia prompted, tearing him away from his thoughts.

  He labored to recover his customary boredom, both inside and out. “She is a widowed lady of rank. We shared a night of perfect ecstasy one year ago before she disappeared from my life.”

  Letitia seemed eager to understand the circumstances. “If she was a lady of rank and carrying your child, why did you not marry her?”

  “She did not reappear until after you and I announced our betrothal.”

  She moved slowly around the room. “Let me be sure I understand this. She arrived too late, after your father had become attached to me.”

  “Yes.”

  She took a deep breath, seeming satisfied with his answer and somewhat more at ease in her position. “Are you not worried that I will be hurt and scandalized by your behavior, and will not wish to marry you?”

  “It was my understanding, Letitia, based on our recent conversations, that you knew I would have mistresses and that it was acceptable to you. And that you, in turn, would only ask for the same freedom when the time came that you wished to take a lover.”


  She glared at him from across the room. “That was before I knew about the woman in the dower house. We are not yet married, Vincent. I do not wish to be jilted or, heaven forbid, left at the altar.”

  He understood that it was a matter of pride with her. He supposed it was preferable to tears and pleading.

  “Do not concern yourself,” he said, striving to retreat back into his armor—to become the man she had accepted to be her husband. The rakish, unsentimental young lord who was never going to be faithful to anyone. “The duke wants you to be the next bride of Pembroke, and that is what you shall be.”

  “But do you want me?” she asked. “I need to know that I am desired not by my future father-in-law, but by my betrothed.”

  It was still a matter of pride, he knew—this need to be desired. She was accustomed to always being regarded as the most beautiful woman in the room, wherever she went. She did not like this competition.

  Sauntering toward him with a seductive glimmer in her eye, she swayed her slender hips as she drew near, then slid her palms up his chest to the tops of his shoulders. “Why don’t you take me now,” she whispered in a low, husky voice of sensual allure, “right here on the sofa? I am feeling rather amorous, darling, and I see no reason why we should wait for the wedding night. No one will know if we consummate our vows a few weeks early.”

  She rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were soft and moist. She smelled of expensive French perfume. It was exactly the kind of advance he had always favored—clear and to the point. Physical. Devoid of sentiment. And she was without question a beautiful woman.

  Vincent slid his hands around her waist and deepened the kiss. He waited almost frantically for the sexual arousal to begin. He expected it to materialize at any moment, for this was exactly what Vincent Sinclair—heartless, dissolute rake—should want. Sex with two different women in the space of twelve hours.

  But something very deep inside him was not working. This particular woman’s body, though attractive, did not appeal to him. He didn’t like the way she kissed. Her lips were too tight, and her perfume was too strong. It was almost nauseating. He felt no desire for her. None whatsoever.

  He quickly took hold of her hands and pried them off his neck. “I do not wish to spoil the wedding night,” he explained in a rush, to put some distance between them. He did not want to touch her. He did not even want to be in the same room with her.

  “That cannot be true,” she said, resolve still burning in her eyes. “I’ve heard the gossip—that you are always ready and willing to please a lady, and that you never fail to live up to your reputation as a master fornicator.” She spoke the words with malice as she slid her hands up his chest again. “Surely I am beautiful enough for you. You could enjoy me freely, Vincent, because a child a few weeks early would hardly raise an eyebrow. You could do anything you wanted with me. I would offer no resistance.”

  He backed away from her, feeling sickened by the idea of bedding her, even on their wedding night, when it had never been an issue before, despite his lack of feeling for her. He could barely comprehend what he was feeling. “As I said, I do not wish to spoil things.”

  “I see.” She glared at him with loathing. “You have your little harlot to keep you satisfied between the sheets. I suppose I should thank her for sparing me that odious wifely duty in the future.” She turned to leave but stopped in the open doorway. “Be aware, Vincent, that I know how these things play out. Like you, my father was a philandering dog, so I understand that you are obliged to provide for that woman because of your bastard child. I also know you will tire of her in due course and move on to other mistresses. But do not forget that you are engaged to me. I will always be your wife, till death do us part. There will be no moving on where I am concerned. In that regard, I must remind you that Pembroke Palace is my domain, as the future Lady Vincent. Not hers.”

  His stride was fluid as he moved across the room and poured himself a drink. He kept his back to her as he spoke. “Permanent accommodations for her have already been arranged. She will be gone from here the day after our wedding.”

  Part of him wished it was sooner. He felt unsettled, confused.

  He waited for his fiancée to depart from the room, but she remained in the doorway, saying nothing for the longest time. The muscles in his neck and shoulders felt as rigid as steel. He tipped his head back and took a drink.

  “I must know, Vincent,” she said at last. “Are you in love with this woman?”

  The rest of his body went stiff with tension as well. There was a knot in his gut the size of a brick.

  Turning his head to the side, he spoke over his shoulder in a low voice. “No. You of all people should know I am not capable of that.”

  “Ah,” she replied, her confidence returning. In fact, he was almost blinded by the illumination of her pride and vanity. “That’s a relief, I must say. Because for a moment I thought you might be fool enough to forsake your family and inheritance, all for a tawdry one night tumble.” With that she walked out.

  Vincent poured himself another drink and slowly sank into a chair.

  Cassandra set June into her cradle for a nap, stayed for a moment until she was settled, then left the nursery. She’d spent most of the day with her daughter, outside in the sunshine pushing the pram, but was in a dazed stupor the entire time, distracted by thoughts of Vincent and what they had done on the riverbank the night before.

  She’d relived in her mind many of the erotic details—the words he whispered in her ear, how his hands felt on her hot, bare skin, and how terribly wicked it had all been.

  By the end of it, she had become his mistress.

  It was almost impossible to comprehend, considering how persistently she’d fought to protect her principles and her heart. She had been dead set against anything like this from the beginning, yet here she was, having just fallen head first into temptation. She had lived recklessly and would now have to live with the consequences. Again.

  She went downstairs, informed Miss Callahan that June was sleeping soundly, then retired to the drawing room for a cup of tea. Vincent was due to arrive at any moment for a visit. He had arranged his weekly schedule days ago.

  Would he wish to take his pleasures with his newly acquired mistress? she wondered uncomfortably, feeling rather warm under her dress all of a sudden. Or would he simply go straight to the nursery?

  She had just poured herself a cup of tea when she heard a carriage pull up in front of the house. She glanced at the clock. It was half past four. He was exactly on time. She did not rise from her seat, but simply waited.

  A few minutes later he was announced and shown into the drawing room. Her heart pounded feverishly at the sight of him, so tall and dark and commanding. She was pleased he had not asked to be taken to the nursery directly, but of course he would wish to see her.

  She rose to her feet as the maid showed him in. “Lord Vincent, welcome,” Cassandra said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  The maid curtsied, backed out and closed the door behind her.

  He gave the maid a few seconds to reach the stairs, then turned around and locked the door. Slowly, without warmth, he sauntered across the room, appraising Cassandra with a sexual eye. “I didn’t come for tea.”

  “What exactly did you come for?” she asked with burning anticipation, aware of a dark and dangerous intensity about him as he backed her up against her chair.

  “I came to see what you are wearing.” He reached her, slid one arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  “Now that you’ve seen it, do you wish to pay me a compliment about the color?”

  “No, I wish to see you unbuttoning it.”

  Even while her conscience was telling her to be sensible, she was wildly aroused by the dangerous ferocity of his passion, which seemed especially intense today. There was something very different about him. “You are most presumptuous, my lord.”

  “It is one of my best qualities, don�
�t you think?”

  “I think you are the very devil.”

  His gaze darkened. “Perhaps that is what you like most about me.”

  She studied him for an intense moment. “Are you drunk?”

  He looked down at her lips. “Yes, I believe I am.”

  It should have mattered to her that he had come here in such a state, but for some reason it did not. Though she was curious as to why he had been drinking in the afternoon.

  With seductive insolence, he pulled her tight against him and pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss was rough and deep and tasted of brandy.

  He took her by the elbow and led her quickly across the carpet, around the tea cart to the sofa. “Tell me your conscience has not gotten the better of you today,” he said, “and convinced you to resist this.”

  Her hip bumped into the arm of the sofa, then he eased her down gracefully onto her back. “I regret to say it has not.”

  Standing over her, he ripped off his jacket while he kept his eyes trained upon hers. Then he lowered his body. He was heavy and warm, and his movements were fluid.

  “Tell me, Cassandra, what would you like today? What tricks and pleasures? I have not forgotten the promise I made to you at Langley Hall—that I would fulfill all your desires.”

  There it was, that rakish seduction, the dangerous, sexual charm. It was what had lured her to that hotel room a year ago—the promise of forbidden pleasures. She could not deny it still had a strange power over her, for she wanted all of that wickedness, and more.

  Yet at the same time, she did not want that rakish, predatory lover she barely knew. She wanted the man she had come to know over the past few weeks—the man who held his infant daughter in his arms with fatherly affection, the man who could talk to her for hours and hours on a blanket in the grass, laid out under the trees. That man for some reason was out of reach. She could feel it in the way he touched her.

  He kissed low along her neckline, then gathered her skirts in a fist, tugging them slowly up her leg. His gaze traveled down the length of her body. He did not look her in the eye.