My Fair Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  Maris’s lips trembled. “But how can I? Especially after agreeing to come here for the weekend. No matter how I may feel, I have given him every reason to think I would be agreeable to his suit. If he asks for my hand, I will have to say yes.”

  “You most certainly do not have to say yes. Haven’t I told you that you are to marry for love and nothing less?”

  “Yes, but what if I never find the right man? I must marry sometime, so why should it not be the viscount?”

  “Because he is not the one for you, and more than anything you deserve to be happy.”

  As Julianna watched her sister, a fresh suspicion emerged.

  “Unless you have already found that special someone. Major Waring, perhaps?”

  Heat leapt into her sister’s cheeks, turning her fair skin the color of a ripe strawberry. “The major is not in the least special. Besides, he has stopped calling and has no particular regard for me.”

  Lips drooping again, Maris lowered her eyelashes, her misery plain.

  “I always thought he seemed to have a great deal of regard for you,” Julianna observed in a gentle voice. “Why did he stop coming around? Did you quarrel?”

  “No, I…well, in a way, I suppose. Oh, Jules, I thought he truly liked me…even loved me perhaps, especially after he kissed me at the Chiltons’ garden party—” Maris clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes rounding like saucers. “Oh, gracious, I shouldn’t have told you that, should I?”

  How innocent she can still be, and how glad I am of it, Julianna mused. “So long as it was no more than a kiss, there is little harm done.”

  Maris shook her head. “It was only the one and nothing else. He stopped calling on me soon afterward and I…haven’t known what to think. I can only conclude that he took me in disgust. Maybe he simply did not like me…that way.”

  “Hmm, or perhaps he liked you that way too much.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is a younger son and has few prospects. Perhaps his feelings for you were genuine, but he did not believe he could approach Harry to ask for your hand. To continue to court you under those circumstances would not have been honorable, and so he withdrew.”

  “If that is true, then he ought to have told me. How utterly foolish to walk away when my dowry is more than sufficient to support both of us.”

  “Perhaps he worried of being called a fortune hunter. Men have their pride, you know, some more than others. And I think the major may have lost more than just his arm over there on that bloody field in Spain.”

  “Mayhap. Poor William has suffered much, it’s true. But that is no reason to have made me miserable as well, assuming you are correct about him. I still believe he simply does not care. If he loved me, he would never have let me go, no matter the state of his finances.”

  Weaving her slender fingers together in her lap, Maris hung her head. “No, what was between him and me is dead and I must move on. I had convinced myself to do so with Viscount Middleton. But now that the moment is nearly at hand…” Her head lifted and she met Julianna’s gaze. “Oh, Jules, what am I to do?”

  “What I told you to do ten minutes ago. Do not accept.”

  “But he will be hurt. Or worse, angry.”

  Maris might be right, Julianna decided. For all the viscount’s outwardly affable behavior, she wasn’t sure he would take a rejection, especially one given in his own home, with equanimity. And at the very least, the party atmosphere would be in ruins, forcing her and Maris to race back to London with gossip trailing not far behind.

  Hmm, she considered, what to do?

  “Do not refuse him outright. Simply tell him you need a few days to consider the matter. Explain that you are young and still in your first Season and do not wish to hurry into matrimony without making sure you are ready. He may well be annoyed by your hesitation, but he’ll accept it nonetheless. Can you do it, Maris? Can you put him off?”

  “Yes,” Maris agreed. “I believe I can manage.”

  “And maybe you will find you have worried for naught and he will not propose. Either way, there are a dozen other invited guests, ladies and gentlemen both, so relax and make merry. When we return to London, we will tell Harry you do not wish to accept Middleton and he can do the refusing.”

  Relief swept across Maris’s face. “Would Harry do that, do you think?”

  “I am sure he will. He is your brother and guardian, after all. It is no less than Papa would do if he were still alive.”

  A long moment passed, the sound of the coach wheels rumbling over the Essex county roads.

  Maris smiled, her expression genuine this time. “Thank you, Jules. I feel much relieved.”

  Bending forward, Julianna reached across and covered one of her sister’s hands. “You may always come to me, you know. So next time, do not keep everything bottled up inside. Talk to me, please!”

  “I will,” Maris said with a laugh. “I promise.”

  “And now if you would all follow me, we will visit the portrait gallery.”

  With that statement ringing on the air, Mrs. Thompson, Viscount Middleton’s plump, apple-cheeked housekeeper, led the way out of the ornate gold ballroom and down a long second-floor hallway.

  Julianna exchanged smiles with Maris, then strolled forward with the rest of their small group, mostly ladies, who had decided to stay and tour Middlebrooke Park. The other house-party guests had left with Lord Middleton shortly after breakfast to survey the extensive grounds of the estate by way of horseback.

  Plainly, the viscount had been hoping Maris would make herself one of his party—he’d even picked out a gentle mare for her to ride. But she had declined, pleading weariness after her long journey the day before. Smiling politely, Maris had told him she would see him during nuncheon at midday. Having no choice but to accede to her wishes, he had bowed and moved away.

  Although Maris appeared lighthearted and smiling, as if she were having a delightful visit, Julianna knew her sister’s nerves were on edge. Busy with his duties as host, Middleton had made no attempt to speak privately with Maris—so far. Yet with nearly two days of the visit ahead, plenty of time remained for him to make Maris an offer should that be his wish.

  “…The portraits you see displayed here date back to the reign of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth,” Mrs. Thompson explained as their group walked into the long portrait gallery, shoes rapping softly against the polished oak floorboards.

  “For his brave and loyal service to the crown,” the housekeeper continued, “Her Majesty bestowed this land and the title upon the first Viscount Middleton, Lord Gregory St. George. As I mentioned previously, Lord Gregory is responsible for building the central portion of Middlebrooke Park. Here is his portrait, and alongside it the likenesses of his wife and their three sons. The entire St. George family is represented in this hall, forty-two paintings in total.”

  As they moved slowly along the gallery, Julianna watched history unfold before her eyes, generation by generation, as fashion and hairstyles changed in intriguing, and sometimes amusing, ways. Van Dykes and ruffled collars gave way to towering pompadours, panniered skirts, frock coats, and beribboned high heels—shoes even the men wore—before finally evolving into the more modern styles of the past few decades.

  The housekeeper drew the group to a halt. “And this is my master’s father, the late David St. George. What a kind man he was, and generous to a fault. I remember him quite fondly from my youth, for he used to give all of us children peppermint sticks whenever he’d return from one of his many trips away.”

  Several people chuckled at the enthusiasm in Mrs. Thompson’s voice for her childhood remembrance. Julianna smiled and gazed upward at the painting.

  Her heart leapt in a crazy beat, blood thundering suddenly in her ears as she stared into the face of her lover.

  Dark hair. Cool river-green eyes. Strong, square chin and cheeks with long, enchantingly male dimples.

  Rafe’s cheeks.

  Rafe’s eyes.

>   Rafe’s face!

  The room whirled strangely around her, blood rushing through her veins with the speed of a raging river, while saliva dried uncomfortably against her tongue.

  Barely aware, she gave a strangled whimper.

  Maris turned, her look curious. “Jules, is anything the matter?”

  “Fine. I’m fine,” she squeaked, doing her best to ignore the buzzing in her brain.

  In confused disbelief, she gazed at the painting again, stunned to her toes by the unmistakable resemblance between the man in the portrait and Rafe Pendragon.

  The gentleman in the painting wore an old-fashioned, elegantly embroidered knee-length coat and lace-cuffed shirt. Silk knee breeches, stockings, and wide-buckle shoes completed his ensemble, his long, unpowdered raven hair pulled back and tied with a black silk ribbon.

  Looking at him was like looking at Rafe had he been born decades earlier.

  Yet as she peered closer, she could make out a few subtle differences. A slightly narrower shape of the mouth. A thicker, less refined sweep of the brows. And an unmistakable gleam of aristocratic arrogance that had never shone in Rafe’s brilliant gaze.

  How can it be? she wondered. How can Rafe Pendragon—financier—and Lord David St. George—nobleman—be virtual mirror images of each other?

  Only one way that I can think of, Julianna realized.

  The group broke up to explore the gallery. Encouraging Maris to wander through the room on her own, Julianna waited until the housekeeper stood alone. Catching the woman’s eyes, she strolled forward.

  “Excuse me,” Julianna said in a quiet voice. “Do I understand correctly that this is a portrait of Lord Middleton’s father?”

  Mrs. Thompson nodded, her pudgy hands clasped at her waist. “Yes, indeed. ’Twas painted a few years after Lord David came into the title, when Lord Burton was still a tiny lad.”

  Rafe must belong to this family, she thought. A cousin, she rationalized, shying away from any other conclusion.

  “And Lord David,” Julianna encouraged. “Did he have any brothers or sisters, by chance?”

  “No, he was an only child.”

  “What about other children, then?” She hesitated, then blurted out what was on her mind. “Did Lord David have any other sons?”

  A peculiar, faintly alarmed expression crossed over the housekeeper’s face, then vanished just as quickly as it appeared. “No, my lady. Only Lord Burton and his sisters, Miss Phyllis and Miss Vanessa. Now, I think we should be moving along. The hour grows late, and there is so much more to be seen.”

  She strode away, beckoning everyone to gather into a group again. Heels clicking, the older woman led the way from the room.

  Julianna lagged behind, turning her head to catch another glimpse of the portrait. Her heart thumped again as she stared, confronted by the all-too-familiar features of her lover.

  And yet not her lover, not Rafe Pendragon, but another man.

  David St. George, his father.

  The rest of the weekend passed by in a strange, slow haze. Julianna could think of little else but the portrait and all of its startling implications.

  If it was true and Rafe was the illegitimate son of David St. George, that meant Viscount Middleton was his brother.

  Half brother, she amended.

  How extraordinary.

  She’d realized Rafe’s father was a nobleman, but she had never thought she might actually be acquainted with his family. Certainly, Rafe had never given her a clue about the connection, or so much as hinted he had siblings, even half siblings.

  Although why would he have, she reasoned, given that the topic of Viscount Middleton had never come up between them? Nor had she ever asked him directly if he had brothers or sisters. Foolish of her not to have thought about the possibility. When Rafe had told her he was his mother’s only child, she should not have assumed that situation applied to his father as well.

  If the late Viscount Middleton was indeed Rafe’s father. But he must be, she thought. What other reason could explain the marked resemblance between the two men?

  Questions fluttered around inside her mind like little moths circling a flame, so many she could scarcely contain them all. Tossing and turning, she barely slept that night, wondering when she might next see Rafe and what she would say to him.

  On Sunday, her thoughts were pulled in a different direction entirely when Middleton proposed to Maris.

  As she and Maris had discussed, her sister did not refuse the viscount outright but instead begged his indulgence by asking him for a few more days to consider her answer. Once they were back in London, where there would be no interested observers to overhear, Maris would kindly but firmly tell him she could not agree to be his wife.

  As she later related to Julianna, Maris had been surprised how well the viscount had handled her request for delay, outwardly affable despite any feelings of disappointment or frustration he may have been suffering. And his pleasantness continued the remainder of the day and into the evening as he resumed his duties as host, treating Maris with as much gracious attention as ever.

  After a delicious dinner, whose highlight was roast squab with brandied currant sauce and an utterly decadent cheese soufflé, all the guests repaired to the music room.

  The beautiful, but unfortunately penniless, Miss Dalrymple stood up to sing, accompanied on the pianoforte by an eager gentleman. While the lilting music filled the room, Julianna let her mind and her gaze wander around the room.

  Everyone was watching the performance, she noticed. Everyone, that is, but herself and Viscount Middleton.

  Clearly believing himself to be unobserved, he stared at Maris, an expression in his gaze that Julianna had never before seen. Unmistakable temper shone from his eyes, together with a petulant glint that reminded Julianna of a spoiled child who’d been denied a favorite toy.

  Her fingers trembled faintly against the handle of her teacup, rattling the china in its saucer. Leaning forward, she set the cup onto the safety of a nearby side table. When she glanced upward again, her gaze collided with Middleton’s.

  She nearly gasped as he smiled, nothing but genial pleasure showing in his bright blue eyes. It was as though his earlier expression had never existed. But she knew she had no more imagined his look of rage than she had imagined Rafe’s resemblance to the painting hanging in the Middlebrooke gallery.

  Both were very real, and very disconcerting.

  Focusing her gaze upon Miss Dalrymple, she pretended to listen.

  Thank heaven Maris and I are returning to London tomorrow, she thought. I only hope Rafe has returned. We have much to discuss, including whatever he knows about his brother.

  It’s good to be back in Town, Rafe thought as he crossed his study and dropped down into his large desk chair, the leather squeaking faintly as he settled his weight. Loosening his cravat, he reached up to unfasten the top two buttons on his waistcoat while he flipped through the stack of correspondence that had collected during his absence.

  At least the crisis at his estate was resolved, repairs under way on all of his tenants’ cottages and outbuildings. As for his own home, the storm debris and dirt had been cleared from the library and wooden boards nailed over the broken windows while new glass panes were shipped north for installation.

  The most tragic loss had been to his book collection—nearly a hundred volumes damaged, almost fifty of those so waterlogged they’d been deemed unsalvageable and tossed onto the rubbish heap. He would have to make a visit to Hatchard’s bookstore to see about replacing them. He only hoped he could.

  But first, there were far more important and pleasurable visits to make, he mused with a smile, his body tightening at the idea of having Julianna back in his arms. How wonderful it would be to feel her lips on his, to know once more the delight of her lush, pliant body moving eagerly beneath his own.

  But it wasn’t just the sex he’d missed; he’d missed Julianna as well. The gentle, vibrant, intelligent woman whose beauty
and grace could bring a room to life by the simple act of her walking into it.

  Since his departure, not a day had passed that he hadn’t thought of her. So frequently, in fact, he probably ought to have been concerned by his need for her. And yet he had no regrets, savoring every moment in her company and glad for it.

  What I wouldn’t give, he thought, to call for my mount and ride over to her townhouse right now.

  Of course he could not, since he’d given his word that they would meet only in secret, and only at the house in Queens Square.

  With a sigh, he shifted in his chair. He’d waited the past two weeks, so he supposed he could wait another day or two, however much he chafed at the delay. Besides, she had probably accompanied her young sister to a ball tonight and was even now dancing with some arrogant lord. He could only hope that man and all of Julianna’s other partners were homely with deadly dull personalities, and nothing to tempt her. Especially that Summersfield chap. She’d sworn to stay away from the earl, and he trusted her. It was Summersfield he didn’t trust!

  Shaking his head in derision at his own foolish jealousy, Rafe resumed his review of the mail. His hand stilled when he came upon a small square of heavy, cream-colored vellum, his name and direction inscribed on the front in a delicate, flowing hand.

  Obviously the missive had arrived by private messenger, since the letter bore a wax seal but no frank or postage. He’d only seen her handwriting a few times, but he knew the letter was from Julianna.

  When had she sent this, and why? he wondered, particularly since she had insisted there be no correspondence between them until he wrote to her of his return. Reaching for his silver letter opener, he split the seal.

  Dear Rafe,

  I know I said we should not write…

  Rafe smiled, then continued reading.

  …but I did not wish you to return to Town and find me away. Maris and I have been invited to a house party for the weekend. There are to be a dozen other guests, not including ourselves and our host. My sister and I plan to make our return journey to London on Monday. Should you have made the trip home by then as well, pray send me word and we will meet. My direction, should you require it, will be Middlebrooke Park, Essex, the estate of Burton St. George, Viscount Middleton.