The Mistake

by Lily Maxton

  She lifted a delicate shoulder, not looking offended at all. It made him feel mean. Petty. He didn’t like to think of himself as a petty man. Didn’t want her to think of him as a petty man, which was as aggravating as it was baffling.

  “Whatever needs to be done,” she answered. “I spend time on my skin and hair each morning. I exercise to keep my body acceptable. I direct the servants so the house is ready when my lover visits. I keep bottles of his favorite port or brandy. I learn his favorite foods and plan dinners. I take an interest in what he likes…if he likes books, I read. If he likes politics, I start buying the newspapers. If he likes music, I practice the pianoforte.”

  Adam stared down at her, a feeling like pity churning in his stomach. He hadn’t thought about the fact that a mistress must become whatever it was her paramour wanted her to be.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she suddenly huffed.

  “Like what?” he asked, confused.

  “As though you pity me,” she said. “I’ve done useful things with my life. Did you know I helped the Earl of Lansdown with his reform speeches for Parliament?”

  That took Adam by surprise. Those speeches—impassioned, eloquent pleas for laws to help the poor—had been widely publicized. A strange sensation came over Adam—a thrill of reluctant pride—to know she’d used her position to do something important. To know she hadn’t risen so far that she completely ignored her past.

  But he didn’t want to be proud of her. Pity was better. Easier. Safer. Pity wouldn’t leave him open to the same kind of crushing pain he’d lived through fifteen years before.

  “I like being a companion. I like helping,” she continued. “And I assume I have more independence than a lot of married women. I do plenty for myself, too, you know.”

  “What do you do for yourself?” he asked, his tone more interested than he’d intended.

  “Well…I like to walk and look at the street vendors. Sometimes I create stories about their lives…” She trailed off.

  “And?” he prompted. “What else?”

  “I paint,” she said.

  “Not for your paramours?”

  “No, I’m dreadful at it. None of them would want a watercolor I’d painted.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “I like the way the paints mix on the canvas. There are so many possibilities from so few colors.” She stopped again, as though she thought she’d said too much.

  “And?”

  “And?” she snapped, finally losing her calm façade. “What else should there be? There are only so many hours in a day, Adam.”

  Amusement welled up inside him at the exasperated way she said his name, and he very nearly smiled. It reminded him of how things used to be—she’d never been afraid to argue with him, even though he was twice her size. Just as he’d ignored her ire then, he ignored it now.

  “Do you write?” he asked, before he could think better of it. Blast. Now she knew he’d heard of her memoir.

  “Sometimes. Though I don’t have any plans for another book at the moment.” She hesitated. “Have you read it? I suppose you haven’t,” she added quickly. “My publisher didn’t print many to start with. He has some sort of strategic release in mind.”

  “I read it,” Adam admitted, his throat tight.

  Her eyes widened slightly, giving him a nice glimpse of her irises, so deep a blue they were almost the purplish shade of bluebells. But her surprise only lasted a moment before she tilted her chin defiantly. “And…what did you think?”

  What had he thought? He fought the sudden, mad urge to laugh. What had he thought? Each bloody word had been a dagger to his heart. When news had come to him that an anonymous courtesan, rumored to be Julia Forsythe, had written a memoir—through his sister, no less, who liked to keep track of her childhood idol—he’d made a point to go to London and purchase the book as soon as it was published.

  He’d had some idiotic notion of purging her from his dreams. Look, he thought to tell himself while he read about her exploits, this is the woman she’s become. This is the woman you dream of—a whore who’s lain with anyone rich enough to keep her.

  Only, when he’d actually held that damnably heavy book in his hands, that wasn’t exactly how it played out.

  As he’d read about her lovers, he’d caught glimpses of the girl who’d filled every corner of his life and his heart with her vivid presence. Not all the time—just here and there, through a certain turn of phrase or a hint of humor or intelligence—but enough to pierce his chest like the sharpest knife.

  And he couldn’t reconcile them. He couldn’t reconcile the vivacious, innocent girl with the jaded whore.

  Confusion had battered at him, and right now, with her standing before him, his emotions were just as jarring. She looked like Julia. She sounded like Julia. She still brought out that protective instinct within him. But there was no longer any innocence to protect. She was one of the most sought-after courtesans in London. His protection was the last thing she needed.

  She’d accomplished much more without him than she ever would have with him.

  The knowledge was humbling in the worst sort of way.

  He realized she was still waiting for his reply about her book. “It was…long,” he said. Which was the truth. The book was five hundred pages—and he’d read every blasted word.

  “Long?” she repeated.

  “Aye.”

  They stared at one another. Adam tried not to let that wide-eyed, almost hurt look dig into him.

  “Well,” she said finally, flippantly. “I assume you’re not much of a reader.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I don’t have much time to waste on books.”

  Bright, vulnerable color appeared on her cheeks, bringing with it the unsettling idea that his words had actually upset her. But it would be a mistake to assume her discomfiture had anything to do with him. She’d always been a little prideful. She was probably just upset that he hadn’t sung the book’s praises.

  “I suppose I’m wasting your time right now,” she said with a haughty sniff.

  Wasting his time? The bitter taste of despair nearly made him choke. He’d already spent enough minutes, enough hours, lamenting the loss of her. He’d already wasted enough bloody time on a woman who didn’t want him.

  And yet, if he was truthful with himself, he would admit he could talk to her for a good while longer. But then he might catch more glimpses of the girl he remembered. He might actually try to find her beneath the façade of the cool, sophisticated mistress.

  And that would make him the world’s most pathetic fool.

  So he remained silent.

  She nodded curtly, and turned to go, but then she turned back, the hem of her dress swaying around her ankles. “It’s odd though, isn’t it…you don’t have time to waste on books and you still managed to get a copy? Fascinating, really,” she drawled.

  And then, just as she had the day before, she sent him a superior glance, those elegant eyebrows arched as far as they could go, and strode away, disappearing behind an orange tree as she took the walking path back toward the main part of the hall. A spot of shimmering red, moving calmly amongst the plants that had become his life. Moving calmly as she invaded every wall of peace he’d erected.

  His fingers curled into a fist.

  Damn that woman to the devil.

  Chapter Three

  On the third day of her stay in the country, Julia decided to walk to the nearby village. She had enjoyed walking the grounds of the estate the first two days. The place was like some sort of kingdom of dreams—one could walk down the graveled path of the allée, with the trees arching over her like protective arms, and imagine they were the princess of an ancient, distant land.

  It was all Adam’s fault.

  She saw his touch in everything. Saw his precision and his dedication. Every tree, bush, and flower was lush and vivid and full. The gardeners cared for them as well as a farmer might care for his prized cattle.
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  She saw the contradictions she remembered in Adam in the layout of the grounds—areas of rigidity where flowers and trees were lined up in perfect rows, and areas of whimsy, like the folly, where wildflowers and roses were scattered about with no rhyme or reason, as though God had thrown down a handful just to watch where they would spring up. The wildflowers gave off an aura of magic, as if one could venture out when the first dawn light had yet to appear, and hear distant music borne on the wind. One might see fairies—those capricious creatures who took different shapes and were sometimes mischievous but just as often deadly—dancing on dew-soaked grass.

  Adam had been like the grounds he now cultivated. He’d been a hardworking, practical boy, and yet he’d recounted to her the myths of Ireland as if a part him believed them, or as if a part of him longed for them to be true.

  Perhaps the practicality had been the façade, the armor he’d worn to cope with the life he’d been born into, always so close to the crushing jaws of poverty. And perhaps the real boy had been the one who’d believed in magic.

  After she saw him leave the conservatory two days earlier, she’d sat on a wrought-iron bench, breathing in the fragrance of the roses he took so much pride in, and wondered if he still told the stories he used to tell her. He didn’t have any children, but he might have nieces and nephews. Did they crawl in their uncle’s lap and beg to hear about the old tales?

  A flash of something traveled through her as she pictured the scene. A flash of something aching and vulnerable and a little too close to longing. Who would tell her own child, the child growing in her body right now, those old stories? Would anyone bother to weave the magic for her child?

  It didn’t matter, she told herself. Those myths weren’t real.

  Julia Forsythe was not about to get sentimental at this stage of her life.

  So on the third morning, she decided she needed a break from Adam’s domain and set out for the village.

  It was about a twenty minute walk, and the weather was sunny and mild. She broke into a light sweat, but probably more because she liked to walk briskly than because of the heat. The village was a small one with a dirt road that ran through the middle and a few shops on each side. She saw they had a lending library, which was unusual for a village of this size. The other shops were more practical—a butcher’s, a cobbler’s, a milliner’s, and a shop that was bigger than the others and more eclectic—when she peered in the window she saw everything from quills and parchment to tea cups.

  She went to the milliner’s first. She stood just inside the door and glanced around, wondering if they made bonnets for babies. Should she be buying things for the baby yet? She didn’t know what babies wore or what they liked. Should she be preparing somehow? She had no idea.

  She sighed, thinking the poor child was saddled with an ignorant mother who would probably do more harm than good, no matter what her intentions.

  “May I help you, Miss?”

  A man with a shiny bald head and spectacles popped out from where he’d been crouched by a rack of beribboned confections.

  “No, thank you,” she said, moving farther into the shop. She thought about asking him if babies wore bonnets, but then he would suspect why she was asking. And she’d barely come to terms with the fact that her body was sheltering a tiny human being. She wasn’t about to go around letting everyone else know.

  “Of course, Miss, of course.” He stared for a good few seconds, then bowed—well, it was more of a bob really, like a pigeon—and then rushed out of the shop, the bells above the door jangling discordantly after him.

  She stared. What in the world was that about?

  She browsed a few of the racks but felt uneasy when the man didn’t return. After a few minutes, she exited the shop, stepped onto the street, and ran right into a short, round woman.

  The woman tilted her head back to look at Julia from under her bonnet. “Are you really her?” she asked excitedly.

  “Who?” Julia asked, frowning.

  “Lord Riverton’s mistress.” Then the woman shrugged as though the question didn’t matter. “Well of course you’re her. You’re the only new face we’ve seen in ages. And just as beautiful as the rumors claim.”

  The servants must have been gossiping.

  “I’m Mrs. Lockwood. And these are my friends.” She waved at three women who were hanging back a few feet but staring at Julia with open interest. The man from the milliner’s was there, too.

  “What is he like?” One of the other women stepped forward and lowered her voice to an emphatic hush. “The marquess, I mean.”

  Julia thought about that. She could say he was the most selfish man she’d ever met. She could say he was the coldest lover she’d ever had. But even a man like Riverton had a few good qualities, or she wouldn’t have been attracted to him in the first place.

  “Well,” she began, “he’s very confident. And he’s really quite intelligent. He can manipulate figures in his head in seconds.”

  “Is he very charming?” the woman asked.

  He could pretend he was charming, Julia thought wryly. At least until he had what he wanted. “He—”

  She broke off when she noticed a crowd was starting to form around them, both men and women. Most of them were watching her with reluctant, almost horrified interest, as though they suspected it might be a mortal sin to show a courtesan anything other than outright disdain, but they couldn’t help their curiosity.

  “You’re her, then?” a bored voice drawled. “Julia Forsythe?”

  She met the eyes of a young brown-haired man. Local gentry, if the cut and fabric of his coat was any indication. She wasn’t sure she liked the challenging way he was looking at her, but she was determined to be nice. These people were her neighbors, after all, for as long as she resided at Blakewood Hall.

  She smiled at him. “Indeed. And you are?”

  He ignored her question. “What about what you did with Duke X?”

  His companion, a man of about the same age, snickered quietly.

  So the two men had read Confessions of a Courtesan, or at least knew someone who had. Julia felt her smile become more forced. “What about it?” she asked.

  He smirked. “Are you really as good as they say?”

  One would think she went around giving fellatio to dozens of men, which was far from the truth. The man she’d called Duke X hadn’t even been her conquest. She’d interviewed a few other courtesans about their experiences to include in her book. And the rather particular Duke X, who could only orgasm when his hands were bound, and then only through fellatio—Julia actually felt sorry for the man…imagine having such specific requirements!—was the result of one of those interviews.

  “Mr. Smith,” Mrs. Lockwood exclaimed. “You treat Miss Forsythe with respect!”

  Julia wanted to pat Mrs. Lockwood on the back for jumping to her defense. But Julia was used to defending herself. She’d been doing it for years.

  And she was very used to men like Mr. Smith.

  “Who is they?” she asked, amused.

  “My acquaintances,” Mr. Smith said with an air of bored indulgence. “They say you have the best mouth in London.”

  The noise around them was getting louder as the number of villagers grew, curious about the woman everyone was crowding around, but Julia could still hear Mrs. Lockwood’s shocked gasp.

  “It’s all right,” Julia told her while keeping her gaze on the youth’s face.

  “Would you care to prove it?” he challenged.

  She smiled. The poor boy clearly didn’t realize what he’d gotten himself into. “Prove it?” she asked with a flutter of airy laughter. “Here? I cannot do something like that in public!”

  The conversation of the crowd swiftly died down. They seemed to recognize that something was going on and they were desperate to hear.

  “My carriage is just there,” he said, flicking his thumb behind him at a well-sprung curricle stopped along the street. “We can go anywhere you like.
”

  “Could we?” she whispered, her fingers tracing a deliberate path along her collarbone.

  He watched the movement, the line of his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Anywhere,” he repeated.

  She let her caressing gaze start at the top of his head and travel down, down, down. The silence was so complete now that she could have heard a feather drop. When she got down to his snug breeches, she stopped, and let out a peal of laughter. “My sincerest apologies, but no thank you, Mr. Smith. I prefer more of a mouthful.”

  There was a collective intake of air, and then the twittering of startled laughter. A crude male voice called loudly from the back, “I got a mouthful for yeh!”

  She ignored the man, her gaze fixed on Mr. Smith’s angry eyes. Good Lord, she hoped the boy wouldn’t do anything foolish—he’d practically begged for a set down, and now he was going to act injured and indignant because she’d given him one? She watched as his fingers curled into a tight fist, and he took an energetic step toward her. “Now you see here—”

  But suddenly, her view was blocked by a large, masculine shape that stepped in front of her. She stared at the back of the man’s dark coat, idly noting that he’d forgotten his hat. But it didn’t matter. Even if she hadn’t seen his midnight black hair, she would have known those broad shoulders anywhere.

  “Run along,” Adam said to Mr. Smith, his voice a low growl.

  She didn’t want to admit this to herself, but the way he spoke, as though he would tear the man to pieces if he didn’t leave, was oddly thrilling. Occasionally, men had fought over her in London, but she’d never paid much attention to their showy antics. This was different. This wasn’t a man who did things for show—this was a man who meant exactly what he said.

  Mr. Smith must have agreed with her, because she saw the back of his brown head as he turned and pushed his way through the crowd, his startled friend turning to follow. There was a sudden clamor as the crowd surged forward, even more eager to get a look at her. They were pushing Adam in the process. She didn’t doubt he could fight his way out of the heaving mass of bodies, but there would probably be a trail of broken bones if he did.