by Mia Marlowe
“By all means, parade your mistress before your male friends. Inciting the envy of others is but one of her functions. However, do not, if you value your sanity, allow her the acquaintance of your relations.”
~ A Gentleman’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Chapter 10
Despite the dour nature of its host, the house party was a merry and convivial group. Lord Granger and his fiancée were so clearly besotted with each other; their joy couldn’t help but radiate outward, covering the rest of Sebastian’s guests with residual happiness. Arabella already knew Lord Granger’s mother, the soon-to-be dowager countess once her son married, since she’d sung a recital at her home last winter to great acclaim.
She was pleased to be accorded the status of an honored guest by Sebastian’s aunt, Lady Moorcroft, a flamboyantly dressed matron with forcefully expressed opinions to match.
Sebastian’s sister, Lady Hermione, was a surprise because she was so unlike the duke. Where he was dark, she was light, figuratively as well as literally. A pretty blonde, she was at least fifteen years younger than Sebastian by the calendar and seemed ages younger by any other measure. Demur and sweet, her voice was rarely raised above sotto voce, and while she obviously respected her brother, there didn’t seem to be much affection between them. Though she claimed to have no talent for music, Lady Hermione was a dedicated opera lover and made it a point to include Bella in all her conversations.
Only Lord Granger’s demeanor was a little chilly toward Arabella, but she reasoned that any man as thoroughly enamored of his fiancée as Lord Granger was would naturally be reserved toward another unattached lady.
After a splendid supper, they retired to the music room. Though singing was her forte, Bella acquitted herself well at the keyboard. She sat at the pianoforte, deftly playing snippets of pieces she judged appropriate for the ceremony and wedding breakfast for the bride and her mother to approve.
“The trick is choosing music that is romantic without being overly sentimental,” Arabella explained as she launched into a lush bit of Schubert and then segued into a sprightly Purcell tune.
Sebastian contributed little to the discussion of wedding music, but Arabella caught him watching her from the far side of the room when he was supposed to be playing chess with Lord Granger. Occasionally, she heard the harsh sibilance of a whispered conversation between the two men, a rasping counterpoint to the mellow tones of the grand instrument.
If she didn’t know they were great friends, she’d suspect they were arguing. And over more than the chess match. Arabella wasn’t surprised when they announced their intention to remove to Sebastian’s smoking room. The other women took it as a cue that it was time to retire to their chambers for the evening, with the exception of Lady Moorcroft.
“Play that Bach prelude once more, if you please, Miss St. George,” Sebastian’s aunt said. “I should like to hear it again before I pronounce it suitable.”
As the rest of the party said their goodnights and filed out, Arabella was happy to comply. The mathematical precision of Bach was always soothing and she sensed an undercurrent growing in the party that was anything but. Sebastian had been withdrawn and sullen since his other guests arrived and nothing she’d tried could cajole him out of it.
It was as if their time spent in the hunting lodge was a world apart. The afternoon of loving was unrelated to their present circumstance. In tedious reality, she’d been found in possession of a treasonous letter and he’d been forcefully reminded of his hateful ducal obligation to wed, bed and produce an heir.
The lyrical Bach counterpoint spooled off Arabella’s fingertips, light as a faery’s wing. Music always lifted her out of herself, transported her to a world filled with beauty and passion. Like the delicate tapestry of sound she created, Bella existed only in the eternal now, as removed from the stolid march of time as heaven itself.
Bella wondered if Sebastian could hear the dulcet tones from his smoking room. She wished she could transport him back to the hunting lodge with her as easily as she could play the prelude.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked Lady Moorcroft as the last chord dangled in space for several heartbeats before she removed her fingers from the ivories.
“I think you’re far better suited for each other than my nephew realizes.” Lady Moorcroft leaned one elbow on the piano lid. “Please tell me Winterhaven hasn’t tried to convince you to sign one of those ridiculous contracts of his.”
Arabella coughed to hide her surprise.
“Come, there’s no need to be coy. We both care about him. I can see it in your face when you look at him. Well, has he or not?”
“Yes, he has, but I refused to sign it.”
Lady Moorcroft clapped her dainty hands in delight. “Brava! Finally, he’s met a woman who says no to him.”
Arabella hadn’t exactly said no that afternoon. She kept her face carefully neutral and hoped she was a good enough actress not to blush. If Lady Moorcroft was observant enough to mark how Arabella felt about Sebastian, she astute enough not to miss that sort of involuntary admission of guilt.
“For the record,” Lady Moorcroft went on, “I’m not opposed to your friendship with my nephew. In fact, I hope it might blossom into something more.”
“Your ladyship does me honor, but surely you realize I’m a commoner.”
Lady Moorcroft laughed lightly. “I sometimes wonder if our American cousins may not have the right of it when they celebrate the self-made man. Or in this case, woman. You may be a commoner, Miss St. George, but you’re an accomplished commoner.” She strolled to the small sideboard, picked up the decanter and poured two glasses of wine. “And, based on your refusal of Sebastian’s ludicrous contract, you’re also a woman of great sense.”
“Then the world being what it is, you understand why I wouldn’t expect my friendship with the duke to become anything more.” Arabella took a cautious sip of the wine. The chasm between Winterhaven and a woman of no family was so wide, the far side of it was but a dark smudge on the horizon. Arabella couldn’t imagine what Sebastian’s aunt was angling for by even suggesting such a thing. “Despite the fact that I will not become his mistress, the duke loves music and invited me to join your party. That’s all there is to it.”
Lady Moorcroft shook her head. “My nephew and his contracts. They’re just the last in a long line of Winterhaven foibles.”
A parade of portraits of Sebastian’s dignified ancestors peered down at them from the music room walls.
“The duke is understandably proud of his lineage,” Arabella said, feeling she ought to defend him.
“No doubt.” Lady Moorcroft cast a disparaging eye around the silent gallery. “But don’t let the duke’s formality fool you. The Winterhavens aren’t exactly the model of propriety. Never have been.”
Lady Moorcroft tipped up her wine glass and drained it in a long gulp that would have done credit to a bar maid. Arabella was suitably impressed and it occurred to her that Lady M’s unlooked-for confidences were probably related to the quantity of alcohol she had quietly consumed that night.
“Do you know why Sebastian insists on only three months duration for his amours?”
Bella shook her head, not trusting her voice. It was a safe bet Sebastian would never share the real reason.
“It’s because of his mother. My younger sister.” Lady Moorcroft refilled her glass and swirled the contents for a moment, letting the wine breathe. “Helen was a lovely girl, but flighty, you understand. She had a dozen offers the year of her come out, but the Duke of Winterhaven was far and away the best catch of the lot. They married and within the year, Sebastian was born.”
Arabella bit her lip to keep from asking why this should make Sebastian so cautious about his relationships. Lady Moorcroft was spinning her tale in her own time. It was bad form to interrupt a raconteur mid-story.
“One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but honestly, I’ve never seen why. They’re past hurting, aren’t
they?” Lady Moorcroft said in a small voice as if debating with herself whether or not to continue. Then she shrugged and plowed ahead. “Sebastian’s father was a hard man to know. Silent. Pitiless. And he ruled his family as he ruled his duchy, with an implacable iron will. That’s him, scowling above the sideboard there.”
Arabella was of the opinion that most people earned the face they wore. If so, the deep grooves between his brows and around his mouth showed Sebastian’s father had spent far more time frowning than laughing. Pride glinted in his flinty gaze and the slight uptilt of his chin. Arabella recognized the determined set of Sebastian’s jaw in the portrait of his father, and the beginning of the same frown lines.
“Helen was used to being flattered and courted. She’d been the belle of every ball she attended,” Lady Moorcroft said. “Once he’d won her, the duke had no time for such nonsense. Trapped in such a loveless marriage, she wilted like a dying plant.”
Arabella eyed the female portraits in the room. “Is there a painting of her here?”
“No. If there ever was, I suspect the old duke destroyed it,” Lady Moorcroft said. “You see, before Sebastian had ridden his first pony, Helen ran away with the sailing man who captained one of Winterhaven’s ships.”
“She left her son?” Arabella had left her daughter too, but not for the sake of a lover. However her heart ached over the decision, she knew Lisette was far better off with Arabella’s sister and brother-in-law.
“In fairness, she couldn’t very well have taken the boy with her, could she? Winterhaven was too cold and proud to pursue her for her own sake, but he would have dogged her to the ends of the earth for the sake of his heir,” Lady Moorcroft said between leisurely sips of wine. “I like to think Helen was happy with her lover. After all, she gave up everything to be with him.”
Of course Lady Moorcroft would defend her sister, but all Arabella could think of was a motherless young Sebastian, abandoned to the care of his silent, pitiless father.
“Then one spring, little Hermione turned up at the gate in a basket. Helen had died in childbed and her lover had no use for the child. But since Helen was still married to the duke, the girl was accounted legally his. Hermione is Sebastian’s half sister, though I think the old duke might have sent her to the foundlings’ home if she hadn’t had Helen’s startling blue eyes.” Lady Moorcroft finished the last of her wine. “Hermione was a winsome child. Always biddable. She was a comfort to the duke, I think, toward the end.”
“But she and Sebastian don’t get on?”
“No, I don’t think it’s that.” Lady Moorcroft considered the decanter with a sideways glance as if to see if it held enough wine to make the trip across the room worth her trouble. “Helen both unites and divides them. I don’t believe Sebastian ever gave up hope that his mother would come back. Hermione’s birth meant she never could.”
Lady Moorcroft might be a bit tipsy, but truth sang with vibrant tones in her words.
“So now, my nephew tries to control every encounter with women. Hence the contract,” she said, sagging a bit against the piano. Then she waggled a finger at Arabella. “But you, my dear, just keep saying no to that bit of silliness. You’ll make an honest gentleman of him yet.”
Lady Moorcroft listed badly and threatened to tumble face first onto the Turkish carpet. Arabella rose from the piano bench and skittered around to her side. She linked arms with Lady M. and started toward the door.
“I’ll do my best, milady,” she said as they meandered through the connecting rooms to the curving staircase leading to the upper floors.
Making Sebastian an honest gentleman was an idea with real appeal. Though given the way her relationship with him had begun, with deceit and subterfuge, she wondered how an untruthful woman could go about making any man honest.
* * * * *
“Neville, that’s enough.” Sebastian brought his fist down on the desktop hard enough to rattle the inkwell and set the stuffed owl on the corner atremble. “I told you I’d handle it and I will.”
“I fail to see how making the lady your house guest constitutes ‘handling’ the situation.” Lord Granger didn’t seem the least troubled by Sebastian’s anger. In fact, if his red ears were any indication, he was boiling with plenty of ire of his own. “You’re dealing with treason here. If you aren’t careful, you’ll become implicated in her plans. Perhaps even branded her accomplice.”
“Arabella is not a traitor,” Sebastian said, willing it to be true. He hoped the dossier he’d ordered on her would bear out her story, but for now, he didn’t dare show the slightest doubt to his friend. Neville had enough doubts for both of them. “She was coerced into her part of the scheme.”
“So she says.”
“And I believe her.”
“Ever since we were at Oxford together I’ve had the utmost respect for that brain of yours. However, it seems to have gone on hiatus just now.” Neville blew a cigar smoke ring into the air. “Which part of your anatomy have I the pleasure of speaking with at present?”
Sebastian frowned darkly at his friend. Was the fact that he’d already bedded the lady branded on his forehead? “I have a plan.”
“Obviously, so does she.”
“Arabella is a pawn in this. A courier only,” Sebastian said. “I’d stake my life on it.”
“You are. Depend upon it. May I remind you that the punishment for treason is still hanging, drawing and quartering?”
Sebastian glared at him. “Hear me out. It’s no good taking the letter to the authorities. They’d only warn the persons who’re being targeted and the assassin will simply go to ground. He’ll strike in another way at another time. We need a stratagem that will lull him into a sense of easy success, and in so doing, we’ll choose the ground we fight on.”
Neville listened without comment while Sebastian explained what he proposed to do in order to stop the assassin in his tracks. Then Lord Granger pulled on his cigar three times, cogitating on the possibilities and weighing the options. Finally, he met Sebastian’s gaze.
“It might work,” he admitted. “But it’s risky.”
Neville didn’t know the half of it yet. “There’s more,” Sebastian said. “I’m going to need your assistance.”
When he finished outlining the rest of his plan, Neville let out a low whistle.
“Will you help me?”
“Yes, of course,” Neville said, waving away the question. Then he fixed Sebastian with a penetrating glare. “Are you sure she’s worth it? You could lose everything.”
Sebastian didn’t bat an eyelash. If Arabella had lied to him, he’d lost everything already.
“Above all else, a gentleman should take pains to see that while the needs of his body are fully met in the relationship with his mistress, his heart is never engaged.”
~ A Gentlemen’s Guide to Keeping a Mistress
Chapter 11
A venerable old manor house takes on a different character by night than it shows to the world by day. Every shadow is a ghost of time gone by, each low creak of settling foundations a complaint from the past. A wakeful person is not likely to feel solitary roaming the dark halls. Shades of previous occupants lurk around every corner.
But Sebastian wasn’t plagued by any of those late night spirits in his nocturnal wandering. The real woman in the silk-draped guest chamber so filled his imagination, there was no room for other fancies. He found himself standing outside Arabella’s door before he realized that was his destination.
He raised his hand to knock but then stopped himself. The 8th Duke of Winterhaven didn’t need her permission to enter a room in his own home.
Besides, he was in no mood to accept rejection and he couldn’t be sure Arabella wouldn’t tell him no. Until they’d taken refuge in the hunting lodge, she’d seemed determined to make a damned virtue of refusing him.
He turned the knob and slipped into the chamber. Silent as a wraith, Sebastian moved to her bedside. He’d thought her stunning on stage. Si
lvered by moonlight, she was nothing short of ethereal, his very own faery queen.
“Bella.”
He hadn’t meant to say anything. Her name simply escaped his lips without his conscious volition, a single word tribute to his need of her.
Need. All right, he’d admit it. She wanted him to need her and he did. He hoped she was satisfied.
She stirred and her eyes fluttered open. Wordlessly, she lifted her arms to him.
As Sebastian sank into them, a euphoric rush of emotions crowded his senses. He abhorred them.
Deucedly messy things, feelings.
They upset a fellow’s well-ordered life and threatened to unman him. That’s why he’d been so careful keep his under such tight restraint.
The reins slipped a bit as he let the sensations course through him unchecked. In all the years he’d lived in that manor house, he’d never felt at home. It was simply where he’d passed much of his childhood and later conducted the business of the estate, but there was no sense of belonging. If anything, it was more as if the place owned him.
As he buried his nose in Arabella’s hair and inhaled her scent, he finally knew what home was, what it ought to feel like—all warmth and acceptance.
But he couldn’t even convince her to stay with him for three pitifully short months. It confirmed what he’d always suspected.
There was something desperately wrong with him.
“I’m not a very good man,” he said, his voice passion-rough as he devoured her neck with kisses. “You’d do well to remember it.”
“Why do you say that?” She ran a hand over his head, smoothing his hair down.
It was like a benediction. Her touch encouraged him to open the firmly-barred door to his private pain, but he resisted.
“I’ve ordered my life solely for my own pleasure,” he confessed. “And I’ve been selfishly happy that way.”