by Lavinia Kent
It would have been nice to make him wait all afternoon, but she needed this settled before they reached Town.
With some reluctance she climbed into the carriage and sat carefully across from him, facing backward. He sprawled on his bench, legs wide, arms relaxed. He appeared not to have a care in the world. She gritted her teeth.
Silence held until the coach began to move. The world passed by quickly outside the window. At least he didn’t insist on riding in total darkness like Mrs. Wattington. But there was no Joey to distract her either. Oh, how she missed him.
No. That was self-pity again. She would not think of Joey or her ruined life; her only thoughts would be of Mark’s deceit. None of this would have happened if he had been honest.
None of it.
A discreet cough drew her attention and she turned her face to Strattington, willing herself to an icy calm.
“I think you must become my mistress,” he said without an ounce of emotion.
Damn it all. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, but warmth, or even civility, was difficult with her looking so murderous. Half of Mark’s day had been spent working out the perfect words, the way to make her understand that he was not doing this just because he had to. He really wanted her to be his mistress.
Ouch. He could tell by her face she’d throw something if she could. She’d looked as if she might have been crying when he’d called her into the carriage, but now—now she looked like she wanted to chew off his ears.
He moved his legs out of the way. He wouldn’t put a good kick past her.
“You want what?” was all she said.
“I think it’s a fine idea.” Oh, he was sure she could tell how long he’d spent figuring out this speech.
She didn’t even answer, just glared.
He tried again. “I think you’d suit me very well.”
She sputtered. At least he would take it as a sputter and not a spit. “You think I’d suit you very well. You ruin my life and you think I’d suit you?”
“Well, yes.” His conversational skills were clearly on the rise.
“And you think I should just agree?”
“Well, yes.” Now he was repetitive.
“Oh.”
He hoped she was thinking about it. Her face turned to the window so he could not make out her full expression. He wished her body would relax. She looked like she was sitting on hot coals rather than the soft plush of the carriage benches.
The bruise was beginning to fade, if you called turning yellow fading.
Her chest rose and fell, expansively, as she pulled in one deep breath after another. That was good, it must mean she was thinking about his proposition.
“No.” She did not turn back to him.
“No, what?”
“No, I will not be your mistress. I am insulted by the very suggestion.”
Insulted? That he had not expected. She hadn’t been insulted to be his lover when he’d been only an estate agent. Why would she not want to be the mistress to a duke? Marriage. The word whispered guiltily into his thoughts. She had wanted marriage. Guilt touched him and made his tone harsher than he’d intended. “I told you I’d take care of you and you did not protest before. What the hell did you think I was talking about? I think you should think again.”
“I thought you spoke of marriage. I thought that was what ‘take care of me’ meant.” The words were out before she could hold them back.
His body stiffened further, if that was even possible—but he did not look surprised. If anything he merely looked tired, very tired. “Dukes do not marry baby nurses, or even companions.”
“But I didn’t know you were a duke. You should have told me.”
“Yes, I should have.” He looked away from her.
She was shocked by this admission. “Then why didn’t you?”
He relaxed slightly, his back actually touching the cushion behind him. “I liked not being the duke for a while. With you I could relax. You always made me see the joy in the moment.”
“You still should have told me.”
“Yes.” He did not say more.
“I would not have dallied with you if I’d known you were the duke.”
“Would you not have?”
The worst of it was that he was probably right. If she had known who he was then she—she might have decided to become his mistress anyway. “I don’t know.” She answered his honesty with her own.
They were silent for a moment.
“I cannot marry you, you know.”
“Dukes do not marry baby nurses.” She repeated his words. But did they marry slightly scandalous gentlewomen? What if she told him the truth? But murder was more than slightly scandalous.
“No, they don’t. I tried to tell you at the inn before we were discovered. I was afraid I heard you mention marriage in your cries.”
“I didn’t.” Please, don’t add that shame to this.
“I am rather afraid you did.”
“And then everything happened.”
“Yes. I realize that I led you on and I am prepared to do what is right.”
“By making me your mistress?” He had a strange idea of making things right. Then again, it was a testament to how far she had fallen since that night in Foxworthy’s rooms.
“Yes.” He turned toward her. His voice softened, but she heard the command in it. “Just say yes.”
He was still every inch the duke, even if she had seen a glimmer of Mark in his honesty.
It was anger that had made her say no before. With no money in her pocket and no prospect of employment, no other options presented themselves to her. She could beg. She could walk the streets and deal with multiple men—or—
Or. . .
Could she really do it? Could she be his mistress?
She kept her face turned to the window so that he could not see her temptation. What were her choices, really?
She could return to her brother. Would Masters take her in even after she had defied him for so long? The fact that he still pursued her rather indicated he would, but it would not be without cost. Masters might make her marry a man even worse than Foxworthy. Was it not better to stay with Mark; at least she wasn’t disgusted by him. She might deep down confess to even liking him. She’d certainly liked kissing him. It would be a gamble. But then so was her life.
Could she turn to her sister, Violet? Violet had demonstrated that she would give up anything for Isabella—including the man she loved. Before Isabella had run away she had found herself engaged, if only for a matter of hours, to Lord Peter, Violet’s true love. She hoped they were married by now, but regardless, Isabella could not see any way in which asking Violet for help would not hurt her sister. It was Isabella’s turn to be selfless. She would not do anything that might cause her sister distress.
What of Lady Smythe-Burke? She had already done enough. Isabella didn’t even know why she had helped her flee in the first place. Their relationship was not such that Isabella could impose further. It would be awful if Lady Smythe-Burke was involved and someone called in the authorities.
She did have a friend, Annie Westers, who had helped her out before, but that had always been with covering for small things—not murder. She doubted there was much that Annie could do about this, even assuming she was in Town. Annie might even feel compelled to turn her in.
With some trepidation she turned and looked at Strattington. Looking at him now it was hard to see how she had ever not recognized him as the duke; his every sinew and line cried out authority. He sat looking straight ahead again, not deigning her with further attention as he awaited her response.
He wore full black again today. He must still be in mourning for the uncle Mrs. Wattington had mentioned. The coat was a heavy brocade, black upon black. She could not make out the pattern in the dimness of the carriage. His linens almost glowed they were so white. And the boots, they were polished enough for her to see the reflection of her own half boots.
It was n
ot his clothing, however, that spoke of who he was. He turned to her, his voice soft but his face unmoving. “Surely you see there is no other choice.”
Choice.
She remembered her sister yelling at Masters about women and choices, how they had the right to make their own even if they made mistakes. It was not until later that Isabella had truly appreciated her sister’s words.
Did she have a choice now?
She needed to understand. “What will you give me if I become your mistress?”
“Excuse me?” His voice lost its softness, its warmth.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that—or at least not quite like that. I guess the more accurate question would be what can I expect?”
“I would think the usual.” He sounded slightly unsure. Could a duke be unsure?
“But I have no idea what the usual is. Do you pay for an apartment? A house? Do I get a staff? Do all my bills get sent to you? How often do you, do you—visit? Do you have other lovers?”
“A house, I imagine, some discreet neighborhood. Divers mentioned that my uncle owned such a house near St. James. I am sure Divers knows how all this is handled.”
Divers—she could hardly bear to think of that conversation. She had to turn and face the window again. “You wish to put me in your uncle’s house?”
He coughed, slightly, but she did not look.
“Only if it is what you wish,” he answered.
What she wished? Since when was this about what she wished? “I do not think I would care for it.”
“I will get you a new house then. I imagine the ducal coffers will survive.”
“And the rest?”
“Why are you being difficult? It will all be worked out.”
Where was Mark? The man who spoke to her like this was not the man she had kissed and certainly not the man she had almost . . . Why, going to bed with him would be like going to bed with a stranger. She might be better off walking the streets. “Why would you want me as your mistress? Surely there are beauties in London who would tempt you more?”
“It is the right thing. I misled you. Therefore it makes sense.”
Oh, weren’t those the words every woman wanted to hear.
Her eyes were watering and she couldn’t blame it on the wind. The sun, maybe? It was bright out. If only the sun were shining in her side of the carriage instead of the other, that might have been believable. “I think I need the details worked out now. If I do this there is no going back. My life will be changed—forever.”
“I shall consider the matter.”
“Let me know when you are done considering and we can speak again. I will ride with the driver again.” It was so hard sitting next to him when her body said one thing and her mind another.
“No.” That, at least, was clear—and very ducal.
Why could she simply not cooperate? Mark wished he could kick the bench he sat on. Of course dukes did not kick.
He knew he was not acting well. He even knew why. It had taken a moment for him to realize that he cared about her answer. It would have been much easier if he had not. Caring made him nervous, made his stomach clench up. And that was not even considering the guilt that he felt. It made him all the more defensive.
The problem was he could not even imagine what he would do if she said no. He’d never needed anything as much as he needed her, her smile, her warmth. And the more it mattered, the more he acted the duke. He could not let her know the power she had.
Dukes never let anyone else have the power.
And he hadn’t liked that moment when she’d asked what she would get. He trusted that she had not meant it as it sounded, that she was not a gold digger, but still . . . He had become very used to those who looked at him only for what he could give them.
Watching her from the corner of his eye as he stared straight ahead was beginning to give him a headache. He turned and faced her. He could not wait any longer. He needed to know—to know that she was his. He should be more persuasive, he knew that. But he could not bear to think of her on the streets—alone. Even if he gave her money, she would still be alone. “I have considered enough. I do not believe that we need to resolve the details now. I desire an answer.”
She paled at his words, but the muscles in her jaw clenched. “As long as you realize that the choice is mine. You would be wise not to forget that. It may not be a good choice, but still there is choice.”
He should have known she would only argue more. “You have told me you are a sensible woman.”
Her eyes dropped to her hands, which were twisting in her lap. Her lips were stuck tight together.
A part of him longed to lean closer, to draw a finger across their sweet pink curves, to soften them and then her. It would be so easy to tempt her into agreement, to inch near to her on the bench, to slip a foot under the edge of her skirts, to. . .
“Fine.” She said the word very softly.
“What?”
“You are correct. I am sensible.” Her voice spoke of despair. “If the choice is to be your mistress or starve, I will be your mistress. However, do not think that I do not realize that it is you who creates the choices I have. You have the power to give me another choice if you wish.”
She was right. He did have the ability to give her another alternative, to pay her way, to give her a recommendation. Only how would he know she was safe if he let her slip away? She might find herself in even worse circumstances. With him she was safe. “If you believe so.”
“So you will not simply give me some funds or help to find a position for me?”
“I have already suggested the position I wish you to fill and you have agreed.”
“Fine.” She did not look so fine. Her hands were no longer twisting but were clenched tight. She turned and stared back out the window without another comment.
He wished he could explain how he felt, how he needed her, how he feared for her, but the words would not come. He did not know how a duke would say them. Hell, he didn’t know how he would say them.
She had agreed. Isabella saw nothing as she watched the passing scenery.
He was right. She did have no choice.
“Why were you being pursued?” Mark’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She had believed they were finished.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Did her voice sound normal?
“Divers spoke to a man who could only have been asking about you. I’ve already set a man to investigate.”
She knew she paled slightly. “Call your man back. If I am to be your mistress then call him back. The past does not matter.”
He leaned forward, his face softening. He looked like Mark again. “Do you have a problem? I can help you. I am good with problems.”
“No. I will be fine.”
“Are you sure? A duke can solve almost anything. It’s not like you killed a man.”
“Just call your man back. I may reconsider my decision if you pursue this.”
He stared at her, his eyes filled with consideration. “I will do as you . . . request.”
This time it was he who turned away.
She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to stem the tide of emotions that was rising.
She longed to be numb. Instead she felt as if she would burst apart from the swirl of emotions that filled her.
The worst was that even now she longed to be cradled against his chest, to feel his strong arms about her, to feel that sense of safety that Mark always gave her.
But that was Mark. This was Strattington.
Which brought her to the question at the center of it all. She had been prepared, indeed wanted, to have sex—she forced herself to phrase it bluntly—with Mark out of desire and dreams, but was she ready to do the same with Strattington?
Could she give her body to the duke?
Chapter 14
She was back in London. It had not changed much. Perhaps it was dirtier, more downtrodden, but that might just be her own view after the
last years spent in the country. It was certainly gray.
The day was gray—whether it was fog or a single enveloping cloud she could not say.
The city was gray—not even a brightly painted door added color to the view.
Her mood was gray—that might even be an understatement. She verged on black.
The wheels rattled as the carriage sped over the city’s cobblestones. Each movement jarred her already aching brain. Her hands twitched with the desire to rub her neck, but she would not show such weakness to the man who sat across from her.
She closed her eyes. Her temples throbbed with lack of sleep and tension. She didn’t know whether to attribute it to her anxiety at being back in London, back at the scene of her crime, or to the strange, awkward silence that held between them. She would have thought her agreement to be his mistress would have brought peace. Instead. . .
“Why did you not send for me last night at the inn? I thought that once you had my agreement you would wish me in your bed.” She was too tired to attempt to play games.
Strattington turned and stared at her. Oh, how she longed for Mark. The duke must put on formality along with his tight cravats and brocade coats. “I thought that I was doing you a kindness, giving you time to adjust to your new life.”
“By leaving me awake half the night waiting?”
“Were you waiting?” Did she detect the glimmer of a smile in his expression? Mark’s eyes had glinted with humor and caring. Strattington’s eyes seemed to show nothing but the reflection of his surroundings.
“Yes, I waited. Does that make you happy?”
He turned and looked at her fully. “I want what makes you happy. You seem to be missing your usual sense of fun.”
Yes, she imagined that she was. What did he expect under the circumstances? “Where do we go now?”
His lips tightened and he turned away again. “I am still considering. I certainly go to my house in Mayfair. I am not sure what to do with you. It would not be seemly for you to accompany me.”
The duke really knew how to win a woman over. “I am sure you are correct. That does seem to leave you with a bit of a dilemma, though, doesn’t it?”
“I just said it did.”