by Lavinia Kent
She was worth more than she’d expected, or else Mark was a very generous— Damn, she still didn’t have a word for what he was to her. She’d go with provider for now. It didn’t feel right, but it certainly was what he was.
She weighed the purse in one hand and then shifted it to the other—none of this felt right.
Last night had been almost magical, far better than she’d expected, but this morning didn’t even reach mundane. It might even be considered awful.
She hefted the purse again. She’d been desperate for money for months, if not years. Why then did finally having a pocket full of coin make her feel—feel dirty? A simple purse had turned a night of wonder into something tawdry, something very tawdry.
She was a whore.
Mistress might be a far better term, but she had never been one to hide. She might run from trouble, but she was always honest with herself. She had known what she was doing, she had just not been prepared for how she would feel afterward.
She was a whore.
Dropping the purse on the dresser, she sighed. At least she was a very well-paid whore.
Her plain gray dress lay draped over the back of a chair, ready for her to wear. Running a hand over the sturdy fabric, she found herself comforted by it. She’d hated the simple dresses when she’d first acquired them. They were ugly and would have fit a cow as well as they fit her. She’d once asked another maid about having them fitted and been laughed at. It had not taken long for her to understand that looking frumpy and invisible was a valuable accomplishment.
Not that it had helped her with Mark, he’d seen through her plain dresses without a second glance.
What did she require as a mistress? Her sister had always had the most deliciously enticing dresses, dresses that could appear appropriate, but were anything but. She remembered a dress that had swirled about Violet, making her appear to be dressed in a fine spray of mist. The dress had covered her completely and yet left one believing she could be naked at any moment. Isabella had been so envious of that dress as she’d worn her own demure, maidenly, high-cut pastels.
Now she could wear things like that. She was probably supposed to wear things like that.
Violet’s modiste would probably be delighted to make dresses for the Duke of Strattington’s mistress. Only that would be dangerous. She could not risk the possible contact with her family. That could only lead to disaster.
She grabbed up the purse again, squeezing it tight between her fingers. The bag lay heavy in her palm. It would make a worthy donation to an orphanage. Wouldn’t Strattington be surprised to know her thoughts?
Of course they were only thoughts. She was a practical woman.
Mark gazed across the room at the Duke of Brisbane. How did the man manage to stand perfectly straight and still look like he was lounging? The morning of waiting upon the king had been endless. The whole matter seemed to consist mostly of nodding at whatever nonsense was recited. Even the Duke of Hargrove was looking distracted from the proceedings. It was all more talk of the coronation—more discussion of train lengths and who would wear what color. Who would ever have thought that a king would spend time discussing which colors those who stood near him would be allowed to wear? Hints that it was inappropriate for Mark to wear black, despite his mourning, had not been subtle. Apparently he would choose to wear a deep teal blue if he were actually a loyal subject.
Could a man be hanged for treason for wearing the wrong color?
Suppressing a sigh, he resolved to leave the whole matter up to Divers. The valet had to serve some purpose. Going back to the days when Douglas had supplied all his needs would have been delightful. His quiet companion was far better than Divers and his dour glances. Divers had not been happy to be summoned this morning. He’d seen it as far below him to wait on Mark with Isabella in the chamber.
But Mark had been loath to leave her before she awoke.
Isabella, his Bella. She was a beauty and the shortened name suited her.
A yawn took him, and was quickly swallowed. He would need more sleep this night if he was not to drowse before the king.
He looked across the room and saw Brisbane watching him. The other duke raised a brow. Mark had not hidden the yawn well enough.
Isabella stood still as the long yards of fabric were draped about her body. It would be her first new gown in years and the prospect should have filled her with joy. Only what good was a fabulous gown when she had nowhere to wear it? Even coming to the modiste’s she hurried from door to carriage and back again, her face veiled.
Could she go on like this? She honestly wasn’t sure. Every night as she curved beside Mark’s warm body it didn’t seem so bad. She felt like his lover—even as she reminded herself she was not. She worked hard to hold herself in reserve, to not allow her emotions to become involved—and then he’d come in looking so tired and worn, and he’d smile at her.
The things that smile did to her, the convictions it made disappear.
“Are you unhappy with the fabric? I find the color quite wonderful on you.” Yvette, the modiste, spoke, her mouth full of pins.
“No, it is very nice. I was thinking of something else.”
“Now what would be bringing that frown to your face? With a protector like yours you should be smiling for days. Handsome and generous.”
Protector. That was the word she’d been looking for. Mark was her protector. It was a better word than any she had thought of. When she curled against him in the early hours of the morning, when he pulled her onto his chest and her nose tickled in the hair on his chest, she did feel protected, feel that all was right with the world.
And then daylight came.
Daylight and Divers. She always made sure to pull on a shift sometime in those predawn hours. There were some things she did not want seen by any man but Mark.
Only he wasn’t Mark in the morning. He was Strattington.
It seemed strange that even after several days she could not see them as the same man. She’d grown used to the change, but she still could not reconcile it. Mark plied her with kisses. Strattington left her with purses—and with Divers.
“You are frowning again. Are you sure I am not sticking you with pins? I would hate for you to have any complaints,” Yvette said.
Mark had suggested she call herself Yvette that first night at the inn. Somehow she did not imagine he’d had the plump, graying modiste in mind. Although her accent was quite delightful.
Isabella smiled and tried to find a response. “I am just wishing I had somewhere to wear the dress. It seems a little grand for dinner at home. I had something much plainer in mind when I first came in.”
“I was instructed to be sure you had a full wardrobe and that is just what I will do.” Yvette stepped back and surveyed the yellow silk. “You look like a buttercup. It suits you well, but I would never have considered the color myself. I was quite surprised when you suggested the shade.”
A buttercup. It was exactly the thought Isabella had formed when she’d seen the heavy silk. She wondered if Mark would remember. A dress was surely better than a whole yellow house.
That did bring a genuine smile to her face.
“Be sure you don’t keep His Grace up too late. He’ll never find a wife if he doesn’t look his best. He must secure the succession. We wouldn’t want the bloodline to be polluted.” Divers shut the bedroom door with a slam as he left.
She was growing to hate Mark’s valet. It was bad enough having to deal with him in the morning, but he’d taken to stopping by at odd hours—and always with a snide comment. Isabella wished Douglas would return from whatever errand Mark had sent him on. Douglas might have been quiet, but he never made her feel worthless the way Divers could with a single glance.
And he went through her belongings—daily.
Did he think she was pocketing the coin that Strattington left each morning? Well, she was, but she was smart enough to keep it either on her person or tucked away at night. When the time came
she wanted to have options. Life had taught her the necessity of preparation.
Pacing back and forth across the room, she tried to keep thoughts of the past from her mind. This was her life now. It might not be what she wanted, what she wanted now, but it was hers.
It was the waiting for Mark that was hard. With a small sigh, she settled into her chair and stared at the door to the chamber. It would make more sense to wait for Mark in the bed. He never arrived before midnight and always came straight to her, his intent clear.
Waiting in the bed would, however, have made her feel even more of a harlot than she already did.
Wives waited in bed for their husbands to come home. She knew that, but somehow it didn’t seem at all the same. If she waited in bed her whole life would devolve into what happened there—not that it wasn’t wonderful. It was. Mark was endlessly considerate and imaginative. A woman could not have a better lover.
The front door of the house creaked open. The sound was unmistakable, the loud click and light scratch on the marble floor below. The soft tread of footsteps across the hall, mumbled words to the porter, another click as the door was shut and the key turned for the night, and then she heard him on the stairs.
Running her fingers through her hair, she glanced down at herself—at the red velvet robe and thin linen night rail. The modiste Divers had taken her to had tried to persuade her that lace and translucent silk were what she needed, but Isabella had held firm. The linen might be so thin as to hint at what was beneath it and the robe was very close in color to scarlet, but they still seemed like clothing a decent woman might have worn—clothing that Miss Isabella Masters might have worn. If Mark wanted her in black and gold lace he could buy it himself.
The handle of the door turned. She blew out a long breath, releasing the anger and worry that had held her all day. These moments, these hours, would not be touched by the rest. She knew she was foolish, but the smile she greeted him with as the door swung open was real.
Now, just now, she was simply Isabella, his Bella. “I am so glad you are finally here. Can I help you with your coat?”
“Not quite yet. I have a surprise for you.”
What could the man have gotten her? She hoped it wasn’t jewels. Jewels with no place to wear them would only make her situation more apparent. She put a smile on and rose to greet him. “I do love surprises.”
“I do hope you like this one. I am afraid Divers will never forgive what it has done to my coat.”
His coat? Her question faded as a soft meow echoed from his pocket and tiny furred ears poked up.
“Are you coming to bed?” Mark rolled onto his side and glanced at Bella as she sat staring down at the sleeping ball of fur. Who would ever have thought that a piece of fluff would bring her such joy? He’d only bought the kitten because the boy standing on the corner with the box had looked so tired. It was only chance that he’d even looked out of his carriage at that moment.
And Bella had seemed a little blue recently. The easy grins and laughs that normally filled her seemed to come less frequently every day. He’d wanted to cheer her and as he’d gazed into the box of kittens he’d remembered her desire for a cat.
He’d tossed the boy a shilling without another thought.
Bella’s smile as she’d taken the small creature from him was even better than he’d imagined.
In fact, life was far better than he had ever expected. Stretching out on the bed, he waited for her, and his further reward.
“In a moment. Do you think he’ll stay asleep?” Bella’s voice echoed slightly in the darkness. She rose, moving in front of the window, the light from it silhouetting her through the thin fabric of her shift. When had white become so enticing? He could not see her smile, but he knew it was there. She was such a contradiction of seduction and innocence. One minute she seemed like she knew exactly what she was doing to him and then she’d blush and look like she was hardly out of pigtails.
“I believe he is a she. And I have no idea.”
“I do hope she’s not lonely. Perhaps I should put her in the bed with us.”
Now that was not happening. “I am sure she’ll be fine where she is. I’d hate to crush her in my sleep.”
“You are right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Are you going to name her?”
Bella stopped, placing a hand beside him on the bed. Then she grinned, the smile he had been waiting for. “I do think I’ll call her Duchess. Every duke needs a duchess.” She climbed up beside him.
He could only grin himself. These nights with Bella made everything else seem possible. They had been together less than a week and already these nights were the highlight of each day.
And it was not merely the sex. Oh, the sex would have been enough to keep him happy—and he would have been most unhappy without it—but it was talking to Bella that he looked forward to the most. When she greeted him each night with her soft smile he felt something inside him loosen, something tight that he put on each morning with his cravat and let loose as her small hands eased the jacket from his shoulders. She would pour him a glass of brandy and no matter how late the hour they would talk—sometimes about the most mundane things, should she replace the pillows on the bed with something of a different shade or should she redo the whole chamber at once? Sometimes she asked about his family, consoling his sadness that neither his sisters nor his mother were making it to London for the festivities. On other nights he would discuss the news he had heard that day. To his surprise, she too was much more interested in current politics than in the king’s wardrobe.
“Thank you for the kitten.” She snuggled up beside him. “I’ve been missing caring for Joey these past days and Duchess will give me something to do, something to love.”
He pushed aside the thought that she could have loved him. She’d been missing Joey. That must be why she’d seemed sad and worried. It was as simple as that.
He wrapped an arm about her, drawing her closer. “I am glad I could make you happy.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”
She made no further move, but there was no hurry. There was great comfort in knowing what was coming without having to plan each move—not that he normally minded the planning, but he could definitely see the attraction in keeping a mistress. Having a wife must be like this too.
Where had that thought come from? He pushed it aside and turned to Isabella, running a finger down her upturned nose. “You’re being quiet now. No political questions tonight?”
“Will you think me silly if I confess to just enjoying listening to you talk? I do care about politics and what is happening. In fact the more I learn the more I care, but mostly I just like listening to you. It may be the best part of my day.”
“The best part?” he questioned, leaning over to lay a light kiss upon her lips.
She giggled on cue. “You know what I mean.” She rubbed her hips against him. “Some things are just without compare, and therefore should not be compared.”
“You’re saying all the things a man likes to hear.”
“Should I try doing all the things a man likes to do instead?”
Her lips began a slow trail down his chest and he did not bother to answer.
Chapter 18
It was a very small life, very safe and very contained. Isabella walked around the walled garden behind her house. Her house. Her world. She had left it exactly twice in the week since she had returned to London with Mark. Two visits to the modiste, that was her world.
That and this house. She had begun to claim it as her own, recognizing that she needed to claim something in order to survive. It was strange how the meaning of that word could change from day to day, even from hour to hour. Last week as she’d stood along the roadside, hiding from the men who sought her, survival had meant coin in her pocket and avoiding those who would drag her back to London, those who knew of her past, of her crimes. Two weeks before that, survival had meant rising at dawn to feed
Joey before he could awaken Mrs. Wattington.
Sitting down on a bench, she stared at the high walls of her home, her prison.
What did survival mean now? It meant not leaving the house, not being seen more than was necessary. It meant keeping Mark happy—although that did not seem to be a problem. It meant not giving in to Divers’s dour glances or the pinched lips of the housekeeper. Surviving meant trying to keep the pieces of herself together.
It meant persevering—alone.
This was not a life she had been raised for, that she understood. Even as a servant there had been a certain level of respect, and satisfaction when a job was well done. And friends. It was not until now that she realized just how important the light chatter of a chambermaid could be, realized that even if it was annoying to share her bed with a snoring lady’s maid, it was still companionship.
Here she had no one, nothing.
Only Mark.
Mark and this house.
Mark should have been enough. He talked to her, he laughed with her, and he loved her—if only in the physical sense.
“Merrreow.” The kitten danced into the yard, her short gray tail held high. She’d yet to master a proper meow, but Isabella delighted in her singing call.
“Trying to tell me I am not alone, are you? How could I forget about you, my Duchess?” She scooped up the cat and buried her face in the soft fluff.
“Merrreow.” It was not much of an answer.
“I am sorry for ignoring you, but sometimes I just long for a person to talk to during the days. The maids make me feel a disappointment and I am not even sure why. It’s like they don’t want me here.” She rubbed her nose in the fur again, earning herself a light swat.
Grabbing the small paw, she pulled slightly. “Don’t do that or I’ll think you don’t like me too. Oh, do I sound like I am feeling sorry for myself?”
The kitten batted at her again.
“Do you think I should leave? I am safe here, but how long can I go on like this? I have money now, so that is no longer an excuse.” She pulled a deep breath into her lungs and held it. One week with Mark had earned her more than she’d earned in the previous year. She wondered if he had any idea how much was left on her dresser each morning—and how insulting she found it. But still she grabbed the coin and placed it in her pocket or under her pillow at night.