The Earl's Mistress

by Liz Carlyle

  Tony.

  Was that his nickname? Isabella had lain in his bed and in his arms—and allowed him the most indecent intimacies imaginable—and yet she’d never asked what he preferred to be called. Indeed, she’d taken pains to learn nothing at all about the man.

  Why, then, was she unable to put him from her mind? Why did she keep remembering his touch—those moments of passion, and yes, even of tenderness? She felt her stomach twist into another knot and set a hand lightly over it.

  “I don’t think he tricked anyone, ma’am,” she managed. “I think . . . I think he was just angry I refused him at Loughford. I collect he simply—good Lord, it’s so mortifying—but I collect he simply wanted someone who looked like me. It was my eyes, I think. He seemed oddly obsessed with them.”

  Lady Petershaw trilled with laughter. “Heavens, where’s the mortification in that, my dear?” she declared. “To get beneath a man’s skin, and to do it in such a way that he cannot stop thinking of you? Now that is the stuff of which rich courtesans are made—sometimes even rich wives—and you’ll allow that I’ve some experience in this regard.”

  Isabella sighed. “Well, I clearly had none,” she said, opening her reticule. “He sent me away after one night—laughing, I do not doubt. And I scurried off like a rabbit. But here, ma’am, enough of that. I’ve come to repay your kindness—not that I ever can.”

  With a look of reluctance, Lady Petershaw took the money Isabella counted out. “He was generous with you, then?” she said, her lips thinning. “He damned well better have been. I have some notion of the tricks that cheeky devil gets up to. Tony has developed rather a twisted streak these last few years, if all I hear is true.”

  It was this discussion that Isabella had so dreaded. “I could not say, ma’am.”

  “Of course you could not,” said the lady, nodding with approval. “No mistress worth her salt would. But I am glad, my dear—desperately glad—that Hepplewood let you go if he has become truly depraved. I mean—that sort of life with that sort of man—oh, my dear, it is a hard one. After all, one feels so desperately sorry for them.”

  “Sorry for them?” squeaked Isabella.

  “Dear me, yes.” The lady waved her hand again. “That sort of man is more wounded, and more angry with himself, than with any woman he might subjugate to his perversions.”

  “Wounded? Angry?” Isabella was incredulous. “I fear, ma’am, we are talking about two different sorts of men. The Earl of Hepplewood seemed the most arrogant, most cocksure gentleman of my acquaintance.”

  “Oh, that’s as may be,” the marchioness said, “but his sort of wicked desires, once they rise beyond mere bed play, become self-loathing in its purest form. And a man like that, my dear . . . well, any woman who could want him would not be worth wanting, would she? That, you see, is the twisted way such men think. And so she must be punished. For being available to him. For being beautiful to him. And above all things, for being desirable to him.”

  Isabella shook her head, her mouth gaping. “You were quite right at the outset,” she finally said. “I do not know how to go about this business.”

  At this, Lady Petershaw cast her a wary, assessing glance. “Is it at all possible, my dear, that you misunderstood?” she said. “Was it more than bed play? For Tony’s not a bad man. Indeed, as a boy, he was a very sweet sort—so very charming and kind—and so unflaggingly devoted to his lovers, if you know what I mean.”

  Isabella felt color flood her face. “He doesn’t seem sweet now. Yes, he seems angry at someone. Did marriage change him?”

  Lady Petershaw laid a finger to her cheek. “It worsened things, perhaps, but he’d altered slightly even before that, I should have said. And I can’t think as I laid eyes on the man during his marriage. He must have stayed in the country—he always did have rustic leanings—but he took up again in Clarges Street after his wife died. Long before that, however, there was . . . some little scandal.”

  “Really? Of what sort?”

  Lady Petershaw threw up a hand. “Hush, let me think, let me think,” she said, shutting her eyes a long moment. “Tony had a cousin—a pretty girl named Anne. They were promised to one another, he once said, and he meant to have his fun whilst he could. But then she married elsewhere.”

  “Was his heart broken?”

  “I fancy not,” Lady Petershaw said, her brow furrowing, “for he turned his eye to her sister—or another cousin . . . well, some sort of relation—but that ship never sailed, either.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but this girl’s heart was broken, and I heard she went mad. And some years later, when he betrothed himself to Felicity Willet, this girl attacked Miss Willet in a fit of jealousy—all hush-hush, to be sure—but Miss Willet quit London and refused for a time to marry him.”

  “But she did,” said Isabella, “eventually.”

  “As I recall, her father forced her to.” Lady Petershaw’s mouth twisted. “Then she died. Tragic, to be sure. And yes, after that, I think Tony’s bad habits further hardened.”

  Isabella shrugged. “Well, in fairness, ma’am, I cannot say his habits much varied from those you warned me about. The worst ones, I mean.”

  “So he was . . . demanding?” The marchioness lifted one eyebrow. “Rough?”

  “Yes,” Isabella whispered. “He suggested it was to be enjoyed. But it . . . it merely frightened me. Well, at first.”

  Lady Petershaw made a sound of irritation. “Because you are practically a virgin!” she said. “And Tony is a damned fool. He’s been running with a hard crowd so long he’s forgotten what sweetness is. But I will say this, my dear—there is no harm in a little rough play amongst lovers who enjoy one another and want it. Do you understand?”

  Did she understand? Isabella shook her head.

  She understood Lord Hepplewood had frightened her, and that he’d taken great pleasure in bending her to his will. And yet, something inside her had thrilled to his touch. The feelings he’d sent coursing through her body defied all explanation. They had left her confused and desperately ashamed.

  Lady Petershaw reached out and patted Isabella’s arm. “My dear girl, if an otherwise skilled lover needs to put you over his knee,” she said gently, “or lash you to his bedposts, little harm will come of it—and perhaps a good deal of pleasure. Men are curious creatures and like to think they’re getting their way. One should simply play along—to a point—if one doesn’t mind it.”

  “Really?”

  “If one doesn’t mind,” repeated the marchioness. “Even wives do it—the wise ones, at any rate. And their husbands, my dear Mrs. Aldridge, do not frequent my salons or visit Louisa Litner.”

  Isabella was turning the subject over and over in her mind—as she had been for some days now. Lady Petershaw was speaking very bluntly indeed. How very strange the world was!

  As if sensing her discomfort, the marchioness let the subject drop. “Well, has the man at least provided you enough to survive on for a time?” she asked. “Indeed, I will speak sharply to Louisa if he has not. She can hardly hold you accountable for Hepplewood’s persnickety taste. She must find you a better place—an older, gentler man, perhaps.”

  “No.” Isabella threw out a staying hand. “No, ma’am. I thank you. You were right. I haven’t the mettle for this business. Moreover . . . something far more disturbing, even, than Lord Hepplewood’s sexual proclivities has happened in Fulham. It requires my complete attention.”

  “My dear, what?” Brow furrowed, Lady Petershaw leaned intently forward in her chair. “You’ve turned perfectly white.”

  “My cousin—” Isabella’s words broke away, her fingertips flying to her mouth. “It is dreadful—and yet it is nothing. Still, I feel most uneasy.”

  “Heavens, what has that vile scrap of humanity done now?”

  “As I say, nothing.” Isabella dropped her hand, but it trembled. “But he came to call whilst I was away—to check on the girls, he told Mrs. Barbour.”


  “And that fool servant let him in?”

  Swiftly, Isabella shook her head. “No,” she rasped. “Barby knows to lie, and to tell Everett no one is at home. But she was hanging the wash, so Jemima answered the door. He stayed for all of an hour, Lady Petershaw, and he . . . he coaxed Georgina onto his lap for sweets. And gave Jemima hair ribbons.”

  Lady Petershaw looked uneasy. “You have cause for concern,” she said, “but at least no harm befell the girls.”

  Upon applying to the marchioness for employment almost seven years ago, Isabella had been compelled to explain her reasons for seeking work; specifically, that her father had remarried to a vacuous young widow who did not relish sharing her new home with a stepdaughter scarcely her junior—particularly one who’d already married and left home, only to return like a bad penny.

  But she had not needed to tell the marchioness why she’d refused to marry her father’s heir. She had merely hinted at the ugliness she’d witnessed whilst living beneath her aunt’s roof—worlds ago now, it seemed, yet still seared into her brain.

  No, the good lady knew too well the dark side of humanity. And sadly, there were better than a dozen brothels in greater London catering to gentlemen who preferred young girls—and boys, too, though that choice could get a man hanged were he caught.

  But when such a man’s prey was a girl? No matter her age, such travesties were met with little more than a snicker by society and the law.

  Lady Petershaw suddenly shivered. “What a dreadful man,” she declared. “I remember, my dear, after your father died, he began calling almost monthly in an attempt to see you.”

  “It was inappropriate,” Isabella murmured, “and embarrassing.”

  “No, it was revealing,” the marchioness corrected. “He does not like to have his wishes thwarted, that one. For my part, I wouldn’t let Baron Tafford near any female under the age of twelve. But my dear, what will you do? If you will not take a rich lover, you must earn a living.”

  Isabella was twisting the ties of her reticule in her lap. “Well, it is the strangest thing, ma’am—like a small miracle, really—but Lord Hepplewood, you see, has given me the gift of time.”

  “How so?”

  Isabella lifted her shoulders weakly. “When he left his letter telling me I should go, he left a great pile of jewelry atop it—amethysts—his parting gift to me, he said.”

  The marchioness sniffed disdainfully. “Amethysts? And not diamonds?”

  “He said in his letter that amethysts reminded him of my eyes,” she replied, “and most of the pieces were set with diamonds, too. His letter was . . . stilted, but not unkind. Of course I did not wish to take the jewelry, but then I remembered my sisters, and what you had said.”

  “And you remembered rightly!” said the marchioness. “Hepplewood owed you dearly if he used you ill. Oh, my poor child! You will not wish to keep his jewels. You must sell them straightaway.”

  “I have already done so,” said Isabella. “The jeweler’s name was labeled on each box—Garrard’s, ma’am, the lot of it.”

  The marchioness lightly lifted her eyebrows. “Heavens!” she said. “What must the man have paid?”

  Isabella shrugged. “Enough to permit me to catch up on my bills and set a little aside,” she said, “and now I must think very carefully what I’m to do with it.” Here, she paused, then drew a deep breath. “Given my cousin’s recent behavior, it would be best if I had a way to both work and watch over the girls. So I am of a mind, ma’am, to open a shop—one we might live above, you see.”

  “A shop?” said the lady. “That is quite a social step down, my dear. And have you enough for that? And what sort of shop?”

  “A bookshop,” Isabella said, “specializing in scholastic materials and children’s literature. A few educational toys, perhaps. I think I can do it—and London is desperately short of such establishments, you must admit.”

  “Heavens, I’ve not a clue,” said the marchioness airily. “That is what governesses are for, you’ll pardon my saying.”

  At last Isabella managed a smile—perhaps the first since her dreadful journey home. “In any case, I must thank Lord Hepplewood—in my heart, I mean, not in person, for I couldn’t bear to see him again.”

  “Could you not?” The marchioness looked at her a little oddly. “Surely you do not fear him, my dear? Whatever his passions or his problems, I do believe Tony is a gentleman.”

  Isabella considered it. Once their bargain had been struck, Lord Hepplewood had treated her with unerring courtesy—beyond those harsh moments in bed, of course. “No, he was . . . kind in his way,” she answered. “It’s just that I cannot stop thinking about him—I mean, about what happened. Between us. I mean—oh—it’s just so very awkward!”

  The marchioness threw up her hands. “Well, I’ve known the man since he began poking round Town at seventeen, and he’s always had the devil in his eyes.”

  “Always? How old is he?”

  “We are nearly of an age, so he’s—oh, thirty-six, thereabouts,” said the marchioness. “Certainly, the man has weathered beautifully. But there, you do not need to hear any of that.”

  “No.” Slowly, Isabella rose. “Well, I must let you get back to your writing. Thank you again for—”

  Her words were cut short by a sharp knock. Lady Petershaw’s butler swept in, bearing an ivory card on a silver salver, cutting an apologetic glance at Isabella.

  The lady took it and laughed.

  “How long, ma’am,” asked the butler, “shall I make this one wait?”

  Lady Petershaw tucked the card into her ample bosom. “Oh, this one shan’t wait an instant, Smithers,” she declared. “In fact, this one I shall receive here in my dishabille. Quick, quick, Mrs. Aldridge, go into my water closet.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Like the governess she was, Isabella rose to obey unthinkingly, then stopped and turned. “But . . . why?”

  “Just go,” said the marchioness, shooing her with the back of her hand. “You shall see. And mind you leave the door cracked.”

  Mystified, Isabella went into the dark, windowless room and, not knowing what else to do, perched herself upon one arm of the wooden, chairlike frame. She had no more twitched the pleats of her skirts into place when she heard a shockingly familiar voice and nearly gasped aloud.

  She peeked out to see Lord Hepplewood stride into the room to make a sweeping bow over Lady Petershaw’s hand.

  “Enchanté, Maria,” he said, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “How good of you to see me.”

  “Tony, you handsome devil!” Lady Petershaw blushed like a maiden and waved him toward the chair Isabella had just left. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  “Oh, here and there.”

  Hepplewood was dressed for riding in knee-high boots and breeches, his dark blue coat cut snugly to his lithe frame and wide shoulders. He sat, throwing one leg over the other in a pose that should have looked effeminate but instead looked faintly dangerous, and Isabella had a sudden vision—swift and unwelcome—of the man stripped naked to the waist, swinging his hammer, his back and shoulder muscles rippling powerfully beneath a sheen of sweat.

  She drew a deep breath and forced the thought away—not, regrettably, for the first time since leaving him.

  “Well, Maria, how have you been keeping?” he said. “Pink best becomes you, by the way.”

  “And nothing best becomes you, if I recall correctly,” she teased, “though I confess to only glimpses. And what a coincidence this is! I was just penning invitations to a very private soiree. I wonder if you might join in?”

  “As always, ma’am, you are too kind,” he said in his deep, timbrous voice. “But I fear I cannot make it.”

  The marchioness laughed. “Darling, you haven’t even heard the date!” she declared. “But there, I merely tease you. You did not come, I apprehend, to wheedle your way into my bed?”

  “I would be undeserving of the honor,” he said silkily. “No, you are
right. I’ve come, actually, to inquire after a former employee of yours.”

  “Oh, never say that rascal Oscar has turned up in Clarges Street!” she declared. “No, Tony, one cannot need a footman badly enough to take on that clever fellow. He can diddle your housemaids with one extremity whilst pinching your silver with another.”

  Lord Hepplewood smiled, but his eyes were grim. “Now why do I get the feeling, Maria, that you deliberately misunderstand me?” he asked quietly. “I think you know that it’s no footman I’ve come seeking.”

  “What, then, Mrs. Aldridge, is it?” she asked, a little less warmly. “That chatterbox Louisa sent you up here, didn’t she? Well, don’t look at me! I thought you had Mrs. Aldridge hidden away in Buckinghamshire.”

  Lord Hepplewood tapped a long, thin finger on the arm of his chair. “I did have,” he said. “But we parted company after a time. Has she not been by here?”

  Lady Petershaw widened her eyes ingenuously. “Well, I had a letter from her, but it was vague,” she declared. “Heavens, my boy, you didn’t let that prize slip your grasp, I hope? It wouldn’t be at all like you.”

  But the charm had left Hepplewood’s voice as swiftly as it had come, and he was looking less and less benign. “I wish you to give me her address,” he said. “Louisa swears she doesn’t have it.”

  Lady Petershaw lifted a shoulder almost insouciantly. “And do you believe everything Louisa Litner says? That woman will sell you mutton dressed as lamb, Tony, if you aren’t careful.”

  “I am not looking for lamb,” he said almost dangerously, “or mutton. I am looking for Isabella Aldridge. Kindly write down her direction for me.”

  The marchioness drew a deep breath. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I shall.”

  “Damn it, Maria, do not thwart me in this,” he demanded, setting his fist on the chair arm. “I will have her address—now.”

  “Now—?” Lady Petershaw echoed, drawing herself haughtily up in her chair. “Tony, I am not some submissive girl being paid to take your abuse and buggery. Mind your manners or get out. As to Mrs. Aldridge, I’ll do as I damned well please, for I don’t think you treated her well.”