The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis

by Christina McKnight

  “What would bring that insane notion to mind?” Sam turned back to Beauchamp, who’d wisely remained silent but continued to inspect his offspring.

  “You and Jude are taking your place among society.” Marce shrugged as if her actions were not life-altering to her siblings. “It was not something I thought to happen, but it has; therefore, it would only be a matter of time before the pair of you crossed paths with Lord Beauchamp. I thought it best for it to happen here, among family and friends, as opposed to a crowded ballroom. Besides, the ton is bound to recognize the resemblance quickly enough—and rumors will spread. Your name will be linked to his, and the connection shared in every salon in London. I will not risk the pair of you being fodder for all the gossipmongers.”

  “That is not our concern.” Sam cared naught if her father’s name were embroiled in ill repute—or if she were linked to unsubstantiated rumors. Her entire life had been a scandal, from birth to present day. She’d grown up the bastard child of a viscount. The chanting of her schoolmates could still be heard—and it had been years since anyone dared speak of her less than honorable birth. “I—as well as Jude—do not care if disgrace lands squarely on his head. The scandal would be well-deserved. Jude and I will persevere.”

  She held Beauchamp’s stare as she spoke, satisfied her meaning was heard. Let all of London gossip behind their fans about the twin women who looked suspiciously similar to Lord Beauchamp—even using his surname. The viscount deserved to be ridiculed, ostracized, and altogether spurned by proper society. He’d left the woman he’d claimed to love, to care for and raise his children while he moved on to another woman. One his family deemed proper.

  “It is not him I am concerned about, Sam,” Marce mumbled. “Jude is to wed on the morrow and will take her place at Simon’s side as his countess. You will soon fall in love yourself—and I want no rumors to swirl around either of you.”

  “Jude, did you know about this?”

  “I did not,” her twin wheezed, attempting to lessen her sobs. “I only arrived a few minutes before you.”

  She’d been lectured about causing Jude any anxiousness before her wedding, threatened with being relegated to her room until the Season ended, and watched carefully since their arrival in Derbyshire. How was it that this man could sweep into the house and wreak such havoc on the eve of Jude’s nuptials?

  “I shall have Lord Cartwright summoned to throw him from the house—as he deserves.”

  “I am here to see Judith wed, and then I will take my leave, but not before.” Beauchamp began his pacing once more, the study of his twin daughters coming to an end. “We shall be cordial if we see one another in London. There is no reason to cause gossip where there is none to be had.”

  “And what of your wife, my lord?” Jude squeaked.

  It had been the reason he’d left Sasha before she’d grown large enough to know she was with child—and the reason he’d remained absent from their lives. Beauchamp had a wife who had longed for children of her own, and was unwilling to allow Jude and Sam to be a part of their lives, especially once the viscountess was carrying her own child.

  Beauchamp dipped his head at the mention of Lady Beauchamp. Had he not informed his wife of his journey to Derbyshire? What had changed, if he was willing to face her wrath now but not all those years ago?

  But it was Marce who answered the question. “She passed away five years ago during childbirth.”

  “You’ve been aware of this?” Sam threw the words at Marce harder than if she’d thrown a rock. “Why were we not told?”

  Jude retreated back into her silent shell as she gently rocked back and forth on the chaise. She’d never been one for confrontations and raised voices.

  “Your mother—Madame Sasha—forbade me from making contact with either of you,” Beauchamp confessed. “I was respecting her wishes.”

  “Respecting her wishes,” Sam repeated with a laugh. “You certainly did not respect her enough—love her enough—to remain and help raise your children. You did not respect her enough to willingly give your daughters all they deserved as the children of a viscount—illegitimate or not. You did not respect her enough to send funds to make sure we had food on the table and clothes to keep warm. You did not love Jude or me enough to be there when we needed you. You did not love us enough to come for us as soon as you could. You did not care enough to check on us after Mother died.”

  Sam’s laugh turned into a deep moan as all breath left her—an emptying hollowness gripped her as loneliness set in.

  It was unfair to burden Jude with her feelings, especially since she’d be wed tomorrow and leave for a trip to Cartwright’s family estate. Marce was clearly not of the same mindset as Sam.

  The room was closing in on her as Jude’s sobs grew in intensity…Sam spun toward the door, needing air, needing space…needing something she couldn’t define.

  Her hand grabbed for the knob as she twisted and wrenched the door open, stepping into the hall. The sobbing followed her, bouncing off the corridor walls and echoing deeper into the house—a screech of fright from a passing maid was enough to stop Sam long enough to realize it was her desperate bawling reverberating through the house, not Jude’s.

  Sam fled up the stairs, tripping twice but righting herself quickly—only scraping one knee as she climbed, desperately needing the solace of her bedchambers.

  Could she forget all that’d transpired in Cummings’ study—go back in time to before Garrett had come to collect her?

  The slam of her bedchamber door rang as she leaned against the hard surface, slipping down to the floor. Her legs shook, unable to hold her upright any longer, and she allowed the cries to leave her, deep howls of anguish pulled at her core and her chest heaved with each wail.

  She hadn’t any notion what to do, how to react, or what to say. Part of her longed to take hold of her father and never let go—while another part wished to go back a few hours, return to the upstairs hall—with Elijah.

  Lord Ridgefeld was incapable of the many transgressions Sam levied against her father.

  The marquis would never hurt her; leave her without any explanation or so much as a backwards glance.

  Chapter 9

  Elijah breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped through the double doors and found he stood on a terrace overlooking Lord Cummings’ gardens. The fresh air, room to move, and solitude were immediately soothing. He’d never lived in a crowded household, never understood the reality of living with siblings or relatives except for his grandfather. Any memory of a time when his mother was present eluded him, if there were any memories to be had.

  As a child, the only sounds within his home were those he made. Grandfather encouraged him to explore their estate: hike around the pond, fish in the stream that fed the pond, climb the fruit trees—but these were all activities made more enjoyable with company.

  Eli had only his grandfather as a companion. They’d spent years seeking out adventure, traveling the continent and abroad, collecting anything of interest. In short, his upbringing had been pleasurable. Love, laughter, and learning all in abundance for Eli.

  That did not stop him from suspecting something was lacking—a void remained.

  And he’d foolishly thought bringing his mother home to England could fill it. He’d created an image of a damsel in distress, awaiting her knight to rescue her. The harsh reality was…his mother was exactly where she wanted to be—far from her only son and her birth country.

  Laughter invaded his reprieve as he slowly walked around a corner of the terrace, revealing a group of guests playing battledore and shuttlecock on an expanse of freshly trimmed lawn. A light breeze whipped the women’s skirts about their ankles and pushed the men’s hair into their faces. The storm from the previous day had passed, leaving only blue, cloudless skies. But the wind remained, a reminder of the fickle nature of England’s weather patterns. It was good to see that it had cleared before Lord Cartwright’s wedding, for certainly rain showers on one�
��s wedding day could not be a favorable omen.

  It had rained the night before his ship ported in Baltimore—his grandfather gone only several days and he out to find his mother. Eli should have anticipated his failure. How he wished he had remained aboard the Cameron de Gazelle, awaiting its journey to Canada and then its return to Liverpool without knowing the fate of Alice Watson.

  However, he’d been alone. Depressingly alone. Not many spoke to him after his grandfather’s passing, either because they attempted to give him space and time to grieve, or they did not know what to say to a young man who’d lost his only known relative.

  Eli hadn’t wanted to continue life alone. The desire to find his mother, bring her back to England, and create the family he’d lacked was the only thing that had driven him from the ship that day—on his fool’s errand.

  Mounting his white steed, in the form of a hack, Eli had located his mother.

  The problem had been that he’d hoped to rescue her. He hadn’t known she was the dragon he’d been sent to slay. She’d balked at the mention of leaving America—finally sending Eli scurrying back to Liverpool, alone.

  Odd that the return voyage and his time in England since had seemed all the more vacant simply because his hopes for his future—one with his mother—were dashed for good. She had no interest in coming home, no interest in knowing her son, and certainly, no motherly devotion to Eli’s happiness or understanding of his sorrow and loss.

  The woman had single-handedly crushed him. It was much preferable to believe her letters had stopped arriving because she was in jeopardy and silently begged him to come for her. Not that she’d turned herself into a common harlot.

  Anger—red-hot—settled within him once more at the thought. His mother, Alice, had everything she could dream of in England…a country home, unlimited funds, and a son who loved her despite all she’d done. However, for whatever reason, an existence dependent on a man was preferable to her.

  Eli leaned against the railing, attempting to focus on the people in the distance—what game they played now, who was winning, and what they all found so enjoyable.

  He’d discovered scarce moments of happiness since his grandfather’s passing—and even fewer flashes of peace. Naively, he’d thought to find some sense of tranquility away from the place he’d called home his entire life, putting miles and hours of travel between him and every item that reminded him of the late marquis.

  The elderly man’s presence only followed him. If his grandfather were here, he’d be with the gathering on the lawn, laughing and enjoying the company of so many guests. He’d insist Eli join in, as well.

  That had never been Elijah’s way of things. He’d accompanied his grandfather during years of travel, but always stood in the background, watching the many people who sought out the marquis, hanging on his every word—awaiting any compliment sent their way by the old man. And he’d been generous with his good tidings, well-wishes, and praise. His grandfather had never failed to notice a woman’s different hairstyle, or a man’s extravagantly tied cravat knot.

  “Lord Ridgefeld!” a man called to him from across the lawn, waving him over. “Join us.”

  Eli was in no mood to dive into merriment—nor did he seek to bring the other guests down with his dour temperament. Instead, he acted as if he hadn’t heard the man call him. Lord Haversham, Eli thought he remembered the man’s name.

  It was time he moved out of view to avoid another call to participate.

  He retraced his path back along the terrace, and past the doors he’d exited through. Green lawn no longer filled the area beyond the terrace, but a maze of flowers and shrubs with paths of white pebbles zigzagging from one rose bush to a tall hedge to a bench nestled between two bushes with blue blossoms.

  Every plant was trimmed precisely in anticipation of Lord Cartwright and Miss Judith’s wedding on the morrow. Not a single blossom dared wilt, not a leaf dared fall—the care of the garden was unlike any he’d seen before.

  A crew of gardeners must have worked all morning to remove any damage done by the storm. Every blossom pointed heavenward, soaking up the rays from the sun as if not a drop of rain had fallen the previous day. The wind, so evident and harsh on the other side of the house, did not disrupt a single leaf in the garden.

  The vision before him was serene. It pained Eli to think of the disturbance to the beautiful flowers and well-maintained shrubs that were to come. A morning surrounded by such exquisiteness, to sit among the plants, to inhale their scent, as Lord Cartwright entered into the bonds of marriage. It was a breathtaking place, but he understood the seclusion needed for the flowers to thrive, just as his peace had been irrevocably broken since his arrival at Hollybrooke, so would the gathered guests shatter the harmony of Cummings’ garden.

  Certainly, his way of thinking could not be correct. Happiness and joy begat happiness and joy. Would the flowers not bloom brightly, and the shrubs not stand taller when infused with the good cheer of the wedding party?

  Maybe it was possible only Eli flourished surrounded by stillness, silence, and solitude.

  He balanced his weight on the railing and crossed his arms.

  Breathing in deeply, Eli closed his eyes.

  The calm enveloped him, soothed his melancholy mood, and forced him to focus on the even beat of his heart. The same organ that hadn’t long ago beat with an intensity he’d never felt. It had been the sight of Miss Samantha coming toward him in the hall that changed things. He’d been angry, felt betrayed, and for the first time, knowing he was alone at Cummings’ house party hadn’t been to his liking.

  Then, his rage had subsided, and something altogether new overtook him. Her quick wit, sly smirk, and lifted chin—Miss Samantha appeared before his closed eyes. Her auburn hair trailing down her back as she’d fled the hall in pursuit of her brother. But her hair had been pinned atop her head that morning—it was another intimate moment he remembered. He’d wanted to call her name, ask her to remain with him, not to leave him alone.

  Miss Samantha could in no way understand his sense of loneliness—her house, no doubt, always teeming with her siblings and activity. She was at ease in a crowd, welcoming the sight of guests and relishing their attentions. Or at least, that’s what he imagined of her. Her lighthearted disposition left no doubt she was outgoing when surrounded by society, so at odds with Elijah’s personality.

  A part of him mourned the person he could have been if his father hadn’t died and his mother hadn’t abandoned him. His grandfather loved him—made sure he was educated, well-traveled, and the perfect gentleman; however, that did not mean some deeper part of him didn’t realize something was missing.

  He allowed stillness to take over once more, banishing thoughts of his mother, his grandfather, and a certain enchanting, fiery-haired maiden. With the banishment of those thoughts, the sounds of the wind blowing through the trees alongside the manor receded, and the laughter from the guests quieted.

  The serenity found in complete silence, accompanied by the dark allowed delicate sobs to drift down to him. Heart-wrenching, soul-consuming, fate-shattering weeping invaded his sense of seclusion. If it were not for the rise and fall of the female cries, Eli would imagine it was his own inner turmoil finally coming to the surface, demanding to be recognized and dealt with.

  Eli moved toward the sound, coming from farther down the terrace, back toward the doors he’d exited. Stepping down and onto the lawn, he gazed upward as the sobs carried on the breeze.

  The sadness of her cries had Eli rubbing his chest where a deep ache had taken root—a combination of the sound from above and his own bottomless grief.

  An intense need filled him, compelling him back into the house and toward the sobbing. If he were able to soothe the woman’s hurt, would that also assuage his own?

  Elijah was uncertain where the absurdity of that logic had sprung from, but he needed it to be true. Once inside the manor, the cries disappeared, blocked by walls of thick timber and a solid flo
or; however, he knew the general direction of the room facing the back of the grand home.

  Hurrying up the stairs, Elijah was thankful he didn’t encounter anyone as he took the steps three at a time. Once he’d reached the top landing, he took off in a sprint, his boot steps loud even with the thick rug below him.

  Chapter 10

  Sam gathered herself enough to move to the large four-post bed dominating most of her guest chamber, but her aching sobs did not cease, though her tears had vanished a few moments ago. Normally, the peach-colored bed covering and draperies would have been light enough to brighten her mood, but now, the room had turned an offensive, bittersweet orange. Her tongue swiped across her dry lips, tasting only the salted remains of her tears—evidence of her conflicted emotions regarding Lord Beauchamp’s appearance.

  Father.

  Her father.

  The term was foreign to her and held no meaning beyond filling her with a sense of emptiness, bound to grow deeper with Jude’s impending marriage.

  How could Marce think it wise to invite the man to Derbyshire?

  Beauchamp couldn’t be bothered to journey across London to look in on his daughters, but he’d travel all the way to Hollybrooke? For what purpose?

  She’d lived her entire eighteen years without a man in her life but Garrett, and she had done just fine. If the viscount expected her to fall in line and pretend to be the daughter he’d always known, the loathsome man did not know Sam at all. They had never met—in fact, he’d never taken so much as a passing interest in his offspring. She could not be the good daughter, just as he hadn’t any notion how to be a father.

  Of course, it seemed many people she’d thought she knew were doing things completely out of character. Marce’s actions stirred Sam’s sense of betrayal. Had it not occurred to her eldest sibling to at least ask her or Jude if they had any interest in meeting their father?

  Jude possibly would have agreed to the invitation with a bit a coaxing, but Sam, no, she never would have approved. It was Jude’s wedding, but this affected Sam’s life as much as Jude’s.