His Favorite Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  London in February is a bore, he decided, especially with Rafe and Ethan Andarton gone from the city. Three days ago, Pendragon had departed for West Riding to join his family. As for Ethan, no one had seen the marquis or his new bride, Lily, since their Christmas wedding. They were still enjoying their honeymoon, no doubt, if the single letter he’d received from the man was any indication. Ethan had written a quick note saying that he and Lily were back in residence at Andarley, the marquis’s country estate, and that both of them enjoyed good health and fine spirits. He had gone on to say that they were looking forward to seeing him at Rafe’s estate in early March for the christening of the Pendragons’ infant daughter.

  Until then, Tony mused, I am left to my own devices. It’s what comes of watching friends fall in love and succumb to the bondage of the parson’s noose! Not that he had anything against their chosen brides—he quite liked both women, in point of fact. Still, the old carefree days were behind him and his two boyhood friends. Marriage and babies changed everything, as he had discovered, leaving those wise souls like himself—who preferred to avoid such entrapments—plagued in finding themselves at occasional loose ends.

  Not that he had difficulty entertaining himself—he possessed a wide cadre of friends, and as much female companionship as he chose—but with most of Society still gone from the city, there were far fewer entertainments in the offing than normal. Of course, there had been that one scintillating incident in Pendragon’s study, he reminded himself.

  Now there is a tempting little morsel. Gabriella, he repeated, rolling her name silently on his tongue like some delectable piece of candy.

  In sudden restlessness, he shifted against the mattress, his body awakening as he remembered her beauty. Her gamine face and exquisite violet eyes, and those luscious lips—he’d never tasted sweeter—sugary and delicious as a fresh baked cherry pie. Days may have passed since they’d shared a quick, stolen kiss, but the memory had in no way faded from his thoughts.

  Damned shame she’s Rafe’s niece, he mused, otherwise I might well have decided to pursue her. But Rafe was a friend, and he knew better than to poach on the relative of a crony, especially when that relation was scarcely more than a schoolgirl. Gabriella might be daring and independent, cloaking herself in a façade of worldly bravado, but he knew an innocent when he saw one—and most definitely when he kissed one. Fiery and passionate she might be, with an innate eagerness to explore the sensual side of her nature, but nevertheless he could tell she was untutored in the ways of love.

  Another shame, since he had a strict rule about avoiding virgins. Tempting though they might appear with their bright eyes and winning smiles, dallying with them had the potential to lead to all sorts of messy, unwanted complications—such as marriage. Many a perky debutante had tried to lure him, but he always managed to slip free of their traps. A confirmed bachelor, he had no intention of falling prey to matchmaking mamas and their eager daughters, who were wide-eyed and dreamy at the idea of becoming a duchess.

  Instead he confined himself to experienced women—widows and wives who knew what he wanted and wouldn’t cry foul when the affair was through. Erika was such a one, married and in the habit of taking interesting lovers. He was only the latest in a long string of affairs, her cuckolded husband unable to satisfy her extremely healthy sexual appetite.

  At first, meeting for secret assignations had been amusing, especially since she was always ripe for him to take her in inventive ways and unusual locales—including one time among the library stacks at the British Museum. The games, however, were beginning to wear thin, no longer holding the same allure they once had. He was growing especially weary of avoiding her husband, Lord Hewitt. He almost felt sorry for the poor, deluded fool, cringing these days when he was required to witness the man doting on his wife with no idea what she did behind his back.

  A sudden sensation of debauchery settled over him, leaving him with an urge to scrub himself with soap and lots of hot water. He cast a frowning glance at the woman curled at his hip. I should be leaving, he thought, aware of an abrupt longing for his own bed and clean, starch-scented sheets that didn’t have so much as a drop of jasmine on them. Sitting up, he swung his legs to the floor.

  Behind him Erika stretched and released a small, almost feline sound, his movement apparently having awakened her. “Hmm, where are you going?” she purred in a sleepy voice, reaching out a hand to stroke across his naked hip.

  “Home. It’s late.”

  “Not so very late,” she complained, sliding her palm to caress his thigh. “Hewitt won’t be back until tomorrow. Just think of all the fun we can have until then.”

  Instead of answering, he eased away from her touch and climbed to his feet. Crossing the room, he retrieved his discarded clothes from where they lay draped over a chair, then began to dress.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, a childish pout in her voice that he had once found adorable but that now grated like a wood rasp on metal. “I haven’t worn you out, have I?” she continued. “You’re usually ravenous. One of the few men I know who really can go for hours.”

  He tucked his shirt into his pantaloons before fastening the buttons on both articles of clothing. “I find myself satiated at present.”

  “I’ll bet if you come back here, I can persuade you otherwise.” With a coy smile, she patted the mattress.

  For a moment, he eyed the bed and the beautiful woman in it, then picked up his cravat and began tying the linen around his throat.

  A set of tiny lines creased her nearly flawless face. “Why the silence? Whatever is the matter with you tonight?”

  “Nothing. As I said, the hour grows late and it is time I bid you farewell.” Cravat secured, he slid his feet into his shoes and donned the remainder of his attire.

  She gave another pout, then flopped back against the pillows. “Very well, if you must be stubborn about it. I shall see you at the opera two evenings from now I suppose,” she said after a long pause. “Perhaps by then your appetite will have returned and we can find some way to appease it.”

  He waited, expecting a twinge of anticipation to catch hold. Instead he felt…nothing, only a sense of sameness—and yes, boredom. “Actually,” he replied, speaking his thoughts aloud, “I do not believe I shall be at the opera.”

  Her scowl returned. “Oh. You have another engagement, then?”

  “No. I just won’t be there. Look, Erika, I wasn’t planning to do this tonight, but there seems little point in dragging matters out.” He slung his greatcoat over his shoulders and buttoned the frogs.

  Her green eyes darkened. “Dragging what matters out? I’m not sure I comprehend your meaning.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Surely you have noticed a lessening of intensity between us lately.”

  Color flashed in her fair cheeks. “No, actually I haven’t. And neither, it would seem, has that great staff of yours. From what I could tell, it didn’t seem to lack for intensity when you were having your way with me here in this bed tonight.”

  He resisted the urge to sigh, at the same time putting aside any hope that matters might come to an amicable conclusion. But then breaking off affairs rarely followed a smooth course, since one party invariably wished to end the liaison while the other “did not.” Clearly, Erika was in the ’did not’ camp.

  “I’ve enjoyed the past few weeks. You’re a passionate and exciting woman, but the time has come for us to part ways.”

  “Is there someone else?” she demanded.

  “No. No one.” As he said the words, an image of Gabriella whispered through his mind, her lovely face as refreshing as a warm sun on the first fine day of spring. Some glimmer of his inner musings must have been revealed, since a second later Erika’s eyes narrowed, an ugly expression marring her features.

  “So there is someone else. Tell me her name. I want to know who the little hussy is who’s been diddling you behind my back. No wonder you weren’t interested in me but once tonight.”


  “There is no other woman,” he repeated in a measured tone. “But if there were, I fail to see your upset. Ours is hardly a monogamous relationship. I am free to take any lover I choose, just as you are at liberty to do the same. After all, as a married woman, you can hardly claim fidelity.”

  “Hewitt is of no importance,” she stated, climbing out of bed, unconcerned by her nakedness as she crossed to him. “He is nothing to me, you know that. I married him for his title, nothing more. I love you, Tony. I haven’t said it before, but I do. I…I would be willing to leave him for you. You have only to say the word.”

  He raised a brow. “Do I? So you would abandon Lord Hewitt for a life with me? And what of the scandal that would surely ensue?”

  Her eyes came alive with undisguised hope. “I wouldn’t care. Other couples have weathered such storms and come out all right in the end. Admittedly it would not be easy, but were I to divorce, we could truly be together. Forever.”

  “By forever, I presume you are thinking of a marriage between us? You’d like to be a duchess, would you?”

  Wrapped up in the moment, she apparently missed the chill that coated his words.

  “What woman would not? Oh, darling, are you asking me?” she cooed, stroking a hand over his chest. “Because I will wait for however long it takes to be together. For you, I would wait an eternity.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” he said, gently removing her hand, “because I have no interest in marriage. You should be well aware of my opinion on that topic. All of Society knows, I believe, since I have never made any effort to conceal my views.”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “All men make such claims before they are wed.”

  “Mine is not a claim.”

  “But what of children? Surely you want an heir?”

  He raked her with his eyes. “My cousin can have the title and the necessity of breeding sons. I am content as I am.”

  “Then we will forgo children,” she said with growing desperation. “It will leave us more time to be together. Just the two of us.” She slid her arms around his waist.

  Reaching back, he freed himself from her hold. “There is no ‘two of us.’ Not anymore. Erika, it’s over.”

  Her skin paled. “Of course it’s not over. If you d-don’t want to marry me now, we can discuss that later. I’ll send a note ’round tomorrow so we can arrange our next assignation. Perhaps one of the orangeries would be exciting. Just imagine making love among all those lush plants!”

  He could imagine it. Just not with her anymore. “Good-bye,” he said with a clear note of finality.

  Her face changed, sudden fury sparkling in her gaze. “Bastard!” she spat. “I should have listened when my friends warned me what a cold, heartless beast you are. They said you relish crushing a woman’s heart under your boot heel.”

  “Is that what they say?” he drawled in a bored voice. “As I recall, I never promised you anything more than pleasure, and that I have provided in abundance. As for being in love with me, we both know you’re only in lust, though undoubtedly you would enjoy being a duchess. Despite your present anguish, I am sure you will have no difficulty finding another man to warm your bed. In the meantime, I’ll send you a diamond bracelet. That should help soothe the wound, should it not?”

  Glancing around, she picked up one of the forgotten wineglasses and hurled it at his head. Luckily her aim was poor, the glass and its contents shattering against the wall about two feet from him, burgundy dripping like rivulets of blood over the flocked yellow wallpaper.

  He stared at the mess for a moment before striding toward the door and opening it.

  She unleashed a small scream. “You’ll regret this, mark my words! You’ll regret what you’ve done to me, Your Grace!”

  He quirked a brow at her threat, then made her an elegant bow. “Pray enjoy the opera when you next attend, Lady Hewitt.”

  A fresh wail and the sound of more shattering glass followed as he made his way from the house.

  A week later—many miles to the north, in West Riding—the dog cart carrying Gabriella rattled to a stop at the end of a long, stone wall–lined drive. With interest, she gazed at the grand house and snow-covered fields beyond, the large edifice looking like a jewel nestled amid clusters of winter-bare trees and the rolling hills and dales that gave Yorkshire its distinctive appearance.

  “ ’Tis the Pendragon place on the rise just there,” declared the driver, an amiable farmer who had agreed to give her a ride from the coaching inn. At the time, she had been attempting to hire some kind of conveyance—no easy feat, considering she had only five shillings left in her pocket—when the man had overheard and offered to take her up with him. Fearing he might be her only means of reaching her uncle’s house that day, she had gladly agreed.

  Reaching now into her woolen cloak, she offered to give him her last few shillings. He waved the payment aside. “Keep yer money, missy. Baron takes good care ’un us around these parts. You a new maid, or some ’at?”

  Or something, she silently agreed, although precisely what she was to become remained to be seen. Jumping on nimble legs to the ground, she reached up for her small traveling valise, the bag containing all her worldly possessions. With a wave, she watched the farmer set his horse and cart in motion and drive away. Swallowing against her nerves, she tightened her faded blue wool cloak to keep out the cold and started toward the house.

  As she walked, she recalled her last days in London. Amid copious tears, she had bid a final farewell to Maude; only the sour expression on Mrs. Buckles’s face at losing paying tenants keeping Gabriella from becoming completely maudlin. She and Maude had shared a last laugh over their disgruntled landlady before hugging, then parting to go their separate ways. Maude, of course, had promised to write; Gabriella swore to do the same, missing her friend the instant she drove away.

  Heading in the opposite direction, Gabriella had gone to her uncle’s townhouse, only to be informed by a gigantic ox of a man—the scar on his face worthy of a bloodthirsty pirate—that Lord Pendragon was not home. A bit of questioning produced the information that he had gone to his country estate in West Riding. To give the large man his due, he had asked if she would like to come inside and pen a message to his master. With a shake of her head, she had declined, slipping quickly away before he could prevent her.

  In order to make the journey north, she had ended up pawning the last of her mother’s jewelry—a gold bracelet with a single ruby heart she knew had been a gift from her father. With the knowledge of what he had truly been weighing upon her thoughts, she found she minded the jewelry’s loss a great deal less than she feared she once might have done.

  And so now, four days later, she was here at the Pendragon estate, about to begin a new chapter of her life. She only wished she knew whether the future would prove good or ill. Approaching the front door, she rallied her determination and forced herself to act. Drawing in a lungful of frosty air, she lifted her hand in its ordinary, knit woolen glove and rapped against the door.

  A long minute later the portal opened, a very proper-looking manservant appearing in the entry. With a critical eye, the older man inspected her from the top of her plain straw bonnet to her comfortably scuffed, black leather half boots—pausing, she saw, to take note of the muddy, travel-stained condition of her cloak hem.

  “Servants ’round the back,” he stated without preamble. “Assuming you are here to apply for a position. I must warn you, however, that there are none to be had at present.”

  When he moved to close the door, she stopped him with a quick foot. “I am not here about a position,” she declared. “I am come…I am Gabriella St. George, Lord Pendragon’s niece.” Well, half-niece, and an illegitimate half at that, she admitted to herself, but there wasn’t any point in quibbling over such matters. “Please tell him I am here.” And please don’t let him have changed his mind about welcoming me.

  The servant lifted a surprised brow, then stepped back to hold the door
wide. “My pardon, miss. I shall inform her ladyship immediately that you are arrived.”

  Alarm squeezed like paste through her veins. “Oh no, there is no need to bother her ladyship. I wish to see Lord Pendragon, my u-uncle.”

  “Lord Pendragon is out inspecting the tenant housing and won’t return for some while. I shall inform her ladyship. In the meanwhile, you may have a seat in the drawing room. But first, allow me to take your luggage.”

  Take it where? she nearly asked, reluctant to let the valise out of her sight. “Umm, thank you, but no. I will keep it for now.” Just in case matters don’t go as planned, she thought.

  The bridge of the man’s nose wrinkled in obvious disapproval before he gave a faint nod and turned to lead the way. Gripping the worn leather handle of her valise in both hands, she hurried after him.

  Moments later, she stood alone, the room’s two great polished walnut doors closed at her back. After setting down her case, she turned in a slow circle, her lips parting as she inspected the elegant beauty of her surroundings. Decorated in soothing shades of green and blue, the refined furnishings were placed so as to capture the best of the late morning light. Fragrant warmth flowed from a massive fireplace—real logs burning in the grate instead of dirty, smoldering chunks of coal. And there were fresh flowers, masses of them arranged inside a pair of four-foot-high, painted porcelain urns. She stepped closer to admire the display, breathing in deeply to catch the scent of roses and lilies. In February, no less!

  Behind her, the doors opened on silent hinges, followed by a whispering of silk. Turning, she beheld one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. She wasn’t sure how she had expected Lady Pendragon to look, but she knew it wasn’t this exotically lovely woman with a curvaceous figure, deeply dark hair, and warm, coffee-colored eyes, with a gentle expression in them that caught Gabriella instantly off guard.

  “How do you do,” the woman began in soft tones, extending a hand as she glided across the plush carpeting. “I am Julianna Pendragon. Martin tells me you have come in search of my husband.”