Lord Stanton's Last Mistress

by Lara Temple

  But he had not reckoned on that lock of hair.

  No matter how often she tucked it behind her ear, that dark, silky tress escaped. Sliding slowly, first to rest for a while against her cheek, and then, according to some laws of nature as yet unexplored, it suddenly swooped down and settled against the pale skin above the bodice of her rose-muslin dress, curling at the tip like a kitten’s tail, until, with a faint sigh, her fingers disciplined it again. He began waiting for that sigh as well, the parting of her lips and then the way she teased her lower lip with her teeth as she secured her hair until its next bolt for freedom.

  He kept his mind as firmly as he could on matters of state, thankful they were proceeding so smoothly and were not requiring the best of his skills, because if this was a battle, he was losing. He could no longer prevent the reflexive tensing of his body as the inevitable slide began, the way his eyes followed the curve of her cheek as the hair slipped over it, as if it was his own flesh subject to that caress.

  This time she broke the pattern, catching it before it slithered over her breast and contrarily he felt a surge of resentment at the interruption.

  He shifted, angry at his absolute loss of sense. It had been bad enough to lose all decorum and kiss her in the conservatory last night, but he at least had the excuse, poor though it was, that she had done nothing to stop him. She wasn’t a child and it was only a kiss. Inappropriate, but it was hardly the end of civilisation. In a week the treaty would be signed and they would be gone and that would be the end of it. It was as simple as that.

  At least it should be. This inability to focus on his work because of a lock of hair was nothing short of ridiculous. Pathetic.

  Von Haas raised his pocket watch, his mouth puckering into a faint popping sound, and Alex snapped out of his descent into folly. He leaned forward, reviewing the list before him and then glanced at his uncle.

  ‘I think we should take an hour to refresh ourselves before we continue, don’t you, gentlemen?’

  Razumov stretched his arms above his head and cracked his neck, as if he had been the one scribbling away so industriously.

  ‘A marvellous idea. I think I will take my cheroot out into the garden and stretch my legs. I always think better after a constitutional.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Von Haas tapped his own documents together into a neat pile and motioned for his secretary to take them. ‘It is always good to establish some distance before taking fateful steps. Too many mistakes in history have attended a lack of distance.’

  Alex nodded. That observation was all too true and particularly relevant at the moment.

  ‘Well, then, gentlemen, Miss James. We shall return here on the hour.’

  The men filed out and Alex waited by the door, but Miss James did not rise from the desk. She looked up after a moment as if surprised he was still there, the line between her brows pronounced. She was clearly wary of him after last night, which was hardly surprising.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Lord Stanton, I would like to remain here a few moments to review what I have written so far.’

  She ducked her head over her notes, clearly blocking him from view, and he sighed and left the room.

  * * *

  When he returned ten minutes later she was still there and she glanced up at his entrance, her hand rising to push back that offending tress. That as much as anything drove him forward. Even if his apology wouldn’t be appreciated, at least it might solve his immediate predicament.

  ‘Not done yet?’ he asked as he came to stand by her desk, leaning one hand on the desk and the other on the back of her chair, enjoying the marvellous view of her décolletage gained from this angle. With regret he forced his gaze away, focusing on the paper on the desk, and he spoke before he could consider the wisdom of his words. ‘No wonder you have to review your notes. Can you actually read what you are writing? Or is it in Greek?’

  She tucked her hair firmly behind her ear and frowned at him, but a faint quiver at the corners of her mouth reassured him that he might have hit on the right means of smoothing over the incident of last night quite by mistake.

  ‘It is in English and it is perfectly legible.’

  ‘Barely. If you are an improvement on Stavros, I wonder that he still employs that poor man.’

  ‘Perhaps you should borrow your uncle’s eyeglass, my lord. You are exhibiting classic signs of the onset of myopia.’

  ‘What signs? Aesthetic discrimination?’

  ‘I admit my hand was a little fatigued at this point, but a child could read this.’

  ‘Maybe a child could, but I’m struggling. What is this...limbs? When did the negotiations enter the bloody phase? I thought we were being admirably pacific.’

  ‘Not limbs! It says timber! We were discussing...’

  ‘I know what we were discussing, I was here, remember? Here, give me that.’

  He plucked the quill from her hand and crossed her ‘t’, scanning the rest of the page, half-wishing there were many more mistakes for him to linger on. She clasped her hands in her lap like a scolded pupil and her arm was so close to his he thought could feel its warmth through his sleeve. He moved the corrected page aside, exploiting the motion to bridge that inch of space between them for a brief moment. She wavered, as if about to move away, but she didn’t and he straightened, slightly ashamed of himself. It was a juvenile act, hardly worthy of an awkward schoolboy, but it still sparked a wave of both satisfied and frustrating pleasure. He was supposed to be lightening the mood, not digging the pit deeper.

  ‘We are close to finishing, aren’t we?’ she asked and he nodded.

  ‘I would say another couple of hours, perhaps a little more. Unless one of them decides to throw a tantrum at the last moment. Just a little longer and you are done. Your arm must be exhausted. If you need more rest, you have only to say.’

  His transition to solicitude did what his teasing taunts had failed to do. She looked down, but he saw the stain of her blush across her cheekbone. It firmed his resolution to follow through on his impulse. He reached into his pocket and extracted the wooden comb.

  ‘Here. This is in lieu of an apology for my...inappropriate behaviour yesterday. My apologies to you don’t seem to fare well so I thought a more concrete token would be preferable.’

  He placed it on the desk by her hand, resisting, barely, the urge to touch her hair.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, staring at the comb as if it was an exotic insect.

  ‘This is a comb. A common female accessory most often used for—’

  ‘I can see it is a comb, Lord Stanton,’ she interrupted but the quiver once again undermined the severe line of her mouth, ‘and it is very lovely, but it is not mine.’

  ‘I know that, I borrowed it from my sister’s room. Perhaps your penmanship might improve if you don’t have to spend so much time battling your hair.’

  Making her blush was a mixed pleasure. He enjoyed the initial kick of lust it sparked, but he should really space out his teasing to give the heat time to fade between bouts.

  He took the comb from her hand.

  ‘Here. Believe it or not, I’ve often helped my sisters with their coiffures when disaster strikes.’

  It wasn’t a lie, but it also was. Sisters had nothing to do with this.

  Her hair was warm, as if that dark-wood colour had lain close to a fire, absorbing its heat and life. It was made to be spread out on dark-red velvet. She was made to be spread out on red velvet.

  She looked up, clearly too shocked to even stop him. With her head tilted up towards him, her eyes wide and her mouth half-parted, his body could be forgiven for jumping to the erroneous conclusion that the natural next step would be to lean down and kiss that controlled but expressive mouth again. He stood there for a moment, poised between two worlds. In the Stanton world he stood back, but in the old Sinclair world his hands dug into tha
t warm mass and sent pins and combs clattering, tipped back her head so he could take advantage of the surprised parting of her lips to taste his fill. He wanted to see if that moment in the conservatory had been an aberration or whether this woman was as passionate as he suspected.

  Probably. When her barriers broke she would be like an avalanche. He had seen one once near Innsbruck. One moment all had been as still as if creation itself had stopped, the snowbound mountains carved in shades of white, grey and blue so sharp the trees looked almost black. The next it seemed half the mountain was sinking towards them, sluggish at first, but then faster and faster, with a horrific rumbling and what sounded like pistol shots as massive trees snapped with the ease of twigs under the weight of the careening snow. It had spent itself before reaching them, but it had been a terrifying and exhilarating sight. Two men and a boy had been swallowed up in that avalanche and their bodies had never been found.

  And that was precisely why he should step back. He had left the Sinclair world for precisely that reason. Avalanches might be thrilling from a safe distance; up close they destroyed innocent people. He had enough on his conscience.

  He slipped the comb into place, his fingers gliding from her temple over the curve of her ear, into the warm recess behind it, just grazing the soft skin of her lobe, coaxing the errant lock of hair into place as he reluctantly slid in the comb. Then he called upon every ounce of his Stanton legacy to beat back the Sinclair heat.

  ‘There. If that doesn’t work, you might want to consider borrowing one of Alby’s lace caps that look like a soufflé gone hideously wrong. Nothing can escape those.’

  She was still flushed, but her shoulders lowered and she laughed, her hand rising to touch the comb.

  ‘Thank you. Or perhaps I should apologise. I didn’t even realise I was doing that, let alone that it might bother anyone.’ A hint of the mischievous defiance he enjoyed sparked in her eyes. ‘I thought Sir Oswald mentioned you are one of the most focused men he knows. You must be dreadfully bored if you are distracted by something so mundane.’

  Anything but mundane.

  ‘I have no problem splitting my attention when there is something more enjoyable to observe than politicians debating docking rights and trade tonnage. Then I merely become a little more focused.’

  Both her blush and her strict look returned. She clearly didn’t take his flirtatious comment seriously, which was probably all for the best.

  ‘I admit I am also finding this a little tedious. The discussions at the Palace that I attended were often much more heated. You are all so...business-like.’

  ‘A good negotiation should be precisely that. Most of the ground work with Razumov and Von Haas was laid before they arrived at the Hall.’

  ‘I can see that. The King might think it is all happening here, but the three of you have drawn most of the lines before we even arrived, didn’t you?’

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘Not as long as it isn’t at the expense of the King and Princess which so far it does not seem to be. I just find it fascinating—to see how you are weaving that fine balance between all these tugging forces. It seems...fragile. I wish there was some way to set it in stone.’

  ‘There isn’t. Once you enter this game it is all about keeping a constant watch on the balances and never tossing anything on to either side until you assess ahead of time how it will affect the other. After all, that is what I am commissioned to do.’

  ‘And your uncle?’

  ‘My uncle is more skilled than I at this game, but then he’s been at it longer. He is a master of finesse, but he is also master at knowing when it is right to throw something heavy into the mix. I don’t have his touch. The one time I tried such an aggressive manoeuvre people were hurt. So now I stick to what I do best, tweaking the balances of conflicting political powers like a shopkeeper tweaks the weights on the scales, so the world can avoid avalanches.’

  She frowned. ‘What is an avalanche?’

  ‘That is when there is too much snow on the mountains and for no apparent reason it begins to slide downwards and destroys everything in its path.’

  ‘Can snow do that? There isn’t any snow on Illiakos and the only snow I remember from childhood was rather sludgy and grey. I can’t imagine it wreaking much damage.’

  ‘Anything can wreak damage when it is gathered in sufficient amount and propelled with sufficient force. Avalanches are everything that can go wrong with this world. So my role, as I see it, is to identify when too much snow is gathering in the wrong place and stop it from becoming an avalanche.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’

  ‘You defuse the building tension in manageable steps and, if need be, you remove elements from the equation. Illiakos is a case in point. Right now it is teetering on a dangerous pile of tension between Russia and Austria, with Bourbon France prodding Russia to march its army across the Continent to help subdue the rebellion in Spain. If that happens... England can’t afford another war. Not its government, not its economy, and certainly not its people. I don’t want any more men paying the price of the stupidity of a few privileged fools who don’t know any better. The cost is too high. So Illiakos may seem like a small piece on the board, but small pieces are the ones that usually tip the scales because we don’t watch them closely enough. It is just that one extra flake of snow or an unwary footstep that sets disaster in motion. That is why Illiakos matters and why we are removing it, judiciously, from the board. So you will have to forgive me if I try to avoid unnecessary fireworks if I can manage it. I won’t apologise for not providing as much entertainment as King Darius.’

  He leaned his hip on the side of her desk, crossing his arms. He hadn’t meant to sound piqued. His annoyance at her comparison picked up a notch as she tried to school her mouth into primness, but her eyes gleamed with laughter.

  ‘There is no need to apologise, Lord Stanton. I would certainly not recommend trying to emulate King Darius’s style when matters don’t follow his wishes. Unnecessary fireworks is an accurate description. I am merely surprised that in a matter so momentous to the future of Illiakos he is so very...unruffled. It was meant as a compliment. You have a very soothing effect on the players here.’

  ‘For a compliment that leaves a great deal to be desired, Miss James. I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended to be told I have a soporific effect. Shall I stir the cauldron a little when they return so we can see some sparks fly?’

  The laughter spread to the edges of her mouth and his annoyance ceded some ground to the return of the need to act. The sparks he would like to see fly had nothing to do with diplomacy.

  ‘I said soothing, not soporific. And please don’t stir any cauldrons. I have no more wish to witness an avalanche than you, though I am certain you could set one in motion if it served your purpose.’

  ‘You paint a dire picture of my character, Miss James. I am boring, easily distracted and manipulative. Have I any redeeming features?’

  She hesitated for a moment and he waited for another taunt, but she surprised him.

  ‘You are kind.’

  Kind. Neither his mind nor body could decide how to react to this comment, annoyance warring with an unfamiliar warmth that tingled along the edges of the old wound in his side.

  ‘Kind.’

  ‘It is nothing to scoff at, my lord. It is a rare quality.’

  The warmth was winning, so he pushed back at it.

  ‘I don’t think there is anything in these discussions to show evidence of that quality.’

  ‘Perhaps not in these discussions but it is very evident in the way people regard you. It is evident in that Lady Albinia and her friends would do anything for you.’

  ‘Her friends?’

  ‘Her horticultural friends. She took Ari and me to their meeting at Briar Rose Cottage.’

  Good lord. He would have t
o have a word with Alby. He rubbed his forehead.

  ‘That is hardly proof, most of those people depend upon the Stanton estate in one form or another; they have little choice but to be loyal.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I don’t think their loyalty is born out of self-interest, they truly seem to care for you. And trust you. I don’t think that is possible without some kindness. But I shan’t say another word because I am embarrassing you.’

  ‘So now you are adding easily discomfited to your assessment of my character.’

  ‘No, not easily. I find most men are uncomfortable with sincere praise; almost as much as they are with well-grounded criticism.’

  ‘Are you certain you have enough worldly experience to generalise about most men?’

  She tilted her head to one side, considering.

  ‘I have seen quite a few men during my years in the court, but they have mostly been on their best behaviour because they fear the King. He himself is a case in point. He is a wonderful man and often quite wise, but he can also be as sulky as a two-year-old when matters don’t go his way.’

  ‘What do you mean “also”? I never sulk.’

  ‘Of course not. That would be undignified and unproductive and human.’

  Her smile took the sting out of her words and he couldn’t resist the challenge.

  ‘I’m very human, Chrissie.’

  ‘Chrissie... No one has ever called me that.’ Her voice was breathless and their light exchange darkened, deepened. He had no idea why that name had come to him and even less of an idea why he’d said it aloud.

  ‘No? It suits you.’

  ‘It isn’t very...dignified.’

  ‘Do you wish to be?’

  ‘No. Oh, no.’ There was such emphasis in her answer, even surprise, and it surprised him as much as it did her. It was like a child escaping their tutor, revelling in the wonder of sudden freedom. Or the girl of six years ago, ripping off her veils. For all these years she was still clad in them, not physically but in spirit. He knew what that felt like.