An Affair with a Notorious Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  His voice trailed off, but she heard the words as though he’d delivered them with a blow to her midsection: your scandal.

  “I promised your father I would see you both well situated. I don’t worry about you. Marriage forged you into a formidable woman. But Gina—you cannot deny she is not yet made of firmer stuff. She wants marriage and children. She deserves them. She wants to marry into the aristocracy.” He shook his head. “I admit to not understanding this obsession with the upper class but I intend to see she is not disappointed by life.”

  “We can never guarantee that, no matter our actions.”

  “But we can strive to meet our goal, and not look back, doubting ourselves because of inaction.”

  Taking another sip, she wished she didn’t love this man, wished she didn’t appreciate what he was striving to accomplish. She knew love spurred his actions. “Why Rexton?”

  He lifted a heavy shoulder, dropped it as though it carried a great weight. “I know him. Through racing and gambling. I know he’s not a drunkard, he’s not in debt. He seems to exercise moderation when it comes to vices. He claimed not to have any interest in marriage presently, but I thought once he met Gina, he might change his mind. And if he didn’t, being seen in his company would be a boon for her. There isn’t an unmarried woman in the aristocracy who doesn’t vie for his attention.” He looked down at his shoes. “Does Gina know about the arrangement?”

  “Yes.”

  His grimace and whispered curse made Tillie soften toward him a bit.

  “Did she take it hard?” he asked, true concern and remorse edging his tone.

  “No. As a matter of fact, she claims to have no interest in him at all. She accepted his invitations because she was playing matchmaker, striving to pair me with Rexton.”

  Her uncle scoffed. “That was jolly stupid. Rexton is heir to a dukedom. He isn’t going to marry a woman with a scandalous past. No aristocrat is going to do that. The only hope for you, my dear girl, is to get thee back to New York.”

  The truth of his words hurt. Not that she’d ever considered she could mean something to Rexton. “I’m well aware.”

  She spun away from the window and walked to the fireplace, suddenly feeling quite chilled. The new location helped not one iota as no fire burned upon the hearth.

  “Don’t take offense, Mathilda. You know I speak true.”

  “I know.” But dreams were seldom based on reality. It was what made them dreams. “So you will accompany her to the Claybourne ball next week and not strike deals with any other gentlemen?”

  He released a labored sigh. “Perhaps we should hire a matchmaker.”

  She faced him. “I don’t think that’s necessary. She’s been seen with Rexton. I know she danced at the last ball, and a couple of gentlemen were eyeing her last night. Without the marquess hovering around her, perhaps someone will take steps to press his suit.”

  “I detest balls.”

  “And I detest England, yet here we both are—for Gina’s sake. We must see her happy. We made promises, did we not?”

  He nodded. “Yes, all right.”

  “And do not offer my stallion to anyone else.”

  “He wanted Black Diamond badly. With a little negotiating, we could no doubt convince him to marry her.”

  “I fear that would only lead to misery.” For everyone involved.

  A week passed, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was constantly in her mind, in her dreams as vividly as though he were actually in her bed. It irritated the devil out of her that she’d begun to scour the gossip rags—which she generally avoided because they had focused on her lascivious tale far longer than necessary—but she was desperate for any news of what he might be doing. It didn’t reassure her when she found no mentions of him at all.

  What was he? A blasted saint?

  It was even worse that she paced the parlor, sipping whisky, her gaze constantly drifting to the clock, as she waited for Gina to return home from the Claybourne ball. Guilt pricked her conscience because she wasn’t truly interested in what sort of success her sister may have had at the affair. Rather she was hoping for some little tidbit about Rexton. What he might have worn, how he might have looked, with whom he may have danced.

  She felt like a jealous shrew, although it wasn’t really jealousy she felt. It was loneliness, sharper than she’d ever experienced—soul deep, as though Rexton had been physically torn from her. It was ridiculous, not to be tolerated. She’d fought not to enjoy his company and lost. She’d battled against not being drawn to him and had gone down in defeat. She’d rebelled against being conquered and found herself captivated all the same.

  Damn the man. It would be so much easier to discard him if he hadn’t sent Gina a bouquet of roses along with a letter encouraging her not to settle for less than she deserved: a man of the highest caliber. As though he weren’t.

  She finished off her whisky, poured some more. Without question he wasn’t. A man of the highest caliber wouldn’t have pretended to be courting her sister, wouldn’t have risked breaking her heart. It didn’t matter that Gina had claimed to have no real interest in him. The potential for heartache had been there. Tillie was all too familiar with how fragile the heart could be.

  At the echo of the door opening, she finished off her drink, set aside the glass, and hurried into the foyer, catching Gina just as she reached the stairs. “Did you have a lovely time?”

  Her sister swung around, smiled. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

  “I wanted to. Come into the parlor, we’ll have a drink, and you can tell me everything about your evening.”

  “There’s not much to tell,” Gina said, “although I’d dearly love a spot of brandy.”

  After the drinks were poured, and they were sitting in opposite chairs, facing each other, Tillie asked, “I suppose you saw Rexton.”

  Gina took a slow sip before saying, “Actually I didn’t. He wasn’t there.”

  “Are you sure?” She couldn’t imagine it. “I didn’t think he’d be so cowardly as to avoid you.”

  Her sister giggled. “I don’t think it was that. Apparently he’s rather scarce when it comes to balls. We may have overestimated his influence.” She held up her wrist, her dance card dangling from it. “I danced only twice tonight.”

  “It’s not the number of dances that matters, but rather how much interest your partner shows.”

  “One dance was with the host. While his attentiveness seemed genuine and he was incredibly polite, I have it on good authority that the Earl of Claybourne very much adores his wife. I also assume said wife would relieve him of his family jewels if he ever strayed.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at that. She knew the Countess of Claybourne, had spoken with her on numerous occasions when she’d been accepted by Society. “There is that. The woman is no wallflower. But then how could she be when she tamed the Devil Earl? And your other partner?”

  “The second son of a second son who seemed rather taken with the rumors regarding my inheritance.”

  The disappointment hit her and she sank back into the chair. “But you were making such progress.”

  “I think because people noticed I had Rexton’s interest, and now I don’t seem to have it, so there is speculation regarding the reasons behind his setting me aside.”

  Tillie rose to her feet in a rush and began to pace agitatedly in front of the fireplace. “Damn the man to hell. He didn’t set you aside. You set him aside. Why must the woman always be blamed for everything?”

  “I’m not certain he’s to blame—”

  She came to an abrupt halt and glared at her sister. “If he hadn’t given you attention to begin with, you wouldn’t now be the object of gossip. Something unflattering is bound to be in the newspapers tomorrow.” She gave her head a hard shake. “This is my fault. I should have anticipated the message his absence would send.”

  “Don’t be silly, Tillie. You can’t keep blaming yourself for my failure as
a debutante.”

  She could and she would. If she’d stayed married to Downie, she could have ensured her sister was accepted by Society. If she hadn’t wanted the temptation of Rexton removed from her life, Gina’s matrimonial prospects wouldn’t have disappeared. She’d acted far too hastily and impulsively to both circumstances, caring more for her own sanity than her sister’s wellbeing. She’d taken Gina under her wing when their mother died. Now the responsibility was even greater with their father gone.

  Taking a deep breath, she returned to her chair, lifted the snifter of brandy, and swallowed a good portion of it. “I shall see the matter set to right.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Gina asked, concern and worry etched clearly in her voice.

  Tillie finished off the brandy, set the glass aside.

  “What are you going to do, Tillie?” Gina drew out the question as though she were in no hurry to hear the answer, as though she already knew she wouldn’t like it.

  “Not to worry. I won’t do anything foolish.” But it was high time she made use of her scandalous reputation. Otherwise, all she’d suffered was for nothing.

  Chapter 9

  The Nightingale Club

  Tonight at 10

  Rexton stared at the note his butler had just delivered. It wasn’t unusual for him to receive a missive such as the one he held—his membership at the club was widely known among those who knew of the place and in his youth he’d frequented the establishment quite often—but he’d grown weary of married women and widows in want of brief affairs. He was also accustomed to the notes being signed, or at least offering a hint as to whom he would be meeting for a rendezvous. “Who delivered it?” he asked Winchester now.

  “Some scruffy lad. He wore no livery, and I didn’t see a coach or carriage about. The boy knocked at the servants’ door, handed it over, and scampered away as though fearing a hangman’s noose was about to drop about his neck.”

  Rexton didn’t recognize the handwriting. It was neat, precise, and definitely feminine. He’d once received a letter written with a masculine hand—a gent trying to determine if Rexton had been having an affair with his wife. He’d wisely not gone to the club that night.

  The Nightingale had been established years before as a place for unhappy women to find a moment of happiness. Usually he had an inkling as to whom he’d be meeting. The flirtation usually began elsewhere, but of late the only woman who’d garnered his interest was Lady Landsdowne.

  He tapped his fingers on his desk. Was it possible she was summoning him? He nearly laughed aloud. She’d be glad to never set eyes on him again.

  Like some besotted youth, he went to the park every morning before the lark trilled hoping to catch sight of her, but he always left disappointed. If she was still going for morning rides, she was doing it elsewhere. He wasn’t even certain if he saw her that he’d approach her. She’d no doubt put that pistol she carried to excellent use.

  He’d written three letters of apology only to tear them up because the correct words of contrition failed him. How did one go about making amends for such atrocious behavior? He’d considered flowers, sweets, and jewelry. But he couldn’t envision any of those things softening her toward him.

  He avoided balls because he didn’t want to converse with women. He avoided the Twin Dragons because he had no interest in being in the company of other men. He avoided the pubs because it had taken him two days to recover the last time he lifted a tankard. He was becoming a hermit. His reclusiveness made no sense whatsoever. For a dozen years now, women had come and gone through his life with ease. He never regretted when the lady moved on, never ached with a need to see her again. He’d enjoyed her company while they were together but it had never been more than mutual pleasure for a time—and they’d both known it was only for a time.

  It was different with Lady Landsdowne. Perhaps because their parting had not been amicable, had not been of his choosing. With her, he regretted so many moments, so many lost and missed opportunities to get to know her better, to explore all the intriguing facets to her of which he’d only caught glimpses. He had a hundred questions he wished he’d asked, a thousand answers he’d have liked to obtain. And a million kisses he’d have enjoyed experiencing.

  It didn’t help matters that he’d instructed his housekeeper to have the vases throughout the residence filled with lavender and orchids. He’d thought the scent would bring him solace. Instead it was like being flayed day after day.

  “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  He’d become so lost in regrets that he’d forgotten the butler was there. “No, that’ll be all. Wait.” He had to admit his curiosity was piqued. If it was her, he couldn’t let the moment pass. “I’ll be going out this evening. Have the carriage readied at half nine.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His man left. Rexton got up, went to the sideboard, and poured himself some whisky. His hands were shaking. He could be wrong. It might not be her. If it wasn’t, he’d simply offer his regrets.

  His harsh laughter echoed around him. What the devil was wrong with him to turn aside a willing woman?

  The hell of it was, though, that there was only one woman he wanted. He wasn’t willing to settle for any other.

  When all was said and done, he had his carriage readied earlier and arrived at the Nightingale Club with twenty minutes to spare. Sitting in a plush chair in a corner of the dimly lit parlor, sipping whisky, he observed all the little trysts taking place. It was an unwritten rule that a seated gentleman was meeting someone, a standing gent was fair game. Women wearing masks to protect their identity and reputation chose their partners from among the unmasked men. Obviously women were more circumspect when it came to bedding—they wanted to know who they were approaching, who they were enticing, who they would eventually invite to join them between the sheets. Men were generally here simply looking for a tumble. All were sworn to secrecy regarding who they saw here, who they met.

  When the ladies arrived they changed into a silk sheath. None wanted to be identified later because her frock had been spotted at the Nightingale Club. For some in his world the club was merely myth. For others it was a dark secret. Throughout the years it had flourished and although it was only spoken of in whispers, somehow those who needed to know of its existence discovered it.

  He wondered if Lady Landsdowne had visited. He imagined her here, searching for a lover for the night, for more than a night. He’d never been approached by her, never taken her up the stairs to the bedchambers where couples could rut to their heart’s content. Anger sliced through him with the thought of her with one of these gents. Some of them were young and randy, others older. A widower or two. Some married. Most unattached.

  Gina had the right of it. The aristocracy seldom married for love. Mistresses and lovers were commonplace. Like Downie, Rexton wouldn’t tolerate his wife having affairs. He expected, would demand, faithfulness and loyalty. He wouldn’t dishonor his vows and would insist upon the same consideration in return. He certainly wasn’t going to contemplate taking to wife a woman who had already proven she didn’t have the moral character to honor her promises. And here he was thinking of Lady Landsdowne again.

  He changed his mind. No matter who had set up this rendezvous, he was going to bed her. He needed to exorcise the blasted countess from his thoughts—once and for all.

  A woman, draped in purple silk, strode hesitantly into the parlor. Her purple and white mask covered three-quarters of her face. Generally ladies provided their own masks. The object served as their identifier so once an introduction was made it didn’t have to be made again. Some men wanted to avoid certain women. Easy enough to turn a woman away before they arrived at a bedchamber if a man could identify her by her mask.

  Rexton had never been with this woman, had no recollection of ever seeing her here. But her hair, cascading like a waterfall over her shoulders, was gloriously dark. A woman of her height, her slender form had invaded his dreams for
far too many nights now. Without conscious thought, slowly he rose to his feet, viscerally aware the moment she spied him, the moment her blue gaze—he knew it was blue even though the mask cast her eyes in shadow—landed on him. She stopped walking, but didn’t look away. She licked her lips, full ruby lips that he was fairly certain he’d only been given the chance to taste for a heartbeat.

  If he was incorrect, if she wasn’t here for him, some poor sod was going to be introduced to his fist before the night was done, because it no longer mattered who had sent the missive, who had wanted to meet him—

  All that mattered was that she—Lady Landsdowne—was standing before him.

  She was aware of him, felt his gaze on her before she saw him. She’d been afraid if she signed the missive he wouldn’t come. Or perhaps she’d been afraid he would. It terrified her—how badly she wanted him, how glad she was to see he was here, waiting for her.

  A dozen times she’d reconsidered her plan. She knew it was reckless, and yet what did she have to lose? She’d lost everything that mattered: her reputation, her pride, her respect. She’d lost her influence. She’d lost her ability to ensure Gina was happy.

  Without her sister’s happiness, she’d lose her opportunity to return to America, to begin to rebuild her life. Her sordid reputation was unlikely to follow her to New York. She’d never been accepted into the Knickerbocker Society—which was the reason her mother had so desperately wanted her to marry a lord, to be a lady, to possess a title. She doubted being a divorced woman with a title was going to get her into that Society now. But she would hold grand affairs for the newly-monied. She could create for others what she and her mother had longed for: acceptance based solely on one’s self.

  Whatever she did tonight, whatever she did for the next few nights, was not going to alter her long range plans. Nothing she did here was going to be packed into her trunks and carted back to New York. What happened next was strictly for the present, completely for Gina, to ensure she had the life she dearly wanted and deserved.