Scandal's Mistress (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players)

by C. J. Archer

  “I hope your arm doesn’t trouble you,” Lilly said.

  “Not so much anymore,” Alice said. “Sweet Mary’s poultice has soothed it.”

  “Is my brother treating you well?”

  The question startled Alice, particularly since he must have heard it. Lilly’s odd little smile implied that she knew he’d heard it too, and that was as it should be.

  “Like the gentleman he is,” Alice said.

  Lilly laughed. “Well said.”

  “I’m right here,” he ground out. “I can hear everything.”

  “I know,” his sister said lightly. “That is the point.”

  He made a low growl but said nothing.

  “This is our best guest room,” Lady Warhurst said, opening a door at the top of the stairs. “The last person to use it was Lady Calthorpe. She thinks she lost a pearl earring in here, so if you find it, we would be most grateful.”

  The little account wasn’t really about the earring, Alice was certain. Its purpose had been to point out that guests to their home were not—and should not be—seamstresses. “I will be sure to keep my eyes open for it,” Alice said with a gracious curtsy as if she were addressing the queen herself. “You’re very kind for allowing me the use of this room for tonight. I promise I will be out of your home before sunrise.”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Lilly said. “Tell her, Leo.”

  “You need to rest,” Warhurst agreed. “Your arm…” His voice trailed away and he looked around as if searching for an escape in the wood-paneled walls. But then something happened; he must have come to some conclusion, and he drew himself up to his full height. He placed another log on the fire. “You need to be warm,” he said simply. “Mother, a word if you please. Lilly, have your maid see to Mistress Croft’s needs.”

  “Of course,” Lilly said. Lady Warhurst stepped back out of the threshold so her daughter could pass.

  “Good night, Mistress Croft,” she said, returning to stand in the doorway. “I hope you find our accommodations to your liking.” She spoke without maliciousness, but Alice felt the sting of the barbed comment nevertheless. Lady Warhurst would surely have guessed that Alice had never experienced the luxury of having a bedchamber all to herself, and such a luxurious one at that with its tapestry-covered walls and thick green bedcover.

  Warhurst gave Alice a brief nod without meeting her eyes, then left too. Alice was alone. She lay on the large bed, her hands clasped over her stomach, her head resting on the fluffy pillows, and stared up at the tester. How had she gotten here? It felt like a dream in which things happened to someone else and she was simply watching from afar, an audience member at the theatre.

  And then there was Warhurst, gentle one moment then clamped as tight as an oyster shell the next. She didn’t understand him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Leo knew he was in for a difficult night when his mother refused to sit upon reaching her withdrawing room. The lack of any emotion on her face, in her eyes, was another good indication that she was heartily displeased. It wasn’t too difficult to guess why.

  Most likely it was for the same thing that concerned him. Alice Croft was in a room not far away and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Was she resting on the bed or was she washing herself with the warm water from the basin, dragging the cloth over her bare skin…

  He cut the image out of his mind. Perhaps he and his mother weren’t thinking of quite the same thing.

  “You surprise me,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. Even with only the light from the fire and a single lamp, the emeralds in her rings sparkled like green stars against the black of her skirt.

  “Really?” he said idly. “I thought very little surprised you these days, Mother. You seem to have everyone’s situations organized.”

  Her lips tightened and he thought he’d gone too far, but then she said, “Except yours.”

  “Except mine. But I expect it won’t be long before you’ve taken care of it as well.”

  She crossed the room to her small desk and picked up a piece of parchment. “I have a letter from my dear friend, Lady Finchbrooke.”

  “And how is my near-neighbor?” Lord Finchbrooke owned considerable lands to the south of Warhurst, and although their estates didn’t meet, they were within spitting distance of each other. His son and heir, George, was Leo’s closest friend. They’d hunted together, got drunk together, discussed coal mines and politics and women all night. Leo wished George was in London with him now. He needed to get drunk with someone he trusted who didn’t talk of love all the time like Blake.

  “They are all well. However, her daughter has been unexpectedly widowed. The girl’s husband, Sir William Something-or-other, had a riding accident and died a few days later from his injuries.”

  “How awful.” He accepted the letter his mother held out. “Poor Catherine. It says here she is holding up. I hope so, she is a kindhearted girl.” He folded the letter and handed it back to his mother. He did not let go when her fingers took the paper. She raised an eyebrow at him. “I suspect you have already written to Lady Finchbrooke about a possible union between her and your beloved eldest son,” he said levelly.

  She nodded. “As always, I can keep nothing from you, Leo.”

  A dull ache hammered the back of his head and his mouth felt dry. He needed a drink. A strong one. “That’s because you and I are cut from the same cloth. We both want what is best for the family.”

  “Do we?” She tugged harder on the letter and he let it go. She returned it to a small coffer inlaid with mother-of-pearl on her desk and closed the lid.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “However, you could have let poor Catherine grieve a little, Mother. It is only decent.”

  “Decent?” She shook her head. “There is no time for decency. If we don’t act now we’ll be too late. There’ll be a dozen other eligible men making their way to her father’s home right now. Widowhood has turned kindhearted Catherine into a highly desirable woman. Not only did her father settle good land and a house on her at her marriage, all of which will return to her, but she’s entitled to a portion of the income from her late husband’s lands, which by all accounts are quite profitable. I sent a messenger with a letter to Lady Finchbrooke this afternoon. In it I said you would soon return to Warhurst—”

  “You did what? Mother!” Leo rubbed his forehead. God it hurt. “Mother, I have business to attend to here. I can’t go.”

  “Not yet, that’s true. You must secure your financial position here first before you ask for the hand of someone as valuable as Catherine.”

  “That is not—”

  “Tomorrow morning you’ll go to court and petition anyone who will listen.” She was as ceaseless as a cow chewing her cud.

  “There is the first flaw in your plan,” he said. “No one will listen to me. I am the son of the man who defrauded them. They are hardly likely to hand over more money. That’s what you want, is it not? Money so that I may go to Catherine, cap full of coin, and offer it to her?” He barked out a harsh laugh. “It won’t work.”

  “Of course it won’t work! Not if you don’t try!” She sat down on the window seat. “It is time you stop running about the city with that seamstress and start doing something for your family, your title.”

  Everything inside him went cold and rigid. He closed his fists against the anger, hot and sharp, and forced them to remain at his sides. “Everything I do is for this family and this title. To hold it together. To keep it safe. To raise it higher.” He held his hand up when she opened her mouth to speak and she closed it again. “Alice Croft is doing more for this family than you, Lilly, and Blake put together. She is helping me find out what Enderby has on Hawkesbury, and when we know, we can force him to wed Lilly. That will save me from ruin and only that. Because,” he said, tapping a finger against his chest, “who would want a tarnished baron after an extra layer of scandal is thrown upon me? Well? Not Catherine, not the Norwich girl. No one.”
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br />   “But at what cost is her help?” his mother said quietly. She sat on the window seat, not resting her back against the vast number of cushions. The calm center of a tempest.

  “A few favors, the payment of some rent. Nothing more.” Anger would not get him far where his mother was concerned. It was like throwing feathers into the wind. He drew in a breath and felt the air flow through his body, cooling his temper.

  “Are you quite certain?” She twisted one of her rings and rested her gaze upon his. “It seems to me she may cost you far more than that, Leo.”

  He scoffed. “What are you talking about?” Before she could answer, he waved a hand in dismissal and turned away. “Write to Lady Finchbrooke. Ask what their terms are for Catherine’s hand and state my position. Hopefully she’s too far from London to have heard the rumors surrounding Lilly’s withdrawal from court before I can lay them to rest for good.” He paused at the door and turned back to her. “With Mistress Croft’s help.”

  She said nothing nor did she move, but simply sat there watching Leo through eyes that had softened. It was the way she used to look at him as a boy, with love and affection and a great deal of concern.

  He shut the door and left for his room. He needed to lie down but got only as far as the guest room. Through the door he could just make out two voices, Alice’s and Lilly’s. Hopefully his sister wouldn’t stay long. Alice needed her rest. As did he.

  But before he even reached his rooms he knew that he would not get much sleep. There was only one way to ease the ache in his head, in his limbs, his groin.

  And she was now only a few rooms away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Alice didn’t know what time Lilly left her chamber but it must have been late. The fire had become nothing more than a pile of glowing ashes, and their supper of cold beef, cheese, and bread had gone hard. Neither felt like eating. The mulled wine fared better—Alice had drunk two cups of it. It made her feel lightheaded but deliciously warm all over. Despite the lateness of the hour, Alice had been sorry to see her companion leave. Lilly was sweet and interesting and didn’t seem to care that she was engaging in conversation with a seamstress.

  They’d talked about the upcoming wedding and Minerva’s dress, where to buy the finest fabrics and the cheapest threads. Lilly told Alice about the queen and Raleigh, and described Whitehall and Greenwich Palaces, while Alice imparted the latest gossip about the players, which made Lilly laugh. Neither mentioned Hawkesbury or the baby Lilly carried, or Lord Warhurst.

  It didn’t stop Alice from thinking about him though. Something had happened today. Something wonderful yet deeply troubling.

  She was beginning to like him.

  No, more than that. The surface of his fierce exterior had been scratched, revealing the baron’s softer side. A side that intrigued her. And when Alice’s interest was piqued, she was not the sort to ignore it and walk away.

  She lay awake beneath the bedcovers in the silence. She fancied she could hear the creak of the boats moored on the river not far away, but perhaps it was only her imagination. She tossed and tossed again, trying to get comfortable, but the bed was too large and cold without one of her sisters at her back, and the room was too quiet without their soft breathing. She wondered if they, too, tossed without her in their bed, but she doubted it. They still slept the deep sleep of innocent children. She smiled sadly into the darkness. She’d not expected to miss them so much.

  The squeak of a floorboard outside her room wiped the smile from her face. She sat up. Listened.

  Nothing. The house was probably sighing after a long day. Her father’s house groaned all the time.

  But then there was another squeak, and another, right outside her room. She got out of bed and threw the housecoat Lilly had left for her around the borrowed nightshift. She tiptoed across the floor and flung the door open.

  “Warhurst!” she whispered loudly.

  He stood holding a single candle, staring at her as if her presence was unexpected even though he’d known she was sleeping there. His white shirt was unlaced and a few dark hairs curled at the opening. The hair on his head was tousled as if he’d run his hands through it over and over. Dear God, but he was handsome.

  “I…I should go,” he said. The candle flame danced between them, the only moving thing. Warhurst remained where he was.

  Alice held her breath.

  “Is everything in your room to your liking?” he asked huskily.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I…?” He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything?”

  Their gazes locked. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. “Yes,” she said on a breath.

  He brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, the touch oh so tender, as if she were a fragile piece of glass to be admired. Her throat ached at the gentleness. “Tell me,” he said. “Whatever it is you desire, just tell me and it will be yours.”

  She could still untangle herself from him and from the situation she’d found herself in. He’d left it open for her to ask for something, anything—a cup of wine, an extra candle. All she had to do was ask and he would leave her and end the foolishness.

  Not a chance!

  She fisted her hand in his shirt and pulled him into her room. “Kiss me.”

  He closed the door and set the candlestick down on top of a chest without taking his gaze from hers. A beat passed. Two. She thought she’d perhaps read him incorrectly, that he really was checking on her comfort.

  Then he pulled her to him so hard their bodies slammed together and she winced as her wounded arm was bumped. But when he kissed her, the pain vanished. There was nothing delicate in the kiss, nothing tentative or teasing. It was as if all the hunger and need and deep, deep desire that had been swirling beneath the surface since the day they met had suddenly burst from its banks. It was a torrent, fierce in its intensity, and Alice wanted it.

  He devoured her. His hands moved from her shoulders to the small of her back and pressed her to him so that her breasts crushed against his solid chest. His mouth was everywhere, on her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her throat, and back to her mouth again. He tasted like wine and felt hotter than a furnace.

  She wanted to feel his heat against her skin and tugged on his shirt. He pulled it over his head, breaking their kiss, and she removed her housecoat so that she stood before him in nothing but the thin nightshift. He threw his shirt away and she marveled at the muscular planes of his chest and shoulders. She stood on her toes and pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat.

  “Delicious,” she muttered against his smooth skin. She kissed her way down and took his nipple gently between her teeth.

  A small groan rumbled from his chest and he tilted his head back. She turned her attention to his other nipple, licking and sucking until his fingers dug into her shoulders.

  “No more,” he said thickly.

  She let him untie the laces of her nightshift then helped him remove it. It went the same way as his shirt, discarded somewhere in the shadows near the bed. He bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth, and sucked and licked until she was on fire and melting at the same time. She dug her hands into his hair and held him at her breast, but pulled him away when she felt the first throb between her thighs.

  “Bed,” she said, hurrying to it.

  He removed his hose and netherhose and she took in his hardness—long and thick and ready. He was magnificent. A god, so exquisite to look upon that she wanted to pinch herself to test if she was dreaming.

  But she wasn’t. He was in her chamber and he was going to make love to her.

  “Lie down,” he said. She did and his gaze raked over her, taking in every inch of her nakedness. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

  She blushed. She suddenly felt shy, unworthy. No one had ever called her beautiful before, not even Charles, her first and only lover. She pressed her thighs together and covered her breasts with her arms, the bandage rough against her swollen nipple.

  In the dim light she
saw him flinch, a mere twitch of muscle. He put a hand up against the bedpost at the foot of the bed and turned from her. “What am I doing? This is madness.” He shook his head and rubbed a hand through his hair. He swore. “I shouldn’t be doing this to you. I can’t…” He bowed his head. “You need to save yourself…for…”

  Is that all? She almost laughed with relief. She knelt up on the bed, circled his waist, and pressed her cheek to his back. “Don’t concern yourself. It’s too late for that.”

  He stiffened and lifted his head. “Who?” It came out half bark, half grunt.

  “His name is not important. It was just the one, and it is long over.” She took his shoulders and gently turned him to face her. His eyes were shrouded in shadows, his mouth turned into a frown. “For tonight,” she said, pulling him onto the bed, “I am yours.” She reached down and caressed the smooth, sleek hardness of his manhood. It bobbed at her touch and he moaned and dipped his head, bringing his lips to hers. “All yours,” she murmured against his mouth.

  And you are mine.

  As soon as she wrapped her long, agile fingers around Leo’s cock he knew he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t care that she wasn’t a virgin. In fact, knowing she wasn’t eased his conscience.

  He lay her gently on the bed and sat back to look at her. Exquisite. Her slender limbs and pale hair and those full, round breasts…perfect.

  He kissed one nipple then the other until she squirmed beneath him. She took his cock again and guided him to her opening but he somehow found the strength to resist and pull away.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I want to see your eyes glaze over with pleasure. I want to hear you cry out.”

  She smiled and he thought his chest would burst to see her happiness. He’d put that smile on her face. God, but it was going to be near impossible to resist her for much longer.

  “I want that too,” she said. “But you need to enter me for it to happen.”

  Her other lover had not been very good then. “Trust me,” he said, settling beside her on the bed. “I don’t need to enter you. Not yet.”