Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Now the whole silly dance would have to begin again, and Emma’s hopes of meeting her next protector at Mrs. Marnion’s card party was starting to fade. There were only so many gentlemen in good society, and thanks to her previous connection with the Earl of Marnmouth, she already knew most of them.

  Emma’s face brightened as she saw a familiar face. It only took her a few steps to make her way over to the Duke of Axwick.

  Another duke. Far more impressive than an earl, and Marnmouth always said…

  Emma swallowed. She could not continue to think of him. Philip did not want her. He had made that perfectly clear two years ago and even more painfully apparent last week.

  She needed to find someone else…

  “No duchess tonight, Your Grace?” she said to the Duke of Axwick with a dazzling smile.

  His smile was far kinder. “Emma, come now. We know each other too well for this sort of game.”

  Emma’s shoulders drooped. Could the man not even pretend to flirt with her for five minutes? Were wives really that important these days?

  She could remember the days, admittedly almost a decade ago, when it was expected that a man with a good fortune would support a mistress. It was more notable if one did not.

  Those days were gone.

  “Sometimes I forget how well you know Marnmouth,” she said ruefully.

  Axwick nodded, discomforted. “I feel for your predicament, of course, but––”

  “I asked whether your wife was here, Your Grace,” Emma interrupted coldly. “I did not ask for your pity. Good evening.”

  As she walked away without waiting for a response, she half-wished she had not bothered to speak to him at all. It was painful, having such a reminder that the balance of power in her presence had shifted so dramatically.

  Emma stood in a corner, looking at the guests who had not given her a second glance.

  Now she was reduced to this. It was not just the poverty, though that was painful enough. No, she had known poverty far before she had ever encountered Marnmouth.

  It was the anonymity she minded. These new flittery things were coming into society every year, and they did not even know her. They had no respect.

  And if she did not find someone to offer her protection soon, she was going to be in real trouble.

  It was then that her gaze, drifting lazily across the room, was caught by a tall man with gray, stormy eyes.

  He was standing alone, looking out at the party as she was. He held himself stiffly, seemingly unaware he was attracting rather impressed looks from the chits around him.

  Viscount Braedon. Wasn’t it? These young men all looked the same, it was true, but he had been an acquaintance of Marnmouth. That put him in a select group—gentlemen who knew who she was and those who would not be afraid of Marnmouth if they wished to secure her for themselves.

  True, he was but a viscount. Emma bit her lip. She had hoped for an earl at the very least, after so long with Marnmouth, but beggars could not be choosers. Besides, he was the last half-decent looking man in the room.

  She should at least try him. He was worth a little practice. Then she could see how much food she could slip into her reticule for later and make her way back to her chilly rooms.

  She made her way around the room and caught Braedon’s attention immediately.

  “Now, I really think it too bad of you,” she said with a winning smile and a gentle tap on the shoulder. “You have not spoken to me all evening, Braedon, ’tis almost as though you are avoiding me!”

  The young gentleman blushed, and Emma’s smile grew. There was a possibility here, then––a small one, if his shyness was anything to go by, but a possibility nonetheless.

  “My dear Miss Tilbury, I do apologize,” Braedon said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “If you command me, I will speak on any subject that you wish.”

  It was a promising start. Here, at least, was a young gentleman she could mold.

  “Well, let us start with the card party before us,” she said, dropping her voice to match his. They were now only inches apart. “First, tell me what you think of the ladies in the room. Do any of them take your fancy?”

  Braedon smiled, and Emma saw his gray eyes darken. “None of them compare to you, Miss Tilbury, and I think you know that.”

  He was the most delightful flirt!

  “One should not be so ungallant to the rest of the ladies,” she said in a whisper, causing him to shift even closer. Her heart quickened. There was nothing like the chase. “I am sure some of the younger debutantes now entering into society––”

  “No,” interrupted Braedon.

  So, she had her target in her sights. Now all she had to do over the next few days, perhaps weeks, was convince Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, to offer her his protection and, of course, a little money.

  Chapter Two

  Abraham Fitzclarence, Viscount Braedon, took a deep breath and felt the cold of the morning creep all the way down to his toes.

  This was living. There was nothing like it, stepping into a frosty morning, ignoring his body’s desire to creep back into bed.

  Besides, it was not as though he had dragged himself from bed for no cause. A smile crept across Braedon’s face. He had not been for a ride in days, and it was time to reward his restraint with some time on Thunder.

  The small stable at the back of his townhouse was only sufficient for one horse, more’s the pity. He had thought about speaking to other notable families on the same street to see whether a collection could be raised for a better stable, but as with many of Braedon’s schemes, it had fallen by the wayside. There was always something else to distract him.

  “Hello, Thunder,” he whispered, breath blossoming in the freezing morning air.

  The impressive stallion moved toward the noise, a blue rug over his back. Braedon smiled. Horses were so much more straightforward than people, and if he had been at Tidgley Manor, he would have been hard-pressed to choose which of his stallions or mares to exercise this morning. As it was, Thunder looked ready to stretch his legs.

  While the rest of the world was asleep, there was one other soul who had awakened early.

  “G’morning m’lord,” said the scrap of lad who Braedon’s cook called boy and everyone else called Tom. “Thunder will be ready for you in two ticks.”

  Braedon nodded his assent and stamped his feet as he waited. Most of his friends considered him a light touch, and in many ways, he was. A stable lad was an extravagance in town with only one horse.

  But he had been unable to say no. Not when he had found the boy curled up in a corner of Thunder’s stall, desperately trying to keep warm.

  A soft touch, perhaps, but Braedon would rather go through life being taken advantage of than ignoring the chance to do some good. It was what his parents had always done.

  “There y’go,” panted Tom, who had tacked up Thunder quicker than Braedon had expected. “And ’e’s brushed down an’ all, m’lord.”

  The small boy looked up at his master with wide eyes, and Braedon hid his smile. It was important he retained some prestige, after all.

  “Well done,” he said sternly. “Here you go.”

  Handing the boy the penny he was waiting for, Braedon finally allowed himself to smile. He could well remember the day when he was as eager for approbation from his elders as Tom was now––though admittedly, it was not so much for the penny but the praise.

  One did not have to worry about pennies when one was a Braedon.

  “And you’ll have the stall mucked out and ready with new hay when I return, I hope?”

  Tom nodded eagerly. “I can show you the new way I have tied up the hay, y’lordship.”

  “That will not be necessary, Tom. I intend to…” Braedon’s voice faded away. Tom had already scampered off, evidently too excited to listen.

  Braedon shook his head, and as Tom attempted to lift a small bale of hay––refusing all attempts of his master to help––Braedon tried n
ot to think of Emma Tilbury.

  The curve of her neck, that smile, that whisper that seemed to warm his whole body…

  “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”

  Braedon cleared his throat as though Tom was able to hear his thoughts. She really was marvelous. One of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  It was foolish, really. Five and twenty, and still, he was utterly unable to move past the schoolboy crush on the Earl of Marnmouth’s mistress.

  She did not belong to him. She had been Marnmouth’s possession, and the earl had been very clear about that every time Braedon had commented on her.

  He had certainly put his foot in it enough times with the earl to know she was absolutely out of bounds.

  But it was impossible to forget her, especially since she was abandoned by Marnmouth.

  Braedon swallowed as Tom chattered away about the special knot he was using on the hay to make it easier for Thunder to eat when Tom was not there.

  A few years ago… Who was he fooling? He knew precisely when Marnmouth had abandoned her. To the week. Miss Tilbury was never far from his thoughts, and that month she had danced in all his dreams.

  She was so beautiful. Red hair that glowed in firelight, the elegant way she turned her head––Braedon swallowed. Emma Tilbury was not his concern, and if he were not careful, he would be quickly making a fool of himself.

  He needed to ignore her. Flirting, that’s all it was. She would never seriously consider him a protector. He was a mere viscount, not an earl or duke, someone who could satisfy her.

  “M’lord?”

  Braedon blinked. “My apologies, Tom, I was…it all sounds very impressive. Well done.”

  Flicking another penny toward the beaming lad, he placed one of his riding boots in a stirrup and swiftly mounted his horse.

  “And there will be another penny for you if you’re here to wipe him down when I get back,” he said with a grin.

  Tom returned the smile. “Now, where else d’you think I’m going?”

  Braedon breathed in the fresh air as Thunder’s hooves clip-clopped on the cobbles. London had its charms, to be sure. Plenty of parties and more people than you could shake a stick at. And the opera was nice, in its way. Even Almack’s had its moments.

  But nothing could compare to the bright, fresh air that could be found around Tidgley Manor, his country estate. It was only early morning, before seven o’clock, that he could experience anything even approximate to that here in the city.

  Thunder did not need steering. He knew where they were going—Hyde Park. The most expansive park in London.

  It was almost like being at home. Braedon could pretend there were no buildings on either side of him, no roads covered in the stench of horse droppings and laundry, and lose himself in the beauty of nature.

  “There you are! I thought you had forgotten our rendezvous!”

  Braedon turned toward the voice and smiled as the Earl of Chester approached on his own steed.

  “No, I was just a little slugabed,” he said easily, his horse slipping into step with his friend’s. “I was at Mrs. Marnion’s card party last night.”

  It was a testament to their long friendship––and Chester’s intimate knowledge of all the madams of society––that no further explanation was required.

  Instead, the earl groaned. “I quite understand––I was never able to escape those before midnight!”

  “I am not saying it was all bad,” said Braedon with a laugh. “But I did not reach my bed before two o’clock in the morning.”

  And even then, I found sleep impossible, Braedon neglected to say aloud because my mind was transfixed on the beauty of a woman I have no right to think about…

  “Having the excuse of children is certainly a benefit there,” said Chester with a proud smile. “You know, I had never considered procreation as an excuse to avoid those I dislike, but I have to say, I recommend it!”

  Laughing at his own joke, the two gentlemen continued to trot steadily around the park.

  Braedon nodded but did not join with the laughter. He had, after all, no children and had no intention of joining his friend to the realms of parenthood any time soon.

  Children, a family…they had never really interested him, beyond the obvious.

  “The more young Lennox grows, the more he looks like me, I think,” said Chester. Braedon saw that soppy, slightly dazed look he was starting to recognize. “He still screams if things are not quite to his liking, which Honora says is a Lennox trait. I cannot remember ever being so disagreeable.”

  “You probably were,” cut in Braedon. “You just cannot remember it when it suits you.”

  Chester gave him a wry grin. “I suppose so. Poor old Lennox has started babbling on about a sibling, worse luck, which is something Honora and I have spoken about, but we’re hard-pressed to find the time for it all. Having a child is…well, ’tis like an adventure one did not exactly sign up for, but by the time you realize it…”

  Braedon did attempt to keep listening, he really did, but it was hard to concentrate. What did he care for Chester’s family plans? All he could think about was the way Emma smiled when he complimented her.

  “Why, Braedon,” she had said, slipping her arm into his and making his heartrate rocket. “We shall have to be careful, or we shall start some rumors this evening…”

  “Can you hear me?”

  Braedon shivered, and Thunder quaked under him, responsive to every move he made. He had never dreamed of being so close to Miss Tilbury. The few times he had been in her presence, it had been because Marnmouth had invited him to something. She had been the hostess of a sort, and he had guarded her like a dog.

  But last night…last night…

  “Braedon?”

  A lazy smile crept over Braedon’s face as their horses trotted around a grove of trees. Last night, it had been as though Marnmouth did not exist––had never existed. She had smiled and made him feel like he was the only man in the room. The only person in the world.

  He could still feel the heat of her touch on his arm.

  “Braedon!”

  Braedon jumped, and Thunder, not appreciating the sudden violent movement, bolted.

  It was only thanks to Braedon’s horsemanship that he was able to bring the stallion under control within a few seconds. He should have been attending to Chester’s words, not losing himself in thoughts of Emma.

  Miss Tilbury, he corrected hastily. She was Miss Tilbury, and she was not for the likes of him.

  “You really are tired,” said Chester. “’Tis like you are not even here! I have never seen you so distracted.”

  Braedon smiled weakly. “Yes, yes, tired.”

  It was easier to just nod than attempt to explain what had been running through his mind. He could not, even if he wanted to. As the sun started to rise over London and the early mists began to recede, his thoughts had not become any clearer.

  If he had not been so obsessed with Emma for the last three years, it would be much easier to ignore her!

  Miss Emma Tilbury was not thinking about you, Braedon told himself sternly. It was pathetic, a boy’s crush, not a man’s desire. You want her because you have always wanted her, but that is not a sufficient cause to lose your head!

  “I do apologize,” he said aloud. “I have…I have much on my mind at present, and I am afraid it is consuming me.”

  Chester patted his horse on the neck. “To be so distracted, I must assume we are speaking not of things in general, but a woman specifically. Do tell me you are finally thinking of settling down?”

  Braedon swallowed. “Not exactly.”

  “Well, I hope you can start considering matrimony seriously,” said his friend. “The viscountcy ends with you, you fool. You have known that for years now.”

  “I know that, but I see no need to––”

  “No need?” Chester sounded incredulous, and even his horse snickered at his words. “No need? You need a son a
nd heir, man, and one born on the right side of the bedsheets. I have Lennox, and I hope to add to his number in the future. But you? You need sons, but first, you need a bride.”

  Braedon sighed and looked out across the park. More early riders were starting to trot along the paths or venture out onto the verdant green. The world was waking up, and with it, all his responsibilities.

  A son…it was what anyone with a title aimed for, and yet Braedon could not care about it all.

  “And if you don’t get a move on soon, you are going to have to wait until next year to find a potential bride,” chimed Chester into his thoughts. “All the good ones will be gone!”

  A thought flashed through Braedon’s mind––more an image than a thought. There he was, standing at the altar in a church that looked rather like Westminster Abbey, and there was…

  A bride. She was beautiful, gown sweeping behind her, veil covering her face. Braedon’s breath caught in his throat. Who was she? How had he managed to secure such a beautiful woman?

  Her hands moved as she approached him. Facing him, she slowly lifted her veil to reveal––

  Emma. She was smiling at him. Braedon’s stomach lurched.

  “Braedon, are you quite well?”

  “Wh-What? Never better,” said Braedon hastily, pushing aside the thought.

  It would not do to lose his head entirely. He had spent––what, perhaps twenty minutes in her company? Twenty minutes meant nothing. She was bored, probably. Bored and wishing to speak to someone at Mrs. Marnion’s card party who was not dull.

  The fact that he ranked in the “not dull” category, considering who was there last night, was no achievement.

  “I have a few friends I can introduce you to,” Chester was saying bracingly. “Most of them relatively well-born, a few with dowries that are most impressive…”

  Braedon allowed his friend to chatter on. It gave him the opportunity to think of Emma, though he knew it was a fool’s errand to even consider her.

  Emma would never consider being his mistress, let alone wife! He was not the sort of gentleman she was hoping for, he was certain. He wasn’t particularly wealthy––at least, not like Marnmouth was.