Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Was this it? Was this the moment? Was he about to ask her to be his mistress?

  It would certainly give her the protection she so desperately needed. If her purse was not light enough to convince her, the last twenty minutes in the park demonstrated that a gentleman’s protection could do far more to keep one safe.

  “Would you like to attend the Larnwick Ball with me next week?”

  The words came out as a rush, and for a moment, Emma had to work out what Braedon had said. She looked up through her eyelashes and saw the nervousness she would expect on a green lad just coming up for his first Season.

  He truly cared about her, she realized, and about her response. She had the power to make this viscount very happy or utterly miserable.

  And after all, though the Duke of Larnwick was off-limits––his betrothed could hardly have made it more obvious––there were bound to be plenty of other rich and ennobled gentlemen in attendance. In case this flirtation with Braedon did not go the distance.

  True, attending with Braedon would make flirting with them a little difficult… She should say no. She could find another way into the ball without him. Saying no was the best––

  “I accept,” Emma found herself saying, almost without conscious thought, and was rewarded by another one of those brilliant smiles.

  Chapter Six

  Braedon discovered the bottom of his glass of wine a little sooner than expected and blinked at it in surprise.

  Another glass of wine?

  Time to slow down, he told himself as the other guests mingled. He had only arrived at the Larnwick ball an hour ago, and that was his third glass. He could not afford to lose his head, not now he had achieved something he had never considered possible before this evening.

  He was attending a social occasion with Miss Emma Tilbury on his arm.

  Well, almost. She had been rather reticent about the location of her rooms when he had offered to collect her in his carriage. It was only after the conversation that it struck him she was embarrassed about her abode.

  So, Miss Tilbury had arrived, alone, about ten minutes ago. She had beamed, lighting up the room and sparking his soul into life, and now she was standing beside him, laughing with his acquaintance Mercia as though they had been friends for years.

  He had introduced them only five minutes ago. How was it possible that she could slip so easily into comfortable conversation with a person she had just met?

  Braedon could not take his eyes off her. Dressed in a muslin gown with only a little embroidery at the cuffs, Emma still outshone every other woman at the ball. If he were not mistaken, that was the reason why she was receiving so many furious glances from other ladies, dressed to their eyeballs in feathers, ribbons, and diamonds.

  They could not hold a candle to her, and they knew it.

  “But where have you been hiding yourself?” Mercia said to Emma with a wry smile. “To think that society has been starved of your presence these last few months, ’tis a terrible shame, Miss Tilbury.”

  Braedon stiffened. Mercia obviously had not heard the rumors, though goodness knew how––of course.

  The duke was only entering society when Emma and Marnmouth were separating. Braedon’s jaw clenched as he remembered the callous way the earl had disposed of his most loyal mistress. It had infuriated him then, and it infuriated him now.

  Glancing at Miss Tilbury, however, she did not seem to consider anything amiss. On the contrary, she laughed at Mercia’s words.

  “Ah, well, if one knew where to look, Your Grace, you would always have been able to enjoy my company. May I be so bold as to suggest that you were simply not invited to the right parties?”

  She spoke with such laughter that Mercia could not help but chuckle, and Braedon breathed a sigh of relief. It was critical Miss Tilbury not only enjoy herself this evening, he told himself, but also that she was able to…well, impress.

  If she was to be his mistress, which he longed for, she would need to regain a little of the respectability she had enjoyed under Marnmouth’s patronage.

  Or, whispered a little voice in his head, was that because Marnmouth was a more impressive man than you?

  “It is settled, then,” Mercia said with a grin. “Any party you attend is now officially the right sort, and anyone else is simply not to be considered.”

  Emma was laughing, and Braedon’s heart swelled to see her so happy. This was what he wanted. If he had not come across her in the park those days ago, he could not guess what would have happened…

  “If you were a duke from birth, I would say that was flattery,” said Emma with a smile. “But as you’ve so recently gained it, I shall take it as truth, and thank you for it!”

  Braedon swallowed. Had she gone too far? Mercia was a duke now, after all, and he might not take too kindly to––

  “My word, ’tis a delight to meet someone so refreshing!” Mercia nudged Braedon. “I do not know where you found her, Braedon, but she needs to meet my wife. She’s around here somewhere…”

  The duke started looking around, but it was impossible in the growing crush to make anyone out. The Larnwick ball had hired Almack’s, and every noteworthy and noble person in London and beyond seemed to have been invited.

  The chatter of friends reconnecting, gossip being shared, and the slow tuning sounds of musicians in the other room was overwhelming.

  He glanced at Emma––damnit, Miss Tilbury.

  “––introduce me to your wife at another time,” she was saying, smoothing down the folds of her gown and drawing attention to her slender waist.

  Surely she could not, even now, be sizing up Mercia as a potential protector? He could hardly blame her. A duke, even one who only received his title a few years ago, was far more impressive than a viscount. More prestige, deeper pockets…

  Everyone thought the Duke of Mercia was happy with his wife…

  “––chaperone, bless her, but society can be very trying for ladies of a certain…”

  Braedon allowed Mercia’s words to wash over him. He was charming. Of course, he was. Worst of all, he was charming Miss Tilbury right in front of him, though the man probably had no idea what Braedon’s hopes for this evening had been.

  Braedon saw everywhere there were gentlemen who looked more comfortable, more wealthy, better suited to Emma.

  His gaze was once again drawn back to her. She was perfection. All these years of watching her, longing for her, trying to keep his obsession under control, and the first chance he had to escort her to a ball?

  His tongue had fallen silent, and he had been utterly unable to impress her.

  Memories surfaced of their walks in the park, that ride during which he had stolen a kiss.

  What did it all mean?

  “Don’t you think, Braedon?”

  Emma smiled, and Braedon jerked back to the conversation, utterly lost as to the topic.

  “Oh, yes,” he said blindly with a nervous smile. “Yes, whatever you say, Miss Tilbury.”

  Had she noticed his lack of attention? A gentleman Braedon did not recognize joined their party, desirous of making Miss Tilbury’s acquaintance––of course!

  Braedon attempted not to glare at the newcomer but instead inclined his head in a short nod. He could no longer ignore the funny looks being cast their way, and it could not be a coincidence. The former mistress of the Earl of Marnmouth was here, a scandalous invitation. How had the Duke of Larnwick allowed it?

  Braedon tried to clear his throat, but it was dry, unable to make a noise.

  Perhaps he had been foolish to have invited her to a duke’s ball.

  Braedon could not help but smile as he beheld her. His Emma.

  It was most indecent to think of her as his Emma when they had done naught but kiss the once, and there was no understanding between them. But every inch of him was on fire for her.

  Was it too much that she would one day feel the same?

  “You harlot!”

  He shivered at the
memory of what had been shouted at her in the park, despite the unbearable heat of the room. To hear such things…it could not be allowed to continue. He would never allow bullying of any kind and against Emma…

  “––when I was in York,” said Emma.

  “Oh, I did not know you had traveled so far north,” said Mercia. “My sort of country! My actual county, now I come to think of it. Who did you travel with?”

  Braedon had not noticed the other gentleman leave, but he was grateful. Now perhaps he would be able to enter the conversation, and impress––

  “With a few people, including the Earl of Marnmouth and some friends,” Emma said nonchalantly. “I greatly admired the Minster at York, did you know––”

  “Ah, Marnmouth!” Mercia grinned and glanced about the room. “There’s another one I thought to have seen at Larnwick’s ball this evening, but I have not espied him yet. You know him well?”

  Braedon’s gaze flickered to Emma. If he could have saved her from such a pronouncement, he would have done––and yet there was no hint of embarrassment nor shame on her pale face.

  To the contrary, she smiled. “Oh yes, I knew him very well for several years. I wonder if he is attending tonight.”

  Braedon attempted to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a strange gargle.

  Both Emma and Mercia looked at him, the latter with concern.

  “My dear chap, you must be absolutely gasping for another glass of wine,” said Mercia sympathetically. “Here, let me see if I can find you––ah, there he is!”

  The entire trio had now turned around to look where the duke had pointed.

  “There, with Larnwick! Trust him to be cozying up to our host!”

  Braedon only glanced at Marnmouth for a moment. The earl was standing to the side of the room, and Emma’s cheeks finally flushed.

  “Well,” she said lightly, “that is worth knowing.”

  It was as though he had been punched in the stomach. Everything around his navel seemed to crumple as pain radiated across his chest.

  Braedon could not stop watching her; the way Emma’s eyes narrowed as she took in her previous protector, the light touch of her skirts to rearrange them, the tilt of her head.

  After all his hopes that he would convince her to be his mistress, did she just want to return to him––to Marnmouth?

  It was difficult to blame her. Perhaps she thought the gossip would stop if she was accepted by him again. Perhaps she was tired of being on her own.

  But before he could open his mouth to hint at any one or all of these thoughts, Emma turned away and smiled brightly at both himself and Mercia.

  “I hear he is courting Miss Worsley at the moment, have you heard?” Emma said with a secretive smile on her face. “I am not sure I envy her. His table manners are simply disgraceful!”

  Mercia laughed, and she giggled, too, and the conversation moved on. Braedon breathed out a sigh of relief after realizing he had ceased to take in air.

  Braedon glanced over his shoulder. Marnmouth appeared just as distracted in his conversation as he was in his own. The earl’s eyes were glancing at the doors to the ballroom every few seconds, as though waiting for someone.

  He swallowed. Emma Tilbury had been Marnmouth’s mistress for almost seven years, and during that time––and after––Braedon, had managed to get himself in hot water with his acquaintance due to his rather unrestrained admiration of her.

  What would the man say if he heard Braedon was pursuing her?

  He had never considered women as property, not really. Still, it was good manners after such a long-standing relationship between the two of them, to at least ask Marnmouth for permission.

  “What say you, Braedon?”

  And now felt like the perfect opportunity to do just that.

  “Viscount Braedon?”

  It was Emma’s voice that drew him back to the present.

  Braedon smiled briefly. “You will have to excuse me, Miss Tilbury, I need to…there is someone I have to speak to. I will be but a moment.”

  “Well, really, Braedon!” Mercia laughed heartily. “I do not think you very gallant, abandoning this lovely lady with whom you are attending old Larnwick’s knees up!”

  Braedon looked at Emma. “I…I really will be but a moment.”

  How could he put it into words? How could he tell her, show her perhaps, that he was only doing this so that they could have the chance of happiness together?

  Companionship, maybe. Maybe more.

  Emma took one of his hands and squeezed it. “Of course. I will be right here, waiting for you.”

  The warmth in her voice almost prevented him from stepping away, but Braedon steeled himself for the separation and turned around.

  Marnmouth was gone.

  Cursing under his breath and striding over to the place where he had been, Braedon looked around wildly. He could not have moved too far away, not in that short time. So where the devil was he?

  “Ah, Braedon!”

  He turned to see their host. “Good evening, Larnwick. Thank you once again for the invitation to––”

  “Yes, yes,” said Larnwick, waving away his words. “Yes, everyone who is anyone is here, which means I had almost no control over the guest list and only managed to invite my friends by throwing a tantrum, which was far beneath me.”

  Sarcasm dripped from his words, and in the duke’s irritation, his Scottish brogue was seeping through.

  Braedon gaped, utterly lost. “You…you did not…what?”

  Larnwick shrugged. “Ignore me. My betrothed is doing a very good job of that, at any rate.”

  It was impossible for Braedon to keep up, and with so much worry in his heart, he did the only thing he could do. He ignored it. “I am looking for Marnmouth.”

  “Marnmouth?” Larnwick looked around as though surprised he was not here. “Blaggard is in a foul mood tonight. I can tell you that.”

  Braedon’s heart sank as he was jostled by a group of rowdy young lads pushing past. “Really? Why?”

  Larnwick shrugged again. There was something despondent in his tone that Braedon, though only a recently made acquaintance, had never seen before.

  “You would think I would be happy at my own ball, and yet I cannot get Miss Lymington to…”

  The words continued, but Braedon’s attention did not. He had sufficient things to concern him and could not take in any additional stress. Besides, the ballroom was, if possible, getting even more full with each passing moment. If he was going to find Marnmouth, he had better do so soon.

  He only managed about ten yards before an imposing figure stepped in his path and glared ferociously.

  “Viscount Braedon,” said Lady Romeril, accosting him with a stern look.

  Braedon almost sighed, his shoulders slumping. Lady Romeril never took prisoners, was famous for it. The elderly lady held most of society in her sway, and there were many a young lady or green gentleman who found themselves on the wrong side of Lady Romeril––and therefore, of course, the wrong side of society.

  She took a deep breath. “I am very disappointed in you, Viscount Braedon.”

  It was so ridiculous, so unexpected, that Braedon almost smiled. His nature was, after all, that of a joker.

  “Goodness, Lady Romeril. What for?”

  His jocular tone did not go down well. “For attending this ball tonight with that harlot.”

  Braedon stared. Harlot? There were no harlots here, Larnwick would never allow a woman of––

  Only then did he realize who she was referring to. Emma. The nerve of the woman!

  “I would not speak that way of a lady,” he said stiffly.

  Lady Romeril snorted. “Lady? She’s been on her back for Marnmouth the last six years. What makes her a lady?”

  “The fact that she is here as my guest,” said Braedon. He would never have believed it possible for him to speak icily, and yet he did. The nerve! “And I would thank you to give her the same kindness
you would to any other woman here. Good evening.”

  It was only thanks to the crush of the ballroom that he was able to slip between two groups of chattering couples and escape the ogre. His sudden departure was, he knew, not precisely the right etiquette for a gentleman, but it was impossible to stand around and listen to such blatant bile any longer.

  How dare anyone speak about Emma like that? A part of his conscience reminded him that in the main…well, everyone did.

  Ten minutes of frantic searching in the crowd finally revealed Marnmouth, and without thinking, without allowing his brain to panic and hold him back, he stepped before the earl. “Marnmouth!”

  Marnmouth blinked as though astonished to see another human being. “Braedon?”

  Feigning far more bravery than he felt, Braedon reached out and shook his hand. “Excellent to see you, old boy––I had not realized you were invited!”

  It was evident Marnmouth had no interest in speaking to him––the false smile and the hasty removal of his hand was enough––but Braedon knew he had to keep going. This was his moment. It was now or never.

  “I am actually glad that I caught you, Marnmouth, because there is a question that I have hoped to ask you for a little while,” said Braedon, trying to keep his voice steady. “I have taken…well, a liking to Miss Tilbury, and I am emboldened to think she appreciates my company in return. I did not wish to discuss establishing…well, a relationship with her until I had gained your seal of approval, so I thought I would come to you.”

  The words had finally poured from his mouth, and Braedon took a deep breath at the end. There. It was said. Wasn’t it? Marnmouth was staring as though the entire thing had been in French.

  Perhaps further clarification was needed. It was unbearably loud in this damned place.

  “I would not act without your approval, of course, and so when I saw you were here…” Braedon’s voice trailed away. Marnmouth looked thunderous, as though he had been mortally offended. Christ, but this had been a mistake. “But you do not speak. Emma told me that it would not do to approach you. I have offended you. I ought not to have spoken.”

  “What? No, no, not at all,” said Marnmouth hastily. He was not entirely looking at Braedon as he continued, “No, you do as you will, Braedon, you know I would never stand in the way of––your decisions are your own.”