“It…it must have been awful.”
The carriage jolted as Emma nodded. “It was, but then a gentleman arrived who was far wealthier than any of our previous patrons. He had heard about me, had heard of my…talents. He wished to see me. His name was Philip Egerton, the Earl of Marnmouth. He…”
Emma’s voice trailed away again, and her cheeks flushed. It could not be clearer that she felt uncomfortable mentioning her previous protector before him, but Braedon nodded and smiled. Anything to encourage her to continue. Anything to know what happened next.
“He…he enjoyed me, and then we got to talking. He discovered I had no freedom, that I could not leave Madam’s place. Worse, in his eyes, there was no knowing how many gentlemen I would make love to before he could return. And so, he bought me.”
Braedon’s mouth fell open, boiling outrage pouring out. “Bought––bought you? You are not a thing that can be bought and sold. You are not a possession!”
Despite his outburst, Emma merely smiled. “Really? What is a dowry?”
Braedon closed his mouth.
“Who owns a woman’s property when she is married?” Emma persisted. “Can she keep her fortune? Even her children are considered the property of her husband.”
Braedon did not know what to say. How could he have not seen this before? How had it never occurred to him?
Emma was smiling. “You are unusual in thinking that way, I think, Fitz. Besides, being Marnmouth’s possession was a damn sight better than the life I had before.”
Shame flowed through his body. Braedon could not comprehend the idea that being owned by a gentleman you had just met could be an improvement––but then, he had never frequented a place like that. Who knew what depths of depravity they held, what lows of humanity?
Emma’s voice was tired. She had battled through life to find some sort of happiness, that much was clear, and though he wanted to ask more about her and Marnmouth, this was not the right moment.
There was one question, however, he had to ask. “Are you in love with Marnmouth?”
There was a pause as Emma considered his question. “Not anymore.”
How could he comfort her when his jealousy had once again returned to poison his heart? It was foolish. There was not a woman in society, even the most innocent, who did not have a past, even if that was only a bruised heart.
Now all he had to do was make her happy, to wipe away the pain of the past.
Braedon reached out and took Emma’s hand. “Anything I can do to make this weekend better for you, you must tell me.”
Emma smiled, the pain of the past disappearing from her face. She rose and moved to sit beside him.
Her kiss was warm, deep, and yet still restrained. Braedon lost himself in the connection, breathing in her scent, his arms around her, pulling her as close as he could.
Not close enough.
“Anything that can be done to make this weekend better?” Emma winked. “I think you will find that is my job.”
Chapter Nine
“And mind you keep it tidy.” Mrs. Loughton’s stern voice echoed around the room, and Emma attempted to look demure. “I have it the way it is for a reason. I have no wish to see it altered.”
The housekeeper deigned to give Emma a slight bob––nothing so serious as an actual courtesy, but enough so she could not be accused of rudeness––and slammed the door behind her.
Emma took a deep breath and looked around the bedchamber she had been shown to by Fitz’s housekeeper. Large, well-apportioned, with a long chaise lounge in one corner and an armchair in the other. Sunlight streamed in through a beautiful, wide oriel window, and as she stepped toward it, more of the gardens appeared.
Tidgley Manor. Fitz had downplayed its beauty and significance.
“’Tis just a small house, seven bedrooms, stable yard, a bit of parkland.”
It was a Tudor mansion, all spiraling chimneys and windows, and she had never seen such luscious gardens in her life. The green lawns seeped into well-managed parkland and then woodland.
Something hot rushed through her soul, and Emma did not immediately recognize the emotion, only recognizing it as she watched a pair of magpies swoop past the window.
Happiness. Tidgley Manor made her happy. This was precisely the sort of place she had once dreamed of living. A place where she could thrive, grow a few roses, and see the seasons come and go.
It was certainly not as large as any of Marnmouth’s places. She had traveled around England, even ventured into Wales, to visit all of his other estates. Emma had enjoyed those journeys while longing for more incredible adventures, perhaps even going abroad. But none of those houses, even those twice as large as Tidgley Manor, had the same…feel.
Emma could not put her finger on it. This home had no ballroom nor sufficient bed chambers to invite half of polite society. The parkland was suitable but not extensive. The drive was but half a mile. The fact that she preferred it beyond all others was a strange one.
Every room Mrs. Loughton had shown her had contained personal touches––from Fitz, or any number of the previous Braedons who had called this place home, she was not sure.
Emma looked around the bedchamber. There was a small bookshelf beside the bed. She pulled out a book and opened it. Inscribed in a delicate hand was Abraham Fitzclarence.
She smiled. There was something very warming about being in a place that was so obviously loved. None of Marnmouth’s homes had the same feeling. They had not changed in fifty years. He didn’t seem to be able to bring himself to make any changes. Perhaps, if this flirtation with Miss Worsley was in any way serious, that might, itself, be a thing of the past.
Moving back to her trunk, she placed it on the bed and opened it. She had not been exaggerating when she had told Fitz she had not brought many gowns with her.
What was the point? It was only fancy ladies needing to impress who considered numerous gowns for a weekend an absolute essential. Where was her need? They were only staying two days, and she was already wearing a gown.
Besides, she did not expect to spend much time dressed.
It took but a few minutes to clear her trunk. Just a little jewelry, all glass now, of course. The pawnbrokers had the best of her jewels. Trunk empty, she placed it beneath the bed.
The one she had not unpacked, which others in her…profession, let’s call it, would use were preservatives. She had brought nothing to prevent a child.
Emma smiled wryly as she straightened up. One could not be a prostitute in a brothel for a few years, then a gentleman’s mistress for almost seven years, without realizing there would be no children for her.
It had hurt, at first. Then it had felt like she was no woman at all. And then she came to the realization that this was best.
If she was ever going to carry a child, that would have already happened. Barren was not a word she liked, and she was careful never to use it around others.
Yet, there was no way around it. She could never conceive, and in a way, it was a blessing. She would never have to worry about creating a life that would never be loved, as her mother had.
Emma’s heart hardened as she sat on the bed and looked out the window. Really, it was her best feature as a mistress. What man wanted a mistress who was likely to bear him a child?
How long she sat there in the comfort and safety of a luxurious room, she did not know. It had been so long since she had felt this safe.
The peace was broken by a knock on the door.
“Enter.”
Fitz was revealed, and Emma beamed before remembering to moderate her excitement. It would never do to give him too much encouragement. Not until they had come to some sort of formal arrangement.
It was a far cry from when she had flirted with him at Mrs. Marnion’s card party. She could not remember the last time she had to remind herself to flirt with Braedon. It came naturally now. He made her happy.
“You are all settled in, then?” Fitz closed the door. “Not to
o tired from the journey?”
Emma shook her head. “No, it was just long enough to enjoy the journey but short enough that I did not get tired. The last thing I would wish to do is miss out on some of my time here. No time for naps––besides, it is almost lunchtime.”
“Yes, I have instructed the kitchens to get going,” said Fitz. As Emma rose, he continued, “But instead of a meal here, I thought…well, I know how much you enjoy riding.”
Emma’s heart leapt. “You did mention a stable yard, I think, in your description of Tidgley Manor.”
Fitz grinned as he leaned against the wall. “I did, didn’t I––that would be the bit you remembered from our carriage ride here!”
Emma had to remind herself this was the same shy gentleman she had caused to almost explode with blushing just a month ago, as she laughed with him.
He was so…so content. Being in his own home had brought a confidence she hadn’t seen before. It was not only mesmerizing but…well. He was damned attractive. If he had been like this in town, she would have tried for him the moment Marnmouth had released her.
“I think, if I ask nicely, I can get Mrs. Loughton to make up a picnic,” said Fitz with a chuckle. “What do you say to a ride around the parkland? Get up an appetite?”
Emma could not think of a better way to spend the afternoon. “You have hit upon an excellent idea––but I will need to borrow a riding cloak, I am afraid. I did not think to bring such a thing with me.”
“I knew your trunk was too light!” crowed Fitz, a cheeky grin on his face.
“You knew nothing of the sort!” Emma shot back with a laugh. “Besides, I think you will rather like a few of the things I did bring in my trunk. Now, are you going to lend me a riding cloak or not?”
There it was––the Braedon blush, as Emma thought of it. The mere suggestion and there was that blushing gentleman she knew so well.
“Y-Yes, of course,” said Fitz with a nod. “As long as you don’t mind wearing one of mine––I must admit, I do not have any riding cloaks designed for ladies.”
It was perfect. He was perfect. “Excellent.”
After descending the staircase together, Fitz left her in the hallway as he stepped into the servant quarters to speak to Mrs. Loughton. Emma looked around the spacious room and marveled once more at the beauty of the place. Stylish, but not so fashionable that the home would need to be redecorated every other year.
There were many paintings, and on one wall, there was a line of gentlemen all with the same gray, stormy eyes. Emma walked along the line as though traveling through time. Though each painting was in a different style, as befit the tastes of the time, it was clear they were all related. All Braedons.
“All sorted!”
Emma turned to see Fitz smiling.
“Yes, Mrs. Loughton has agreed it will be much less trouble for her if we eat outside,” he continued, “so the picnic will be sent to the stables.”
Emma nodded. “I have just been making the acquaintance of your forefathers?”
“Making the acquaintance of oh, I see! Yes, the Braedons,” said Fitz with a laugh. “Yes, it was my mother who had the idea to move the paintings from around the house and put them here––though to be honest, I hardly notice them anymore.”
Only a gentleman with absolute knowledge of his lineage could be so relaxed. “You do not value your ancestors?”
Fitz shrugged. “I suppose.”
He stepped forward for a closer look, and Emma was reminded of the resemblance.
He was a gentleman, and not just a gentleman, but a viscount in a long line of them. And that line would need to continue, wouldn’t it? He was a man who needed to marry well and breed heirs.
One day, there would be a painting of Fitz at the end of that line, and after him, his son. The thought made Emma shiver. It was a part of his future she could have no part of.
“The past does not really bother me,” said Fitz slowly, looking at what must be his great-grandfather. “The future I cannot predict. I focus on the present, and that is a gift.”
He turned to look at her, and she melted. Where was this depth of feeling and understanding in all the other gentlemen of society? How had someone like Fitz gone to the same schools, attended the same universities, and ended up so different, so wonderful?
Fitz coughed. “The stable yard?”
Emma nodded. The sooner she was thinking about something other than Fitz, the better.
As she had expected for a Tudor mansion, the stables were connected to the house at the back. Emma exclaimed with delight as she saw a graceful mare waiting for her, a groomsman carefully fixing a side-saddle onto her back.
“Oh, no,” she said, swiftly stepping forward. “A gentleman’s saddle, if you please.”
She could see Fitz’s surprised face out of the corner of her eye and laughed as the groomsman looked to his master for confirmation.
“Come on now, side-saddle? Do you know how difficult it is to retain one’s balance in one of those things?” Emma laughed. “Do not look so shocked. I would have thought you would expect something wild from me!”
He gave a nod to the groomsman, who immediately started to unbuckle the side-saddle.
“You still surprise me,” said Fitz shaking his head. “You rode side-saddle in Hyde Park when we had that race…”
Emma knew he was thinking of the same moment she was: that scandalous kiss she cheated him for, hidden by the trees.
If only they could share another few kisses like that…
“Of course I rode side-saddle. I was in public,” Emma said. “I am not entirely shamefaced, but I have to tell you, riding this way is far more comfortable.”
“I shall have to take your word for it,” said Fitz languidly as he mounted his stallion.
Emma raised an eyebrow as her groom started affixing the normal saddle onto her mare. “Careful, or I shall suggest you try the side-saddle!”
Thanks to the speed of the groom, it was only a few minutes until the two horses were walking slowly through the gardens.
“Now, we can start here and then head through the kitchen gardens because that gives us a natural movement to the parkland,” Fitz said, pointing out their route. “There is a particular place I think we will picnic, ’tis one of my favorites. Ready?”
Emma smiled. “Born ready.”
As their steeds took them around the flowerbeds, Fitz kept up an almost constant monologue––but it was so interesting, Emma did not mind.
“I think it was my grandfather––no, perhaps his brother? One of that generation who decided to put in these larger borders. The roses run wild. I do almost nothing with them. Here, that tree was a favorite of mine when I was younger. Very easy to climb…”
Emma tried to take it all in. Fitz’s words, the beauty of the gardens, the lake, the sweeping lawns…
It was like paradise.
Beauty rose from around every corner. Even this late in the season, it was impossible to understand how so much color and vibrancy could exist in one place. The carefully manicured lawns and delicately weeded beds slowly made way to wilder borders, left to their own devices, until they reached the parkland.
“––and I am boring you.”
“No––no, not in the slightest!” Emma smiled, trying to show her enjoyment. “This place, the history of your family with each blade of grass…it is mesmerizing.”
Fitz beamed. “Yes, I love it here. Tidgley Manor has been home for me, for every Braedon, for generations.”
“I do not know how you ever manage to leave,” said Emma honestly as their horses started to trot a little, moving toward the woodland to the north of the house.
“Honestly? I think I only manage it because there is no one to keep me here. Tidgley Manor is isolated, remote. Perfect for a retreat, but I miss company after a while, which takes me to London. One day…one day I would like someone to keep me here.”
He was looking wistfully into the distance as he spoke, an
d Emma swallowed. Was that a guarded comment pointed toward her? Was he asking her to be his mistress permanently, to be established here?
It made sense. She could hide here, enjoying the splendor of the landscape, and he could come whenever he wanted and enjoy her.
Before she could ask the delicate question, Fitz spoke. “Here, this is where I thought we could sit for our picnic.”
Just before them was a grove of trees, silver birches by the look of them, which had formed a cluster at the edge of the woodland. They would be hidden from view for miles.
She smiled. “I agree, and it is warm for the time of year.”
Fitz jumped down from his horse and held out his hand. Emma took it and slipped off her mare and into Fitz’s arms.
He held her close for a moment. She looked into his eyes, bright and clear––and fixed on her.
Surely he could feel her heart thumping. She could feel his. There was something about him. Something that made her heart sing.
“The…the picnic basket is here,” said Fitz quietly, releasing her and turning to the saddle packs. “And a picnic blanket, too, I believe.”
Emma breathed out slowly before she was able to say, “Excellent.”
This was madness. She had not felt like this for a gentleman since…well, since Marnmouth.
Fitz laid out the picnic rug and started opening up the different food Mrs. Loughton had sent them. “After we eat, I would like to ask you…well, I have a scheme in mind and would like to know if…”
His voice trailed away, but Emma’s heart was thundering again. This was it, and it was clear that if they were going to move forward––as they both clearly wished––it would be her who needed to speak.
“Are you asking me to be your mistress?”
Chapter Ten
Braedon swallowed.
“Are you asking me to be your mistress?”
Hearing Emma say those words aloud had made him shiver. The mere suggestion he could…that they would…
It was everything he had hoped. Since the moment he had seen her, Braedon had wanted her. This desire ran deeper than he knew. More than just her body. He wanted everything that made her who she was.
Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11) Page 9