Always the Mistress (Never the Bride Book 11)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  “But you have a plan, do you not?” Emma had said with a reassuring smile, placing her hand comfortingly on his arm.

  And Fitz had nodded, that wild look in his eyes. It told her he had a plan, but he was not entirely sure about it. It had not done much to calm her nerves.

  But surely, he was clever enough to work it out, Emma thought as she continued to walk, the gravel wearing down to the soil where her feet moved. No, she was confident he had it. He was trusted by Marnmouth, that was the most important thing. That would make it easy.

  Easy. Emma smiled and remembered how easily Fitz had agreed to attempt to steal the ring in the first place. It had been the first real test of his loyalty to her, though she had not intended it to be. He had instantly promised any help, any favor, and it was really too bad that the first request she could make of him was so…well, close to criminality.

  “Of course, anything you want, anything at all. You only have to ask.”

  Emma whirled around and looked across the park. In this gray, dull day, few people ventured out for a constitutional. She would see Fitz arriving a mile off. She knew his walk now, the way he held himself. The style of his top hat, the cut of his jacket.

  Almost as well as she knew every inch of his body…

  Emma shivered, despite the warmth of her pelisse.

  Why was she wondering whether she was doing the right thing?

  Emma swallowed down her fears, but she could not ignore them. After the heartbreak of losing Marnmouth––or rather more accurately, of being lost by him––was she ready to open her heart again? Was she ready to be a mistress?

  Because she cared about Fitz. Despite her determination to be aloof as well as charming…somehow, that man had managed to creep under her skin and into her heart.

  Look what happened with Marnmouth. Emma tasted the bile rising in her throat. She had loved him, devoted herself to him. She had been loyal to him, and what had happened?

  “We have parted ways. I have never lied to you, Emma. We are nothing to each other now.”

  Emma found her hands were fists and allowed them to relax. He had cast her off the…the brigand! Though she had devoted herself entirely, she had been meaningless to him.

  Fitz was not like that. Her feelings for him were different, yes, but no less complicated. She was more herself with him, more free. She spoke more openly, and when he looked at her with that adoring smile, parts of her melted that had nothing to do with making love.

  “Miss Tilbury!”

  Turning around slowly, making the most of the first moment she would see him this day, Emma smiled as she saw him striding toward her.

  Fitz. He was grinning, her heart fluttering in a way that was almost painful, and best of all, in his hand was a small box that she recognized.

  “Fitz!”

  Throwing caution to the wind and ignoring anyone who may see her, Emma ran forward and threw herself into his arms.

  Evidently, he had been hoping for such a reaction. He reciprocated immediately, pulling her close and squeezing her tight, as though it had been months since they had last seen each other.

  How long they stood in their tight embrace, Emma could not tell. Time did something strange whenever she was with Fitz, and she could not understand it. Five seconds, five minutes, five hours…what did it matter? All she wanted was his strong arms around her to protect her.

  When he eventually pulled away, his cheeks were red. “Gosh, Emma, I…well, I should not have done that, I suppose. People will talk.”

  Emma laughed. “Yes, probably, although they will only guess what I hope will soon be the truth.”

  His blush deepened, and Emma congratulated herself on a carefully constructed hint. Surely he would understand, wouldn’t he?

  “Here,” he said eagerly, pushing the ring box into her hands.

  Emma did look around at this. It would never do for anyone to casually observe Viscount Braedon offering Miss Tilbury, the harlot, a ring box!

  But there was no one close by, and Emma took it eagerly, opening up the clasp and revealing…

  Ah. Yes. The twisting panic in her stomach, which had been ever present since she had been parted with it, was gone. The signet ring she had christened her insurance when she had…acquired it. Nestled in the blue velvet, exactly where she had left it.

  Emma breathed a sigh of relief. She was saved, then. Being Fitz’s mistress was still her immediate goal, and it was a position, if secured, that she would undoubtedly enjoy. But she would no longer be dependent on him. Not him or anyone else.

  “Oh, Fitz, thank you!” Emma kissed him on the cheek.

  “––nothing at all,” he was saying, unable to look at her as he spoke. “Truly, I would not have expected such praise for such a small thing.”

  “But it is not a very small thing, except in basic dimensions,” said Emma, and she meant every word. “I tell you, Fitz, you have done me a greater service than you could ever understand. One day, I hope you will comprehend, but for now, you must simply accept that I am in your debt.”

  Snapping the box shut, Emma placed the box in the reticule on her arm. It would never do to lose it, not after the hassle she––and Fitz, of course––had gone through to retrieve it.

  Would Marnmouth ever know it was gone? Emma did not think so. She was still not entirely sure if he knew about it in the first place. The less Marnmouth knew, at this point, the better.

  “Oh, Fitz!” Emma could not restrain herself, throwing herself into his arms once more and this time bestowing him a kiss on the lips.

  Fitz held her, his lips eagerly capturing her own, reveling in the pleasure of their kiss, until he remembered where he was.

  “Emma! I mean, Miss Tilbury!” he said hurriedly, flushed with pleasure but looking a little shocked. “Not in public! Your reputation!”

  Emma almost laughed aloud. Her reputation? He really was as innocent as he looked.

  Glancing around theatrically, which only made him laugh, Emma said quietly, “I have not the slightest concern of anyone around us knowing how I feel about you, Fitz, so do not worry yourself.”

  He was delighted, and Emma found to her surprise that for the first time, she had not overly flattered…and meant every word.

  It was a strange feeling.

  “Come, let us walk,” said Emma hastily. Anything to distract her. “I would spend a little more time with you this afternoon, Fitz, if you are not engaged.”

  Why did he look at her so strangely when she said that? “Of course. I am not engaged today.”

  It was a bizarre way to put it, but Emma did not comment. With her arm in Fitz’s, they walked sedately along the same path in the Hyde Park where she had anxiously paced before receiving the ring box that was to save her.

  “So you will have to tell me,” she said quietly, “how you managed it so quickly! I thought you said yesterday that you would consider last night a…what did you call it? A practice run?”

  “A recce,” Fitz said with a laugh. “A hangover from Eton days, that phrase. Yes, well, I had no real plan to obtain it, and I worried about it all afternoon, but then the evening downpour gave me the perfect excuse to allow myself to become drenched, and then naturally be shown up to Marnmouth’s––to his dressing room.”

  Emma giggled. “How did you make it look as though you were drenched?”

  Fitz gave a wry smile. “’Tis nothing like the real thing, I have found.”

  It took a few moments for her to understand what he meant. “What, you didn’t––Fitz, do not tell me you were genuinely soaked to the skin!”

  Her concern for him seemed, if anything, to buoy him. “Why, of course! I could not risk being found out as only having a slightly damp coat, now could I?”

  Emma shook her head as she smiled. “But Fitz, you may have caught a cold! How do you think I could live with myself if you were sick? How do you feel? Hot? Clammy?”

  But Fitz was shrugging off her concerns. “I have an excellent constitut
ion, and you asked me to get it, you know. I could not let you down. I wanted to make you smile.”

  The guilt only just kept at bay poured back into her soul. The power she had over him, it was precisely what she had wanted.

  “You are very quiet, Emma.”

  Emma jumped, startled. So lost in her thoughts, she had barely remembered she was supposed to be on a romantic walk in the park with Fitz.

  She smiled. “I suppose I am just attempting to imagine how you must have felt in that moment, finding the riding boots and––”

  “Which were on the wrong side of the room, by the way,” cut in Fitz with a wry smile. “That gave me a small heart attack.”

  Emma giggled. “And were you able to have a nice evening, with stolen booty in your pocket?”

  It was Fitz’s turn to laugh as they rounded a corner. “I did feel a little like a pirate, ’tis true, but I was able to have a good evening. Larnwick talked a little too much about his wedding, and Marnmouth, a little too less.”

  Emma stopped dead in her tracks. “Marnmouth was talking about his wedding?”

  She had dropped Fitz’s arm, though not intentionally, as her mind whirled and her heart thundered painfully.

  Marnmouth was getting married?

  It did not make sense. Why was this such a shock when she had proven to herself only months ago that she no longer loved him? Kissing Marnmouth had not excited her like it had when she kissed Fitz. It was Fitz she wanted! Marnmouth was her past!

  But try as she might, it did not matter that Fitz had somehow supplanted Marnmouth in her heart. It was still a shock to hear that Philip would be getting married.

  “Now, when I say wedding, you must not take it so literally,” Fitz said hastily. “Nothing official, of course, and I would get into awful trouble with them both if I was seen to be spreading gossip about––they are not engaged, but I see the way he looks at Sophia Worsley––there will be a marriage there, I would stake––well, not my life on it, but something significant!”

  Fitz laughed as though he had made a very funny joke, but Emma just stared as though he was speaking a foreign language.

  Marnmouth. Married.

  “How silly of me to mention it, when ’tis not even confirmed,” Fitz was saying, reaching out for her arm and pulling her along with him as he started to walk again. “There is probably enough gossip and rumor about those two without me adding to it!”

  Emma nodded mechanically, unable to find words. She was still attempting to search her heart and understand what had occurred when she had found herself so startled at the news.

  “––quite well, Emma?”

  Emma blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Fitz smiled weakly. “You are very quiet still.”

  “I…I know. I was just thinking about our weekend at Tidgley Manor––in truth, I can hardly get it out of my mind,” Emma lied. “Would it be possible to arrange another weekend at the manor? I…I would love to spend more time there. With you.”

  At least the latter phrases were not lies, she told herself. What was happening to her?

  “Well,” said Fitz, taking a deep breath, “instead of organizing another weekend, I thought…I thought we could make it more a permanent thing.”

  Emma’s heart leapt.

  Fitz halted his steps and looked at her seriously. “You do not like my suggestion.”

  “No, that is not it at all! I love the suggestion,” Emma said. “It is just…well, I admit, I have been hoping you would ask me that very question. Now hearing it from your lips…it is exactly what I wanted.”

  The smile on his face was still a little hesitant. “So…so you accept?”

  Emma took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, Fitz, I will be your mistress.”

  It was the culmination of so much hoping and longing, and Emma found a weight lifted as she said those words.

  She had expected Fitz to be just as happy, but instead, he looked confused.

  “What do you mean?” he said slowly. “I am asking––mistress? Emma, I am asking you to be my wife.”

  The words did not sink in. Wife? Wife?

  “Wife? You––you cannot be serious?”

  Had he ever mentioned anything about being his wife before? Emma racked her brains but could not recall a single occurrence.

  “Y-You are a viscount!” Emma spluttered. “You are a good man––you cannot possibly want an old mistress as a wife!”

  “That is right, I do not,” said Fitz slowly with a broad smile. “Emma, you will just be a wife. My wife. Being a mistress, that will be your past. Our children will adore their mother for who she is, for who you are, and they won’t need to know about her past if we don’t want them to. That will be your decision.”

  He evidently expected her to throw herself into his arms again, to cry, to thank him, to accept.

  Emma did none of those things.

  Children. Her greatest strength as a mistress would be her undoing as a wife. Children? Heirs?

  Her mind flashed back to that long line of paintings in the hall of Tidgley Manor. All those other Braedons, and who would come after if she were Fitz’s wife? For all his talk about not caring about the future, she was certain he would feel differently if he were truly the last of his line.

  “I have startled you,” said Fitz quietly, taking her hands in his own. “I should have asked you in a more private setting.”

  “I…I certainly did not expect it, and I need to think about it. You––you do not mind if I think about it?”

  Fitz nodded, and it could not be clearer that he believed her acting out of politeness. Did not all ladies have to pretend they had not been expecting a proposal of marriage? The poor man thought she was simply following the rules of society, when in fact…

  “Of course, take your time,” he said gently. “My love for you is not going anywhere. Come, let us finish our walk.”

  Emma swallowed as they walked in silence to the edge of the park.

  He loved her. Fitz loved her? He had fallen in love with her like the fool he was, and now she had received a proposal she could not accept.

  What had she done?

  Chapter Fourteen

  “If your lordship would just stop fidgeting––please, my lord, hold still!”

  Braedon heard his poor valet, Morris, wince and turned to see the man sucking his finger. One of the pins he had been using to adjust Braedon’s waistcoat had––due entirely to his fidgeting––pricked him.

  “I do apologize, Morris,” said Braedon quickly. “I am just…well. I do not quite know how to describe.”

  “Do not attempt it,” said the valet hastily. “Please, my lord. Focus on the waistcoats. You have managed to whittle them down to three. Now. Which do you want to wear?”

  There was a weary tone in the servant’s voice, and Braedon could not blame him. They had been here, in his townhouse dressing room, for––what was the time? Twenty minutes?

  All to decide which waistcoat to wear, and they seemed no closer to a decision than when they had started. Braedon’s excitement welled in his chest, and he bounced on his heels.

  “Ouch!”

  “Oh, yes, sorry, Morris.”

  Braedon’s guilt for his poor valet’s situation melted away as he gazed in the looking glass. In this very moment, he was a bachelor. Unattached. Unappreciated by most ladies.

  By tomorrow morning, he would be an engaged man. Emma would give him her answer, and they would start planning the rest of their lives together.

  “The blue,” said Morris in a tired voice, stepping away from the bouncing viscount to indicate the first of the waistcoats on the bed. “A classic color in a classic cut.”

  “But is it too classic? Is it dull, dependable––expected?” Braedon had never agonized over a decision like this, but it had to be perfect.

  This evening had to be perfect. Just like Emma. Just like their lives were going to be.

  “Or the green? The green is a little different, shows
one’s personality, but is still well within the bounds of society,” said Morris, pointing to the second waistcoat on the bed.

  “I still like the red,” said Braedon, tugging at the waistcoat inexpertly pinned on him.

  His valet took a deep, calming breath with his eyes shut, and Braedon felt guilty for putting the poor man through such strain and at his age.

  “Yes, the red is very dashing, and the velvet finish will certainly make you stand out,” Morris said patiently. “But I say again, my lord, and I cannot emphasize this enough. It does not fit you.”

  “It almost does,” said Braedon, turning around in front of the looking glass in an attempt to see his back, almost toppling over. “Just a few nips, that is what you said when––”

  “If you cannot stay still, I cannot make good!”

  Braedon bit his lip and looked back to the waistcoats on the bed. Never before had wearing the right clothes mattered. Honestly, his valet had given up attempting impressive cravat ties and adjusting his collar points to follow the fashions.

  Tonight was different. Tonight, he was going to see Emma Tilbury and hear the words he had longed for.

  “If only it was a simple decision.”

  Morris really did roll his eyes this time. “My lord, they are essentially the same.”

  “Yes, but different,” said Braedon. “Tonight I must make the right impression.”

  The valet raised an eyebrow as he gingerly approached his master with a pin. “Why? ’Tis only a––”

  “Please be careful what language you use to describe Miss Tilbury, man,” said Braedon curtly. “She is a good friend to me, and I will not hear a word against her.”

  He had not intended to be so terse, but when Emma was his wife, his servants would have to get into the habit of speaking respectfully to her as their mistress. A different kind of mistress. That time started now, as far as he was concerned.

  Morris swallowed. “I was going to say, only a house call, not a ball.”

  Due to the positioning of the mirror and the fact the poor man had several pins in his mouth, Braedon did not whip round to examine his face in case he was telling falsehoods.