His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I don’t believe Miss Addison has an evil bone in her body. And the world is changing, Uncle. We modern men like women with lively minds.”

  “So you say. My observation is that the world is full of marriages that should have been avoided.”

  Bran looked in the direction of the house where he knew Lucy waited for a report. He’d said enough. Pushing the matter would only make it worse . . . especially if Kate told him that Bran had ordered her to leave, and she would. Extracting Christopher from her called for a delicate balance.

  Making a show of shaking his head as if he was coming to his senses, Bran said, “Then again, you might be right. Still, remember that your mother and I care for you very much. Your well-being is important to us.”

  Gracelessly, the duke answered, “Provided I do as you say.”

  Bran wanted to bark back. It took willpower to hold his tongue.

  At his uncle’s silence, Winderton finally said, “You needn’t worry. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want to do.” On those words, he rode off with a wave.

  Bran knew the interview with Lucy would not go half as well.

  Chapter Five

  As Bran had predicted, Lucy had not been pleased with his report that he’d given the actress until the morrow to leave. She’d wanted Kate chased out of the village with pitchforks and tar immediately.

  Since that wasn’t going to happen, she’d exacted a penance—he should be her escort to the dance. “His Grace has warned me he will be attending with friends,” she’d said. “I will not go alone.”

  Bran decided to be agreeable and do as his sister wished. So he took her to the dance.

  The duke had joined with them for an early dinner before taking himself off to meet his friends at The Garland. There was usually a good group of young men who drank Old Andy’s ale before rolling over to St. Martyr’s barn where the dance was held.

  Bran wished he could have excused himself and gone with his nephew—however he doubted if Christopher would have welcomed his company. Over dinner, his ward had been deliberately quiet around him. Bran decided to let him be.

  Besides, after several hours’ sleep, Bran had regained his perspective. A duke needed his pride. He could tolerate Christopher’s sulking.

  The decorations committee had outdone themselves. The old barn was lit up as if it was Vauxhall. Paper lanterns were strung from one end of the interior to the other, giving the barn’s whitewashed walls a festive air. The bouquets of spring flowers Bran had spied the ladies carrying in earlier were on tables and around the punch bowl.

  A trio of musicians sat on one end of the long room playing their hearts out for the enthusiastic dancers in front of them. Elsewhere were tables and chairs for those who didn’t wish to stand. Friends and relatives from other villages and counties attended so the whole event had the air of a well-regarded “crush,” that description of any gathering where people had to bump into each other to move.

  Everyone hailed Bran as if he was some sort of long-lost prodigal. Questions were asked about why he’d stayed in London for so long. He was bemused by the way people in Maidenshop believed that their little village was the privileged center of the universe in the same way Londoners were quite certain they were the gifted ones.

  However, it was good to be in the midst of everyone.

  Mars was on the dance floor with one of Squire Nelson’s pretty daughters. He came dancing over with his partner and brought her to a halt. While Miss Nelson curtsied, Mars bowed and said to Lucy, “Good evening, Your Grace. I hope I have the honor of escorting you on the dance floor this evening.”

  Lucy actually blushed. Still, she answered haughtily, “You are outrageous, Marsden. Can’t you see I am still in mourning?”

  Bran frowned his apologies to his friend over his sister’s rudeness, however the earl laughed off her querulousness. “We should all be so honored to have a wife who mourned us for years after our death. My mother was happy to see my father go.”

  “I’d mourn for you,” Miss Nelson said pertly.

  Again, Mars laughed. He always took everything easily. It was one of the reasons Bran envied him. The earl rarely overthought a thing. “If you knew me better, you might not.”

  “Will His Grace be here this evening?” Miss Nelson was so bold to ask.

  To Bran’s surprise, Lucy, who usually disparaged the local girls, smiled indulgently. “Yes, he should be here shortly.”

  A becoming pink rose in Miss Nelson’s cheeks as if in anticipation of seeing Winderton, and Mars said, “I fear I shall be supplanted.”

  “As you should be, my lord,” a new voice chimed in. Mrs. Warbler joined their group. She was known for the bad wig she wore. It was a vivid shade of red and piled high on her head. Bran half expected her to sport a patch. She had at her elbow a ruddy-faced lad of perhaps twenty years or so. Bran did not recognize him. The lad had a pronounced Adam’s apple and could have used at least a stone more in weight.

  “Miss Nelson,” Mrs. Warbler said, “you promised Mr. Fitzsimmons a dance, did you not?”

  For a second, guilt crossed Miss Nelson’s face as if she had been avoiding Mr. Fitzsimmons, however she recovered nicely. With a pretty smile, she said, “I’ve been looking for you. Shall we go for this next set?”

  The awkward young man offered his arm and made a tongue-tied expression of agreement.

  Miss Nelson shot a regretful look at Mars from under her dark lashes before taking the proffered arm. The couple moved to find their places for the next dance set.

  “I wager he doesn’t say two words to her the whole dance,” Mrs. Warbler said to Lucy.

  “Of course he won’t,” Lucy replied. “Isn’t he related to Vida Fitzsimmons?” Vida was a spinster of indeterminate age and was always included in the pack of matrons.

  “Her cousin from Newcastle.”

  “Then it is best he doesn’t speak,” Lucy answered, opening her fan and lazily waving it past her lips as if to hide her tart comment.

  Mars gave a mock wince. “I fear what you say about me when my back is turned.”

  “That you should be married,” Mrs. Warbler snapped. “Come, Lucy, we are all gathered in our corner. Excuse us, gentlemen.” The matrons didn’t wait for acknowledgement but made their way over to where others of their party had gathered in a grouping of chairs and tables. Their watchful eyes scanned the present company. There would be many tart comments this evening.

  “Punch?” Mars asked.

  “Have you tried it yet?”

  “Weak. However, I hear Squire Nelson is one of many with a flask who is planning to give it some bite. Meanwhile, the Reverend Summerall keeps promising to water it down.”

  “Nothing changes around here, does it?” Bran observed. This same conversation could have taken place before he’d left for India years ago. And while London seemed to change weekly, every time Bran returned home, he was struck by how predictable Maidenshop was.

  “Very little,” his friend answered. “That is what makes it perfect. We know exactly what to expect.”

  As they started for the crowded punch table, they saw Ned standing attendance next to Clarissa Taylor and made their way over to him. If ever a couple appeared uncomfortable, this one did. They stood side by side like strangers waiting for a stage to arrive.

  In truth, Clarissa was a lovely, biddable woman. Her hair was the color of the richest honey and her eyes were cat shaped and green, the sort of eyes that lingered in a man’s mind. If she’d had any fortune at all, she would have been snapped up. Unfortunately, her dubious parentage, her lack of dowry, and her studious nature kept her on the shelf.

  Bran didn’t think Thurlowe was making a bad match, just an uninteresting one. Then again, he’d just realized he’d spent a good chunk of his life moping over Kate. Who was the greater fool?

  Ned and Miss Taylor stood with her guardians, Squire Nelson and his wife. There was another couple with them who were introduced as Mrs. Nelson’s sister and brother-in
-law from Surry.

  Ned acted relieved to see Mars and Bran. Miss Taylor greeted Bran warmly, yet gave the most civil acknowledgement to Mars, who answered in kind. It was well-known she considered him a wastrel and that he thought her a bore.

  Meanwhile, the squire’s wife, who delighted in Mars and his rakish ways, would have adored for him to pay court to one of her four daughters. She inquired saucily if they had their eye on any of the ladies. “Such as the one you just danced with, my lord?” She meant her daughter.

  Mars mumbled something about how well Miss Nelson presented herself and that pleased her mother. “She’d make an excellent countess,” she was so bold to say.

  “Martha,” the squire warned with a frown of embarrassment.

  “She would,” his wife protested undeterred. “And what of you, Mr. Balfour? I know your sister would be pleased to see you married.”

  True. Lucy dropped many hints. “Unfortunately, I’m not ready to give up my membership in the Logical Men’s Society.”

  Mrs. Nelson rapped on his arm with her fan. “You bachelors.” She sighed. “I rue the day they ever decided to start that silly club. It truly is spoiling the lot of you.”

  “That isn’t true,” Mars said. “There are more married men than there are single ones in Maidenshop. Your husband was once a member.”

  “Until he saw the light. Man was made to be married,” Mrs. Nelson declared. “I for one am pleased that your numbers are dwindling. I can’t wait for the three of you to join the married ranks. Then there will be no one left in that club except for those two old fools, and they can have each other.” Her sister beamed her agreement. The squire and the other gentleman acted as if they wished to ignore this conversation.

  Thurlowe could not let such a comment go. After all, this was the campaign near and dear to him. “The Logical Men’s Society is more than just a group of bachelors. We have seminars like the one we will have tomorrow with Mr. Clyde Remy. He will discuss the late James Hutton’s theory concerning uniformitarianism and all gentlemen, married or single who are interested in natural philosophy, are invited.”

  “Uniformitarianism?” the squire repeated.

  “Rock formations,” Bran offered helpfully.

  Mars added, “There will be rook pie and all the ale you can drink. Free.”

  “Rook pie, eh? Andy baking it?” the squire asked. He had a pronounced belly that indicated his enjoyment of good food.

  “Of course he is, sir,” Thurlowe answered.

  “I should like to be there,” the squire said, ignoring his wife’s frown. “There will be others?”

  “All gentlemen—again, married or single—are invited,” Mars answered.

  “Ah, good.” The squire nodded to his brother-in-law. “Now we have something to do on the morrow while the ladies continue with their chitter chatter about what happened here.” His wife sighed her opinion. “Oh, don’t be that way, Martha. I’m here tonight, aren’t I?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Miss Taylor, I believe we should dance,” Ned said and she agreed with great relief.

  “Excuse us,” she murmured, placing her hand on Thurlowe’s arm.

  Mars and Bran moved on as well. They had not gone far toward their destination of the punch bowl when Mars muttered, “Thurlowe appears miserable.”

  “Trapped perhaps. Not completely miserable. Miss Taylor does not appear any happier.”

  The earl made a mock shudder and then noticing a larger group of gentlemen injected both he and Bran into their number. “Tomorrow, at The Garland, we are starting a new tradition.”

  “What is that?” asked Simon Crisp, a man of middling years who farmed property not far from Belvoir.

  “We are calling it a seminar and offering free ale and rook pie.”

  “Capital idea,” said Crisp.

  “I like the price,” another gent agreed.

  “Spread the word,” Mars pushed.

  “We will,” Crisp answered. “And the punch has more bite now. We’ve done a bit of doctoring,” he said with a wink. “You should try it, my lord.”

  “We will, won’t we, Balfour?”

  Before Bran could answer, there was a sudden shift in the mood of the room.

  Crisp and his companions looked past Bran to the door and fell silent. The musicians wound down the jaunty reel that they had just started. All eyes were turning to the entryway, and Bran knew the unexplained prickling sensation at the back of his neck was a warning.

  Slowly, he faced the door.

  There was his nephew attired as if he was about to be presented in court. He wore white knee breeches and dancing shoes. His jacket was claret and his hair was styled as if he was the Sun God himself. This was not how he’d been dressed at dinner.

  In a room where a good number of the men wore their boots, the duke stood out. No wonder so many matchmaking mothers had their daughters at the dance. Here was the Catch of Maidenshop. Mars could just move over.

  However, Winderton wasn’t the reason the room had gone very quiet.

  Kate Addison hugged Winderton’s arm, but this was not the Kate Bran had left this morning. That Kate, in her modest day dress and properly styled hair, could have passed for a Lady of Quality.

  This Kate was the conjuring of every erotic image any man had ever held.

  Beneath a wide-brimmed hat with no fewer than three bouncing purple ostrich plumes, riotous curls framed her face and tumbled down past her shoulders as if she’d just risen from her bed. Her breasts were mounded up and over the smallest bodice Bran had ever seen. They appeared as if they were being offered on a platter to the slack-jawed gents in the room.

  And the skirt—

  Bran had never given much thought to skirts before. He did now. In a room full of the tastefully soft colors of innocence or the deep, jeweled tones of properly married women, Kate’s skirt of wide blue-and-white stripes almost obscenely outlined the feminine curve of her hip, the indent of her waist, the length of her legs.

  Her hand was wrapped around Winderton’s arm with unseemly closeness while her other hand held a shepherd’s crook festooned with colorful ribbons, a warning if ever there was one that she was here to gather souls.

  She was bold. She was beautiful. And there wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t having fantasies, Bran included . . . because he could recall too well the perfection of her figure.

  However, Winderton’s smug expression brought Bran to his senses. He’d ordered Kate to leave. It would have been the easiest path for her to choose.

  Instead, she chose to defy his command and twist his ward around her little finger.

  A challenge was being issued. A challenge he would meet.

  “God in heaven, what has just arrived?” Crisp asked in round, awed tones.

  “Balfour’s worst nightmare,” Mars suggested. He shot a wry glance toward Bran. “What are you going to do? And do you need help?”

  His smile grim, Bran ignored the latter question, but answered the first, “Why, I shall welcome her, of course.” He moved forward.

  Chapter Six

  Kate had made a magnificent entrance at the Cotillion Dance. There wasn’t an eye in the room that wasn’t on her. And now Brandon Balfour knew she wasn’t going to let him run her off.

  She was inordinately proud of her costume. It had turned out brilliantly. She rarely wore her hair down and even she was surprised at how long it had grown. Mary had done an admirable job of curling it.

  The pièce de résistance to her ensemble were her green buckle shoes. In defiance to current fashion, they had a small heel to make her even taller than she was. They curled up at the toes. She remembered she had found them on some tinker’s cart and had thought them fun and possibly useful for any part that called for a witch . . . or a siren.

  Granted, when the duke had arrived to escort her, he had appeared a bit taken aback at her costume, and yet he’d not made a complaint. He was too inexperienced to put a woman, especially one accustome
d to her own decisions like Kate, in her place.

  He’d stumbled over his compliment and had struggled mightily not to stare at her bosom, which was there for all to see. Mary had cut the bodice very low.

  To his credit, he hadn’t leered. He had swallowed hard several times, partly from the expanse of skin and partly because this was a village dance. Kate had taken pity on him and informed him of his uncle’s threats.

  From that moment on, Winderton became her ally. He’d even insisted on returning home so that he could change his own clothes to something fancier. “Let us both give Maidenshop a vision they will never forget,” he’d declared and Kate had agreed.

  Consequently, they were one of the last couples to arrive. Their appearance could not have been more perfect.

  Kate had to give the duke credit, it took courage to defy his uncle . . . courage to offer her his arm. A lesser man would have suggested they not go out. A ruder one would have other ideas.

  And it made her quite like the young duke, in spite of his directing her actors.

  A hush had fallen around the room. The ladies hid their shocked expressions behind their fans. The men hid nothing at all.

  If Kate had any doubts about her ensemble, they vanished as soon as she saw Mr. Balfour heading in her direction with a very determined step. “Prepare for battle, Your Grace.”

  The duke nodded, squaring his young shoulders.

  The room seemed to hold its collective breath, watching, anticipating, expecting a scene that Kate was ready to deliver.

  She leaned even closer to Winderton.

  Her movement wasn’t lost on Mr. Balfour. His step toward them paused slightly, almost in midair—and then he abruptly moved to join a couple beside them, speaking to the pair as if it had been his intent all along.

  Which was a lie, she wanted to tell him. She knew he had meant to say something to her and the duke.