His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Oh, I am very aware that people enjoy sitting in judgment of what they can’t have. Many have tried to teach me that lesson—and they have failed. I refuse to bow to any of them.”

  They weren’t more than three feet from each other and yet the distance could have been from here to the heavens. Her wild, loose curls created shadows around her face. She appeared untamed, strong, determined—

  “I hate you for what you did to me that night.”

  Her words went right through him.

  Stunned, he repeated, “Hate me?” He’d done nothing to her this evening. It was he who should hate her—and then he realized she’d said “that night.”

  Not tonight. That night.

  He went still.

  “I trusted you,” she continued, the intensity of her emotions almost forcing him to take a step back. “I will never forgive you for what you did.”

  “What I did?” He was confused. He had been the wronged party. She’d jilted him.

  As if seeing his confusion, she threw out a clue. “The Marquis of Hemling.”

  “Your former lover?” The words tasted bitter.

  “Don’t ever call him that. He was not my lover. He is a hideous man.” She moved to the very edge of the road.

  “That is not what I heard—”

  “He forced me.”

  Her hard-bitten words startled him. He couldn’t have understood her correctly.

  His confusion charged her anger. Ruthlessly, she said, “He tried to take everything from me for something as ridiculous as a wager. Did you know there were bets made on what man would claim me? Did you know that, Brandon?”

  He had. Wagers had been placed in the betting books of every club. The reason men were flocking to her. The one who won her would pocket a tidy sum. It was not an uncommon wager on actresses. Men enjoyed a hunt.

  “The question I have, Mr. Balfour, is how much did he pay you to betray me?”

  “He? Pay me?” Bran’s stomach hollowed. What the devil was she accusing him of?

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t part of his plan.”

  “I didn’t know anything about a plan.”

  “You wrote a note to me asking to see me. He was about to kidnap me because I thought I was seeing you. My guard was down—”

  “There you are,” Christopher’s voice called, interrupting them. He must have spied her on the road from the front step of the barn hall, which would not be hard to do with Miss Addison’s outrageous stripes. “I’m coming.” He bounded up the road toward her, a young rabbit with long legs and energy. “I was worried that you were caught up . . .” His step slowed as he saw she was not alone. He came to a halt, looking from Kate to Bran, and not happy to see them together. “Uncle.”

  Bran nodded, his mind racing over Kate’s accusation. He’d not written a note. Not to Kate that night, or any night—

  “You should return to the hall,” the duke said, speaking directly to Bran, a new hardness in his voice. “The reverend has given everyone a lecture. Mrs. Warbler is still hysterical. People are starting to leave. Mother is looking for you.”

  Then, as if his order would be obeyed, he focused on Kate, his voice gentler. He moved toward her, his arms out. “I was beside myself when I couldn’t find you. I feared the worst.”

  Mercurial creature that she was, Kate changed in a blink from avenging goddess to misunderstood actress. “It was frightening.” She actually sounded meek. “I didn’t know what to do. I escaped out of a side passage and then I discovered your uncle wandering around. He helped me to the road.”

  Some of the tension left Christopher, but not the distrust. Young men without the seasoning of life could be proprietorial. They thought they controlled the women who attracted them. The duke had staked a claim and the side glance he shot at Bran said he would fight to defend it.

  “May we go?” Kate asked. She reached out and tapped his arm for his attention. “This has been an upsetting evening.”

  “I’m sorry. This has never happened before. Please, I’ll see you home.” The duke, all gallant and solicitous, offered his arm. She took it and just that simply, he was conquered. He even held her steady as Kate suffered to put on her green shoes.

  Meanwhile, Bran could only watch. And he felt silly holding a shepherd’s crook. He thrust it forward. “Here. You don’t want to leave this behind.”

  “Why, thank you,” Kate said. She sounded serene, calm—as if he had imagined the revelations of the last fifteen minutes.

  Winderton was the one who took the crook.

  And then the couple walked away without another glance in Bran’s direction. Christopher used the crook as his walking stick while Kate leaned against his other arm.

  “Perhaps the punch had been made too strong,” he was telling her. “I will most certainly speak to the village council about the matter. I fear there were a number of gentlemen who thought it wise to add their own choices to the punch.” He sounded stodgy.

  Kate said something in answer, but Bran had to turn away, his blood beginning to boil.

  He’d been dismissed. By his ward. A cub of a man. He wanted to finish the conversation he’d started with Kate. He wanted to know about the damn note.

  He wanted—

  God, he wanted his sanity back.

  Bran took off walking, although not toward the barn. He wasn’t going to follow his nephew and Kate. Instead, he’d go around. He also knew his earlier words of advice to Winderton had fallen on deaf ears. His nephew was easy prey for a woman like Kate. She had more world experience. She also had a motive—vengeance. She hated Bran.

  He also wondered if he had been that gullible at Christopher’s age? Had she controlled him? As he remembered, they’d both been very young together.

  Inside the barn, amazingly the dance appeared to be taking up where it had left off. Yes, as his nephew had said, a few people had left but the majority were still there. The musicians were once again playing. Couples danced. There was a scrape here and a black eye there but nothing that deterred the enjoyment of the rest of the evening. Indeed, those with wounds sported them proudly. And, of course, the punch table was busy once more.

  The Reverend Summerall came up to Bran and spoke in his abrupt manner. He was of middle age with gray showing in his brown hair and a strong, hawkish nose. “This is better, eh? Informed them all they were not going to ruin this year’s Cotillion.”

  “I am impressed they listened to you.”

  “Didn’t want to. I had to convince them. I told them we English knew proper manners—although I put in a blow or two myself. It is all a bit of sport.” He chuckled his satisfaction.

  Matters were different amongst the matrons, who wouldn’t have agreed with the minister. The ruin of an evening they had planned and organized for months was far from sport to them.

  Mrs. Warbler and Mrs. Trent-Longford were surrounded by commiserating friends. Their feet were propped up on chairs. Mrs. Trent-Longford appeared to be weeping silently into a friend’s shoulder while Mrs. Warbler, her wig back in place, held a hand to her forehead. She lay back in the chair as if she would expire at any moment, Mrs. Nelson holding her hand. Lucy sat between the two women and fanned them.

  At the sight of Bran, Lucy excused herself and rushed to him. This was not going to be good.

  “Where is my son?”

  “Escorting Miss Addison home.”

  Her eyes filled with alarm. “And you let him go?”

  “Lucy, how could I stop him?”

  Her face crumpled and Bran feared more noisy tears. “He will be fine.” He kept his voice low.

  “Did you not see what happened this evening? The dance has been ruined.”

  “There was some excitement, although I honestly don’t believe Miss Addison instigated it. And everyone seems at ease now.”

  “Only because they think of themselves. Dear Mrs. Warbler has been thrown into a fit of vapors that I have no hope of her recovering from.”

  “Was she inju
red?” he asked, concerned.

  “That horrid actress tore her wig off her head in front of everyone. She is humiliated.”

  “Perhaps we should send for Mr. Thurlowe.”

  “Brandon, you mock me.”

  “I don’t mock you,” he said with something less than infinite patience. “I’m trying to help you keep the matter in perspective.”

  “A trollop has wedged herself into my son’s life and you tell me to have perspective? I’ll never accept her. Ever. And I warn you something terrible will happen if you don’t stop it.”

  “I’m doing what I can.” Which wasn’t much. “He is a man, Lucy, not some child that I can order about.”

  “He’ll ruin himself with her.”

  “Then he won’t be the first,” Bran snapped.

  Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. “She’s done this before? She has ruined other men?”

  “No.” Bran prayed for patience. “And men aren’t ruined. They just end up looking stupid. Christopher will not be the first, and certainly not the last, if that comes to pass. Now, Lucy, don’t cry, not here.” God, help him. “I will set this to rights. Trust me.”

  “I trusted you this evening.” Heads were turning in their direction. A weeping duchess always drew attention.

  Before he could say more, they were interrupted by Miss Taylor.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace, Mr. Balfour, do you know what happened to Miss Addison? She disappeared when the excitement started and I hope she is fine, although I don’t see her anywhere.”

  Lucy’s tears dried instantly. “You needn’t worry, Miss Taylor. Her kind is like a cat. They always land on their dirty paws.” With those words, she went sailing off to the matrons who quickly gathered around her with far more commiseration than her brother had.

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Taylor apologized, flustered. “I was only asking because Miss Addison seems to be missing. I didn’t mean to upset Her Grace.”

  “My sister lives to be upset, Miss Taylor. Think nothing of it. Miss Addison is fine. The duke has escorted her back to her quarters.”

  “That is a relief. She wasn’t the one to step on Mrs. Trent-Longford’s gown. The culprit was a very tipsy Mr. Michaels. And then Mrs. Warbler was so out of control, especially after she lost her wig, that I did fear for Miss Addison.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  He noticed Mrs. Nelson coming toward them. “Miss Taylor, I believe Mrs. Nelson is searching for you.”

  The lines of her mouth flattened. “I suppose she is.” She turned back to him. “Please, if you see Miss Addison, tell her that I am sorry for how the gentlemen behaved. They were rude and I am quietly furious at all of you.” On those words, she left to see what Mrs. Nelson wished.

  Mars came up behind him as if he’d been waiting for Miss Taylor to move on. “This has been the Cotillion Dance of the century. Did you see Sir Lionel throw his drink in Reverend Summerall’s face when he tried to break up that fracas? Apparently, Fullerton and he had placed a wager on when the fight would end and Summerall was upsetting Lionel’s bid.”

  “I can’t say I did,” Bran confessed, not wishing to say where he’d been during the brawl. “Then again, shouldn’t you have been the one to restore order?”

  “I warned you that I would not be a good magistrate. My thought was to let them all work the energy out of themselves.” He lowered his voice. “And to think Thurlowe’s goal is for all the young idiots in the village to join the Logical Men’s Society.”

  “He is more interested in his seminar plans and shaping intelligent minds.”

  Mars shuddered his opinion on that subject just as several men approached the earl to share their thoughts on the fight.

  Listening, Bran marveled at how quickly stories changed. According to these gentlemen, a few of the lads had taken advantage of the “quarrel between the ladies” to land a number of licks of their own—and they had relished the opportunity. Whereas poor Mrs. Warbler, Mrs. Trent-Longford, and the distraught Lucy, surrounded by her friends, appeared as if they would never recover from tonight’s misadventures.

  And Kate?

  She’d survive.

  The thought brought him back to their conversation, to her accusation. He’d never betrayed her, in any fashion.

  At least, not that he remembered, and he remembered almost everything about her.

  Bran caught himself watching the door, waiting for his nephew to reappear. The actors’ encampment was only a mile away. Christopher should not have been gone this long. A light supper was ready to be served, then the dance would reach its end for the year. Tradition dictated that the Duke of Winderton would bid all a fair and happy summer . . . and he was not there.

  An hour passed. Winderton did not return.

  Lucy kept trying to meet his eye. Bran ignored her until Mars suggested that if Winderton wasn’t available then the dowager should bid everyone adieu. The thought threw Lucy into a fit of vapors.

  So, Bran did the honors, apologizing to the present company that the family would not be observing all the formalities this year but that he hoped everyone had enjoyed the evening.

  Mr. Michaels, who leaned his shoulder against a support column as if he’d fall if he stood straight, called out, “Best Cotillion ever.” He was seconded by Mr. Shielding, who sported a very bold black eye.

  With that, Bran gathered Lucy and shepherded her home.

  “He didn’t return,” she said in round, anguished tones.

  Bran’s response was brooding silence. He didn’t want to think of Kate in his nephew’s bed. Then again, he didn’t own her. What she did was not his business . . . except his nephew was his responsibility.

  “He wouldn’t have her in the house, will he?” Lucy worried.

  “Not if he has any sense.”

  His words came out harsh. Lucy gave a startled look and fell silent.

  At the house, Bran escorted her in. She ran up the stairs, her black skirts flying as she raced to her son’s rooms. Bran stood in the doorway, listening. He heard Lucy’s voice, then a man’s answer.

  Lucy came to the top of the stairs. She moved as if she was walking toward the gallows. “His Grace is not at home.”

  Not my business, Bran warned himself. Not my business.

  “Sleep well, Your Grace.” He started to leave.

  Her voice stopped him. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  “He is making a man’s decision, Lucy. There isn’t much I can do.” On that note, he gave a short bow and left.

  He began walking to the Dower House. With every step, he reminded himself that what Kate and his nephew were doing was of no importance to him—except it was.

  Vivid memories of Kate in his arms brought him to a halt when he was within sight of his home, and he knew he was as obsessed as Lucy was—but not for the same reasons.

  Kate’s accusations still echoed in his head. He knew there would be no sleep for him until he had answers.

  He had to talk to Kate. As he’d begun to process her charges against Hemling, questions brewed in his mind, questions he needed answered or he would go mad. He began walking in the direction of her camp.

  Kate struggled to quiet her busy mind.

  All was quiet around her save for Mary’s genteel snores next to her mixing with Silas’s bullish sounding ones coming from the men’s tent. Jess, the milkmaid, had chosen to sleep with Nestor in the men’s tent. Kate wasn’t particularly happy about the liaison, except she’d learned after years of living with different troupes there was little she could do about it. Her one rule was that there would be no fights.

  Tomorrow, she would have to confess to her actors that, because of her own arrogance, she had made a miserable muddle of things. She hadn’t had the energy or courage to tell them this evening. Winderton had escorted her home where everyone was sitting around a fire waiting for her.

  He’d been all a gentleman should be, respectful and flattering. He’d told her before they reached the
camp that he wanted to kiss her, but he wouldn’t. “I want to give you all the respect you are due, especially after this evening.”

  Kate was relieved. The situation could have been tricky. “Apparently the duke has honorable intentions,” Silas had muttered after the nobleman had left. It was obvious her actors, like members of a clan, had been waiting up to watch out for her. From Silas, it was expected. He had guarded her from the very beginning.

  However, the concern of the others was actually quite touching—and tomorrow, she would have to tell them that they would be lucky if three people showed up for their performance. She might never be able to pay the wainwright for the wagon repair. Or their wages.

  But this wasn’t what was keeping her awake.

  No, her thoughts strayed to Brandon Balfour, and to the humiliation and shame that she’d thought she’d put behind her fifteen years ago. How dare he plead innocence?

  How dare he act as if he hadn’t abandoned her—

  “Kate.”

  Brandon’s voice was no more than a whisper, and yet she heard him with sharp clarity.

  She sat up. She should stay where she was. He was the reason she couldn’t sleep. The reason that her life had fallen into pieces.

  “Kate? I must speak to you.”

  Was she imagining his voice?

  Pulling her heavy hair over one shoulder, she put her feet over the edge of her cot and stood. Her nightdress was a heavy cotton. She picked up a shawl and threw it over her shoulders before stepping out of the tent.

  The forest around them was quiet. She listened, and then she saw him.

  His dark silhouette stepped away from the night-shadowed trees. She was surprised she’d heard him from that far away.

  “Come here, Kate. Come here.” His call was barely a whisper and, just like in the tent, she understood him.

  This man was the curse of her life.

  Kate didn’t move. She stood rooted to the earth as memories she’d tried to hold at bay flooded her. She remembered his stories, his laughter, the feel of his lips on her skin. She’d trusted him, compromised herself for him and he’d almost destroyed her—no, she realized suddenly, she’d let him destroy her. She’d let his betrayal color her thinking of herself in every aspect of her life.