The Mistress' House Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Leigh Michaels

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Pope/Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Chris Cocozza

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To Michael, for always believing in me.

  One

  THE EARL BUYS A HOUSE

  The Earl of Hawthorne looked wistfully past his man of business. At the far end of the library, a pair of long windows stood open to a glorious autumn day, and in the distance he could hear the bark of a hunting dog. It was a perfect day to take a gun and a dog and go for a long tramp across the parkland and into the woods of his Surrey estate. But here he was instead, sitting at his desk and listening to Perkins prose on for hours about the benefits of investing in a canal somewhere at the far end of England.

  Except, now that Thorne actually pulled his attention back to the library, Perkins appeared to have finished with the canal and moved on to the benefits of buying a house in London.

  “Perkins,” Thorne said gently. “I already have a house in London. A big house—right on Portman Square. You can’t have overlooked that.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting I sell the house I already have and buy a different one?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “And surely you’re not suggesting that I need more space in London.”

  “No, my lord.” With each repetition, Perkins’ voice grew more wooden.

  “Then you’re suggesting I buy another house and lease it out?”

  “Not exactly, my lord.”

  “But if I’m neither going to live in it nor rent it, what on earth would I do with another house in…” Thorne paused. “Perkins, exactly where is this house?”

  “At Number 5 Upper Seymour Street, my lord. It’s…”

  “I know where it is. Right around the corner from Portman Square.”

  “The garden of Number 5 backs on your own, my lord. It is not a large house—only six bedrooms, four main reception rooms, and all the usual arrangements for servants. But the location and the situation are quite salubrious. Unlike the other houses in the row, Number 5 has windows all along one side, as well as in front and back, because it lies next to Berkeley Mews.”

  “With horses coming and going all day,” Thorne observed. “Not every tenant would like that.”

  “Since they are mostly your own horses, my lord,” Perkins observed, “I felt it likely this would not disturb you. The location alongside the mews, plus the large number of windows and the consequently high window tax, does mean that the house isn’t in quite as much demand as it might otherwise be, and that has kept the price reasonable. And it is a very convenient situation, should my lord wish to come and go without being observed.”

  Thorne leaned back in his chair, tapping his index finger against his jaw. “You make me sound like some kind of spy, Perkins,” he said dryly. “Surely you’re not laboring under the delusion that I’m part of an espionage ring.”

  Perkins coughed. “Certainly not, my lord.”

  Perkins’ tone, Thorne thought wryly, was unnecessarily acerbic. It wasn’t, after all, that Thorne didn’t have the right talents to be a spy. He’d just never been called upon to use them in that particular way.

  “I merely meant,” Perkins went on, “that your lordship is a figure of interest in London society, and therefore your… actions… are noticed and often remarked on.”

  “Actions? Why, Perkins, you old dog. You’re actually volunteering to help me to keep my affaires under wraps? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were blushing.”

  Perkins shuffled his feet and looked down at the carpet.

  He hadn’t been mistaken; Perkins was blushing. Thorne had never seen anything of the sort before.

  He considered the idea. There was certainly merit to the notion of buying a house just off Portman Square. If he could tuck a mistress into a trysting place just a step from his own garden, he could avoid a long list of inconveniences. Kicking his heels for hours while messages were delivered and answers returned… Riding halfway across London for an assignation… Finding new, safe, and very secluded meeting places… Wandering around the halls of a country house trying to locate a particular lady’s bedchamber… Keeping his horses, and the grooms who cared for them, waiting outside a private house on a cold day…

  “Very well,” he said and stood up. “Buy the house. I’ll look it over when I come up to town for the Season.”

  “Yes, my lord. I shall put the transaction in motion immediately.”

  “I have the utmost faith in your judgment, Perkins.” Thorne clapped his man of business on the shoulder and escaped to the gun room before Perkins could wax poetic about his canal once more.

  Of course, there was one drawback to the scheme, Thorne thought as he started off across the lawn, a shotgun on his shoulder and his favorite hound rollicking at his heels. Once a mistress was actually in residence in a house right around the corner from his own, he might find it a bit of a tangle to move her out again when he tired of her. But he could deal with that when the problem arose.

  Or, he thought with a twinge of humor, Perkins could.

  Two

  MY LADY WILDE

  The Earl of Hawthorne paused in the hallway of Lady Stone’s London town house—feigning interest in the portrait of a long-dead Stone ancestor that had been painted in muddy shades of brown—until a footman had passed. As the footman opened the doors of the ballroom at the far end of the hall, the strains of a waltz swelled into the hallway.

  Thorne waited a moment longer, until the doors had closed again and the sound had dropped to a murmur. Then he slipped through an anteroom at the back of the house and into a small morning room that was never used during Lady Stone’s parties.

  At least, it was never used for organized portions of Lucinda’s parties, he thought as Charlotte surged forward and threw her arms around him. “You took forever, Thorne,” she whined. “I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  Forget Charlotte Barnsley? Hardly, especially when her very generous breasts were pressed so firmly against his chest that the diamond stickpin in his cravat might actually wound her. Then she moved even closer, slipping her thigh between his legs and dragging his head down to kiss him. Her mouth was hot and wet and hungry, and her fingers roamed over his hair, over the shoulders of his coat, and down his back.

  He captured her hands and pulled them away—and was startled at the strength and suddenness of his antipathy. What kind of a rake was h
e, anyway? With a woman in his arms who was not only willing but eager, what was stopping him? Perhaps it was just the fact that she seemed to be in such a rush. Out in the ballroom, the dancers were still going round in circles, and the supper break was an hour off. What was Charlotte’s hurry?

  “Thorne,” she whimpered and wriggled up against him again.

  This wouldn’t be the first time he’d put Lucinda Stone’s morning room to a use her ladyship didn’t intend—though never before with Charlotte, for she wasn’t his usual type. Even a rake, he thought, ought to show some discrimination, and he much preferred to be the hunter, rather than the prey. Obviously Charlotte hadn’t noticed that—or else she’d opted to ignore it. She’d actually hiked up her skirt to get a trifle closer to him.

  Why had he agreed to meet her here? Sheer boredom? The fact that she’d been pursuing him for weeks and seemed likely to continue ad nauseam? The lack of anyone else who had drawn his attention lately?

  Was Charlotte in such a hurry because she sensed that she wasn’t apt to last long as a distraction for him?

  Thorne took a breath to tell her that she was wasting her efforts, and she slid her tongue into his mouth.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see the door into the anteroom. Because Charlotte had thrown herself against him the instant he’d walked in, he hadn’t had a chance to close it firmly. And just beyond that slightly open door, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement.

  Thorne’s instinct for self-preservation reared up like a cobra on the attack. Was someone just outside, about to burst in and embarrass them?

  Not that he was easily embarrassed. A rake wasn’t much of a rake if he gave thought to what others believed about him. And the ton clearly knew it, too—for no society miss or scheming mama had made an attempt to compromise the notorious Lord Hawthorne into offering marriage for… oh, several months now, if he remembered correctly.

  Charlotte’s teeth nipped at his lower lip in a harder-than-playful bite.

  He didn’t think Charlotte would be all that embarrassed to be discovered either, especially considering the way she was kissing him. Unless her husband happened to be the one out there. But the elderly Lord Barnsley was unlikely to come rummaging around Lady Stone’s Grosvenor Square mansion in the middle of a ball in search of his wife. He might, on the other hand, have simply made a wrong turn on his way to the card room—and if he had, the results would be just as untidy.

  Charlotte’s hands had slid down to the fastenings of Thorne’s breeches. He captured her fingers and pulled them away.

  There was one more possibility. Had Charlotte been just a shade too enthusiastic in her greeting because she knew someone was out there? Because she’d planned it and was hurrying things along? Though why, he had no idea…

  Without making a conscious decision, he found himself standing three feet from Charlotte. She was looking up at him in puzzlement, her eyes wide, and barely able to keep her balance. “What’s wrong, Thorne?” she whimpered. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

  All right, he conceded. Maybe she didn’t know about whoever was watching from the anteroom. Still, what little interest he’d felt in her was long gone.

  “Not the best place,” he said. “Lady Stone’s a friend.”

  “That’s why it’s perfect,” she complained. She cupped a hand around each breast, pushing them up and out at him. “My little girls are lonely, Thorne. Won’t your big boy come and play with them?”

  Charlotte had a lot to learn about enticing a lover, and that inane comment made one thing absolutely certain—she wouldn’t be learning it from him. “Not just now.” Thorne caught another flash of movement outside the door in the shadowed anteroom. Definitely not his imagination.

  “Tomorrow, then? Barnsley will be at his club. It has to be soon, Thorne, for in a few days, I’ll be going to the Winchesters’ for a house party. Though I’m sure Arabella will invite you, too, if I ask her.”

  “She already has,” Thorne said absently.

  Charlotte’s face brightened. “Then we’ll have a whole week together! She’s got the most magnificent little gazebo in her garden. So very private… Oh, Thorne, you naughty boy, teasing me, when you had this set up already!”

  “Off with you now.” He considered telling her the truth—that he’d rather be roasted on a kitchen spit than attend Arabella Winchester’s house party—but that would only set her off again. He’d write Charlotte a note or something later.

  “One more kiss first?” she pouted, and stretched a hand out as if to caress him.

  He held her off. “Anticipation is half the fun.” He was looking past her, barely hearing what he said. Would the woman never move?

  She did, finally—but toward the anteroom. “Not that way,” he said hastily, and put both hands on her shoulders to turn her toward the other exit.

  She shrugged, managing to brush her breast against his hand.

  Thorne hastily pulled away before she could get a head of steam up again. “Go through the music room and back to the hall. I’ll wait here a couple of minutes before I follow you.”

  There was no movement in the anteroom now. But perhaps the loiterer would stand still and wait, expecting Thorne to use the other door as Charlotte had, rather than take the chance of making noise.

  “So even if someone sees one of us, they won’t know we were together? You’re so clever,” Charlotte simpered. “I never would have thought of that.”

  Because you’re so inexperienced at this? Hardly. Clearly, this wasn’t Charlotte’s first experience with dalliance, no matter what she’d like him to think.

  And it wasn’t cleverness that made him so cautious, either. It was experience. A man didn’t remain unattached for long in London society unless he kept his wits about him and his eyes wide open. Now if the woman would just go away so he could see who stood behind that door…

  Charlotte paused to give him a sultry little wave. “I’ll be waiting,” she whispered.

  The instant she was out of sight, he breathed a sigh of relief and wheeled toward the anteroom, crossing the fine plush carpet in two large and silent steps. Common sense said the watcher would be gone by now. Whether she’d been shocked or titillated, the woman—and he was certain it had been a woman, because the flicker of movement he’d spotted had been light-colored and low to the ground, like the edge of a skirt—would have fled as soon as she realized there would be nothing more to see. But Thorne hadn’t reached thirty unwed by being careless, so he flung the door wide.

  Halfway across the anteroom, lit only by the dying fire, stood a woman in a white dress. Her face—in the dimness—was nothing more than a pale oval under a smear of dark hair.

  No, not a woman. A mere girl—for her dress looked like the sort of ball gown worn by the newest members of the London ton, the young women in their first introduction to society. White, trimmed with bright ribbons and lace.

  She made no protest, no move to escape. She didn’t move at all. But why? She’d had plenty of time to retreat. If she’d simply wandered down the hall from the ballroom by mistake, why had she stayed, especially after she must have heard him urging Charlotte to go? Was she hoping to satisfy a maiden’s curiosity about what men and women did in dark-shadowed corners?

  “Did you enjoy the show?” he asked ironically.

  She took a step forward. “You’re Hawthorne.” Her voice was low and throaty, almost as if she hadn’t used it in awhile. “We have not been introduced.”

  “And we’re not likely to be,” he pointed out.

  She didn’t seem to hear. “I was looking for you. Because…” She paused and then went on in a matter-of-fact tone, “Because I want you to ruin me.”

  ***

  It hadn’t been the smoothest of approaches, Anne scolded herself. I want you to ruin me—surely she could have done better than that. Still, the Earl of Hawthorne had no reason to look at her as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She hadn’t insulted him; he was the one who’d bui
lt a reputation as a roué, and nothing Anne Keighley could do, or say, would change that a whit for either better or worse.

  He was still looking at her. As if he was inspecting merchandise, she supposed—and finding plenty of flaws. With her pride stinging a little, Anne snapped, “Am I that much of an antidote, my lord?”

  His gaze traveled slowly over her, one eyebrow arching in haughty disdain. “You’ve a tongue like a fishing gaff.”

  Wonderful, Anne, she told herself. Why not just lame your wheelers at the starting line? She stood up a little straighter. “Your pardon, my lord. I should not have said that. A too-quick tongue has always been my greatest failing.”

  “Yes, I wager your mama has scolded you about that, too.”

  “What do you mean, too?”

  “If you make a habit of asking gentlemen to ruin you, she must have a few things to say about your behavior, as well as your quick tongue.”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t. Ask to be ruined, I mean.”

  “I should hope not. So why am I the recipient of this… honor?”

  Anne shrugged. “Who better? You’re the best-known rake in all of London.”

  “I am humbled by your regard.” He moved to the hallway and looked out; then he checked the morning room again. “Your witness seems to have been delayed,” he observed.

  “Witness?”

  “Yes. Mama, big sister, chaperone. Whoever was supposed to observe us in a compromising position, shriek in horror, bring down all the society matrons upon us, and force me into marrying you. I grant it’s a nice trick, useless though it would be in the end.”

  The sheer arrogance of the man—though it didn’t surprise her in the least—made Anne’s teeth ache from gritting them. Did he truly think he was irresistible? If she didn’t need him so badly, she’d walk straight back to the ballroom and take her pick from the rest of London’s rakes.

  On second thought, that was exactly what she would do. “It is no trick,” she said over her shoulder. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I made the mistake of thinking there might still be a gentleman lurking underneath your reputation. I was mistaken.”