Once a Mistress

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

The fact that he didn’t mention the subject again didn’t mean that he had decided to forget about it. Drew stood at the window of the library overlooking the front lawn watching as his head groom and a stockman from the village led a string of ponies up the drive. It only meant that he’d decided to let it rest while he pursued a different course of action. Christ, but it hurt to think that the reason Kathryn hadn’t shown up at the church on their wedding day was because someone had assaulted her prior to it. And it wounded, almost beyond bearing, to know that she hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him about it.

  If not Bertrand Stafford, then who? Who could have done such a thing? Who was Kathryn protecting? A stranger? Someone of their acquaintance? Her father? His?

  Drew suddenly began to shake. He gripped the window casing and sank to the floor on his knees. His father. There could be no other explanation. Kathryn was protecting someone. Who better than the father of her child? He released his grip on the window casing and raked his hand over his head in a show of agitation. It made sense. Everything made sense. Too much sense. His father’s unstinting patronage of Wesley Markinson, the gift of the dowager cottage, the unusual terms of his father’s will.

  But to force his son’s fiancée? Had George Ramsey been capable of that? Tears burned in Drew’s eyes. He loved his father. And despite his grumblings about his father’s irresponsibility, he admired him. After his mother’s death, Drew had born witness to his father’s apparent preference for young women, but he hadn’t noticed any inappropriate interest in Kathryn. His father had wholeheartedly approved of his choice of a bride and had seemed genuinely fond of Kathryn. It was inconceivable to Drew that he could have… But something had happened. Something terrible that had altered the course of his and Kathryn’s lives.

  Someone had to know something about it. Drew exhaled. And who better than Martin, the man who had been privy to all of his father’s secrets? Drew would have the opportunity to gain the answers to his questions when his father’s solicitor returned from Ireland. Martin may not have knowledge of all of them, but he knew enough about his father’s other liaisons and the private business he’d conducted with Wesley Markinson and Bertrand Stafford to provide Drew with a few answers. It was simply a matter of time before he could begin to unravel the ugly tangle of events in Kathryn’s past.

  Kathryn. Drew closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his index finger to forestall the headache he felt coming on. She’d ridden off without a backward glance. And she hadn’t stopped until she reached the stables.

  Drew expelled the long breath. He’d only been at Swanslea Park a day and he’d already made a mess of things. He had expected to find one of his father’s mistresses living on the estate, but he hadn’t expected her to be Kathryn Markinson.

  And having Kathryn Markinson in residence had his stomach tied in knots. Her presence made him feel as if his every footstep was mired in quicksand. She had provided more questions than answers. But answers were what he required. And he’d have them—somehow. He’d have to make amends—somehow. But first, he had to keep the promise he’d made to his brother.

  He turned as the door to the library opened and Newberry stepped over the threshold. “Is everything all right, milord?”

  “Yes, of course,” Drew replied. “Why?”

  Newberry discreetly cleared his throat. “I thought you might require assistance, milord?”

  Becoming aware of his butler’s discerning gaze, Drew realized that he was still kneeling on the floor in front of the window. He pushed himself to his feet and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m fine now, Newberry. But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, milord.” He gave Drew a moment longer to compose himself before announcing his reason for disturbing him. “Riley has returned from the village with the selection of ponies you requested. He requires your presence in the stables.”

  “Very well.”

  “I beg your pardon, milord, but I wasn’t entirely certain I heard Riley correctly.” Newberry gave a dramatic pause. “He did say ponies, milord?”

  “He did.” Drew glanced at Newberry. “I’ve a surprise for Master Kit.”

  “Indeed, milord.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Drew confirmed. “Every boy should have a pony of his own choosing to ride, Newberry. Hence the selection of suitable mounts. I wanted Master Kit to have a choice. Will you please ask Miss Allerton to bring Master Kit downstairs? I’d like them to accompany me to the stables.” He paused. “And send someone to the cottage to ask Mrs. Stafford to join us at the paddocks and tell her that she might want to bring her sketchbook.”

  “As you wish, milord.”

  Drew pulled on his coat and a pair of leather gloves. “I’ll await Miss Allerton and Master Kit here.”

  Newberry sketched a hasty bow and left to do Drew’s bidding.

  Harriet Allerton and Kit entered the library a quarter of an hour later. “Good afternoon, milord. You asked to see us?”

  “Yes, I did.” Drew looked up as Miss Allerton, with Kit in hand, entered the library.

  He couldn’t help but smile at the mutinous expression on the little boy’s face as the governess gently nudged a reluctant Kit forward with the words, “Say hello to his lordship, Kit.”

  Kit looked down at his feet and mumbled a greeting.

  “Thank you for coming,” Drew said. “I have a surprise for Kit.”

  Kit apparently understood the meaning of the word surprise, for he looked up at Drew and grinned.

  Drew reached out to ruffle Kit’s hair, but caught himself as his young brother ducked behind Miss Allerton’s skirts. “And I’d like you both to accompany me.”

  “Milord, I don’t think…”

  Drew recognized the note of concern in the governess’s voice. “Only as far as the stables.”

  “The stables, milord?” Miss Allerton repeated.

  “I’ve asked Mrs. Stafford to join us there,” he added as incentive. “If you recall, I made a promise to Kit this morning and I always keep my promises.”

  “But, milord, you promised to teach Master Kit how to ride,” Miss Allerton said. “And I’m afraid that Swanslea Park lacks a mount suitable for a child of his tender years.”

  “I’m four years old,” Kit interrupted his governess to protest her comment about his tender years. “I’ll be five someday.”

  Drew grinned down at Kit. “And a boy your age ought to know how to ride.”

  “But, milord…”

  “It’s all right, Miss Allerton.” Drew held up his hand to forestall the governess’s worried protest. “I sent my head groom into the village earlier this morning to secure a few p-o-n-i-e-s, so Kit will have a selection from which to choose.”

  “A selection, milord?” Harriet Allerton’s eyes lit up, her voice fairly vibrated with excitement, and she forgot her dignity long enough to bounce up and down on the balls of her feet.

  Drew laughed. “Yes.”

  “How many?” she asked.

  “I counted seven of all shapes and sizes as they came up the drive,” he told her.

  Miss Allerton glanced down at the way her young charge was dressed—in short trousers that buttoned at the knees, knitted stockings, and leather buckle shoes. “I suppose his attire is suitable for a trip to the stables and an inspection of the p-o-n-i-e-s.” Like Drew, she spelled out the word to keep from spoiling the surprise. “But he’ll need a proper pair of boots, trousers, and a jacket and gloves once he begins lessons.”

  Drew nodded in agreement. “I’ll send for my tailor and boot maker. He can make up several sets of riding clothes as well as mourning garments. But Kit is dressed well enough for an afternoon excursion to the stables.” He motioned for Miss Allerton and Kit to precede him out of the library. “Shall we?”

  Wren had been shaking by the time she reached the cottage. Shaking with nerves and fear and desire and longing and a hundred other emotions she couldn’t name. She feared the power
he held over her—legally and emotionally—but that didn’t change the fact that Drew was the only man she’d ever loved and would most likely retain that status for the rest of her life. He’d come so close to guessing her secret that she’d ordered him never to mention the topic again and had driven off in a blind panic, leaving him behind.

  She sighed. Now all she wanted to do was lay her burden down by revealing the secrets of the past and telling him the truth. And if she knew that he would believe her, she’d do it. In a heartbeat. But she didn’t know and until she could be sure, her secret must remain her own.

  She sat on a wooden stool in front of an easel in the dowager cottage, where she’d spent the better part of an hour or so fighting to keep her attention on the detail of the anatomy and wing markings of the English peppered moth, part of the Noctuidae lepidoptera she was painting. Unfortunately she was having little success. The Pandora’s box of secrets locked inside her had been cracked open and now it couldn’t be completely closed; the secrets it held were quietly seeping out, and, once they did, her life and the lives of the people she loved would never be the same.

  Afraid to risk days of work on the slip of the paintbrush or a thoughtless mix of colors, Wren rinsed her paintbrush in the water basin, blotted it dry, and placed it upside down in the jar on her worktable. If only Drew hadn’t come to Swanslea Park. If only George hadn’t died and made it impossible for her to keep Drew out of her life… If only she didn’t love him so much…

  As she always did when painting was difficult, Wren reached for the hedgehog lying curled atop a velvet cushion fashioned from an old cloak and began to stroke the soft fur on her chin and belly. The hedgehog, whom Wren had named Erin, short for Erinaceus eropaeus, the scientific name given to the genus of small insectivorous mammals to which the hedgehog belonged, began to purr. It wasn’t as loud as a cat’s purr, but it was recognizable. Wren cuddled the hedgehog and listened to the sound of it purring as she gazed out the window past the thick hedge of Ilex aquifolium, or English holly, to where the chimney tops of Swanslea Park were visible in the distance.

  He was there. And nothing she had done since she’d returned from their unexpected picnic could make her stop thinking about him. Her painting hadn’t done it; nor, clearly, was the mental game she was employing, of using the scientific classification names of the flora and fauna of Britain instead of the more common ones each time she came in contact with them. Even the agouti hair surrounding Erin’s quills reminded her of the salt-and-pepper color of Drew’s hair. Nothing had made her forget the look in his eyes when he’d leaned forward as if to kiss her or the exchange of conversation that had followed.

  She knew she’d behaved badly. By suspecting, even accusing, him of taking liberties while she slept, by throwing her boot at him, and by driving off and leaving him behind. She’d been unfair to Drew and had overreacted, but she hadn’t been able to prevent it.

  She didn’t give her trust easily. But she had given it to him. She had trusted him and he’d betrayed that trust by peeking at her stockings while she slept. It wasn’t a gentlemanly thing to do, but it wasn’t a terrible transgression either. He had looked, but he hadn’t touched, and Wren knew that had Drew been less of a gentleman, she might have suffered far worse.

  Unless… Wren paused. It was entirely possible that she had found her reaction to his admission of guilt more frightening than his betrayal of her trust. She liked his kisses. She more than liked his kisses. And once, long ago, she’d thrilled to and craved his forbidden touches. Even now, after all these years, she could still remember the warmth of his hand as he caressed her breast through the thin muslin of her evening gown, the feel of his thumb teasing her nipple, and the intimate pressure of his body pressed against hers.

  Unfortunately, for her, desire came with a price and Wren was still very much afraid the price was too high.

  Still, in a secret corner of her heart, she allowed herself the pleasure of knowing that Drew had looked at the artwork painted on her stockings and liked what he saw—not only the flowers and the wood nymphs, but the legs inside the silk. She’d recognized the expression on his face, and the knowledge that Drew hadn’t bothered to hide his admiration, or his lust, excited her.

  She hadn’t appreciated his honesty or the humor in the situation at the time, but remembering the look of boyish innocence on his face when he’d asked, Would you have lifted your skirts and shown me your stockings if I’d asked? and the way he’d shrugged his shoulders and replied, That’s why I didn’t ask, when she’d avowed her refusal made her shake with quiet laughter. It reminded her of those long ago days when she’d been carefree and innocent and madly in love with him.

  A knock sounded at the cottage door, startling Wren out of her mirth. She turned away from her easel, slid off the stool, and crossed the room to open the door. As she reached for the doorknob, Wren realized she was still cradling Erin against her chest. She slipped the hedgehog into the pocket of an old three-quarter pelisse hanging by the front door, wiped her hands on her skirt, and opened the door.

  The footman, the same one who’d delivered Drew’s ultimatum the day before, stood on the threshold. “Mr. Newberry sent me to tell you that his lordship asks that you join him at the stables, ma’am. And he told me to tell you that you might want to bring your sketchbook.”

  Wren thought about refusing the request, but curiosity got the better of her. “All right,” she said. “Let me get my sketchbook.”

  The footman glanced at the short, puffed sleeves of her dress. “Better get a wrap, too, ma’am. The afternoon’s turned chill.”

  Wren nodded to let him know she’d heard him before she returned to her worktable for her sketchbook. She stuffed the book and a few sticks of charcoal into her knapsack and pulled on the pelisse as she walked out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen