Mistress

by Amanda Quick

  Herbert was in his middle thirties. He was a pleasant faced, slightly plump man with ruddy cheeks, pale blue eyes, and a good-natured, inoffensive manner. His thinning, light brown hair was cut and curled in the latest style. His yellow waistcoat, which fitted a trifle too snugly at the waist, as well as his elaborately tied cravat were in the very forefront of fashion.

  Iphiginia liked Herbert. He was one of the few men who seemed to have no interest in trying to take what everyone imagined to be Masters’s place in her life. She could be at ease in his presence. He enjoyed discussing matters of art and architectural fashion. And she respected his advice in social matters.

  But even Herbert, rarely at a loss for the proper response to any given social situation, appeared to be floundering tonight. Obviously he did not know how to handle the impending catastrophe.

  Iphiginia unfurled her white lace fan as she collected her wildly scattered thoughts. The only thing that would see her through this disaster was her own intelligence. She reminded herself that she had her fair share of that commodity.

  “Masters is, above all, a gentleman. There is no reason for him to embarrass either me or himself.”

  “Whatever you say, my dear.” Herbert arched one bushy brow in a knowing fashion. “I assure you, there’s no need to go into the details of your connection to Masters with me. Everyone in Town is well aware of just what sort of friends you and Masters were.”

  “Indeed.” Iphiginia’s tone held the repressive note that she employed whenever someone grew too bold on the subject of the earl. She rarely needed to use that tone with Herbert. He was usually more discreet.

  She could hardly complain about the assumptions Herbert and the members of the ton had made concerning the nature of her relationship with Masters. Society had arrived at precisely the conclusions that she had wanted it to reach.

  Such assumptions and conclusions were part of the grand plan to gain entree into Masters’s exclusive circle of acquaintances. The scheme had worked until tonight.

  “Regardless of your past association with Masters,” Herbert said, “the question everyone is asking tonight is, what happens next? We have been led to believe that you and he had come to a parting of the ways, m’dear. But his presence here this evening indicates otherwise.”

  Iphiginia ignored the questioning note in his voice. She could hardly provide him with an answer when she did not have one.

  Unable to think of anything else to do in the midst of the crisis, Iphiginia determined to do the only thing possible. She stuck to the story she had concocted when she had embarked on her perilous adventure.

  “Masters knows very well that our connection is finished unless he chooses to apologize for the quarrel he caused,” she said smoothly.

  “One never uses the word impossible when one is discussing, Masters,” Herbert said. “But in this instance, I think it is permissible. It’s safe to say that no one in this room tonight can conceive of the earl apologizing to a lady who has humiliated him in front of the whole of Society.”

  Iphiginia was horrified. “But I have done no such thing, Mr. Hoyt.”

  “No?”

  Iphiginia fanned herself rapidly. She felt much too warm. “I merely indicated that he and I were no longer in charity with each other.”

  “And that it was all his fault.”

  “Well yes.” Iphiginia swallowed.”It certainly was all his fault. But I did not seek to humiliate him in front of his friends.”

  Herbert gave her an odd look. “Come now, my dear. Let us he honest here. You have hinted that you and Masters had a violent quarrel, one that shattered your close friendship. You cannot tell me that you were not looking for a bit of revenge when you descended on Society. Everyone believes you to be searching for a suitable replacement for him.”

  “That is not true.” Iphiginia cleared her throat. “I mean, the earl does owe me an apology, but I never intended to, uh, obtain one from him.” One did not get apologies from dead men.

  “Whatever your intention, you have made certain that everyone understood that you were the one who severe the connection. They believe that you actually had this temerity to give Masters his conge.”

  It had all been part of her scheme to transform herself into an instant rage in the eyes of the ton, but Iphiginia, could hardly explain that to Herbert. “As to that slight misunderstanding—”

  “Misunderstanding?” Herbert gave her a pitying look. “For the past fortnight, Society has not been able to decide if you are the most daring lady in London or simply a candidate for Bedlam.”

  “I am beginning to wonder myself,” Iphiginia muttered under her breath. She must have been mad to get herself into this situation.

  “You know that the ton has been waiting on tenterhooks to see how Masters will respond to your notion of vengeance.”

  “I have told you, Mr. Hoyt, that I have absolutely no interest in vengeance. There was a small tiff between us, that’s all. It requires an apology, nothing more.”

  “So now it’s a minor tiff, is it? Heretofore you have termed it a major quarrel.”

  “These things get enlarged out of all proportion under the influence of gossip, do they not?”

  “They certainly do, m’dear.” Herbert patted her hand reassuringly “But fear not. I shall remain by your side, ready to assist you if Masters turns unpleasant.”

  “A reassuring thought.”

  But it was not reassuring at all. Masters had somehow come back from the dead and there would be the devil to pay.

  Herbert’s reaction to the situation confirmed everything Iphiginia had learned thus far about the notorious earl. Society thought him deliciously dangerous and unpredictable.

  There were rumors of a duel years ago in which he had very nearly killed his opponent. Worse yet, it was whispered that he might have actually been responsible for the murder of his former business associate, Lynton Spalding. It was certainly a fact that after Spalding’s death Masters had assumed control of the profitable investment pool his associate had once managed.

  Many claimed that the lucrative pool was not the only thing Masters had seized following Spalding’s demise. It was said that he had indulged in a long-standing affair with Spalding’s widow, Hannah, and that the affair continued to this day even though she had remarried and was now Lady Sands.

  No one would ever know the truth about those incidents or any others because Masters never spoke of them. Indeed, he had a rule against discussing his past and another against explaining his actions. He was an intensely private man.

  Masters was definitely not the sort who would tolerate humiliation of any kind.

  Iphiginia reminded herself that she had been in other precarious situations. Her recent year abroad during which she and her cousin Amelia had toured the ruins of Italy had not been without incident. There had been that rather nasty confrontation with a street thief in Rome and another equally dangerous encounter with a bandit on the journey to Pompeii.

  Still, Iphiginia was only too well aware that she had never dealt with a man whose reputation was of the legendary proportions that characterized the earl’s.

  The trick was to stay calm and in control, Iphiginia thought. She was dealing with a potentially dangerous adversary, but she knew from her research that Masters was a highly intelligent man. With any luck, he would choose to approach the coming confrontation in a rational, coolheaded manner.

  From what she had learned about him, she was almost certain he would not allow his emotions to govern his actions during the next few minutes.

  Almost certain. Iphiginia saw Herbert’s brow furrow with uneasiness as he watched the crowd. She heard a sharp, distinct crack. She glanced down and saw that she had accidentally snapped the delicate spokes of her fan.

  At that moment the knot of people directly in front of her unraveled. A woman’s nervous laugh rang out and then was cut off abruptly. Men edged out of the way. Even Herbert stepped back a pace or two.

  Iphiginia sudden
ly found herself standing quite alone in the middle of the crowded ballroom.

  Marcus, Earl of Masters, came to a halt directly in front of Iphiginia. Because she had been looking down at her broken fan, the first thing she noticed about him was his hands.

  He was the only man in the room not wearing gloves. In a world where soft, elegant, graceful hands were much admired in a man, Marcus had the hands of a seasoned warrior. Large and powerful, they were the hands of a man who had made his own way in the world.

  Iphiginia suddenly recalled that he had come into his title a mere five years earlier. It had been a bankrupt inheritance. He had not been born into wealth and power. He had created those attributes for himself.

  Iphiginia tore her gaze away from the riveting sight of his muscular hands and looked up quickly. Marcus possessed a face that could have been etched on an ancient gold coin. Strong, relentless and bold to the point of being harsh, it was the face of an ancient conqueror.

  He watched her with amber eyes that glittered with a fierce intelligence. His hair was very dark, almost black. There was a flash of silver in the curving swath that was brushed back from his high forehead.

  Iphiginia met his brilliant eyes. A shock of deep awareness and recognition flashed through her. Something that had been smoldering deep inside her for weeks suddenly leaped into full flame.

  This was the man she had fallen in love with, never dreaming that she might one day meet him. He was exactly as she had imagined.

  Iphiginia knew that the crowd was waiting breathlessly for her reaction.

  “My lord,” Iphiginia whispered so softly that only he could hear. “I am so very glad to see that you are alive.”

  With a heartfelt prayer that she was correct in her assumption that the earl’s curiosity would govern his reaction, she closed her eyes and sank gracefully into a mock swoon.

  Marcus caught her before she reached the floor. “Very clever, Mrs. Bright,” he muttered for her ears alone. “I wondered how you would extricate yourself from this tangle.”

  Iphiginia did not dare to open her eyes. She felt herself swept up high against Marcus’s chest. His arms were strong and firm. She felt oddly secure and safe in his grasp. The scent of him aroused a curious sensation within her. She was startled by the unexpected, deeply sensual pleasure she felt.

  She had never known anything quite like the feelings that were thrumming through her at this moment. She raised her lashes just far enough to see that the frothy skirts of her white silk gown cascaded over the black sleeve of his coat.

  Marcus carried her effortlessly across the ballroom floor toward the door.

  “Step aside, if you please,” he ordered to those in his path. “My very good friend needs fresh air.”

  The crowd melted away in front of him.

  Murmurs of astonishment and speculation followed Iphiginia’s grand exit from the crowded hall.

  Marcus carried her out of the large mansion. Without pausing, he strode down the wide front steps to where a gleaming black carriage horsed with two black stallions waited.

  The door of the carriage was opened by a footman garbed in black livery. Marcus carried Iphiginia into the cab. The door was closed.

  The black carriage set off into the midnight streets of London.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I expect you have a few questions, my lord.

  “Several, as a matter of fact.” Marcus settled into his seat. He watched Iphiginia sit briskly upright, straighten a white plume in her hair, and shake out her skirts.

  “Only to be expected and I shall he pleased to answer them,” she said. “But first I want to thank you for not giving away the game a moment ago. I am well aware that you must have found the entire performance a bit awkward.”

  “Not in the least, Mrs. Bright. I assure you, I found it quite fascinating.”

  She gave him a glorious smile. Marcus was momentarily transfixed. He suddenly realized how she had managed to captivate the majority of his acquaintances.

  “I knew you would play along with me until you discovered precisely what was afoot.” Iphiginia’s vivid hazel eyes held more than a hint of satisfaction. “I was certain of it. I knew you would be too clever, too perceptive, too coolheaded, too intelligent to do anything rash until you had investigated the matter thoroughly.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, I assure you, however, that I also possess enough wit not to be completely distracted from the matter at hand by your very charming flattery.”

  She blinked in surprise. “But I was not flattering you, sir. I meant every word. I have made an intense study of your nature and I have concluded that you have a very fine brain.”

  Marcus gazed at her, briefly at a loss for words. “You admire my brain?”‘

  “Yes, indeed,” she said with what was, to all appearances, genuine enthusiasm. “I have read all of your papers in The Technical and Scientific Repository and I was most impressed. The one on the potential of the steam engine was particularly inspiring. Not that your proposal for a mechanical threshing machine was not also extremely exciting.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  She blushed. “I confess I am not well versed in technical and mechanical matters. Personally, I am a student of classical antiquities. Most of my time has been spent in that field.”

  “I see.”

  “But I am pleased to say that I was able to comprehend most of the mechanical principles you discussed in your articles. You write quite clearly, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” He had spoken too quickly when he had told her that he possessed too much wit to fall victim to flattery, Marcus thought wryly. He was momentarily enthralled. He had never had a woman compliment him on his scientific and technical writings, let alone on his intelligence.

  “You also wrote a quite instructive piece on budding construction techniques which was of considerable interest to me,” Iphiginia continued. She launched into a recital of the significant points of the article.

  Marcus listened with a sense of dazed wonder. He lounged back into the corner of the black velvet seat cushion, crossed his arms, and studied Iphiginia’s face in the glow of the carriage lamp.

  Whatever it was he had expected to find when he finally cornered his new “mistress” in the Fenwicks’ ballroom, he reflected, Iphiginia Bright was not it.

  Charles Trescott had been wrong when he’d implied that the adventurous widow made a mockery of chastity and purity with her choice of virginal white attire.

  Iphiginia Bright somehow managed to give the impression of being the real thing, a lady of pristine, unstained virtue. It was really quite astonishing.

  The effect was not achieved solely by her angelic white gown, gloves, and shoes. It seemed to emanate from the very depths of the woman herself. There was something about her clear, intelligent, forthright gaze, arresting nose, and soft, gentle mouth that spoke of virtue. Her hair was the color of dark honey. She was striking in some ways, subtle in others. Although she was no great beauty, she was the most interesting female Marcus had ever encountered.

  There was also an alluring air of very feminine sensuality about her, yet she had not chosen to emphasize it with her clothing. The cut of her gown was surprisingly demure. Another clever touch, Marcus conceded privately. A man’s imagination was a powerful tool and she knew how to employ it.

  The curves of Iphiginia’s small, high, delicately rounded breasts did not overflow the bodice of her dress. They were discreetly covered by white silk ruffles. Such breasts were not meant to be crudely fondled, Marcus thought. They had been fashioned for a connoisseur of fine things, a lover endowed with an artist’s slender, sensitive fingers.

  He absently flexed his own sturdy, callused fingers. The fact that he possessed the hands of a farmer did not mean that he did not enjoy touching fine, soft things.

  Iphiginia was small and slender. The skirts of her high-waisted gown drifted airily down over what was clearly a very narrow waist. The wispy silk barely hinted at the en
ticing shape of womanly hips and rounded thighs.

  No wonder she had captured the fancy of the ton, Marcus thought. She certainly had his full attention.

  He was intrigued by the mysterious Mrs. Bright, more so than he had been with any other woman for longer than he cared to recall.

  He was also half-aroused, he realized abruptly. He could feel the dull ache of awakening desire in his loins. Perhaps it was not so surprising. It had been four months since he had last been intimate with a woman and Iphiginia had been on his mind constantly for the past two days. He had speculated on nothing else except his unknown paramour during the entire journey back to London.

  It occurred to Marcus that if he had deliberately set out to find an interesting new mistress, he could not have done better than Iphiginia Bright.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” Iphiginia said, obviously embarrassed by her lengthy commentary on his journal article. “I expect I am boring you. It is not as though you are not perfectly familiar with your own theories on the use of timber pilings in foundations.”

  “Perhaps we should get back to the main topic,” Marcus said smoothly. “But first you must give me your address so that I can convey it to my coachman.”

  Iphiginia cleared her throat. “My address?”

  “It would he useful, considering the fact that I am attempting to escort you home at the moment.”

  “You are?”

  “Given the role you have led everyone to believe that I play in your life,” Marcus said, “it is only natural that I take you home after the ball.”

  “But—”

  “It is expected,” Marcus emphasized. “People will wonder if I do not claim the privilege.”

  “You’re quite certain that is the normal thing to do?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “Oh.” Iphiginia caught her soft lower lip between her very white teeth, apparently contemplating the matter.

  She came to a decision. “Very well. I have a town house in Morning Rose Square. Number Five.”