Mistress by Midnight

by Maggie Robinson

  She turned and stumbled down the hill they’d climbed, tears blurring the limestone outcroppings.

  Con caught her as she twisted her ankle and started to fall. He held her until she had no more tears to cry, his shirt soaked through to his skin. Once again he’d handled everything badly. He had hoped she would be happy to have the whole summer instead of one stingy week with Beatrix. And he’d mentioned marriage. Just because it was always on his mind did not mean Laurette shared his sentiments. She couldn’t hate him, though. That would be far too cruel.

  “You did plan everything, didn’t you?” she asked fiercely. “From bringing down my brother to corrupting Beatrix. You cannot have what you want this time, Conover.”

  He felt the muscle jump in his cheek. “I’ve never had what I wanted!”

  “You could have said no to Mr. Berryman.”

  He almost had. He had been given the bare bones in London when he went hat in hand to Mr. Berryman’s bank a dozen years ago, learned more as Berryman accompanied him back to Ryland Grove. Like a fool he thought he could perform miracles and avoid the inevitable. But the crops failed, and the vise squeezed, and the details of his future had been written on bank draughts for a decade. Con remembered his despair as if it were yesterday. He’d had to sign his life away that day. A life with Laurette. But at the young age of nineteen, he could see no other way.

  He was filled with resolve now, and an urgent need to explain himself, if it were remotely possible. Con dropped his arms from her shoulders. “And then where would my tenants have been? Two whole bloody villages!”

  “You picked your poison, my lord.” Laurette wiped her face with a shaking hand. He had never seen her so angry. And she was right, in her way. They could have run off together all those years ago. But could he have lived with his selfishness? Could she? He pulled her to him again.

  “Listen to yourself, Laurette. You’ve forgotten your part in this. One word from you and I would have left Marianna at the altar. One word. A sigh. I kept hoping you’d say something, do something. But you were silent then. You knew I was doing the only thing I could do. Your strength gave me mine so I could go through with it.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t know then about Beatrix.”

  “Nor did I, my love. And I only know now because of your friend Marianna. You never would have told me.” He watched the flame cross her pale cheeks. “She did us both a surprising kindness, writing that letter. She must have hated me for leaving her and James.”

  Laurette shook her head. “She loved you.”

  “Impossible. I didn’t bed her for much more than a month. I barely spoke to her, escaped every chance I got. I was a very poor husband, I assure you.”

  “It didn’t matter. She told me herself she was quite besotted. She even admired your pride.”

  “My pride has cost me my son.” Con released her and set to do his own pacing. “We cannot, no matter how much we wish to, change the past.”

  “Nor can we go back to it, Con. I will never marry you.”

  He stopped. “Why?”

  “I am not that heedless girl anymore. You are not that innocent boy. Think what you have done to bring us to this place, Con, and tell me you are not the most ruthless of men.”

  “What would you have me do, Laurie? Pretend I don’t love you?”

  “If you loved me, you would not have threatened me with such disgrace. You’ve made me your mistress.”

  “Only because you would not have me any other way—”

  “I might have. Once a suitable period of mourning had gone by. Once we had come to some agreement about Beatrix.”

  Con wondered at her. She looked so calm now, her fair hair rippling in the breeze. She’d always been beautifully stubborn. She’d avoided him at every turn this past year, fixing her sea-blue eyes just to the right of his ear when they were thrown face-to-face. Slipping through a doorway once she’d discerned he was present. Embedding herself in a circle of gaggling women as ruffled protection. If he had been patient, could he have won her over? It seemed to him he had been patient too long already. He’d been robbed of her for a dozen years.

  He swallowed back his infamous pride and looked into her face. “Tell me what I should do, Laurette.”

  “I scarcely know. You say the children have been here a week?” She sat down on the hill again, worrying at the creases in her skirt with her gloved hands. Con longed to tear off the gloves, tear off every bit of clothing and take her under the wide sky. This was no time for his lust to overtake him, however. He nodded.

  “They were passing friends from Bea’s summer visits. Not close, really. They must think this arrangement very odd. What have they been told?”

  “Only that their holiday would be spent in Yorkshire rather than Dorset. That construction was being done on both our properties and as neighbors I had invited you and Beatrix to join me here. And it’s true. You know Vincent Lodge is at sixes and sevens at the present. There’s always something that needs doing at the Grove and I’m doing it.” He sat down beside her again and began to uproot long blades of grass.

  She suddenly looked horrified. “You didn’t imagine we’d share a bed with the children present, did you?”

  Con found some humor that had been sorely lacking these past few minutes. “Why do you suppose I’ve been such a randy devil? I knew the minute we got to Stanbury Hill we would resume the fiction of being childhood friends only. I would never dishonor you before them. I had hoped, actually, to court you.”

  “And use James and Bea in that endeavor!”

  “Why, yes. I think they would welcome our happiness.”

  Laurette frowned. “I’m not so sure of James. He was sincerely attached to Marianna. She was an excellent mother.”

  Con sighed. He knew and was glad for it, but part of him still wanted to demonize all things Berryman. “I know. But you would be an excellent mother as well. He already holds you in great affection.”

  “I have said I will not marry you. I mean it absolutely.” She heaved a sigh. “Under the circumstances, I feel justified to break our bargain. You have put me in a dreadful position, Con. And I cannot possibly spend the whole summer up here pretending that all is normal between us.”

  Con examined the square of earth made visible by his ner vous gardening. “No, I suppose not. But give me a week, Laurie. Then you may take Beatrix back to Cornwall if you wish. I only meant well. You cannot know how much I had wanted—” He broke off. No point to belaboring the issue. Her lush lips were drawn in a thin angry line.

  When they opened, she said, “Hell is paved with good intentions.” Her clouded blue eyes met his. There was a bleakness there he’d hoped never to see again.

  “I admit defeat.”

  No. He could not. Not ever. But it seemed to be what Laurette wanted to hear.

  He managed a grin. “We shall be polite, proper old friends, no more. I’ll destroy your brother’s debts as soon as I return to London, or send them to you if you do not trust me to do the thing properly.” He rose and extended a hand. “Come, let’s see what mischief the children have gotten into.”

  “Beatrix is not mischievous.” Con thought Laurette sounded a tad disappointed.

  “I understand James is mischievous enough for the both of them. The reports I get from school are enough to make my hair curl.” He walked down the hill and picked up her hat. “A proper, polite lady would be wearing this.” Even if it was a bit squashed from its tumble.

  Laurette straightened the brim and tied it back on. “I hate hats.”

  Con thought of the dozen he had bought for her. “I want you to keep your wardrobe, no matter what, Laurie. It is the very least I can do.”

  She sniffed but didn’t argue with him for once. They plodded down to the house, silent.

  Con reassessed how he could have been so wrong—again. It was becoming a bit of a habit, and he couldn’t blame it on youthful folly or idealism any longer. He wasn’t twenty anymore, pushed
to his limit by poverty, desperate to assert himself in the only way available—the desertion of his own life.

  Despite her suspicions, he was not the Machiavellian mon ster she thought him to be. Charlie Vincent had brought on his own ruination with very little assistance from Con. But it had been impossible not to take advantage of the situation. He had felt blackmailing Laurette to be his mistress was the only option, given her haughty dismissal of both his proposal and his person during the past year.

  These last weeks had been glorious. To have Laurette in his arms again, to skim her dappled skin, taste her mouth, and seat himself deep in her exquisite heat had been a long-deferred dream. If she was less than enthusiastic when he engaged her in ordinary conversation, she had made better use of her tongue in bed. He had hoped they would recapture their old easiness with each other at Stanbury Hill Farm, but now that ease was permanently shattered. He glanced sidelong at her and noted the defiant Vincent chin. A week with her in this state might be seven days too long.

  But damn it. He was going to prevail, no matter what he had to do. While he could not correct the past, he certainly had some influence on the present. He knew—knew—she still had feelings for him, no matter what she said. He still had a week. Barring sleep, that was over one-hundred hours to woo her. He was as good with numbers as she was.

  Chapter 12

  By the time they reached the peastone courtyard, Tomas was jostling the horses at the front door. There was no sign of welcome from the house. Con pushed in the somber black-painted door, squelching his urge to pick up Laurette and carry her over the threshold. This was not their honeymoon, nor would they ever have one if Laurette had her way.

  The flagstone hallway was swept clean and a vase of grasses and wildflowers stood on a polished credenza. The house smelled of beeswax and lavender, a sure sign that Sadie was somewhere about. Nothing scurried across the floor or walked on the walls. Quite a change, all in all, from the last time he occupied the farm for a few damp days in the fall.

  Tomas brought in the small cases from the carriage and went to see to the horses. Laurette was rigid with nerves, standing close to the open door, as though poised for flight. She looked ill, every freckle dark against her white face.

  He wanted to take her in his arms, but he had promised friendship, nothing more. “I expect you will want to see your room before we meet the children, wherever they might be.”

  The house was far too quiet to think two eleven-year-olds and their minders were within. Laurette nodded and he led her up the center staircase, a massive, sturdy construct of oak. He paused at the oriel window to search the field and outbuildings behind the house, but saw no movement. He knew where he told Sadie to put Laurette—as far from his bedchamber as possible. They turned left at the top of the stairs and walked down a wide newly-carpeted hall to the end of the “Ladies’ Wing.” He and James were at the opposite end of the hallway, with plenty of bedrooms between.

  His maternal grandparents had been blessed with several children, but none had survived save his mother, and she was doomed to die young, too. Con had already outlived both his parents by almost a decade, and he planned to stay alive as long as it took to get Laurette to marry him. One day, they might fill this house with more children of their own. If his plan failed, he would deed the house to Laurette to be held in trust for his daughter. They would both have some independence once the farming operation was in full swing again, and Laurette would never have to be at the mercy of her feckless brother.

  And she would be far, far away from Ryland Grove. If she wouldn’t marry him, the thought of her next door was much too painful to contemplate.

  Laurette said nothing as she took in the blue-and-white sprigged room, so very different from the exotic Jane Street bedchamber. He had attempted to replicate a traditional country manor house for her, and from the looks of everything, his caretaker had followed his instructions to the letter. Chinoiserie ginger jars were lined up on the mantel, some filled with more wildflowers. He hoped that Beatrix had a hand in doing that.

  He opened a casement window. “You can see the lake from here. And I believe I see where our children are.”

  Laurette looked at him with disapproval. “Where the children are,” she reminded him, walking over to the window. “You will have to take much greater care when you speak.”

  She squinted into the distance. Con noted the fine lines at her blue eyes. This morning he had pulled a long silver hair from his own head.

  Half their lives were over. So much time wasted. Would he be there to see her amber hair turn to pewter?

  “They are swimming! I did not know Beatrix knew how. She was always shy of water, even the Piddle. She heard tales of so many drownings in Cornwall I could never convince her to do more than take her boots off and stick a toe in.”

  “I imagine Nico taught her. You should have seen him in Greece with his brothers. You’d never know they were almost grown men, splashing about like seal pups. It was very beautiful there.”

  “I wonder why you came home at all,” she said tartly.

  Con pushed a frilly cushion away and sat down on the window seat. “A decade of running away was long enough. Too long, as you know. I meant to be a father to James.”

  Laurette lifted a golden eyebrow. “Not a husband?”

  Con shook his head. “Never. Marianna and I would have what so many of the ton have, a convenient marriage. I had my heir.”

  “She might have seen things differently.”

  “She had lost her stranglehold over me, Laurette. I made my own fortune. In any event, this conversation is pointless. I did not expect her to die so soon, and I regret our estrangement was a cause for any unhappiness.”

  He stood up abruptly before he betrayed himself. As shocked as he had been to learn of his wife’s death, he had also been glad. Relieved he would not have to spend the rest of his days being polite to Marianna as they led their separate lives. That was not a point in his favor. He was not cold. Not ruthless. At least when it came to Laurette. “You’ll want to freshen up before the children come in. I’ll leave you to it.”

  A husband. The words had no meaning to him. On the day of his wedding, there was only one woman he cared about, and she was not standing at his side or lying next to him in his bed.

  He saw Laurette at once in the church, her face so pale each freckle stood stark, splashes of mud on snow. She was wearing her best straw bonnet, flowers from the Lodge’s overgrown garden wilting on the brim, and a plain black dress. Her little brother shuffled restlessly next to her. Her father was not there to squeeze his shoulders to compliance. Her mother, dressed in unrelieved mourning, did not meet his eye.

  But Laurette did. Every thought was visible. Her yearning. Her fear. Her acceptance. His gut wrenched in agony. He would make it up to her somehow, some time. Surely she knew he’d rather be anywhere but here at All Saints, waiting for his unwanted bride.

  He shoved his trembling hands in his pockets and examined the stone floor, wishing somehow it would open and swallow him up. Send him down a shaft to another dimension, where tenants weren’t starving, and cattle and sheep not dead, and crops not burned in the ground. Where Ryland Grove was not crumbling and collapsing about his head, crushing his dreams. Crushing his life.

  He felt his uncle tug his sleeve and looked up. Marianna came toward him, leaning on her father’s arm. She was a blur of blue and roses. Con supposed her wedding finery cost more than anything he’d spent on his own clothes in a dozen years. Lord knows the preparations at Ryland Grove were horrifically extravagant. The wedding breakfast would be a triumph, but Con was sure it would all taste like foulest sin to him.

  Would Laurette come with her family? Marianna had invited everyone in the area at church last week. Uncle Ryland would have been sure to repeat the invitation when he warned Laurette off.

  He couldn’t help himself. He turned from the vicar, turned from his vows, and sought Laurette in the little crowd behind him. She stoo
d stiff, her eyes bleak but dry. One word from her and he would extricate himself from this farce and find himself in her arms again. One word.

  But she knew his duty, better perhaps than he did. Her beautiful lips remained pressed together in an almost-smile. She inclined her head, and he looked down into the face of his wife. Marianna lifted a plucked blonde brow.

  “I will,” he heard himself say. He barely recognized his own voice.

  The rest of the morning passed in equally unrecognizable increments. The wedding party moved without a stumble past the ruined gatehouse up the lime walk to the house, grateful villagers gathered and tossed petals at the bride and groom. Hands were shaken, food eaten, champagne drunk. The Vincents were nowhere to be found, and for that, Con was grateful.

  The night came both too slowly and too soon.

  In the dark, and near desperate, he just managed to do his duty by his new wife. His wife! He was not so very experienced, but he expected more difficulty getting the deed done. Laurette had been so tight the first time, and there had been a cry of pain despite her desire. Con remembered Laurette in her imperfect perfection. This night was nothing like any other before it.

  His guilt was overwhelming. He had made the business a bore for Marianna, and betrayed the woman he loved. And there was tomorrow. And tomorrow after that.

  Laurette startled at the distinct slam of the door as he left. Con was angry, but so was she. At least this farce would be over in a week, and she could go back to being plain Miss Vincent of Lower Conover. Her small portmanteau was still below in the flagstone hallway, and her clothing miles behind in the luggage coach. But there was a ewer of water and some crisp linen towels on the dressing table, along with a set of silver-backed brushes and combs. Laurette removed her gloves and her hat, wondering if Sadie could fix the crimp in the brim. She wiped her face and hands with a cool cloth and unpinned her hair. She brushed it mindlessly, too vexed to count the strokes.