Mistress by Midnight

by Maggie Robinson

  “Something you said earlier—about taking me to your favorite places. I believe that’s a very good idea.”

  Con felt a wave of confusion. “I thought our relationship was at an end, Laurie.”

  She shook her head in impatience. “You misunderstand me. I’m not making myself very clear, am I? You should travel. With James. Take him out of school and show him your world. I know despite his reticence with you he was fascinated by your letters. You say you are writing a book for him, but what better way to explain things to him than to take him with you on the grandest of Grand Tours? You would be thrown together every day and bound to overcome your differences.”

  Con leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He couldn’t tell her the only place he wanted to be was Ryland Grove with her installed in the Marchioness’ suite. Not that he would let her spend even one night alone in it.

  “I suppose your idea has some merit. Thank you for your concern. I shall consider it, once our week is at an end. Perhaps by then James and I will be friends and such a trip will be unnecessary. He’s rather young, you know, to be introduced to the scandalous sights of the East.”

  “You’ve seen a great deal of wickedness then.”

  “A very great deal.” Con chuckled inwardly. If she knew that he’d lived as a monk she’d never believe it. “And travel at present is dangerous. The Ottoman Empire is, I fear, in disarray, one of the reasons I chose a prosaic Yorkshire farm over my Greek villa. There’s to be a war soon. My contacts have warned me there might be disruption to trade routes.”

  “Will your business be affected?”

  “Perhaps. Even the largest bribes cannot stop an army. Don’t worry. I’ve made adjustments. My fortune is safe.”

  “I care nothing for your fortune!”

  “I know,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of avarice. No man has had a less demanding mistress. A mistress,” he added with a grin, “who has volunteered to cook.”

  “Perhaps I wish to cause you harm. Poison you.”

  Her tone was teasing, almost saucy. It hurt worse than her frostiness.

  “I would employ a taster so your murderous impulses came to naught. Nico or Tom would do most anything for me.”

  “They are both much too young and handsome to die.”

  “My dear Laurette, they are virtually children. Never tell me they’ve caught your fancy.”

  “No man will catch my fancy again, not even you.” As if to prove her point, she looked away.

  She’d brought their banter to a close with a thud.

  She was withdrawing. Leaving in spirit even if she had a week left here. “What will you do when you go back home, Laurie?”

  “My life is full enough. There are the village girls to teach and the house to maintain.”

  “What if Charlie wants to sell it once the renovations are complete?” Vincent Lodge was costing him a pretty penny—between it and Stanbury Hill and Jane Street, he was beginning to feel a slight pinch. But he would put the Jane Street house on the market—he’d never have use for it again.

  “I suppose that’s his right. He won’t need it once he takes orders and finds a cozy vicarage to live in.”

  Con snorted. “I doubt seriously your brother will ever be anyone’s idea of a parson.”

  Laurette’s golden eyebrows raised. “Then why did you send him on his pilgrimage?”

  “To get him out of my way, of course. It was all a part of my grand design upon you. As you said, I’ve been ruthless.” He swallowed the last of his brandy.

  “I have been thinking all afternoon.”

  Con raised his eyebrow, but felt his hopes rising as well. “And?”

  “I understand why you’ve done all this. I cannot like it, but I understand it.” She fingered the linen at her neck. “I thought, you know, perhaps when Beatrix was much older, I might explain. Tell her the truth.”

  “A deathbed confession?”

  Laurette blushed. “Maybe.” She stood up and walked to the long window. The sunlight set fire to the gold and amber in her hair “I am a coward, Con. For years I kept the secret because I feared Mr. Berryman. He was all that stood be tween us and the poorhouse. Beatrix has the advantages she does because of him. Then Marianna saw to her welfare when he died. She was very generous.”

  “You cannot thank them for keeping your child from you. From me.”

  Laurette turned to him. “Would you have stayed if you knew about her existence? You left James.”

  Three words. You left James. She cut him to the core.

  “I didn’t love Marianna. I loved you. I still love you.” It took all his willpower to stay seated behind his desk rather than get up and take her in his arms. “At first I suppose I thought of James as the price I had to pay for my bargain. He didn’t belong to me, not really. God knows I was grateful when I learned Marianna was pregnant. I felt like a male whore, Laurette, like a thoroughbred purchased to cover a mare. You cannot imagine the despair I felt every night when she expected me to come to her bed.”

  “But James is innocent in all this.”

  He swallowed back the bile. “I know. I was stupid. And twenty years old when I left. If you recall, I didn’t have the best judgment. If I had, I never would have let you seduce me.”

  Laurette nodded, did not dispute the blame he placed upon her. She had been as determined to lose her maidenhead as the Berrymans were to buy his marquessate. “I did, didn’t I? And you were not easy. But I never gave up. I was a fool.”

  Thank God for it, Con thought. She had given him precious memories to cling to when he had no hope. This last month had given him more. They were no longer children hurrying in the grass in fear of discovery, but adults who still savored each other, despite the broken promises.

  “You always were a stubborn chit. Can we be friends again, Laurie?”

  She brushed the curtain back. “I will try. But no more of your surprises or schemes. We shall do our best to provide the children with a holiday and then go our separate ways. It’s for the best.”

  “I cannot agree, but will respect your wishes. If you should change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  “But if you do, I’ll always be right next door.” It would kill him to be so close to her, but what choice did he have?

  Chapter 13

  Laurette woke up to the bleating of one hundred sheep and lambs, the frantic bark of a dog, and the children’s shouts. She wrapped her robe about her and went to the window. Judging from the sun in the sky, she had shamefully slept half the morning away. Everyone else seemed to be up and outside, busy driving the wooly parade down the lane into the enclosure.

  The knots of tension were still in her neck. Dinner last night had been an uncomfortable affair, despite her and Bea’s attempt at levity and civility. It had been hard work on her part, but Bea seemed like a born peacemaker. Laurette had six more days to try to affect a reconciliation between Con and James, six more days to love Bea before she took her home. Her Cornish cousins would not be expecting the child’s return so soon—Con had bribed them generously to steal Bea away. Perhaps Bea could spend a few days at Vincent Lodge before they made the trip, although Sadie had said the house was in no state for company, thanks to the infusion of the Marquess of Conover’s money. There was scaffolding everywhere. Con had employed thatchers, plasterers, painters. Laurette reckoned she’d scarcely recognize her old home when she got back. Her neighbors must be agog at the sudden improvement of the Vincent fortunes.

  Laurette rubbed the back of her neck absently as she watched the activity below. She was more than a little ashamed that she had succumbed to Con’s blackmail so easily, fell into his bed so easily, fell back in love with him so easily, no matter what she told him. The last few weeks had been a heady mix of frustration, lust, tenderness and boredom. She would have to keep her wits to get through the rest of their time together.

  Con had made no real objection when she called their bargain over yesterd
ay. Laurette thought of his face as he stood on the hill, the breeze blowing his midnight hair back to reveal all the hard planes and angles of his face. His lips had been set, as though he wanted to argue but was holding back. He had been reasonable, even affable last night when she found him in his study. So different from when he’d last broken her heart.

  The standing stones were too far, the gazebo within sight of the back lawn of Ryland Grove—within the sight of Con’s wife’s very pale blue eyes. So Laurette had gone to their tree at its secluded spot on the river for two days, leaving little signs in its crook that she had been there, signs only he would recognize. Surely he would come on the third.

  October had turned brisk. She layered herself in shawls under her cloak, slipping out the kitchen door down to the bottom of her garden. She dashed across the rock bridge as she had done as a child, then followed the rough path along the Piddle until she came to Ryland Grove’s serpentine wall. It was a low, paltry thing, still easy to climb over where it wasn’t tumbled down outright. Beyond it was a vast, empty down. She continued on the track until the lone twisted tree rose up from the chalk river bank in misplaced optimism, trying to reach the wood opposite with its gnarled arms.

  Her talismans were missing. The flat pink stone, her skipping stone Con had given her and taught her to use as a child, and the little muslin bag of loose spangles she had picked off her wedding dress were no longer tucked into the seat of the tree. In their place was a small carved wooden box.

  He had been here!

  She scrambled up, fitting herself against the smooth bark and opened the box. Inside was a silver crescent pin of laurel leaves. Her hands shook as she pinned it onto her dress beneath the scarves. He had thought of her on his travels.

  On his honeymoon.

  She had thought of him, too—of no one else save Con. The weeks had lumbered by with painful slowness. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, felt she was literally dying of a broken heart. She told herself Con had had no choice but to marry and make good his debts, but a tiny part of her hated him for giving in. They could have run away together, disappeared. Now it was she who was to disappear.

  The Vincent cousins would keep her until the summer. Until it was over. She would eat roast goose with them this Christmas and watch their jonquils burst forth instead of her mama’s next spring. She would leave this box and the pin behind in Cornwall, something for the child to remember its real parents by.

  She had been caught sometime before Con married despite their precautions, a punishment, her mother said, for her wicked willfulness. There had been a scramble, but at last her father had remembered a cousin and his childless wife in Penzance. They were willing to foster her child for their share of the Berryman fortune.

  Laurette had endured a hideous interview with Mr. Berryman, who had made the financial arrangements with her father. The plan to have her removed from the neighborhood before Con returned was upset by the earlier-than-expected arrival of the marquess and his bride. But Laurette’s trunks were now packed and she would leave tomorrow.

  She had been forbidden to tell him. Mr. Berryman would stop Charlie’s tuition and withdraw any support for the child’s fostering. Con must never suspect she carried a child. She was thinner now than she’d ever been anyhow. Sadie told her once she got away from the Lodge and the daily recriminations from her parents, she’d bloom. But Sadie wouldn’t see her. Laurette was to go to Cornwall alone.

  Laurette waited in the tree, her eyes closed. He was coming, she knew it. She’d wait all day perched in the crook if she had to. Her mama had retired with one of her headaches and her father had shut himself up in his study with a bottle of second-best brandy. The Vincents were costing Mr. Berryman a fair amount, but rumor was he could afford to support her family and the whole of the village beside without so much as the blink of an eye. He had bought a marquessate for his daughter, after all.

  She heard his footfall on the path but kept her eyes shut, as though seeing Con’s brightness would burn her.

  “Laurette.”

  The one word held all of his longing. She smiled and looked down on him. Everything yet nothing had changed.

  “Hello, Con.”

  “May I come up?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  She was snug in his arms in the crook of their tree. Suddenly her wraps were too warm for the dull autumn day. Con must have known, as his hands slipped under her old cloak, parted them and brushed her tender breasts.

  “May I kiss you, just once for old time’s sake?”

  Laurette turned her face to his. His lips settled on hers with charming hesitation.

  She opened her mouth to him, tasting him for the first time in weeks. A ripple of bliss spread from her scalp to the toes in her boots. His tongue was warm and seeking. She relaxed in his embrace, shutting her mind to the impossibility of the future as his hands skimmed her bodice.

  She had today only. And desperate as she was, she couldn’t manage to make love to him in a tree. She pushed him away gently and unknotted the strings of her cloak. Con raised a dark eyebrow.

  Laurette kissed him quickly and hopped to the ground. She spread the cloak and shawls under the low branches, bare now. Anyone could come upon them. No green leaves and tall grasses would provide shelter. But it was unlikely Con’s city wife would take a walk on such a gray day.

  Laurette shivered with cold and anticipation. Soon Con covered her with his body, the scratch of wool against her bare flesh a welcome discomfort. She needed to feel every point of contact between them, no matter how harsh. There was no time for play, just the brutal business of two bodies joining for one last bite of pleasure. She was as fierce as he, writhing, nipping hard enough to draw blood and his wife’s questions.

  But Con belonged to her and no other, no matter what it said on the marriage lines.

  She gloried in his hard grasp as he rode her toward heaven. There were no awaiting angels, just the devilish realization that this was the end. For now. Con’s face was a mask of pain as he withdrew and spent into his hand.

  “We cannot do this again, Laurie.” He propped himself up at the base of the tree as she pulled her petticoats down.

  “I know, silly,” she tried to joke, arranging herself with misplaced modesty on the cloak. “I’ll be away for months. But I see no reason why, when I come back, we cannot meet discreetly.” She tried not to think of the possible consequences. Of what Mr. Berryman might bring them all to. She had to cling to the hope of it.

  “There is every reason.” His cheeks were flushed, but his lips were white. “Marianna is bearing my child. Now do you see? I am married. About to become a father. I’ve already lost most of my honor. Don’t expect me to lose it all.”

  “A—a baby?” Laurette saw black swirls dance before her eyes. She swallowed her breath and clutched at the fabric beneath her.

  “Here, you’re cold.” Con shook the dry bits of grass from her scarves and wrapped them around her shoulders. “Get up, Laurie. I’m sorry. I only meant to kiss you. But, my God. I love you and there’s no way out, none. I’m a bastard to use you like this.”

  Laurette stumbled as she rose, and Con caught her. He fingered the crooked pin at her breast. “Do you like it? I bought it on your eighteenth birthday.”

  A day that had gone unremarked by her parents, who were so angry with her. “It’s lovely,” she said woodenly. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me for anything! I’ve ruined your life!”

  How dramatic he looked, his fashionably cut hair in disarray, his face all sharp angles, his eyes bleak. She noticed for the first time he was head to toe in new, expensive clothes, wrinkled now, boots scuffed where they had dug into the earth as he mounted her. He had been bought and paid for.

  “N-nonsense. My life is not ruined.” Just shattered into jagged points of reality. Laurette bent to lift the cloak from the ground and stilled, dizzy. She had hoped somehow he would not sleep with his wife, but have a true marriage of convenience,
like other people in the ton. She could not imagine replicating what they had just done with any other man, ever. But Con had somehow made his marriage real. She felt his hands brush her as he fastened the cloak at her throat.

  What an idiot she was. Her parents were right about so little, but they had been right about Con. She was young and so, so stupid.

  From a great distance she heard Con tell her earnestly he had only ever thought of her when he made love to his wife, but that made it all worse somehow. She turned from his out stretched hand and hurried back down the path, moving as swiftly as her leaden feet could carry her.

  Tomorrow she would leave her home. Today was not too soon to drive Con from her heart. In six months time, she would entrust her cousins with the child and start anew. Her life was not ruined. Her heart was not broken. Her tears were not falling.

  Laurette brushed away fresh tears. For over ten years she’d pushed away these inconvenient recollections. But seeing Con every day had brought the past to life again. She could not help but remember the days when they were young—when hope filled their hearts, when rules were meant to be broken, mistakes were meant to be made. But Laurette could never think of Bea as a mistake—one look at her shining face in the midst of all those sheep proved that.

  The children were being butted about, squealing in delight. Con towered above them in a white sea of wool, his head thrown back, laughing. Another man, even taller than Con, hung back at the edge, pulling his cap from his chestnut hair, taking in the Mad Marquess and his charges. No doubt he thought they were all a nuisance, city folk who had no idea the noise they were making were disturbing the creatures. He barked out something to his dog, who sat down reluctantly, waiting for the foolish people to stop their nonsense so he could do his job.

  Laurette grinned at the spectacle below, wishing she could be in the middle of it. She was a country girl at heart, and had done her best for Penzance-reared and Bath-schooled Beatrix to introduce her to pastoral life during her visits to Vincent Lodge. Perhaps if she hurried, she could join her family in the festivities.