The Earl's Mistress

by Liz Carlyle

  He drew up, the still-fresh horse dancing sideways across the road. After sweeping a faintly heated look down Isabella’s length, he reined the creature under control, then flung his leg over his saddle and began to bark out orders.

  The street became a hive of activity; coachmen hopping down, footmen fetching luggage, and children clambering back into carriages under the instruction of an elderly woman in a starched white cap.

  The boys, Isabella vaguely realized, were busy cramming the dog into the first carriage, and Lady Felicity was hanging half out the second, shouting rather imperiously that Georgina should be brought to her at once.

  Jemima led Georgina out at that moment and climbed up into Hepplewood’s carriage, but her expression was still uncertain. It was on the tip of Isabella’s tongue to order them out again when Caroline Aldridge climbed in, flashing Jemima a shy smile.

  It was too late.

  To flee now would be as embarrassing as facing the ugliness.

  Anne’s footman brought down Isabella’s last bag, and suddenly Hepplewood was at her side, slipping an arm beneath her elbow.

  “Isabella?” He drew off his hat, dipping his gaze to catch hers. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

  “W-we must talk,” she said.

  He pulled her through the door and into the shadows of her tiny vestibule, pushing the door shut behind. “Is it Anne? Look, I know she can be overwhelming,” he said, gently tipping Isabella’s chin up with one finger. “Look at me, love. What’s happened?”

  “She is married to Sir Philip Keaton,” said Isabella almost accusingly. “He is—was—my husband’s cousin.” She set her fingertips to her temples. “My God, this is a nightmare.”

  “Shush, my dear,” he said, pulling her into his embrace. “It does not matter.”

  “It does matter,” said Isabella harshly, her hands fisting against his chest. “This—this is just one of a hundred reasons I stay out of society. Anthony, that family hates me. They said . . . dear heaven, they said I murdered Richard.”

  He set his chin atop her head and held her close. “They said no such thing,” he replied. “Fenster said it, the poor, half-crazed bastard. But no one believed it then, my dear, and they certainly don’t believe it now.”

  “Well, for a rumor so strongly discounted, it certainly got round pretty thoroughly,” said Isabella bitterly. “Moreover—wait, you knew of this connection?”

  But she should not have been surprised, she realized. Hepplewood seemed to know all her most intimate secrets.

  “Anne mentioned it, yes,” he said, “and she also mentioned that Sir Philip hasn’t spoken to his uncle since. I think it’s part of the reason she agreed to come along, my dear. Perhaps she imagines the family owes you something?”

  “Those people don’t owe me a damned thing,” snapped Isabella, “save to be left in peace.”

  She tried to push away, but Hepplewood held her tight. “Wait,” he ordered.

  “Let me go,” she said hotly, her confusion burning down to righteous indignation. “We will be seen like this.”

  That seemed to irritate him. “Shush,” he said again, his arms banding even more tightly about her. “If we’re seen, what of it?”

  “I couldn’t bear it, that’s what,” she said into his shirtfront. He smelled of starch and man and sandalwood—of Anthony—and suddenly, she wanted to sob.

  What of it?

  Did he not understand? She was in love with him—desperately, madly so.

  Yet she could not be his mistress. And she would never be his wife; Lady Petershaw was dead wrong on that score. Worse, he apparently knew everything about her. Simply everything. It felt as though there was nothing—not one small thing—she would ever be able to hold back from him. And she wondered if she even wished to.

  The fight went out of her then, and she let her weight sag against him.

  “Let me go,” she said more gently. “Just let me go. I have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

  He set her a little away then and held her gaze very steadily. “No, you have not,” he said firmly, “and I beg you will remember it. But if you really do not wish to go with Anne, Isabella, I will not make you.”

  “Make me?” she said, cutting him a dark look. “You cannot make me.”

  That dark, familiar smile twisted one side of his mouth. “Technically, I can,” he said warningly. “I can throw you over my shoulder and toss you in that carriage, my dear, in an instant.”

  “You are a brute,” Isabella said, only half meaning it. “And that would be kidnapping.” She pushed at his shoulders just for good measure.

  His eyes going dark, he jerked her to him a little roughly, opening his mouth over hers in one of those deep, all-consuming kisses, thrusting deep until she trembled.

  “There,” he said when he was finished with her. “Get in my carriage, Isabella. I think I won’t give you the choice after all, for that kiss was too tempting. I don’t even think you want the choice.”

  And she didn’t, she realized, her knees shaking as she turned and opened the door. She wanted him to take her back to Greenwood. She wanted him to simply give her what she needed—and to tell her again that it was not wrong to want it.

  Moreover, she wanted him to deal with Anne and the whole damned Aldridge family—which, being Hepplewood, he might actually do.

  Already her dread had melted away, displaced by a bizarre mix of pride, fury, and a need for him that flowed through her body like a warm river, twisting deep into her belly. Without looking back at him, Isabella held up her head and went out into the brilliant sunshine to climb up into the carriage with the children.

  “It is going to be a long drive,” said Jemima a little glumly when the carriage jerked into motion.

  Oh, you have no idea, thought Isabella. No idea at all.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Oh, my, this is delightful!” As the dog blew past Lady Keaton and up Greenwood’s staircase, she twirled about the front hall. “And minuscule! I’m flattered, Tony, that you’ve finally agreed to visitors, but where shall we all sleep?”

  “We’ve attic rooms for servants, Anne, and four main bedchambers,” he said, striding in with Lissie on his hip. “Can we not manage?”

  “Well, that’s thirty less than Loughford,” she said dryly, “but yes, I daresay we can squeeze in somehow.”

  Out the front door, the luggage was being unloaded, then carried up the steps amidst much thumping and grunting. The mysterious Mrs. Yardley had opened up the house to greet them and was now directing the footmen like a seasoned sergeant major.

  “Lady Keaton and the twins will take my bedchamber,” Lord Hepplewood told the housekeeper, “with Mrs. Aldridge and Miss Georgina in the connecting room.”

  “No!” demanded Lissie. “Georgie will be in my room.”

  “You must share yours with Caroline and Jemima,” said her father, kissing her lightly on the nose before putting her down. “Run along, you little tyrant, and show them which room.”

  “No.” Lissie balled up her fists. “I want Georgie.”

  “We can all share,” offered Caroline Aldridge. “I do not mind. Jemma, do you?”

  Jemima shook her head. “Oh, no. It will be fun,” she said enthusiastically. “Georgie, do you wish to be with us? Or with Isabella?”

  “With all the girls,” said Georgina, her lip coming out to mirror Lissie’s.

  “Fine,” said Lady Keaton, as if it were settled. “One girls’ room, and one boys’ room, though how four of you will fit in one bed remains to be seen. Tony, you will rack up with Bertie and Harry somehow?”

  “No, I shall manage elsewhere,” he said evenly.

  Lady Keaton grinned, and lifted both eyebrows. “Shall you, indeed?” she said sotto voce. “I wouldn’t be so sure, old thing.”

  “I mean to sleep in the valet’s room,” he said darkly, “opposite yours—and if you snore, Anne, I swear to God, I’ll come in and smother you with a pillow.”

  “I onl
y snore in my last month,” said Lady Keaton a little woundedly, “which is weeks away. Still, must everyone make an issue of it?”

  “Come on, Jemima,” said Caroline Aldridge. “Let’s go see Lissie’s room.”

  “Papa and Yardley built a dollhouse for me,” announced Lissie loudly. “You may all play with it.”

  “A dollhouse?” said Georgina in a tone of awe. “Do your dolls live in it?”

  “Some of them,” said Lissie. “Come on!”

  The girls started en masse up the stairs, Nanny Seawell following after them just as the dog came bolting back down, nearly pushing the old woman aside.

  “You, sir!” Lady Keaton snapped her fingers at Bertie, who was on hands and knees studying a dead bug on the front steps. “Get up and take that dog out,” she ordered, “and give it a bath this minute.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Harry, you will help, since you instigated this,” she went on, “and none of you come back in this house until the dog is dry, do you hear? I cannot abide the stench of damp fur.”

  “We’ll need some soap,” said Harry, as if this might thwart his mother’s plan.

  “Yardley will find you some soap,” she said. “There must be a trough out back?”

  “There’s a brook by Yardley’s cottage,” said Hepplewood, “but nothing deep enough to drown in. Follow the path by the woods, lads.”

  The boys went out, eyes dangerously alight at the word brook.

  “Shoes off!” shouted their mother. “And cuffs up!”

  Mrs. Yardley declared her intent to see what might be done to accommodate the four girls.

  “Make the bed up sideways, perhaps?” Lady Keaton called after her.

  Then she turned and looked at Hepplewood, thrusting out an elbow. “Now, a tour, sir, if you please, for Mrs. Aldridge and me,” she ordered. “We wish to see every corner of your scandalous bachelor’s bolt-hole.”

  With one of his muted smiles, Hepplewood agreed—for he likely had no choice, given his cousin’s determination. He escorted both ladies up the pretty central staircase, casting a suggestive smile at Isabella.

  “Welcome to Greenwood Farm, Mrs. Aldridge,” he murmured, leaning toward her. “I trust you will find much to admire here.”

  “Stubble it, Tony,” said Anne. “Mrs. Aldridge isn’t going to fall for your double entendres.”

  “It does seem unlikely,” said Hepplewood mildly.

  They wandered through the upper floors, a little of which Isabella had already seen, but she murmured polite remarks and pretended otherwise.

  In Lissie’s room, the younger girls paid them no mind, entirely absorbed as they were in the dollhouse, while Nanny Seawell and Mrs. Yardley were remaking the massive bed in a sidelong fashion. The room was by no definition a nursery, but a few children’s things had been haphazardly added.

  “This will do nicely, my lady,” said the housekeeper, snapping out a sheet, “once I fetch another bolster.”

  Caroline Aldridge and Jemima were already tucked up to a little game table, its top painted like a chessboard, and Jemima was setting out the pieces. She cast Isabella a smile but returned at once to her game. She had indeed found a kindred spirit in Caroline, for the girl was near her in both age and quiet temperament.

  “Well, that was quick,” said Lady Keaton as, ten minutes later, they exited the kitchen. “Really, Tony, you could set this entire house down in Loughford’s state dining room.”

  “Anne, if you fancy Loughford so much, you may go there, and welcome to it,” he said evenly. “For my part, I like this farm.”

  “But Loughford has eight farms,” she teased as they went out into the sunlight through the back door. “And the home farm.”

  “Yes, well, Yardley will carry you up to Berkhamsted in the morning if you’re longing for it,” said Hepplewood dryly, turning them through the walled garden’s pretty gate—now entirely repaired, Isabella noticed. “The first northbound train leaves at half seven—but don’t even think of leaving Bertie and Harry behind.”

  “And abandon poor Mrs. Aldridge to your wicked devices?” Lady Keaton laughed. “Oh, I think not.” She paused and drew a long, deep breath. “Ah, but I do forget how lovely country air smells.”

  “It is marvelous,” said Isabella quietly, “and so very still. I have not enjoyed such peace since my last visit to Sussex.”

  “Oh, be patient and one of my children will shatter it,” said Lady Keaton evenly. “Still, I think, Mrs. Aldridge, we should cavort on Tony’s little farm like Marie Antoinette at her Petit Trianon. I therefore declare this a corset-and-crinoline-free week—I can hardly get in mine anyway.”

  “Good Lord, Anne,” said Hepplewood, turning them onto the path toward the trees. “Mrs. Aldridge will think us the most vulgar family on earth.”

  “Oh, I rather doubt Mrs. Aldridge will be shocked to discover you know all about crinolines and corsets, old thing,” said his cousin on a chortle. “And if ever you’d had to wear either—”

  Just then a great rattling of bushes arose from the edge of the wood. “Mamma! Mamma!” squawked Bertie, poking his head from the shrubs. “Fluffles dragged Harry in! There’s mud everywhere!”

  “Oh, dear God,” muttered Lady Keaton.

  “Well, off you go, Anne!” said Hepplewood rather cheerfully. “It is but a short walk through the wood.”

  “Oh, thank you, Tony!” she said a little darkly, returning her attention to the boy as she marched off down the path. “Dragged—? Or leapt?” she shouted, setting a hand at the small of her spine. “And Bertie, pray do not tell me you pushed him, or I swear, I will stripe your bottom!”

  Hepplewood watched her go. “It’s enough to shrivel a chap’s nether regions, that brood of Anne’s,” he muttered, “and old Philip has proven more of a man than I first credited.”

  “Should we go with her?” asked Isabella.

  “No,” he said firmly. “We should go away.”

  So saying, he took Isabella’s hand and led her into the wood in the opposite direction. Here, deep in the shadows, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of damp ferns and moldering leaves. A few yards along, she could hear the babbling of water, and over it, the sound of Anne’s scold carrying upstream.

  Isabella wore slippers and was hardly dressed for a hike in the wood. Fortunately, the stroll was a short one, and in a few yards, a clearing came into view. Here Hepplewood stopped and turned to face her.

  Isabella knew what was going to happen. She did not fight it but instead gave in completely.

  His eyes dropping half shut, he set her back to the nearest tree. “I would very much like to finish what I started this morning.” He dipped his head and brushed his lips along her cheek. Isabella sighed and turned her face into his.

  But when he kissed her, it was with surprising gentleness, first nibbling at her bottom lip, then lightly suckling, as he’d done that first afternoon at Greenwood. There was something at once tender and sensual about it, and Isabella let her hands slide around his waist and up his back, crushing herself against him.

  You are mine, he had once demanded.

  And he was right.

  She was his. Her body was his. Her every fiber answered his touch, and she wanted him with a bone-deep hunger that always simmered just beneath her surface.

  He thrust deep inside her mouth, his hand splayed wide against her lower spine, pulling her to him. She felt her hands curl into the silk of his waistcoat and knew her need for him would never end.

  “Umm,” he said after a time, slowly kissing his way down her throat. “Yes, I should very much like to finish this—but Anne has a point about crinolines. They are the very devil, and most obstructing to a man’s purposes.”

  Her heart oddly lightening, Isabella laughed. “Perhaps we ought to fall in with her plan?”

  “Yes,” he murmured, his finger catching deep in her neckline and drawing all the way around it, “perhaps.”

  With her skin still shivering fro
m his touch, he let his heavily lidded eyes roam over her face, then he kissed her again, long and deep, pulling away with a reluctant smile.

  “No, not here, I think,” he murmured, “more’s the pity.”

  She felt a crush of disappointment, though she knew it was best. A wry smile curled his mouth, then, clasping her hand in his, he drew her away from the tree and toward the clearing, their feet rustling in what was left of last year’s leaves.

  Isabella glanced back over her shoulder and told herself she was relieved. That no real lady wished to be taken against a tree with her skirts hiked about her waist.

  And yet the hunger for him seemed always to linger and to deepen—just as it had now. Just as it had all throughout the drive up to Greenwood, while, with her lips still bruised by his kiss, she’d watched him through the window of the carriage, sitting so masterfully atop Colossus.

  For the first five miles or so, the horse had been a devilish handful, skittering sideways at a signpost one minute, then fighting at the bit the next. But, as it seemed in all things, Hepplewood’s mastery of the great beast had been utter and complete in the end—as, she sometimes feared, would be his mastery of her.

  At that thought, desire twisted deep and hot in Isabella’s belly and her gait hitched.

  He hesitated, glancing back. “Isabella?”

  “N-nothing,” she said, stepping up her pace.

  But something dark and knowing had shadowed his too-handsome face, and Isabella wondered if he would come to her bed that night.

  She did not, however, wonder what she would say if he did.

  She would say yes.

  Always, she feared, she would say yes to him. It was a perilous and humbling realization.

  Soon they reached the other side of the clearing. Here, perched above the water, sat a little folly of sorts—just a hexagon-shaped shed of rough-hewn wood, railed most of the way around and shingled with shake; nothing so elaborate as might have been seen on a gentleman’s estate, but with a lovely rustic charm.