The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis

by Christina McKnight

  “There is a thin line between the need to protect or possess. And I have no intention of being possessed. Neither do I need protection.” She made to push past him as the sound of carriage wheels against cobblestones sounded. Their host must have been kind enough to send for her driver. “Now, I will bid you goodnight and Godspeed on your journey back to Liverpool.”

  “I have no intention of leaving, Sam.” He would not abandon her again, no matter how many times she turned him away. Even if Cartwright—with Judith in tow—were to bid him keep his distance from Sam, Elijah would be unable to. The blasted woman had infiltrated his every thought…his every desire…his every hope for the future.

  “Well, I have no intention of continuing our acquaintance, the distraction it once offered is no longer appealing to me.” She bent and retrieved her discarded guise before lifting her chin and pushing past him. Her driver held the carriage door open and assisted her in before he climbed aboard. “Home, Mr. Curtis,” she shouted.

  Elijah stood frozen, watching the carriage depart without Sam so much as glancing at the window as she rolled away.

  A distraction. A dalliance. Of no consequence.

  Her angry claims assaulted him one by one, bringing back memories from his journey to America and another woman who had no room for him in her life.

  He’d tucked his tail and run then…straight back to his ship to sail for home.

  Elijah had less than a day’s worth of tasks remaining at the museum.

  Was he destined to repeat his actions?

  Put distance between him and Sam and pray that his heart mended with time?

  Though he suspected when a man’s heart was shattered as many times as his, there was no way to locate all the splinters to piece it back together.

  But every inch of him shouted there was nothing he wanted more than to try.

  Chapter 31

  Sam allowed the tears to fall as her carriage hurried toward home, her weeping masked from Mr. Curtis by the sound of the wheels. Every part of her threatened to fragment into tiny pieces and scatter in the wind, but she’d made it to safety, and in the privacy of her darkened coach, did not have to worry about hiding her suffering. Her weeping turned to gut-wrenching sobs as she pulled her legs up against her chest on the bench and did her best to disappear into the oblivion of her wrap. The heavy black garment was certain to be the only thing remaining when the carriage arrived at Craven House.

  She snuffled into her cloak.

  The mask, handmade that afternoon to perfectly match her gown, lay forgotten on the seat next to her. How had she ever thought attaching herself to Elijah would be wise?

  Sam grasped the loose fabric of the seat and wrenched until her fingers ached from the pressure.

  Their outings—the boxing club, the phaeton race outside of Hyde Park, and tonight, gambling—were all things no proper lady would do. They were exactly the activities a man did with his mistress. So why did it hurt her so when another accused her of being nothing better than a courtesan?

  Had that not been the game she’d planned all along? There was no one to blame but herself—and her inability to keep her affection for Elijah a secret. Truly, she’d never meant to care for him, only punish him.

  Why had she treated Elijah so horribly for protecting her honor—her reputation—from being sullied? He was kind, he was loyal, and he had a tender for her.

  Sam had never expected to see the man again. Worse yet, to learn he traveled to London for her and her alone. He’d left Hollybrooke without a single thought about her feelings or the injury his dismissal of their new association might cause.

  Sam wiped a tear from her cheek as it blazed a path down her face. A tousled curl hung across her forehead, and Sam hastily reset her hairpin to return it to its place.

  In truth, Elijah had been far more to her than a mere distraction from the moment he happened upon her in the gathering storm. She didn’t want him to be anymore. She wanted his attention…but any mention of affection would only serve to hurt her more when he removed himself from her life.

  Elijah had admitted he cared for her and that he intended courtship.

  Had he only said those things because of Viggo’s insistent flirtation at the card table?

  Viggo…something about the man’s voice, his looks, and his persistence reminded her of someone. His indecent comments had indeed alarmed her, making her all the more grateful for Elijah’s presence.

  She’d been the one to act excessively. Why push Elijah away when she longed for him: his tender touch, his caressing words, and his passionate kiss. Worse still, she’d said the most horrid things, utterances sure to guarantee he never wanted to see her again. The lump in her throat blocked her sob of remorse.

  Salted tears streamed down her face, falling to the delicate silk of her gown. The material was ruined, but Sam continued to let her anguish out, unconcerned with the state of her expensive frock.

  All too soon, her carriage slowed, and Mr. Curtis climbed down to open the door.

  She brushed the tears from her cheeks, though there was no helping her disheveled appearance. Her face was certainly splotchy with upset, and her eyes surely must be a red to match her hair hidden under her cap. But the hour was late, and with any luck—not that her luck had been stellar of late—she could slip into the house and up to her room without anyone the wiser. The darkness would hide her appearance from Mr. Curtis well enough, the elderly manservant’s sight having been compromised by age years ago.

  “Will you be need’n anything else, miss?” he asked when she accepted his offered hand.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Ye have a good slumber, Miss Samantha.” He kept his gaze on the ground as she fled toward the door.

  Mr. Curtis had been with Craven House long before Sam and Jude were born, having fled with their mother—Madame Sasha—when she, Marce, and Garrett were thrown from their home after Marce and Garrett’s father, Lord Buckston, had passed away. Curtis was a kind and compassionate man, never overstepping his role among the houseful of women, but keeping a close eye on her and her siblings.

  “And you, as well,” she called over her shoulder when she paused before opening the front door. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t wait to see the man’s questioning look regarding what she was offering him thanks for, but pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth and security of her home. A place Marce did all in her power to keep for their family. A place Garrett hadn’t resided in years. A place Jude had sought to escape. A place where Payton was free to hone her skills at cards. And a place where Sam would likely remain all her days.

  Her father had abandoned her, as had her mother to death, and Jude to marriage.

  Those who should love her above all else.

  She did not deserve Elijah’s kindness after the horrible things she’d said to him, especially knowing he’d lived a similar life to her own. His mother abandoning him, and his father and grandfather succumbing to death.

  His isolation was far more startling than hers.

  Her lip quivered, and she sensed another sob rising from her chest.

  She pushed herself toward the stairs, knowing she could not keep her cries at bay for long.

  “Where have you been?” Marce asked, her candle held high to illuminate her face as she traveled down the staircase, Garrett only a few steps behind her. “We have been worried half to death.”

  “You should not be concerned with me,” Sam retorted, her tone harsher than she’d intended. Her siblings fretted over her—two of the few still around to care anyway. “I am home…and unscathed.”

  Partly unscathed, she longed to add. Though they could not see her wound, for it resided inside, certain to fester with no possibility of healing.

  Garrett pushed past Marce to stand on the landing above Sam. “Bloody hell!” He threw his hands wide. “You think you are unscathed?”

  “What is your interest in my whereabouts, Garrett? You have never bothered with
much more than a simple greeting or hurtful tease.” It was another thing she resented, though she hadn’t fully understood that until now. Her only brother was close to Jude, and, of course, Marce, but he rarely paid any mind to Sam or Payton. “I do not answer to you. You are neither my father nor my guardian.”

  His eyes narrowed with the insult, and a jolt of remorse at her cruel words coursed through her.

  “Let us take this to my office before we wake the household.” Marce’s petite frame floated past both her siblings to the foyer and then toward the room she used as their household office. Sam and Garrett followed obediently in her wake. “Now, where were you all evening?” Marce asked once more when Garrett closed the door behind the trio.

  Marce walked to her desk before setting down her light and turning to face Sam. Her expression was serene, as usual, but her lips were compressed, the only sign she was upset—possibly even furious. Opposite of her eldest sibling’s settled nature, Garrett strode purposefully across the room to the far bank of windows and back again, his agitation obvious.

  Sam’s unease grew at their reversed roles. Garrett was normally the blasé brother who took no interest in her, while Marce’s disciplinary standards matched that of a taskmaster.

  “I attended a private card game.”

  “A gambling party?”

  “I wore a disguise, so it is doubtful anyone recognized me.” She held up her gold and silver mask. “I was not careless.”

  “If you are worried about someone recognizing you, then it was obviously a place a proper lady should not be.” Marce raised a brow in question. “Who hosted this party?”

  Sam thought about lying but knew Marce would see through her deceit. “I am unsure. No names were given, but the house is on Saint George Street in Hanover Square.”

  “Saint George, you say?” Garrett stopped pacing and spun to face her. “Oh, bloody hell, it was Damon, Lord Ashford’s card party. How did you hear of the gathering? Whom did you attend with?” He didn’t slow his questions long enough for Sam to answer, not that she wanted to answer his questions at all. “A woman can only gain entrance if they are escorted by a man of good standing.”

  She could not admit she’d heard of the party from Payton. Could she?

  They had never been close, Payton being younger than she and Jude and therefore an outsider. Did she owe the girl any loyalty?

  Certainly, their blood tie required Sam not speak her name. “Lord Ridgefeld was kind enough to escort me.” There it was. Her sibling would have no objection to Elijah; he was known to Cart, a patron of the museum, and a nobleman.

  Garrett threw his arms in the air and swung his head toward Marce. “Did I not inform you of the man’s intentions?” he snarled.

  Did they know Elijah sought to court her with marriage in mind? Was it possible he’d already spoken with Cart and Garrett about his intentions? “What do you know of Elijah’s intentions?” Sam demanded, settling her hands on her hips.

  “Oh, so you do not deny it?” her brother countered. “…and it is Elijah now?”

  “I do not know what I should be denying!”

  “Hush!” Marce’s fingertips massaged her forehead, and Sam noted for the first time that her sister was gowned in an ethereal, billowy, white nightshift, her equally white robe thrown over, the sash untied as if she’d been awakened suddenly. Even her normally expertly styled hair hung haphazardly in one long plait over her shoulder. “The pair of you are giving me a headache.”

  Garrett threw himself face down on the low chaise lounge with an exaggerated sigh.

  Sam took her usual seat on the long, high-backed couch she normally shared with Jude and Payton. But she did not drop her gaze to her lap in preparation for a scolding. No, she kept her chin high, her shoulders straight, and her eyes level.

  “Tell her!” Garrett said before burrowing his face deeper into the lounge. “I cannot.”

  Marce’s eyes squinted shut and she held the bridge of her nose, forgoing massaging her forehead.

  “What is going on?” Sam looked from Marce to Garrett and back again.

  “Did you agree to be that scoundrel’s mistress?” he asked, his voice muffled because his face was still pressed to the plush cushions of the lounge.

  “Of course, not,” she denied. “He propositioned me in a dark hall at Simon and Jude’s introduction ball, but I soundly kicked him in the shin. The rascal took my meaning and hasn’t approached me since.”

  “You just admitted he escorted you Lord Ashford’s gambling party!”

  “No.” Sam shot to her feet. “I said, Lord Ridgefeld escorted me to the party, not Lord Proctor.”

  “Who is Lord Proctor?” Marce sighed.

  “Another man from the betting book,” Garrett seethed.

  “I am utterly confused!”

  “That makes two of us,” Sam agreed. “What betting book?”

  Garrett pushed to a seated position, his feet planted on the floor, his Hessian boots gleaming in the candlelight. “The blasted betting book at White’s. Men record bets of all sorts, and wager everything from money to landholdings to farm animals.”

  “And my name is mentioned in this book?” she stammered. “Why would it be there?”

  “It seems…” Marce’s mouth pulled into a severe frown. “That men are wagering large amounts of coin on who will take you as their mistress first.”

  “Were,” Garrett corrected.

  “That is preposterous!” Sam laughed, garnering a stern look from both Marce and Garrett. “I have no intention of being any man’s mistress, I assure you both.”

  “So Lord Ridgefeld has not made any inappropriate advances?” he prodded.

  It would not do to speak of their arrangement, their evening in Lord Cummings’ study, their outing to Gentleman Jackson’s, or their phaeton race; however, their time in Hyde Park or their evening at Covent Garden was innocent enough so long as she did not speak of their moonlit stroll along the darkened paths.

  Based on Garrett’s reddened face, twitching eye, and flaring nostrils, it would be wise to admit nothing. “He most certainly has not. And what do you mean were?”

  “Ridgefeld tore the page straight out of the betting book and stuffed it in his pocket.”

  “Then all record of the silly wager is gone?” she asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” Marce commented. “For your sake, of course. But why would Lord Ridgefeld take the wager page?”

  “It was obvious he wasn’t the one to start the bet. It was his first time at White’s.”

  “Who else besides Lord Proctor and Ridgefeld were listed?”

  “There were more?” Sam squeaked. “I cannot imagine—“

  “Lord Gunther, Mr. Tobias Shillings, and Lord Meyton, though I have never made the acquaintance of the last two.” Garrett stood and continued his pacing. “You swear on your place in this household that you have not become some man’s mistress?”

  Sam should be offended by the question. Outraged her brother would even think she’d stoop to such a level. But, truly, their mother had been little more than a high-priced courtesan, and many thought Marce had also taken up the family business after their mother’s death. How else could a young, impoverished female take care of four siblings and a large house? She and Jude had even begun to think their sister was bargaining her body as a means to keep food in their pantry and a roof over their heads. Never had Garrett so much as lifted a finger to help support their family financially.

  “Of course, Samantha would never jeopardize her future by accepting such an unsavory offer,” Marce said, coming to Sam’s defense, but not surprisingly, her words lacked a bit of conviction as she eyed her sibling, searching for any indication she had, indeed, become what Marce had worked so hard to avoid for her family. When she didn’t see what she feared in Sam’s expression, Marce continued, “Now, I think it best we all find our beds. The night is growing late. I will have the housekeeper prepare your old room, Garrett.”

  Her b
rother moved toward the door. “Do not bother, I will return to my lodgings.”

  “It is late, and you are in no condition to travel.” Marce spoke softly, attempting not to mention the stench of liquor on their brother. “At least allow Mr. Curtis to see you home in the carriage.”

  Garrett paused, his hand on the doorknob. “That is kind of you, dear sister, but I can see myself home.”

  “Very well.” Marce collected her candle. “I will see you to the door. Sam, I shall see you in the morning. Do not sleep through breakfast.”

  Though the words were said softly, it was a demand. Sam nodded.

  “Sleep well, Samantha.” Garrett pulled the door open and thundered down the hall, Marce quick on his heels, shushing him the entire way.

  There was nothing left to do but for Sam to find her own room. Slipping from the office, she used the servants’ stairwell to avoid seeing Marce as her sister saw Garrett to the door and then climbed the main staircase.

  Neither had noticed her distress or reddened face from her tears. Normally, she’d seek to hide her turmoil. This night, she’d longed for guidance, someone to notice her unusually despondent demeanor. Instruct her on what to do, how to fix the mess she’d made. She’d spent so many years keeping things to herself—rarely so much as allowing Jude into her inner workings—that she was unsure how to ask for what she needed.

  Maybe a good night’s rest and a bright morning would bring her answers, or at least the means for finding some semblance of closure with Elijah.

  Chapter 32

  Elijah hunched over a crate, removing two identically wrapped square objects. The crate must have been packed for shipping by one of his servants because he had little idea what lay within the tightly bundled paper. Not that he was overly concerned with any of it. He had two crates and one trunk remaining then he would return to Liverpool.

  And forget about his time in London.

  Though, putting Samantha from his mind was an entirely different and likely impossible task.