More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress

by Mary Balogh

  “She won it,” Ferdinand said. “We made a wager. But she would not accept her winnings. Then she ran away. What was I to do? A gentleman cannot lose a wager and then retain what he wagered. It would just not be honorable.”

  The baby, whose eyes were now closed, made stirring noises, but Tresham patted him on the back and he settled again.

  “I am not going to ask what the wager was,” the duke said. “And please do not volunteer the information, Ferdinand. I have a strong suspicion that I do not want to know. She ran away, you ran after her, and now she is your mistress—but you have nowhere to take her. It all makes perfect sense,” he added dryly.

  “I need the house for a night or two,” Ferdinand said. “Until I can get something of my own.”

  “If you want my advice, Ferdinand,” his brother said, “which of course you do not because you are a Dudley, you will pay her handsomely and turn her off. She will not starve. She will be mobbed by prospective protectors as soon as it is known that she is in town. Go back to Pinewood so that you will not have to listen to all the men who will boast of having had her. I believe you belong at Pinewood. I was surprised to realize it, but realize it I did.”

  “All I want,” Ferdinand said through his clenched teeth, “is permission to use your house for a day or two. Will those servants let me in?”

  “They will if I write a note,” his brother said, “which I will do as soon as I have turned Christopher over to his nurse’s care. Have you had her yet, Ferdinand? No, don’t answer. I suppose you are still besotted with her?”

  “I was never—”

  But Tresham had opened the nursery door and proceeded inside. Ferdinand followed him. The children slept in the same room, Nicholas in a bed, the baby in a crib. Ferdinand went to look at the sleeping boy while his brother set the baby down and the children’s nurse hurried in from an adjoining room and curtsied.

  Just a few years ago, Ferdinand thought, gazing down at the tousled head of his sleeping nephew, one could not have imagined Tresham domesticated. It would certainly have been impossible to picture him with a baby in his arms or bent over a crib as he was now, tucking a blanket warmly about the tiny form.

  All appearances suggested that his elder brother was a contented family man. Ferdinand felt an unexpected pang of envy as he bade the nurse a good evening and led the way out of the nursery.

  But why the devil had Tresham never sold that house? Did Jane even know about it?

  “Come to the library for a moment,” Tresham said, “and I’ll write that note for you. Where have you left her?”

  “Outside in the carriage,” Ferdinand said.

  His brother did not comment.

  VIOLA DID NOT MOVE from the carriage even though after Lord Ferdinand disappeared inside the Duke of Tresham’s house she was very tempted to get out. His curricle had come to a stop behind the carriage and Hannah sat there with his groom. It would be easy enough to call her maid, find their bags among all the other luggage, and walk away into the gathering dusk.

  But perhaps not. Perhaps after all she would discover that she was a type of prisoner. Perhaps one of his servants would make a fuss, try to stop her, knock on the house door to raise the alarm. Not that any of them could or would detain her for long against her will, of course. But she would embarrass Lord Ferdinand in front of his servants and the duke’s—perhaps in front of his brother too.

  She would not do that to him.

  She might at this moment be back at Pinewood, Viola thought. Alone. The undisputed owner. She was a fool to be here instead. But Pinewood would no longer have the power to bring her any sort of peace or security. She had thought, after she first read Claire’s letter, that Pinewood rents would pay off the debt to Daniel Kirby even if the estate was impoverished in the process. But she had realized since that he would not accept that arrangement. He wanted her back working for him, earning him a fortune. If she failed to come, he would punish her by using Claire.

  Lord Ferdinand would agree to pay her a large salary as his mistress. She had no doubt about that. But Viola knew Daniel Kirby would not accept a share of that either. He wanted to control her career.

  All the way to London she had pondered the situation and all the possible choices she had. But however her mind approached the problem, it always ended up with the same conclusion—the only possible one. She had to go back to her life as a courtesan.

  Besides, she could not bear the thought of being Lord Ferdinand’s mistress. She did not want to do with him what they had done by the river as a condition of employment. She did not want to earn her living by lying with him. Ah, dear God, not with Ferdinand.

  The carriage door opened and interrupted her train of thought. Ferdinand took his seat beside her again. She turned her head, but darkness was already falling and the interior of the carriage was dim. Even so, she shivered at the sight of him and wished after all that she had had the courage to make her escape with Hannah while he was inside the house. She could not bear this.

  “We will be there in a few minutes,” he said as the carriage lurched into motion. “You must be weary after such a long journey.”

  “Yes.”

  He took her hand in his, curling his strong fingers about her own. But he made no attempt to draw closer to her, to kiss her, or even to converse with her. His hand did not relax. She wondered if he regretted what he believed they had agreed to. She wondered if the Duke of Tresham had tried to talk him out of it. But it did not matter. Nothing mattered. Tomorrow he would be able to go back to Pinewood. He belonged there—it was a bitter admission. He would soon forget her.

  Tomorrow she would set the future in motion.

  That left tonight. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the squabs of the carriage. Oh, yes, she would allow herself tonight.

  The house in which the Duke of Tresham had housed his mistresses was in a quiet, respectable neighborhood. The manservant who answered Lord Ferdinand’s knock also seemed like the kind of servant one might find in any respectable home. So did his wife, who came into the hall to discover who the late callers were, and curtsied first to Lord Ferdinand and then to Viola after he had introduced her and explained that she would be living there for a short while. They looked at her as she had become accustomed to being regarded, as if she were a lady worthy of respect. They would have been trained to behave that way, of course. The Duke of Tresham would not tolerate servants who treated his mistresses like doxies.

  “I will show Miss Thornhill around,” Lord Ferdinand informed the butler. “Have her bags taken up and her maid shown to her rooms, will you?”

  “Have you been here before, then?” Viola asked him as he ushered her into a room to their left.

  “No,” he admitted. “But it is not a large house. I do not expect I will get lost.”

  The sitting room in which they found themselves was tastefully furnished and decorated in delicate shades of gray and lavender. It was a very feminine room, even if it lacked some warmth. It was a good place, she decided, looking about with a practiced eye, for a mistress to entertain her employer before they adjourned to the bedchamber.

  The room next door was less pretty, but far cozier. There were some comfortable armchairs arranged about the fireplace as well as a small but elegant desk and chair. There was a pianoforte and a bookcase filled with books. There was an empty embroidery frame before one of the chairs and an artist’s easel propped against one wall.

  The Duke of Tresham’s mistresses, Viola thought, or one of them, at least, had been people in their own right. How strange, that she of all people should feel some surprise at that fact. This room had an air of having been lived in, perhaps even happily. Maybe, after all, being a mistress was preferable to the sort of life she had led for four years. Perhaps there was a chance of some relationship. But whoever the poor woman was who had been happy here with the duke, she was gone now. He had married the duchess.

  “I like this room,” she said. “Someone made a home he
re.”

  Lord Ferdinand was looking about too, his eyes pausing on each object, a slight frown between his brows. But he did not comment aloud. He ushered her into the dining room and then upstairs.

  The bedchamber took her quite by surprise. Although it was opulently decorated in satins and velvets and had a thick carpet underfoot, it did not look like a typical love nest. Men invariably liked scarlet as an accompaniment to their sensual delights. Lilian Talbot’s bedchamber had been predominantly scarlet. This one was decorated in varying shades of moss green, cream, and gold.

  One would feel less like a mistress in this room and more like a lover, she thought. She was glad it was here she would spend her last hours with Lord Ferdinand. She would not be his mistress, because she was not going to be paid, but she was glad their surroundings would help her see him as a lover rather than as a client.

  The door that must lead into the dressing room, slightly ajar when they entered the bedchamber, was pulled firmly closed from the other side.

  Viola turned to look at Lord Ferdinand. He was hovering in the doorway, his hands at his back, his long legs slightly apart. He looked handsome and powerful and slightly dangerous—and very obviously uncomfortable. This, of course, she realized, was all new to him.

  “Will it do until I can find something else?” he asked.

  “Yes, it will do.”

  His eyes shifted away from hers. “You must be very tired,” he said.

  “Yes, rather.”

  “I will leave you, then,” he said. “I will return tomorrow to see that you have settled comfortably. I daresay the rest of your belongings will arrive within the next few days. I sent a message back to Pinewood yesterday.”

  He was going to leave her out of deference to her weariness after two days of travel. She had not expected this. How easy it would be. She could see the last of him forever now, within the next few minutes, before she had time to think. But she could not bear to be alone tonight. It was too soon. She had not had a chance to steel her mind to it. Tomorrow she would be ready, but tonight …

  She crossed the room and set her fingertips against his chest. He did not move as she smiled into his face and arched her body inward until she touched him from her hips to her knees.

  “I am tired,” she said, “and ready for bed. Are you?”

  He flushed. “Don’t do that,” he said, frowning. “Don’t do it, do you hear me? If I wanted a damned whore, I would go to a brothel. I don’t want Lilian Talbot. I want you. I want Viola Thornhill.”

  She had donned her other persona without conscious thought, she realized, desperate to shield herself from pain. It was strange, she thought, and just a little frightening, to realize that Lilian Talbot repelled him, that it was Viola Thornhill who drew him to intimacy. It was Viola he wanted as his mistress. She drew away from him and let her arms fall to her sides. Without her customary mask, all her emotions felt naked.

  “Let us at least be honest with each other,” he said. “Must there be artifice and tricks and games just because we are embarking on a sexual relationship? You know, do you not? I suppose it was embarrassingly obvious that you were my first woman. Let me be Viola Thornhill’s first man, then. Let us look for some comfort from this relationship as well as pleasure. Perhaps even some companionship? Will it be possible, do you suppose?”

  But she could only shake her head, while unshed tears balled themselves into a lump in her throat and welled into her eyes.

  “I do not know,” she whispered.

  “I am not interested in Lilian Talbot,” he said. “She would make me feel gauche and inadequate, you see. And rather dirty. I want you or no one at all. Take it or leave it.”

  It was time for the truth. Time to tell him that she had tricked him earlier in the carriage, getting him to agree that she was free to end the liaison at a moment’s notice. Time to tell him that she intended to use that freedom tomorrow morning.

  She stepped against him again and pressed her face into his neckcloth.

  “Ah, Ferdinand,” she said.

  17

  E WAS IN DEEP WATERS. HIS INSTINCT WAS TO wade out so that he could stand upon the shore and view the situation from a safe distance. If he went back to his own rooms, he would be able to digest what was happening to him. It was not even late. He could change his clothes and go to White’s, find some of his friends, discover what entertainments the evening offered, and pick one or two to attend. Life would be familiar and comfortable again.

  Was this how all men felt about their mistresses at first? As if their very souls yearned for union, for comfort, for peace? For love? Did all men suffer from the illusion that the woman was the other half of their soul?

  He must be naïve indeed to be feeling as he was feeling. But he knew with blinding clarity that what had happened between him and Viola two evenings ago on the riverbank at Pinewood had merely confirmed what he had known about himself most of his life. He would rather go celibate through life than engage in sex for its own sake.

  He wrapped his arms about her and kissed her mouth when she raised her face to his.

  “Do you want me to stay?” he asked her. But he set one finger over her lips before she had a chance to answer. “You must be honest. I’ll never bed you unless you want it too.”

  Her lips curved beneath his silencing finger. “What if I never want it?”

  “Then I’ll have to find some other solution for you,” he said. “But you are not going back to your old life. I’ll not allow it.”

  Her smile was purely Viola’s, not that other woman’s, he was glad to see. It seemed to be tinged with sadness. “Do you have any say in the matter?” she asked him.

  “I dashed well do,” he told her. “You are my woman.”

  Not mistress—woman. There was a difference. He had spoken without forethought, but he knew that he had spoken a true thing. He was responsible for her. He had no legal obligation to her and no legal right to demand obedience from her. Nevertheless, she was his woman.

  “Stay with me,” she said. “I do not want to be alone tonight. And I do want you.”

  She could trust him, he almost told her. Through most of his life he had trusted no one but himself, knowing that even those people nearest and dearest to him could let him down at any moment and make the firm earth beneath his feet feel more like quicksand. He had trusted in himself and had never done anything he considered truly shameful or dishonorable. She could trust him too. He would be the Rock of Gibraltar for her. But how could he say the words without sounding like a foolish, boastful boy?

  He would have to show her that he was to be trusted, that was all. Only time would accomplish that.

  In the meantime, she had told him that she wanted him. And by God, he wanted her too. She had been pulsing like a fever in his blood all day long. And yesterday too when he had come chasing after her.

  He drew her into his arms and kissed her hungrily. She wrapped her arms about him and kissed him back in the same way. But he remembered suddenly that until less than half an hour before she had been sitting in his carriage since their last posting stop.

  “Go into your dressing room and make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Come back in ten minutes’ time.”

  She smiled slowly at him. “Thank you,” she said.

  He was glad almost fifteen minutes later that he had done it. He was sitting on the side of the bed, the covers turned back, when she returned. He had stripped down to his riding breeches. She was wearing a nightgown, perhaps the same one she had worn the night he broke the urn. It was white and virginal and covered her from neck to wrists to bare feet. Her hair had been unbraided and brushed until it shone like copper. It was loose and billowed down her back almost to her bottom. She could not have looked more desirable if she had come to him naked. Or if the single candle had been gleaming off the scarlet trappings he had half expected to find in this bedchamber.

  She came toward him, and he spread his knees and reached out his hands so that s
he could come right to the edge of the bed and stand against him. He set his hands on either side of her small waist and rested his face in the valley between her breasts. The nightgown had a freshly washed smell. So did she. The most enticing feminine perfume, he discovered in that moment, was soap and woman. Her fingers smoothed lightly through his hair.

  “Do you want me to undress?” she asked him. “I was not sure.”

  “No.” He got to his feet and pulled the bedcovers back farther. “Lie down. Let me see you there before I blow out the candle.”

  “You want to blow it out?” she asked him as she lay down and smoothed her nightgown over her knees.

  “Yes.”

  It was not that he did not want to see her. It was certainly not that he would be embarrassed by his own nakedness. After all, they had been naked together just two nights before in moonlight. He was not quite sure why he wanted darkness. Or why he wanted her to keep her nightgown on. Perhaps there would be more of fantasy in it—the illusion that they were not man and mistress having sex for his pleasure, but a couple, finding warmth and comfort in each other’s bodies in the bed where they slept together.

  He blew out the candle, removed his breeches and drawers, and lay down beside her. He slid one arm beneath her head, and she turned against him and found his mouth with her own.

  “Make love to me, Ferdinand,” she said. “As you did two nights ago. Please. No one else had ever made love to me. Just you. You were the first.”

  His hands moved over her warm curves, on top of the nightgown. “I don’t know how to please you,” he said. “But I’ll learn if you will be patient with me. I want to please you more than anything else in life.”

  “You pleased me,” she told him. “More than anyone or anything ever has done before. And you please me now. You feel good. You smell good.”

  He laughed softly. He had washed, but he did not have any of his colognes with him. She did not mind his inexperience, he realized. Perhaps it was something that appealed more than expertise would have to Viola Thornhill.