His Favorite Mistress

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “I’ll find a basket and lay an old blanket inside for a bed,” she said. “And a wooden box with some gardening sand inside should do for their personal needs until they are all old enough to go outside with their mama.” Turning, she sent him another smile. “Thank you for helping me, Wyvern.”

  He smiled back. “You are quite welcome. Though you may not be thanking me when you awaken tomorrow morning with six cats in your bed.”

  “Oh, they won’t be. They’ll stay in their basket.”

  I wouldn’t be too certain of that, he decided, casting a glance toward the large tester bed with its elegant blue counterpane. Unbidden, he envisioned her lying there beneath the fine linen sheets, her long, dark hair spread over the pillows in glorious silken waves, while kittens played around her, making her laugh. His loins tightened at the image, and he became far too aware how very much he would like to be here in this room to see if such a tableau actually developed. Abruptly, he forced himself back to the moment. “I should be going.”

  As if only then realizing the impropriety of being alone with him inside her bedroom, a light blush spread upward over her cheeks. “Yes, I suppose you ought.”

  But instead of leaving, he let himself enjoy the sight of her lovely face, her translucent skin dusted with pink—and something else, now that he took a good look. “You’ve a smudge,” he remarked.

  “Oh, do I? Where?” Raising a hand, she tried—and failed—to remove the mark.

  “Here. Allow me,” he urged. Stepping closer, he placed the tips of two fingers ever so lightly against the curve of her right cheekbone and stroked the spot. Meeting her gaze, he watched her pupils dilate, her lips parting on a nearly inaudible sigh. Tracing their movement, he wondered if her mouth tasted even half as delicious as he remembered, like the sweetest, most satisfying delicacy ever made.

  How easy it would be to find out! he thought. Only two inches closer and she would again be mine for the taking. But no, I cannot, he sighed inwardly, forcing himself to recall his pledge to think of her as a little sister. Of course such a promise was the height of absurdity, since no matter how he tried, he knew he would never be able to think of Gabriella St. George as a sister. On the other hand, he supposed that didn’t mean he couldn’t at least make the attempt to treat her as such.

  Dropping his hand he stepped back. “There you are,” he said in a brisk tone. “All gone.”

  She blinked as if coming out of a momentary trance. “Oh…I…my thanks…Wyvern.”

  He made her a bow. “Your servant, Miss St. George. I shall see you at dinner tonight, I expect.”

  “Yes. Until then.”

  With a nod, he allowed himself one last look, then turned and strode out of the room.

  “We give her the name Stephanie Charlotte,” Julianna Pendragon declared, the maternal pride and happiness in her gentle voice ringing out through the parish church.

  From her own seat on one of the wooden pews that held a number of invited guests, Gabriella observed the proceedings and the group clustered around the baptismal font. Among them were Rafe, Julianna, and their infant daughter, of course. On Julianna’s right stood her sister, Maris, and her friend Lily Andarton, the Marchioness of Vessey, both women having agreed to serve as godmothers. Although only one was required, little Stephanie Pendragon would have two godfathers as well, Ethan Andarton, the Marquis of Vessey, and Wyvern, who looked suave yet respectfully somber attired in a crisp black tailcoat and pantaloons, his linen a pristine white.

  “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen,” the minister recited as he gently anointed the infant’s head with water. Shocked at the wetting, the baby let out an indignant wail that echoed off the church’s stone walls. Smiles and a few laughs ensued, everyone saying amen.

  As the service continued, Gabriella watched the members of the christening party, her lips tightening whenever her gaze happened upon Wyvern—or should she say the Duke of Wyvern. Even now, she cringed to remember what had happened after dinner last evening.

  The meal had gone well—fifteen family members and friends gathered around the table to enjoy delicious food and drink amid smiles and laughter. Gabriella had found herself surprisingly relaxed, amazed once again at how thoroughly she had been accepted into the Pendragon family. Since her arrival two weeks before, the entire household had taken her under its collective wing, from Rafe and Julianna, who treated her as if she really was family whom they had known forever, to the servants, who were always ready to assist her, even when she told them she could manage for herself.

  Once dinner concluded, the entire party had retired to the drawing room, the gentlemen having decided to forgo a separate session of cigars and port on this occasion. Cordials, tea, and coffee were served, together with a tray of sweetmeats that Gabriella found herself unable to resist. She was savoring a particularly toothsome piece of pecan-laden divinity when the butler, Martin, approached Wyvern, stopping to offer him the snifter of brandy he carried atop a polished silver tray.

  “Will there be anything further, Your Grace?” he asked.

  “Not at present, thank you,” Wyvern replied as he accepted the glass.

  With a tiny frown, Gabriella laid the sweet she held onto her plate, then looked across at Wyvern. “Pardon me, Wyvern, but why does everyone keep calling you Your Grace, as if you were a duke or some such?”

  An audible silence fell over the entire company before Julianna leaned forward from where she sat on the couch. “That is because he is a duke, my dear,” she said in a kindly tone. “Did you not realize?”

  Heat washed into her cheeks, her gaze dropping to the floor rather than see them all stare.

  “There are many days,” Wyvern quipped, breaking the silence, “when I sorely wish I was not a duke. Being toad-eaten, even when you’re using the privy, can grow quite tiresome.”

  She’d laughed along with everyone else, and yet afterward a measure of her embarrassment lingered, a tight sensation forming inside her chest that she’d recognized as burgeoning affront. Undoubtedly she’d made a cake of herself by blurting out her question in such a public manner, but she would never have done so if Wyvern had been courteous enough to tell her who he really was. And it wasn’t as if he’d lacked the opportunity to reveal his title, particularly considering she had asked him earlier that same day if she should call him “my lord.”

  Call me Wyvern, he’d drawled. Wyvern, my eye!

  All this morning, she’d scarcely been able to look his way without ruffling up, reminded each time she did what a rube she had appeared before one and all. Everyone else seemed to have forgotten the incident, but even though she knew she should do the same, she couldn’t erase it from her mind.

  Glancing up, she tried to focus her attention on the final moments of the christening ceremony, but as she did, her gaze met his. To her consternation, heat crept over her skin, the tight feeling returning to her chest. Needing to look away, yet unable to do so, she watched as he lifted a single dark eyebrow in silent inquiry.

  Her mouth firmed, and before she knew what she meant to do, she raised one of her eyebrows back, angling her chin in his direction with a challenging tilt.

  His lips twitched, eyes widening in obvious surprise—and a bit of humor, if she was not mistaken. If he thought to intimidate her with his elevated status, he was in for a sad disappointment. Duke or dustman, she thought, his title makes no difference to me. If only she could say the same for the man himself, a shiver of sensual awareness rippling through her.

  Luckily, the baby chose that moment to exercise her lungs by letting out another lusty wail. Breaking eye contact, Gabriella glanced down and studied the pale blue velvet skirt of her gown—one of five beautiful new frocks Julianna had ordered made for her during the past two weeks. Then, with a few last words from the minister, the christening was finished. Climbing to her feet with the other guests, she soon made her way from the church.

  Later that afternoon, Tony
stood in the Pendragons’ drawing room, listening to Julianna’s brother, Harry; her brother-in-law, retired Major William Waring; and his friend Ethan debate the finer points of horse breeding. Considering Tony owned a prosperous stable of his own—praised by many as one of the finest in England—he would normally have been immersed in the conversation. Instead he found himself distracted, his gaze and thoughts drifting often across the room toward a particular sable-haired female.

  Swallowing a mouthful of robust red claret, he surreptitiously watched Gabriella where she sat talking with the ladies. After his silent, visual exchange with her at the church this morning, he’d assumed they would have an opportunity to speak. But each time he moved in her direction, she somehow moved in an opposite one.

  He didn’t think her elusiveness was deliberate, though he had taken note of the fact that they’d ended up with nearly the whole of the dining room table between them during nuncheon. Despite the distance, however, he’d caught her glance his way a time or two, in between bites of rosemary chicken, roast beef, and a wealth of delectable accompaniments. When he’d caught her looking again over a dessert of brandied ginger cake, he hadn’t been able to contain himself. Licking a dollop of whipped cream off his fork, he’d winked, grinning as her cheeks grew dusky, her lips drawing together in the same adorable line she’d worn earlier in the church. Smiling around another forkful of cake, he’d made himself cease teasing her—for the time being, anyway.

  “So what do you think, Tony?” Harry Davies, the Earl of Allerton, asked, breaking into his musings.

  Blinking to clear his thoughts, he stared at the three men who awaited his answer. “Think about what?” he drawled, pausing to quaff another long swallow of claret.

  “About taking in a round of shooting tomorrow, of course,” the younger man returned. “Have you not been listening?”

  Quite obviously he had not, since he’d completely missed the conversational shift from horses to pistols. Ethan gave him an inquiring look, which he returned with confident sangfroid. “Ah, well, so long as the winds hold fair and the weather continues to moderate as it seems to be doing, a bit of target practice sounds most agreeable.”

  Allerton nodded his approval. “Good. We’ll gather the men in the afternoon, then. We thought the ladies might enjoy a spot of archery as well.”

  “A fine idea,” he concurred.

  Across the room, Gabriella rose to her feet. He watched as she crossed to the refreshment table, where a pitcher of lemonade and a decanter of wine had been set out for those not wishing tea or coffee.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” he said, waggling his empty glass. “I find myself in need of a fresh libation.”

  With good-natured smiles, they waved him on his way as they returned to their conversation—politics this time. On the other side of the room, Beatrix Nevill’s husband had Rafe cornered, engaged in a discussion of the economy, judging by the serious cast to Rafe’s face. A self-made millionaire, Rafe was every bit as successful a financier as Rothschild himself. Well aware of Rafe’s business acumen, Lord Nevill never missed an opportunity to pick his brain for investment tips. Strolling in the opposite direction, Tony made his way across the room.

  At the refreshment table, Gabriella lifted to her lips the glass of lemonade she’d just poured. Overwarm after sitting near the fireplace, she enjoyed the cool, refreshing tang of the drink. As she took a second swallow, a tingle skittered over her spine, letting her know she was no longer alone. Lowering the glass, she turned her head and met the intense blue gaze of the Duke of Wyvern. At the reminder of his title, her mouth tightened again. “Your Grace,” she greeted.

  “Miss St. George.” He smiled, then picked up the crystal decanter from the table and filled his own glass. As he did, she caught sight of the ruby signet ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand, the stone’s color reminiscent of the dark red wine in his goblet. “Enjoying a draught of lemonade, I see,” he commented as he replaced the stopper. “I’m curious to know if the kitchen maid who prepared it failed to add enough sugar?”

  She cast him a puzzled glance. “No, the lemonade is quite sweet. Why do you ask?”

  “Just taking note of your countenance. The present set of your mouth denotes what one might describe as annoyance. Are you annoyed, Miss St. George?” His eyes twinkled, a teasing quality in his tone.

  So he finds this amusing, does he? she thought, her jaw growing taut. “Not at all, Your Grace. Though were I annoyed, as you say, I should think you would have no difficulty recognizing the cause, Your Grace.”

  He raised a brow and sipped his wine. “Oh? How so? And pray cease adding ‘Your Grace’ to every sentence you utter.”

  She feigned innocence. “Why ever not, Your Grace? Is that not the proper manner in which I ought to address you, Your Grace? Since you are a duke, Your Grace. I have no wish to offend, Your Grace, none at all…Your Grace.”

  “Enough, minx,” he said, setting his glass onto the table. “Your point is duly noted, though to my recollection you are the first female I have ever met who complained at discovering that I am a duke.”

  “Oh, do you often fail to inform women of your title? ‘Call me Wyvern,’” she said, pitching her voice in the lowest drawl she could manage.

  He grinned at her attempt to imitate him.

  “You might have mentioned that little fact, you know,” she continued in her normal tone. “You might have said something before I acted the dunce in front of everyone here at the house.”

  A somber gleam came into his eyes, the smile disappearing from his mouth. “You are right, and for that, I most sincerely beg your pardon. But you see, I rather liked the novelty of you seeing me first as a man, rather than a title.”

  “Oh.”

  Such an idea had never occurred to her. Remembering his remark about being toadied, she supposed he must encounter many people who curried his favor and attention for no other reason than his status; such was the way of the world. How sad that he should be treated differently simply because of his elevated position in the nobility. Then again, she could feel only a limited amount of sympathy for him, since his privileged life gave him benefits the likes of which most could only dream. She was sure he had never been compelled to ration coal for the fireplace, nor skip a midday meal because there wasn’t enough money for food that week.

  Since coming to the Pendragons, she no longer bore those burdens either, she realized. Maude had been right to force her to get past her fears and accept their kindness and hospitality, just as Wyvern had been right to tell her the truth about her father, painful as that knowledge had been and continued to be. By rights, she should resent His Grace, the Duke of Wyvern—even dislike him, she supposed—yet somehow she found she could do neither. And if she held no grudge against him on such a grievous score, how could she possibly continue to do so because he had not told her he was a duke? With that realization, the angry knot inside her stomach began to unwind.

  “Still,” she persisted, returning to their discussion regarding the omission of his title. “You might have said.”

  “Yes, I might,” he admitted. “But I did not lie when I told you to call me Wyvern. That is how I am known to those of my acquaintance, with the exception of a few intimates who use my given name, Anthony—or Tony, as I prefer to be called.” A slow smile curved again over his attractive mouth, his voice lowering to a honeyed rumble. “You have my leave to call me Tony as well, if you like. Particularly when we are alone.”

  Her heart went th-thump inside her breast. Sternly, she willed the wayward organ to behave. “I do not imagine we will have much occasion for such a circumstance.”

  “Oh, one never knows.” He gave her another smile that sent tingles rushing all the way to her toes.

  Sipping her lemonade, Gabriella found herself rather hoping he was right.

  Chapter Five

  “WELL DONE, TONY! Another fine shot,” Rafe declared the following afternoon. His assessment was quickl
y echoed by the five other men gathered on the lawn outside the house for their planned shooting match.

  “Truly excellent,” Lord Nevill stated. “Manton would be proud to see one of his pistols used to such fine effect.” Considering the older man’s inability to hit more than one out of every three practice wafers, his remarks were gracious indeed, Tony decided.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Tony replied, as he added fresh powder and shot to the barrel of his weapon. Wiping the gun clean with a soft cloth, he set the pistol carefully aside. “But I only won this round by a couple of points. The match could have gone to any of us. The outcome was no more than a rare measure of luck on my part.”

  “No luck about it,” Ethan disputed, his and Rafe’s second-and third-place scores having come in several points behind their friend’s. “You, Tony, are what’s known as a crack shot.”

  “Quite right. Wish we’d had you on the battlefield while we were fighting Boney,” William Waring added, his own skillful aim apparently unaffected by the loss of an arm during the recently ended conflict on the Continent. “You’d have sent the French running.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Harry concurred.

  “Enough, enough.” Tony threw up a hand. “Otherwise my head may puff up to the size of a balloon and explode.”

  All of them laughed, the sound drifting away on the mild breeze. Overhead the sun shone down out of a clear blue sky, the temperature was pleasant, requiring no more than light coats.

  “The ladies seem to be having a fine time,” Lord Nevill remarked, gazing a number of yards to the left where several archery targets had been arranged. “Good heavens, what a shot!”

  “Who made it?” Tony inquired, turning to watch as well.

  “From what I can see, the archer appears to be Miss St. George. By Jove, she’s hit that bull’s-eye dead on again.”