The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  “I confess,” she said, studying his face as the gray light shone in on it, “that I am still finding it difficult to believe you are acting out of the goodness of your heart. That you only wish for our suffering to come to an end.”

  “I do not want June to go hungry,” he replied.

  “But how can I trust you?” she asked. “This moment of generosity is very nice on your part, but we are talking about a lifetime of responsibility, and you have hardly been dependable in the past. You satisfy your urges and impulses, then you dash off when the initial excitement fades. How can I know that you won’t one day change your mind and turn us out? Or try to claim some other form of compensation for your kindness when your charitable inclinations toward us are forgotten? I do not wish to feel indebted to you, Vincent, nor do I wish to be at your mercy or in your power. I cannot spend my days living in fear that June and I will one day be homeless again.”

  “June will never be homeless,” he said. “And the only compensation I will require will be a right to see her when I wish it.”

  “But how can I trust you?” she asked again.

  He looked at her carefully. “You won’t have to trust me, nor shall I have to trust you. We will put it all in writing, and you can choose your own solicitor. I will pay his fee.”

  “A formal written contract?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You would agree to that?”

  “Yes, because it would protect my rights as well.” His eyes clouded over with distrust. “You are not the only one with something at stake here, Cassandra. I certainly cannot have you changing your mind and running off in six months’ time when you are feeling better, or if you are feeling reckless again and wish to take a lover.”

  “That will never happen.”

  His dark eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t believe her, then he shrugged. “Those will be my terms.”

  She considered it a moment. “What if I wish to marry someday? Respectably. What then?”

  Not that she would ever desire such a thing. All she wanted was her independence, but there was the principle of the matter to consider.

  “No. That would not be permissible.”

  She laughed. “I just said I did not wish to be in your power.”

  He merely shrugged again.

  “What if I met a decent gentleman,” she argued, “who would be a real father to June? You would still say no?”

  “Yes. June will have no father figure but me. Unless I am dead, of course. Naturally, the contract will account for that possibility.”

  Cassandra answered in a rush of words. “You are telling me that I am to live without hope of love, while you are completely free to marry whomever you choose?”

  “I would hardly call my engagement the act of a free man.”

  She realized she was arguing now for the sake of arguing, because she had absolutely no desire to marry again.

  “Then I would insist upon having terms as well,” she informed him. “The first being that I would not be required to perform the typical duties one associates with a wife or mistress.”

  He chuckled. “You plan to put that in writing? The solicitors will enjoy wording that clause, no doubt, because they do love to be specific.”

  She ignored his flagrant mockery. “And I would require that the house be put in my name immediately, and not only that, my annuity will continue for my lifetime, because I do not intend to become penniless again when I am no longer needed for June’s upbringing.”

  “Done. Anything else?”

  She tried to think...

  “You said June would someday be presented as a distant relative. Will she know that I am her mother and you are her father?”

  He considered it a moment. “Leave me to work out those details.” He leaned forward and pushed the curtain aside to peer out the window again. “Your train is here.” Sitting back in his seat, he spread his hands wide. “So, is that all? Do we have an agreement?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure. It will take some time to find a house for us. Where would we go for tonight?”

  She had learned to be mindful about determining the existence and location of her bed on any given day. Especially in weather such as this.

  “One option is for you to remain at the palace until we find a suitable residence.”

  “Is there another option?” Cassandra asked. “Because I would prefer not to find myself in the awkward position of explaining myself to your fiancée. Remember, I was in her shoes not so long ago, forced to endure the humiliation of an openly adulterous husband.”

  Vincent leaned forward in that familiar, seductive manner, sporting a hint of a wolfish grin. “But I was under the impression that adultery was off-limits. You were going to put it in writing, remember? Unless you have changed your mind already, in which case I am game. Although in that instance, the dower house—which is the other option for the evening—will need a new bed. The one that’s there now...” He crinkled his nose and shook his head. “We would need something new.”

  “I have not changed my mind,” she informed him haughtily, “nor am I amused by your teasing.”

  He leaned back again, still darkly seductive. “I never tease. I just thought, since you were offering...”

  “I was not offering!” Cassandra clamped her mouth shut. “If we are going to do this, I must insist that you forget what happened between us a year ago and treat me with due respect. I am the mother of your child, and I want June to grow up in a proper, upright home. There can be none of this cavalier flirting.”

  Because, heaven help her, if he ever became that man again—the man he had been in the ballroom a year ago—she feared she might not have the will to resist.

  “I was hardly flirting,” he casually said.

  “Everything you say and do—if it is not something completely hateful—comes across as a flirtation. It is in your nature, so you are going to have to curb that.”

  Somewhat perplexed, he inclined his head. “I was not aware.”

  She strove to calm her frustration. This was not going to be easy. “If I agree to this, can I stay at the dower house this evening?” she asked, purposefully redirecting the conversation back to more practical matters.

  “That could be arranged.”

  The train whistle blew outside, and the station guard called out, “All aboard!”

  “Have we reached an agreement, then?” Vincent asked for the second time.

  Cassandra hesitated—this time for no other reason than to make him wait—then at last she gave him her answer. “I believe we have.”

  He sat forward and held out his hand to shake on it, and she accepted the deal.

  “Excellent.” He let go and lounged back against the seat, appearing vastly satisfied.

  Cassandra was satisfied as well, for she would no longer need to worry about June’s future. Her daughter would be provided for. They would live in a house in the country. June would not have to scrub floors or do the landlady’s laundry. She would be educated and have a proper dowry one day.

  Oh, sweet heaven! Cassandra reached down and scooped June up into her arms. If only Vincent could know how her heart was leaping with joy. Even she had not realized the weight of that burden upon her shoulders until now. She had not let herself think of those painful, unpleasant matters.

  Cassandra looked across at him with surprise and a strange sense of wonder. He had been the cause of her downfall, but today he was her salvation.

  Seeming unconcerned with her happiness, he opened the door of the coach and spoke to the driver. “To the dower house, Jenson.”

  Vincent shut the door, and the coach lurched forward. They sat on opposite seats facing each other without conversing, rocking back and forth as they rolled away from the station.

  Vincent looked up at the ceiling of the coach and Cassan
dra noted he appeared rather bemused.

  A few minutes later he spoke with a hint of skepticism. “Surely not everything I say and do is a flirtation.”

  She pursed her lips to give it adequate thought, then answered him honestly. “For the most part, yes, it is.”

  “Hmm,” he said lightly. “How does one go about curbing something like that?”

  She shook her head at him, ignoring the question, and instead began to prepare herself for the great joy of starting a new life with her daughter.

  Chapter 8

  For a brief moment in the carriage, I wanted to hug him. I must be very careful in the future not to ever mistake my gratitude for some other kind of admiration or affection.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  May 13,1874

  The Pembroke Palace dower house was an elegant but cozy Georgian mansion built of brick and cloaked in ivy. It sat proudly on a hilltop overlooking the river. It was built in 1760 for the aging dowager duchess who found the main palace too daunting in her old age and wished for a comfortable dwelling of her own, where she could live out her days in quiet solitude, growing her own flowers. Hence, the house was surrounded by gardens, decorative birdbaths and fruit trees, and two enormous oaks flanking the front entrance.

  To Cassandra, who so recently considered herself fortunate to have a bed and a blanket in a cold boarding house, it was Paradise.

  “I used to come here often as a boy,” Vincent mentioned as the coach pulled to a halt in front of the stone steps. “My great-grandmother lived here until she was seventy, and my father’s sister lived here as well, until three years ago.”

  “It has been empty since then?” Cassandra asked.

  “Yes, but not to worry. Before I left for the station to fetch you, I sent an efficient team of servants here to open the house, take up all the dust sheets, and prepare for your arrival.”

  She eyed him judiciously. “You were that certain I would accept your proposition?”

  “Of course.”

  “What if I had said no?”

  “You wouldn’t have,” he flatly stated.

  He opened the door and stepped out into the rain, which in the past half hour had changed from a sharp, stinging downpour to a soft, fine mist. Still slightly feverish, Cassandra managed to rise from her seat with Vincent’s heavy coat draped over her shoulders. Holding June in one arm, she reached for her bag with the other.

  “Do not bother with that,” Vincent quickly admonished. “Your footman will attend to it.”

  She realized that a return to this kind of life was going to take some getting used to. “I’ll have a footman?”

  “You will have everything.” He held out a hand.

  Uncomfortably aware that she was expected to behave as a lady, yet was not wearing gloves or a hat, Cassandra slid her hand into his and allowed him to assist her out of the coach. He escorted her up the steps to the front door, where she handed his overcoat back to him.

  They entered the house and stepped onto a gleaming white floor that took Cassandra’s breath away. She looked up. The walls were painted butter cream, and there were two curved staircases at the back of the entrance hall, each the perfect mirror image of the other. Both boasted ornately crafted cherry banisters and led to a second-floor landing furnished with a display case of fine china and glassware. A large crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, hanging from a gold medallion in the ceiling.

  It was like some kind of dream, and dressed as she was—in tattered, shabby clothes—she felt unworthy of such grandeur.

  A woman came to greet them, followed by a younger maid. They both curtsied. “Welcome, my lord.”

  The woman was of medium height, with brown hair and dimpled cheeks. She wore a plain, dark green serge gown.

  “Good afternoon.” Vincent turned. “Lady Colchester, this is the housekeeper, Mrs. Bixby.”

  Cassandra struggled to accustom herself to the fact that she was no longer poverty-stricken and alone. A new life was beginning. “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Bixby.”

  “The blue chamber has been prepared,” the housekeeper said.

  “Very good,” Vincent replied. “The nursery as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I shall leave you to show Lady Colchester to her room.”

  Mrs. Bixby took Cassandra’s coat and handed it over to the younger maid. The housekeeper then dismissed her with a quick nod before starting toward the stairs.

  Before Cassandra followed her, however, she turned to Vincent and whispered, “Do they know?”

  “Know what?”

  She had a hard time clarifying her meaning. “Why I am here. That I am... That June is yours.”

  “No,” he replied, glancing discreetly to ensure they would not be heard. “As far as the staff is concerned, you are simply a guest here with your daughter.” He checked his pocket watch again. “I must go. I am expected at dinner.”

  He looked back at the housekeeper and appeared somewhat agitated. Cassandra sensed he did not want to leave without making sure everything was in order.

  “I am fine now,” she assured him. “This is beyond generous. Truly. Go to your dinner.”

  Yet he still hesitated. “I have informed the staff that you are not well and need to rest. See that you do.”

  “I will. Now go, Vincent. I am more than fine.”

  He bowed slightly at the waist, then turned and left.

  Cassandra stood in the entrance hall and watched the oak door as it swung shut behind him. She was overcome by a desire to dash out and shout after him, “Thank you!” but resisted the impulse, and went to join the housekeeper who was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.

  Vincent stepped outside onto the wet steps and placed his hat back on his head. He stood a moment, taking in the familiar view of the river at the bottom of the hill, while he struggled to collect his thoughts and comprehend his emotions.

  Of his own free will, he had just taken on a tremendous responsibility for both Cassandra and her daughter—his daughter—and it disconcerted him. In the past few years his relationships with women had been fleeting and superficial, but this was altogether different. It was substantial. Important. Permanent. He had created a new life with one of his lovers—one he had carelessly discarded after one very memorable night—and that new life was now connecting him forever to Cassandra, as if by an invisible thread.

  This sudden change in his life was astonishing. Perhaps equally astonishing was the fact that Cassandra had agreed to depend upon him for everything she and June would require—for the whole of their lives. She was placing her life—and her daughter’s—in very incapable, untrustworthy hands.

  All at once he became aware that he was philosophizing. He was analyzing his decisions, questioning his worth, when there was no point in doing so. It wouldn’t affect anything.

  Intent upon changing the direction of his thoughts, he glanced up at the sky. It was no longer raining, but sunshine was still a long way off. He could not see any trace of blue just yet, but at least the dark thunderclouds had given way to a bright, cloudy sky of brilliant white.

  As he hurried down the steps to his coach, he prepared some possible excuses for Letitia when he reached the palace, and a courteous apology to go along with them.

  He wondered with a nagging sense of dread what she had been doing all afternoon.

  “Do you see that?” the duke asked, standing at the window in the drawing room with a glass of champagne in his hand. He pointed at the sky. “I believe the clouds have parted. Heavens above, I see blue!”

  “Has it stopped raining?” Adelaide asked as she looked out the window. “My word, I believe it has.”

  The duke turned and wagged a finger at Letitia, who was seated on the sofa. “It is just as I predi
cted. You, my dear, have brought the sunshine.”

  She blushed prettily. “You are too kind, Your Grace.”

  Vincent, who had just arrived from the dower house, stood in the doorway, soberly watching the scene. His father noticed him and sloshed his champagne on the red carpet as he raised his glass.

  “Vincent, my boy. You have returned. Have you noticed that little patch of blue outside the window? It is all your doing, you know—bringing this peach of a woman to Pembroke. Wherever did you find her?”

  Vincent leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “You invited her to Mother’s birthday ball, remember?”

  The duke stared blankly at him, then threw back his head of wild gray hair and laughed. “Oh, yes, the costume ball! She was Helen of Troy, was she not?”

  Rebecca, Devon’s wife, approached the duke. “Lady Letitia came dressed as a fairy princess with wings. Do you remember, Theodore? It was I who was Helen of Troy.”

  He gazed with fascination at Rebecca’s striking green eyes and red hair. “Oh yes,” he said breathlessly. “Helen... By God, but you are lovely.”

  Vincent rolled his eyes, then felt a hand on his shoulder. His brother Devon stood beside him.

  “You had better keep an eye on your Helen of Troy,” Vincent said with disinterest. “It appears Father is about to launch a thousand ships. Look at that. His sails are lifting as we speak.”

  Their mother hurried over and ushered the duke back toward the window. “Come, Theodore, I thought I saw the sun just now.”

  “The sun?” The duke followed Adelaide, who was all but dragging him by the wrist.

  “Where were you this afternoon?” Devon asked in a quiet voice laced with accusation. “You do realize we have guests—who are here for you, I might add.”

  “I was taking care of the situation you so kindly informed me about this morning.”

  “It was my understanding that Mother had already taken care of your lover’s financial needs and waved goodbye at the door,” Devon said. “But curiously, I just learned that a pack of servants, along with a child’s nursemaid, were sent to the dower house.”