The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  Vincent turned his head to look at her. “Nor can I, but I must have you this way, Cassandra. As my lover.”

  “But you are not free. You are engaged to another woman.”

  “To a woman who does not love me and accepts openly that I will have mistresses. She will also have lovers of her own. It is not a love match, and we both know it.”

  “It seems unfathomable to me.”

  “Why? Can you not comprehend that a man and woman of our social class might marry for property or position? It is the norm, is it not?”

  She did not answer for a while. “Perhaps you are right,” she said at last. “Perhaps I am too romantic. Perhaps I have always been.”

  He rolled onto his side and faced her. “What is the point in fighting this? We desire each other, that is obvious. You have already borne me a child. You are not an innocent. I shall ask you again. Be my mistress.”

  Her body was still weak and languorous from their lovemaking, and she had to struggle to keep a clear head. “Romance and idealism aside, what of my principles? How can I, in good conscience, say yes to that?”

  He seemed to be searching for more arguments to convince her. “Most of the married men I know have mistresses, and you’ve heard me declare that I shall be no different once I am wed. But you are the one I want. The only one.”

  “And do you always get what you want?” she asked heatedly.

  “The answer to that is a very definitive no.”

  Cassandra lay for a long time, finding it hard to believe she was even having this conversation. Was it because of what Iris had said?

  “What if I were to try and find a way to marry you?” he asked. “If there was something that could be done. If I said to hell with my father’s will.”

  Her heart began to pound. It was an enormous concession for him just to say those words. She could not ignore that.

  “Then that would be different,” she replied.

  He covered his eyes with a hand. “But my brothers...”

  She wished she could be selfish, just once, but alas she could not. “You cannot betray them for me. You would only resent me one day. I know you would.”

  He rolled onto his back again and for a long while, they lay there saying nothing, just looking up at the sky.

  “If I were to agree to become your mistress,” she carefully asked, “how long would it last? Until the excitement wore off? What if it wore off for one of us and not the other? What then?”

  He turned his head toward her. “Then we would return to the terms of the contract. You would always have what you need to raise June, no matter what happens.”

  “I don’t know if I can love someone that way, Vincent. I am not sure I can enter into something knowing it will be temporary, no matter how pleasurable it is at any given moment.”

  He considered that. “Sometimes I wonder if it is just the label of mistress that offends you,” he said, “because you seem to enjoy the rest of it. And why is it always me who brings everything into question? How do I know you won’t be untrue and throw me aside for another?”

  Her heart throbbed painfully at his inability to trust her. “I am not MaryAnn.”

  He looked at her and sighed.

  “And it is not just the label of mistress that offends me,” she continued. “It is the whole idea of it. You forget that I was part of an adulterous triangle once. My husband’s mistress spoiled any chance I had for happiness in my own marriage. If it were not for her, we might have had a chance.”

  She folded her hands over her stomach and looked up at the sky again.

  A moment later, Vincent spoke passionately in the darkness. “Isn’t it clear to you, Cassandra, that we cannot be just friends? There is something more between us, and we must see it through. Somehow we must find a way to be together.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps we can simply guzzle each other like wine and toss the bottle away before you are married.”

  He rolled onto her again and touched her face.

  “I would never toss you away. The contract will protect you against that.”

  “That is not what I am talking about, Vincent, and you know it.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  She closed her eyes, and despite all her fears and self-recriminations, her body was responding to the heat of his touch.

  “Take the pleasure, Cassandra,” he whispered in her ear, seducing her with his lips and his potent sexuality. “Let me give you this at least. Agree to be my mistress.”

  She grew more amorous as she felt his passions grow. “I thought you said it would take an ox to move you.”

  “It was no lie. I merely underestimated my resilience.”

  Her head was telling her one thing—that she could not survive this; that she would end up with a broken heart, shattered into a thousand unrecognizable pieces—while her body was demanding something else entirely.

  In the end, it was her body that won the day. She could no longer fight this.

  She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close. He entered her with a firm thrust that filled her heart and soul, and a beautiful fever surged into her core.

  From that moment on, all that mattered was the bliss of his body slowly moving above her, filling her with sweet, slow agony.

  She lay her head back in the cool grass and allowed passion to overtake her.

  Chapter 15

  My thoughts keep drifting back to those words he spoke on the riverbank: “What if I were to find a way to marry you?”

  I confess I cannot help myself. I am imagining myself as his wife. I suppose while I am at it, I might as well imagine myself as Queen of England, too.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  June 26,1874

  Vincent was in the library the next morning, lounging in a chair and staring up at the ceiling in a blurry haze of sexual arousal, when the door burst open and startled him out of his mood. He lifted his head off the back of the chair to discover Letitia sweeping into the room like a dust mop, slamming the door behind her with a resounding crash.

  “You, sir, are a cad.”

  He relaxed and tipped his head back again. “But my dear, you and I both know that is yesterday’s news.”

  “I thought we agreed you would be discreet,” she accused him.

  The comment roused his attention. He sat up and looked at her. “To what, exactly, are you referring?”

  “I am referring to your tawdry mistress and bastard child in the dower house!” she shouted, then instantly calmed her voice: “Vincent, my love. We are not even married yet.”

  He had the distinct impression she was advising him that such activities would be quite acceptable after the wedding day, but not before.

  He rose to his feet. “Wherever did you hear that?”

  “I was out this morning with my maid,” she explained, “and we drove past your house of sin and debauchery. I said, quite innocently, ‘What a charming little cottage. Who lives there?’ My maid was able to answer the question.” Letitia glared at Vincent. “Servants hear things you know.”

  “Ah, yes, I suppose they do.” He would have to remedy that. Perhaps Langley Hall would solve the problem.

  “Well?” Letitia said. “Is there anything you wish to say to me?”

  He paused a moment, while her simmering anger rose again to a rapid boil. “I confess all. I am guilty as charged. My lover is living not five miles from here in the Pembroke Palace dower house.”

  Vincent watched Letitia carefully, not unmindful of the risk he was taking. She could easily decide she would prefer not to marry him after all. And where would that leave him? Free of her, to be sure, which would hardly leave him broken hearted. Quite to the contrary, he might even be inclined to hold a party where there would be dancing
. But he would be without an acceptable bride to protect his inheritance.

  Again, he found himself imagining the possibility of wedding Cassandra instead, as he had suggested to her last night on the riverbank, and he realized that if he did marry her, he would not only be forsaking his brothers, but would be marrying a beautiful woman for love.

  Love...

  Love?

  Oh God.

  Letitia strolled closer. “Who is she?”

  “Someone I met a year ago,” he replied, feeling both disturbed and shaken. What the devil had happened to him over the past few weeks? Had he become that lovesick young fool again? Had he forgotten the promises he had made to himself—to never be that weak again? Bloody hell, he might as well throw himself into the path of an oncoming train. It would be much quicker than this alternative.

  “That is all you are going to tell me?” Letitia prompted, tearing him away from his thoughts.

  He labored to recover his customary boredom, both inside and out. “She is a widowed lady of rank. We shared a night together one year ago, then she disappeared from my life. Until recently.”

  Letitia seemed eager to understand the circumstances. “If she was a lady of rank and carrying your child, why did you not marry her?”

  “She did not reappear until after you and I announced our betrothal.”

  Letitia moved slowly around the room. “Let me be sure I am understanding this correctly. She arrived too late, after your father had become attached to me.”

  “Yes.”

  Letitia took a deep breath, seeming satisfied with his answer and somewhat more at ease in her position. “Are you not worried that I will be hurt and scandalized by your behavior, and will not wish to marry you?”

  “It was my understanding, Letitia, based on our recent conversations, that you knew I would have mistresses and that it was acceptable to you. And that you, in turn, would only ask for the same freedom when the time came that you wished to take a lover.”

  She glared at him from across the room. “That was before I knew about the woman in the dower house. We are not yet married, Vincent. I do not wish to be jilted or, heaven forbid, left at the altar.”

  He understood that it was a matter of pride with her. He supposed it was preferable to tears and pleading.

  “Do not concern yourself,” he said, striving to retreat back into his armor—to become the man she had accepted to become her husband. The rakish, unsentimental young lord who was never going to be faithful to anyone. “The duke wants you to be the next bride of Pembroke, and that is what you shall be.”

  “But do you want me?” she asked. “I need to know that I am desired not by my future father-in-law, but by my betrothed.”

  It was still a matter of pride, he knew—this need to be desired. Letitia was accustomed to always being regarded as the most beautiful woman in the room, wherever she went. She did not like this competition.

  Sauntering toward him with a seductive glimmer in her eye, she swayed her slender hips as she drew near, then slid her palms up his chest to the tops of his shoulders. “Why don’t you take me now,” she whispered in a low, husky voice of sensual allure, “right here on the sofa? I am feeling rather amorous, darling, and I see no reason why we should wait for the wedding night. No one will know if we consummate our vows a few weeks early.”

  She rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Her lips were soft and moist. She smelled of expensive French perfume. It was exactly the kind of advance he had always favored—clear and to the point. Physical. Devoid of sentiment. And she was without question a beautiful woman.

  Vincent slid his hands around her waist and deepened the kiss. He waited almost frantically for the sexual arousal to begin. He expected it to materialize at any moment, for this was exactly what Vincent Sinclair—heartless, dissolute rake—should want. Sex with two different women in the space of twelve hours.

  But something very deep inside him was not working. This particular woman’s body, though attractive, did not appeal to him. He didn’t like the way she kissed. Her lips were too tight, and her perfume was too strong. It was almost nauseating. He felt no desire for her. None whatsoever.

  He quickly took hold of her hands and pried them off his neck. “I do not wish to spoil the wedding night,” he explained in a rush, to put some distance between them. He did not want to touch her. He did not even want to be in the same room with her.

  “That cannot be true,” she said, resolve still burning in her eyes. “I have heard the gossip—that you are always ready and willing to please a lady, and that you never fail to live up to your reputation as a master fornicator.” She spoke the words with malice as she slid her hands up his chest again. “Surely I am beautiful enough for you. You could enjoy me freely, Vincent, because a child a few weeks early would hardly raise an eyebrow. You could do anything you wanted with me. I would offer no resistance.”

  He backed away from her, feeling sickened by the idea of bedding her, even on their wedding night, when it had never been an issue before, despite his lack of feeling for her. He could barely comprehend what he was feeling. “As I said, I do not wish to spoil things.”

  “I see.” She glared at him with loathing. “You have your little harlot to keep you satisfied between the sheets. I suppose I should thank her for sparing me that odious wifely duty in the future.” She turned to leave but stopped in the open doorway. “Be aware, Vincent, that I know how these things play out. Like you, my father was a philandering dog, so I understand that you are obliged to provide for that woman because of your bastard child. I also know you will tire of her in due course and move on to other mistresses. But do not forget that you are engaged to me. I will always be your wife, till death do us part. There will be no moving on where I am concerned. In that regard, I must remind you that Pembroke Palace is my domain, as the future Lady Vincent. Not hers.”

  His stride was fluid as he moved across the room and poured himself a drink. He kept his back to his fiancée as he spoke. “Permanent accommodations for her have already been arranged. She will be gone from here the day after our wedding.”

  Part of him wished it was sooner. He felt unsettled, confused.

  He waited for Letitia to depart from the room, but she remained in the doorway, saying nothing for the longest time. The muscles in his neck and shoulders felt as rigid as steel. He tipped his head back and took a drink.

  “I must know, Vincent,” she said at last. “Are you in love with this woman?”

  The rest of his body went stiff with tension as well. There was a knot in his gut the size of a brick. Turning his head to the side, he spoke over his shoulder in a low voice. “No. You of all people should know that I am not capable of that.”

  “Ah,” she replied, her confidence returning. In fact, he was almost blinded by the illumination of her pride and vanity. “That’s a relief, I must say. Because for a moment I thought you might be fool enough to forsake your family and inheritance, all for a tawdry one-night tumble.” With that she walked out.

  Vincent poured himself another drink and slowly sank into a chair.

  Cassandra set June into her cradle for a nap, stayed for a moment until she was settled, then left the nursery. She had spent most of the day with her daughter, outside in the sunshine pushing the pram, but was in a dazed stupor the entire time, distracted by thoughts of Vincent and what they had done on the riverbank the night before.

  She had relived in her mind many of the pleasurable details—the sweet words he’d whispered in her ear, how his hands had felt on her hot, bare skin, and how terribly wicked it had all been.

  By the end of it, she had become his mistress.

  It was almost impossible to comprehend, considering how persistently she had fought to protect her principles and her heart. She had been dead set against anything like this from the beginning, yet there she was, having just f
allen headfirst into temptation. She had lived recklessly and must now live with the consequences. Again.

  Cassandra went downstairs, informed Miss Callahan that June was sleeping soundly, then retired to the drawing room for a cup of tea. Vincent was due to arrive at any moment for a visit. He had arranged his weekly schedule days in advance.

  Would he wish to take his pleasures with his newly acquired mistress? she wondered uncomfortably, feeling rather warm under her dress. Or would he simply go straight to the nursery?

  She had just poured herself a cup of tea when she heard a carriage pull up in front of the house. She glanced at the clock. It was half past four. He was exactly on time. She did not rise from her seat, but simply waited.

  A moment later he was announced and shown into the drawing room. Her heart pounded feverishly at the sight of him, so tall and dark and commanding. She was pleased he had not asked to be taken to the nursery directly, but of course he would wish to see her.

  Cassandra rose to her feet as he was shown in. “Lord Vincent, welcome,” she said, maintaining the utmost propriety in front of the servants. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  He waited until they were alone, then turned around and locked the door. Slowly, seductively, he sauntered across the room, appraising Cassandra with an appreciative eye. “I didn’t come for tea.”

  “What exactly did you come for?” she asked with burning anticipation, aware of a dark and dangerous intensity about him as he backed her up against her chair.

  “I came to see what you were wearing.” He reached her, slid one arm around her waist and pulled her close.

  “Now that you’ve seen it,” she replied, “do you wish to pay me a compliment about the color?”

  “No, I wish to see you unbuttoning it.”

  Even while her conscience was telling her to be sensible, she was irrepressibly aroused by the dangerous ferocity of his passions, which seemed especially intense today. There was something different about him. “You are most presumptuous, my lord.”