The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2)

by Julianne MacLean

  All the happiness in the world enveloped Cassandra as her fiancé swung her around in his arms and promised her everything. Surely life did not get any better than this, for she was going to marry the true mate of her soul.

  It was time at last to lay down her shield.

  Chapter 23

  One year ago, he was the cause of my destruction. I only hope that now I will not be the cause of his.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  July 14,1874

  Along the drive to Pembroke Palace, gardens were blooming brightly with color as the coach rolled up the long lane. The soil was rich and dark, nourishing the lush green foliage where sprays of scarlet-crimson nasturtiums and deep pink peonies burst forth in showy, bold blooms. Farther along, thousands of English daisies crowded together among the larkspur, asters, and hollyhocks in a stunning fusion of color and promise that took Cassandra’s breath away. Ahead of them, Pembroke Palace stood like a mighty, majestic sentry on the hilltop, protecting its own. She shivered with apprehension, knowing she was about to face that sentry with a baby in her arms, born out of wedlock to a man whose future had already been cast for him by the lord of this palace, the Duke of Pembroke himself.

  She thought of the past year of her life, first dashing out of a London ballroom with a handsome, reckless charmer she’d met only hours before, later being tossed out of her home, having nowhere to go, and eventually nothing with which to sustain herself but her skill with a needle. She eventually believed the end of her life had come and saw no alternative but to give up her child on this very doorstep and skulk away in sorrow. Following that, she had become a soon-to-be-married man’s mistress.

  Now, driving up to the palace with that same man who had just jilted his fiancée, she felt like the greatest interloper in the history of the world. What was his family going to say?

  She looked at Vincent beside her in the coach. Holding June close to her breast, she wondered if it really mattered, for deep in her heart she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be, that all the grueling events of her life had led her to this moment and to him—and that nothing would ever come between them again. They were connected to each other by some invisible force, and no matter what occurred when they reached the palace gate, that would never change. He was the true mate of her soul and would remain so until the day she drew her last breath, perhaps even beyond.

  At last the coach pulled to a stop. Vincent stepped out and took June in one arm while he offered the other hand to Cassandra. She lifted her face and looked up at the stately front portico, which was crowned by a clock tower, fluttering flags, and stately finials, gargoyles, and lions.

  She turned her eyes to meet Vincent’s. “My hands are shaking.”

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said, his voice low and comforting.

  “What if they do not accept me? What if your father disinherits you?”

  “Then we will live with that outcome.” He carefully set June back into her arms. “For now, all you must do is accompany me inside and present our daughter to the family with your usual charm and poise.” He gave her a reassuring smile, then escorted her up the wide steps.

  His mother appeared at the door. “There you are at last,” she said, glancing uncertainly at Cassandra with the baby in her arms. “I thought you would never return.” She stepped forward to greet them and kissed Vincent on the cheek. “Lady Colchester, welcome.”

  She glanced uneasily at Vincent. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  No one said anything for a few awkward seconds, then the duchess said, “Won’t you come in?”

  They followed the duchess inside. Cassandra looked up at the high ceiling overhead, the thick, marble columns at all four corners of the hall, and the enormous ancestral portraits on the walls. If she had been intimidated before by the idea of coming here, she was even more so now, knowing she would soon have to face the duke.

  “How is Father?” Vincent asked.

  The duchess stood in the center of the hall. “He is the same, still fixated on the weather, watching the horizon and counting the clouds.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I must inform you, Vincent, that he does not remember what you told him in the garden or the letters you showed him. He believes Letitia is still here and that nothing has changed, that you are still engaged to her. He says he sees her at night.”

  Vincent glanced at Cassandra. “He must be looking at the portrait of the first duchess.”

  “That is what we have concluded.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the drawing room.”

  Cassandra, still holding their sleeping baby in her arms, felt a surge of apprehension. “Perhaps you should go and see him first, on your own.”

  “No, we will go together.”

  The duchess nodded and led the way to the drawing room, where they found the duke, along with Devon and Rebecca, who were drinking tea on the far side of the room.

  “Theodore?” the duchess said, entering first and approaching the duke carefully. “I have good news. Vincent is home.”

  The duke’s hair was wild about his head, his expression anxious as he turned from the window to face them. He wore no shoes.

  Cassandra stopped just inside the door.

  “Hello Father,” Vincent said, giving him a moment to take in their presence. “Devon, Rebecca.” They all greeted him. “There is someone here I wish you to meet.”

  “Who is this?” the duke asked.

  Vincent gestured toward Cassandra and June. “First of all, I want you to meet your granddaughter, June Marie Sinclair.”

  The duke stared, bewildered, then padded across the room toward them. He stood before Cassandra, looking into her eyes. “This is not the first duchess.”

  “No, Father. This is the woman I love.” Vincent looked across the room at Devon, who gave him an encouraging nod.

  The duke’s surprisingly calm gaze dropped to June, who was wrapped in a blanket, awake now and wiggling happily in Cassandra’s arms. “This is your child?” he asked her.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said.

  “May I hold her?”

  “Of course.” Not knowing what to expect, Cassandra placed her baby daughter into his arms. Vincent watched his father carefully.

  The duke carried June to the center of the room. He swung back and forth, rocking her, murmuring quiet words Cassandra could not hear, nor could she see his face, for he had turned his back on them.

  At last he faced them. “This is my grandchild?” he said to Vincent.

  “Yes, Father.”

  Cassandra braced herself for the worst, but then the duke threw his head back and laughed. Seconds later his laughter turned to sobbing. “Vincent, my son, she looks like you when you were this age. She has the same dark, intelligent expression.”

  Vincent’s voice was quiet. “Do you even remember what I looked like?”

  Tears filled the duke’s clear eyes. “I remember everything. You were a beautiful child. I wept when I first held you.”

  Cassandra glanced across at Vincent and felt the most wonderful joy at his astonishment.

  The duke looked back down at June in his arms and spoke playfully, bouncing at the knees. “What a remarkable girl you are, just like your father. You have his eyes. Will you be a fast runner like he was? He used to win all the races against his brothers.”

  Vincent’s gaze rushed to meet Cassandra’s. It was as if his joy and hers were mingling and humming between them. He knew she understood everything. She understood all that existed in the wondrous depths of his heart and soul.

  Just then the duke seemed to remember that she was still standing there. He approached and placed June back in her arms.

  “You’re the mother?”

  “Yes.”

/>   He nodded and took a step back, studying her with intense scrutiny. Vincent came to stand beside her.

  “What happened to the other one?” the duke asked pointedly. “The one I picked out for you?”

  “She left,” Vincent replied.

  He frowned, trying to understand. “Was she the fairy?”

  “Yes, she was dressed as a fairy when she first came to Mother’s birthday ball.”

  The duke narrowed his eyes, as if seeking to understand. “She didn’t love you, did she? She wanted to poison you.”

  “You are thinking of the first duchess, Father. But you are correct about Lady Letitia. She did not love me.”

  Cassandra noticed that Devon and Rebecca had risen to their feet and were watching and listening intently.

  The duke looked at Cassandra again. “Do you love him?”

  “With all my heart and soul, Your Grace. I would give my life for him, and for our child.”

  She met Rebecca’s gaze across the room. Rebecca smiled warmly.

  Stepping forward, the duke touched June’s little cheek with the back of a finger. “She is a lovely child. I’ve never been a grandfather before.”

  Cassandra smiled at him. “Then today is a very special day.”

  The duke nudged Vincent. “You have not yet introduced me to this beauty.”

  Vincent slid his arm around Cassandra’s waist. “No, Father, I have not yet done so. Please allow me to present, to all of you, Cassandra Sinclair, Lady Vincent. My wife, as of yesterday.”

  Adelaide gasped and covered her face with both hands.

  Vincent met his brother’s gaze. Devon nodded at him with approval.

  The duke’s eyebrows lifted. “We have another bride of Pembroke?”

  “We do,” Vincent said.

  The duke’s mouth fell open. “That is why the sun has been shining.”

  “I believe so.”

  The duke looked at Cassandra with the cheerful, magnanimous innocence of a child. “I am so pleased.”

  “As am I, Your Grace,” she replied, laughing uncontrollably as tears of joy filled her eyes.

  “The curse is thwarted again,” he said simply, his bushy eyebrows lifting.

  “It seems so, Father,” Devon said, approaching.

  The duchess hugged Vincent and Cassandra. “Congratulations to you both. I couldn’t be happier.”

  While the others were fussing over June, Vincent approached his brother. “May I have a word with you?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Devon replied.

  They moved to the other side of the room where they could speak in private.

  “I cannot begin to pretend that we have not had our differences over the past few years,” Vincent said.

  “We have,” Devon agreed.

  “What happened between you and MaryAnn caused me great pain—a pain that I did not even want to put behind me. I preferred wallowing in my bitterness.”

  “Vincent—”

  He put up a hand. “Let me finish.” He met his brother’s clear blue eyes. “I know that you suffered, too, Devon. It could not have been easy, receiving that letter from the woman your brother intended to marry, and then having to tell us all that she was dead. I know you did not encourage her affections, and it was wrong of me to punish you for so long afterward. I should have forgiven you. I am sorry.”

  His brother closed his eyes and bowed his head. “If you only knew how I have longed to hear you say those words. I have suffered from my guilt, more than you could ever know. I have wished I could go back in time and do it all differently. I would never have gone to see her. I would have ignored her letter. I would have gone away—anything to change the way it turned out. Perhaps then MaryAnn would still be alive, and you would have had your wedding day.”

  Vincent shook his head. “We would not have been happy. She did not love me, and that was what I wanted most of all—to marry a woman who truly loved me.”

  “And now you have.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope we can be friends again...”

  Vincent held out his hand. “Friends and brothers. Loyal to the end.”

  “Loyal to the end.” They looked meaningfully into each other’s eyes and shook on it.

  Vincent noticed their mother watching them, so he and Devon returned to where the others were gathered in a circle around June.

  The duchess took hold of her husband’s hand. “I hope you will sleep well tonight, Theodore.”

  “I dare say I will,” he replied. “A lovely bride and a grandchild all in the same day.” He laughed out loud and threw his arms up into the air. “Now all we need is for the other two to come home. Where the devil is Blake, anyway? Does anyone know? The man has bloody well disappeared into thin air. I dare say, he best get himself back here dressed in wedding attire, or he’ll face my wrath.”

  “Indeed,” Vincent said, meeting Devon’s gaze with a hint of amusement. “It’s time he and Garrett both learned how truly wonderful a wedding day can be.” He touched Cassandra’s cheek. “When one is marrying the right woman, of course.”

  Devon moved to stand beside Rebecca. “You are a wise man, Vincent, for more insightful words were never spoken.”

  Chapter 24

  I have been making love for forty-eight hours straight and have hardly slept a wink. One would think I’d be exhausted.

  I suppose, when one is in love, amazing things are possible.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Sinclair,

  Lady Vincent,

  July 16,1874

  I am eager to move into Langley Hall,” Vincent said to Cassandra two days later, slipping his arm around her waist as they strolled through the palace gallery at sunrise. They had been up all night making up for lost time and were on their way to the breakfast room for some much-needed sustenance.

  “As am I,” she replied. “I have spent many hours daydreaming about the library and the grounds and the lake. You told me once that you intend to teach June to fish one day. Do you still wish to do that?”

  “Of course. I will take her digging for worms and show her how to row a boat.”

  “That sounds perfectly lovely.”

  “You can come, too,” he said. “Do you know how to cast a line?”

  Cassandra stopped suddenly in the gallery. “Good heavens, is this the first duchess?”

  Vincent looked up. “Yes. The resemblance to my former fiancée is rather hair-raising, don’t you think?”

  “Disturbingly so,” she replied. “This woman has the same ruthless look in her eyes.”

  They stood hand in hand, staring at it.

  “I should count myself lucky that you saved me from the fate of becoming her husband,” he said. “I would have been miserable.”

  Cassandra squeezed his hand. “I cannot bear to think of it.”

  They moved on, walking past the other family portraits.

  “That is the first duke,” Vincent said, stopping again under an impressive painting of a heavily bearded aristocrat. “Remember I told you about him? He was a trusted friend of King Henry VIII, who awarded him the dukedom in the 1500s.”

  “And he chose this site to build his palace on the ruins of an old abbey,” she said, “where his father, the prior, was murdered.”

  “Yes.” Vincent pulled her close. “Because he committed the terrible sin of falling in love with a woman who was forbidden to him.”

  “A monk with a mistress,” she said with a sigh, “murdered as a punishment for his passions. It is not exactly the stuff of fairy tales.”

  “No, certainly not.”

  They continued on, but Cassandra stopped again. “My word, this looks like Iris.” She strode toward a tiny oval miniature of a woman, framed and hanging next to the larger portrait of the duke.


  “That is the mother of the first duke, the prior’s mistress. We know so little about her life. This is all we have left of her. Even her name is a mystery.”

  For a long time, Cassandra stared at the small portrait, marveling at the resemblance to the maid who had been so kind to her. “Another remarkable similarity,” she said, “don’t you think?”

  Vincent took a step forward. “Yes, you are right, my darling. Perhaps that is why Iris looked so familiar to me when she came to your room that day. She looks like my ancestor.”

  They joined hands and continued on to the breakfast room, unaware of Iris sweeping the ash out of the grate at the far end of the gallery, watching them and smiling at the sight of their happiness. She finished her job, brushed her hands together to dust off the ash, then turned and disappeared into the corridor.

  “Do you think there will ever be a day,” Cassandra asked, as they began to eagerly inhale the aroma of coffee and bacon, eggs and toast, “when we will not be completely besotted with each other?”

  Vincent stopped her in the corridor and backed her up against the wall. “Not a chance in heaven, my angel,” he replied, and then pressed his lips to hers and gave her the most perfect kiss.

  “You have always made me weak in the knees,” she sighed breathlessly, her eyes still closed as he stepped back. “And I suspect you always will.”

  “Then you have answered your own question, darling. The rapture will go on.”

  With a smile, she took his hand. “In that case, we are absolutely obligated to get some breakfast, if we are to sustain ourselves for the everlasting, undying rapture—which will continue on throughout the day, I hope?”

  He grinned wolfishly. “Indeed. Will you let me serve you up a plate?”

  “I would be most obliged if you would. I shall sit myself down and conserve my strength for later.”

  And together they strolled blissfully into the breakfast room.

  Epilogue

  The scandal over Lord Vincent Sinclair’s secret marriage to his mistress, Lady Colchester, was, in a word, colossal. For years it was talked about in every fashionable drawing room from London to France, and all the young, marriageable daughters of good families were firmly reminded to never, under any circumstances, dash out of a ballroom with a stranger, no matter how handsome or charming he proved himself to be. The couple was criticized, rejected, openly excluded from every respectable guest list for five seasons straight, and it mattered not one bit that they were out of the country. They were added to the lists regardless, just so the host or hostess could have the pleasure of striking them off.