Improper Seduction Bundle with In the Warrior's Bed, Bedding the Enemy, & In Bed with A Stranger

by Mary Wine

  Santa stalked toward her. A fluffy white—and fake—beard covered his face and a bright red hat hid his hair. All she could see were sparkling green eyes and high, tanned cheekbones.

  “Have you been a good girl?”

  In Bed With A Stranger

  In Bed With A Stranger

  MARY WINE

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  Warwick Castle, 1578

  “She shall not touch my pearls.” The Countess of Warwickshire was a beautiful woman but her lips twisted into an ugly expression as she glared at her husband’s mistress.

  “In sooth, she shall, Wife.” The earl entered on silent feet; even his spurs didn’t make any noise. He kept his voice even but there was the unmistakable ring of authority in it. Every servant in the room lowered their head in deference to the master of the house before continuing on with their tasks. But they listened to every word. The brewing discontent of the lady of the manor sent excitement through the staff. It had been growing since the day the lord’s mistress had been discovered with child. A reckoning was long overdue.

  “She shall wear the pearls and the new garments I instructed you to order made when the babe was birthed.”

  Lady Philipa bit into her lower lip as a scathing reply leapt to mind. She dared not voice it too harshly; men were such fickle creatures when it came to their cocks. She lowered her head to hide her frown as she curtsied to her husband. When she raised her face, her lips were smooth once more, a testimony to years of training at the hands of her governess. Women had to be much more controlled than men, in the world where they were owned by them.

  “My lord, am I to have no comforts? Shall I be reduced to seeing my own finery placed onto your leman? Will you see me shamed in front of my own household?”

  The earl stepped in front of his wife, his dark gaze traveling over her face as he lifted one finger in front of her nose.

  “You are a bitch, Philipa. A truly spoilt, pampered bitch, who doesn’t even bother to perform the function of a true bitch.” His hand closed into a fist that he shook in front of her alarmed eyes. “Hear me well, lady wife! There will be no dishonesty in this house! Declare to one and all that you are without comforts and I will have your chamber stripped of its tapestries and carpets. Your fine gowns and jewelry will be shut away and the spice cabinet locked so that you may, in truth, live without comforts.”

  The countess gasped but covered her mouth lest she spit out an angry retort and seal her fate. The earl nodded his head to himself before gripping her arm and turning her to face his mistress, Ivy Copper. Ivy was sitting up in bed with her new daughter at her breast. The babe kicked and pushed a plump fist against her mother’s swollen breast as it suckled. She was a lively babe, in spite of the fact that no one had swaddled it. The strips of fabric cost money and Ivy didn’t have any say over what she was given. The servants were Philipa’s to command. She had not commanded that anyone spend time wrapping the babe in strips of swaddling fabric to ensure that its limbs grew straight. Only a long shift covered the babe, like a peasant child.

  Ivy’s hair was brushed into a soft shine over her opposite shoulder as she celebrated her sitting-up day. Philipa secretly hoped that her husband’s mistress might die of childbed fever, but she sat there looking the picture of good health. Even her milk had come in to ensure that her bastard would be full and strong.

  “Yet, you are shamed, Philipa, shamed by the fact of your own cowardice.” Her husband turned her so she could stare up into his face. A shiver shook her as she caught a hint of his manly scent. Her weak female body enjoyed it. Avoiding his bed took discipline.

  “Ah, you’re a coward, Philipa. You left my bed for fear of childbirth. Look at my new daughter, Wife. God favors the bold.” His gaze softened for a moment as he offered her a kind look. “You are my lady wife. Return to my bed and take up your duty as wife. If you do, I swear there will be no other taking your place. No bastard-born child set above your own children.”

  Her head shook back and forth as she pulled against his grip. Fear strangled her, trapping her words in her throat. Giving birth was deadly! Over half her friends had gone to their graves as fever engulfed their bodies or, worse still, their babes refused to be pushed from their wombs. They died in withering agony, with long hours of endless pain.

  The earl snorted with disgust. Pointing his thick finger at her, his voice boomed so that it reverberated against all the walls of the chamber. “Then you yourself shall place that string of pearls around my leman’s neck and follow her to her churching. You will stand as godmother to my new daughter.”

  “You mean to acknowledge the bastard?” In shock, Philipa felt her lower lip quiver. “What of Mary? I have given you a daughter, my lord!”

  “And you were honored well and truly.” Her husband released her arm and ran the back of his hand across her cheek. “I’d honor you again without holding a grudge if you’d return to my bed as a wife should.” He lowered his voice so that Ivy could not hear him. “I’ll set her aside, Philipa, for you and a legitimate son. Think on it. But I’ll not turn to rape. You will not lay such a burden upon me. We are married and it is your duty to bear my child as much as mine to take you to my bed.”

  Her husband left her to join the group of visitors celebrating Ivy’s survival of childbirth. Today was her sitting-up ceremony, and in another two weeks if she still lived, there would be the churching day when the new mother was cleansed by the estate clergy and allowed back into the church. The bastard would be taken from her at its baptism. The traditions were older than anyone remembered. If Ivy died before she was churched, she’d be buried in unconsecrated ground. If the baby died unbaptized, it, too, would be denied burial in church ground.

  The baby’s soft smacking sounds filled the chamber as Philipa watched her husband lean over to kiss his mistress. The bed was draped in lavish display. Thick wool tapestries covered the top of the bed and hung as curtains along the side of the bed. There were fine linen sheets, the stained sheet from the day of the birth proudly displayed by the window. The visitors all touched it for good luck as they passed. Ivy was wearing a shift taken from Philipa’s own wardrobe. The fine fabric shimmered against her creamy skin. There was mulled wine at her command and cakes baked with spices from the lord’s own private stock.

  Everything was laid out as grandly as it had been when she was the mother and her daughter Mary first allowed to be seen. The only difference was that a wet nurse had suckled the child because as a noblewoman she could afford the luxury of not tending to a newborn’s fussing. Philipa gazed at Ivy’s breasts as the milk ran across the baby’s cheek and the earl laughed. He wiped the milk away with his own hand. Ivy smiled as the lord bathed her with his attention, praising her and her whelp.

  The sight left a bitter taste in Philipa’s mouth. She shivered as she realized what it would take to win his attention away from his mistress. She couldn’t do it. Not again. It had taken two days to force her daughter into the world. Days that had seemed endless as the pain wrung her body. In truth, she couldn’t have suckled her child because she hated it so much for hurting her so greatly. That hate extended to her husband and his demands for more children. Her mother had had to endure such from her father, but it was a different time now. England had a queen and Mary could inherit everything. Elizabeth Tudor would see to that. Men were going to see an end to their absolute rule over their female relatives.

  Turning in a flare of silk petticoats, Philipa left. Let the bastard be acknowledged! It would not change the fact that she was mistress of the estate. The
earl would be called back to court and Ivy and her child would answer to her.

  Warwick Chapel

  “By what name shall the child be known?”

  The congregation held their breath as they waited to hear the baby’s name. A child was never named until it was being baptized to ensure that Satan couldn’t send one of his demons to snatch the child’s soul.

  “Anne.” Philipa spoke clearly as the clergyman looked to her as the godmother to decide on the name. “After the Queen’s own dear departed mother.”

  The clergyman almost dropped the infant into the baptismal font as his eyes bulged out in shock. Philipa fluttered her eyelashes innocently at him. There was a mutter running across the congregation but she did not care. Let the bastard bear an unlucky name. Anne Boleyn had lost her head long before her daughter wore the crown of England. Her husband was forbidden to attend the baptism along with Ivy in an attempt to cleanse the child completely without any softhearted parents in attendance. Philipa glared at the clergyman and he dunked the baby with far less grace than he normally did.

  Anne screamed as she was pulled out of the baptismal basin. Philipa frowned as the baby turned red and the congregation sent up a cheer of acceptance. If the baby hadn’t screamed to release the devil, then it might have been shunned by its Christian community. Anne screeched loud enough to reach even the last pew.

  At least she had managed to give the brat an unlucky name. The clergyman muttered a closing prayer before wrapping the infant in a towel and handing it to her. Philipa controlled the urge to sneer as she carried her goddaughter out of the chapel. The moment they entered the private hallway that led to her chamber, she thrust the child at a servant, turning her back on it. What she failed to see was the disapproving looks her maids gave her back as they cradled and soothed one of their own. Anne hiccupped before snuggling into the bosoms offered. The servants cooed to her as they stroked her dark baby hair.

  The senior maid cast a look down the hallway her mistress had taken and frowned. “Some folks are mean hearted. Indeed they are! A baby is a blessing to the whole house! Everyone knows that. The mistress will poison herself with such meanness. It’ll bring dark times to everyone living on the land. Mark my words.”

  The two under maids said nothing, holding their tongues in time-honored tradition. Speaking against the mistress of the house was grounds for dismissal. But not a one of them would admit to hearing anything from the housekeeper. Making an enemy of the housekeeper was bound to get a girl assigned the worst tasks. Instead, they reached up to touch the baby, smiling at the tiny rose lips. A healthy baby was good luck for everyone. Life was hard. Best to set your attentions on the good things when you could.

  Warwickshire, the following spring

  “Mother, come see. The swans have hatched.”

  Philipa smiled. Her daughter scampered down the hallway, her nurse on her heels.

  “Of course mother shall come and see, my precious one.”

  Philipa followed her daughter toward the doorway. Looking down she smiled at the way Mary’s hair shone in the sun. She was pure blue blood. Everything about her fine and noble.

  Unlike Ivy’s bastard.

  Her daughter was perfection and legitimate. Joy filled her heart but it died in a sizzle when she gazed across the yard to see Ivy. The strumpet was big bellied once again and the gossips whispered that this time it was a male child. “Look Mother!” Mary pointed a chubby hand toward the swans but Philipa had lost all enjoyment of the moment. She glared at her husband’s mistress. Alice, her lady companion, spoke softly.

  “You must reconsider my lady and invite your husband to your bed once more.”

  Philipa turned on Alice in a sweep of the finest milled wool but her servant stood firm in the face of her displeasure. Alice had all but raised her and the disapproval drawing Alice’s features tight was hard to face, even for a mistress of the house as she was now. Inside she was still a little girl who had answered to Alice and taken discipline from her hand.

  “He might send you back to your father with a divorce, my lady. It’s your duty. You need only give him a son.”

  “But what if I birth another useless daughter?” Philipa shuddered. “You heard the midwife, Alice. My hips are too narrow. If Mary had been a bigger babe…I might…have…”

  It was too horrible to finish saying. Alice shook her head in sympathy. “My lady, the first babe is always the hardest. Give the lord a son and your position will be secure. Then let the Copper girl bear the rest.”

  Philipa’s entire body shook as she pressed her thighs tightly together beneath her skirts. Just the thought of birthing made her body run as cold as an icy winter river. She could not do it. She wanted to live. Not die in a pool of her own blood.

  “I will not, Alice. I shall not ever bed my husband again! I swear it! Even if it means he sends me back to my father.”

  Philipa felt her tears easing down her cheeks as she looked back at Ivy. Envy flowed into her heart, filling it. She welcomed it because it drove her fear away. Hate began to grow as she embraced her temper. An intense aversion for Ivy and her bastards and for everything they took from her, filled her heart.

  She hated them. Hated, hated…hated.

  Chapter Two

  Warwick Castle, 1602

  “Hurry up with you, Anne. The mistress is in a snit today.”

  “As if that’s any change.”

  Joyce shot a stern look at her charge, her nose wrinkling. “Mind that tongue, miss. She is your better, above you, placed there by God.”

  Anne lowered herself, while balancing a tray of morning offerings for the lady of the house. She did need to mind her tongue. However, not for herself. She had little care for her own comforts yet it was a poor child that heaped burdens on her mother. Lady Philipa wouldn’t punish only her. The lady would cheerfully lay her wrath on Anne’s mother as well.

  With a sigh she followed Joyce toward the west wing, hurrying so that the tray would still be warm when the mistress was roused. Polished silver domes covered the mistress’s morning meal. Each was ornately carved with flowers and birds, the precious metal heated over the fire before being placed on top of each plate to retain the heat.

  She, herself, had risen with the first rays of dawn in order to be present when the lady of the house was ready to be woken. That duty had been hers since she began her woman’s flow. The first few months, her wrists had ached from the weight of the tray with its silver, but now she was steady as she moved. Philipa had ordered that Anne dress her each morning to ensure that Anne slept in the maid’s chamber behind the kitchens under the eye of the housekeeper. There would be no trysts. Her body was expected to remain virgin.

  The reason was simple. Even bastard born, her blood was too blue. Philipa might detest the very sight of her and her siblings but she was also a keen mistress of the house. She wasted nothing, overlooked not one single resource. Anne’s blood might be useful in some marriage negotiation. There were lesser knights who valued noble, blue blood in a wife. It was also just as likely that Philipa would see her as a courtesan, serving on the whims of some fat merchant. Whatever the lady had in mind, she had yet to unveil it.

  So, Anne stood silently as the bed curtains were opened and Philipa turned her head to look at the assembled staff. Her eyes roamed each of them, inspecting their uniformed livery from pressed cap to skirt hem. Philipa missed nothing. Her lips never seemed to smile and her face bore the wrinkles to prove it. A painting in the lower hall showed her in her youth when she had been a bride, but there was little of that sparkle left in the woman before her. Anne watched Philipa through her eyelashes as the line of maids lowered their heads in deference.

  “My feet were cold last night.”

  The covers were drawn back as the lady sat up. Plump pillows were moved behind her back as she adjusted her position.

  “The fire was not laid correctly; the coals lost their heat.”

  None of the maids said a word. They lowered the
ir heads each time Philipa spoke as they moved in a practiced team around the chamber. The heavy tapestry curtains were pulled aside with a care for how expensive such fabric was. The huge fireplace was quickly cleaned of its ashes and another fire built to warm the chamber. Anne waited until the lady looked settled before placing the tray across her lap. She was careful to make sure that the small brass legs of the serving tray didn’t touch either of her mistress’s legs but slid smoothly onto either side to hold the tray above Philipa’s thighs.

  The lady began to inspect what was hidden beneath the polished silver domes on her morning tray. Her lips pressed into a hard line as she dropped one dome back over whatever the cook had prepared.

  “Tell the cook to present herself at noon.”

  Every maid tensed just the slightest amount because they had all been the unfortunate recipients of the lady’s displeasure before. The cook would not have a pleasant day. Philipa began eating one of the offerings while she watched the servants with a critical eye. Every one of them had learned to move on carefully soft steps, so as to not bring notice to themselves. All eyes were kept downcast for fear that the mistress might single them out.

  “I am ready to rise.” Philipa dropped her eating wares with a clatter. The tray was removed almost in the same instant. Another maid pulled the covers down to the foot of the bed.

  Anne joined the maids bringing in water to begin dressing the mistress. Depending on Philipa’s mood, it might take up to two hours to dress their mistress. The maids flowed around Philipa cleansing her feet and hands before easing the knitted stockings up each of her legs. A fine chemise was lowered over her head and a quilted petticoat followed. It was a lovely garment, the harsher wool covered with expensive cotton from India and thousands of tiny stitches worked in pleasing designs to hold it together. Even in early spring it was needed to keep the lady warm. Warwickshire was the last estate under English rule before the land belonged to Scotland. The lord of the manor was constantly being summoned to court because of his importance as a border lord.