by Eliza Lloyd
A Mistress To Remember
by
Eliza Lloyd
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2017
Chapter One
Baroness Katrina Klee, a Russian émigré, was one of those rare women men could not read. She was glacially reserved, aristocratically elegant, and Mark Turnbow, the Earl of Compton, thought one of the most stunning women to have graced London’s ballrooms in his remembrance.
He had few interactions with her, but when he did, he always had a singular thought afterward.
What would she be like?
Across the room, she danced with another partner, whisked about the room on the arms of man who no doubt harbored the same lascivious thoughts as Mark did. Myriad sounds hummed around him like a swarm of bees: the light tinkling of glass, the murmur of whispered words and the occasional outburst of laughter, except he thought he could hear her above the drone of London chatter.
He stood not so far from her, and glanced away lest some tabby catch him staring. Because he was staring, compelled by her beauty and mysterious grace.
Events had happened recently to give him several moments of consideration regarding Lady Klee’s suitability as a mistress, along with the determination to ask after her interest in such an arrangement. It sounded stiff and formal for such an illicit and secretive venture.
Hm. Baroness, Lady Klee. Klee was a Germanic name—perhaps the title was awarded under the Hanoverians. He could check their peerage in Debrett’s, he supposed, or he could continue to think of her as the Baroness, regardless of etiquette, her Russian heritage, or what blade a Klee ancestor had to wield to earn the baronetcy.
The Baroness. It suited her exotic presence.
Mark had entered that phase of his life where he no longer allowed his heart to rule in such decisions, thus uncomplicating an association which might be enjoyable purely on its physical elements, if one could find a woman of similar sentiment.
Was Lady Klee that woman?
He’d convinced himself his heart would not be engaged; however, he was recovering from the most devastating event to have happened in his life. His wife, Susannah, had died a month ago, attempting to give birth to their first child—a son. A beautiful child, with a full head of dark hair. Mark blinked away the wrenching image and wiped away the unpleasant expression on his face, smiling tightly at the first person to pass him.
Society would certainly frown upon him if they were aware of his determination to take a mistress so soon, except those widowers who knew what it was to be alone. Mourning would not be over for another eleven months and he had no intention of wallowing in his grief. He intended to keep those devastating emotions to himself, drinking in the quiet of the night when it was too unbearable. A distraction such as Lady Klee was exactly what he needed to obliterate that painful guilt which hounded him and hung over him like a cloud when he was not otherwise occupied.
A mistress could provide a much-needed balm, a diversion for his desolation. He’d had a year from hell. Perhaps deservedly, if he took into consideration the entirety of things gone wrong.
He had a lingering hesitation about taking a mistress, but he was single and in dire need of physical comfort. Certainly the kind of comfort sex provided, but he was not unaware that he missed the domesticity of a wife, a woman beside him in bed and in life. Companionship was not the same as love, he knew. Susannah had withdrawn from him well before she went into labor, though she had adamantly, intemperately professed that fickle and troublesome emotion. He was just a husband to her, an entrée into society—not a lover, not a friend, not a companion.
Thus leading back to his thoughts about Katrina Klee.
As the earl, he now had the funds to afford a private luxury such as a mistress. Though how that miraculous event occurred was a secret he shared only with his sister, Christina. She’d gone to Scotland months ago, carrying her own pain and the secret of an illegitimate child. At times, he felt kismet was punishing him for allowing Christina to sacrifice herself for the family. Somehow that catastrophe had righted itself and provided the few stepping stones to the Turnbow family’s financial recovery and the shoring up of the Compton earldom.
Susannah’s dowry, along with the benefits of a few shrewd investments that had actually paid a handsome return, things had improved. Mark wasn’t about to say his luck had changed—that was more akin to something Father would have said as he gambled away the family fortune.
Katrina had whirled her way around the room and was once again within sight.
Aside from Katrina’s appearance, his reasoning for singling out the Baroness had more to do with her situation. She’d also had a difficult year. Her husband had died about this time last year. She was out of mourning now, but there were persistent rumors she wished to return to Russia, but was unable to at this time. He wondered if she was in a weak financial position.
The two other reasons were hunches more than anything. She was an Angerstein, a family of supposedly wealthy cits who’d earned their fortunes in London at the end of the last century. They were all gone now, but she had never stopped in her attempt to elevate the Klees to a higher social standing, the trials of the past year having put a damper on her social aspirations.
The last reason was sensitive and not something he could come out and ask. She had had a very close relationship with the Duke of Melrose. He had also passed away recently. His sudden demise, though he was eighty, might have left her without a parting financial gift. And perhaps she was searching for a replacement.
All reasons Mark could understand. All reasons to assume she was lonely and in need.
Just as he was.
Thus his conclusion that she would be perfect.
He did not feel the necessity of using a second to negotiate with Lady Klee, not that they had any mutual acquaintances. For the time being, he wished the matter to remain private. He was not in a position to parade an amour about town without ramifications or further encouraging gossip about the family. And as for his mourning, certain items of public etiquette were routinely relaxed for men, though he had been wearing a black cravat and armband.
Mark had asked her to dance earlier in the evening and she was just now being escorted from the floor by a young viscount from Leicester. The Baroness was lithe and graceful. She was not one of those buxomy, pampered women who enjoyed bonbons several times a day. On the mornings he rode at Hyde Park, he often saw her strolling with any number of other women, wives of ton cits and noble ladies who’d befriended her.
He cleared his throat and ran his fingers together, working his gloves into a better fit. He’d never officially taken a mistress before. Prior to his marriage, his dalliances were conveniently temporary and mutually pleasurable. A shag, nothing more.
He had to admit Lady Klee’s desire to return to Russia was a benefit. He would remarry eventually, probably as soon as his mourning was over, but he would marry a noble this time, not just a woman who sought a title, as Susannah had.
“Baroness,” he said, bowing before her while she dipped into a polite curtsy.
“Lord Compton.”
When he set his hand to her waist and felt the warmth of her body, he enjoyed the brief image of her naked in his arms. Her return touch was light and magnetic. Her neck arched in a fine curve as she looked up and away, expecting him to confidently lead. A delicate vein throbbed below her ear.
Yes, she would make a lovely mistress.
The seven-piece orchestra called to the dancers with a short overture and then moved into a lush rendition of “The Spanish Dance,” a beloved country waltz. After a full cir
cuit around the room, she said, “I was so sorry to hear of your loss. I remember how it felt when I lost my husband.”
“One cannot expect forever.”
“Yet we all hope.” She smiled and caught his gaze for a brief moment before she glanced away again.
His fingers itched to move lower over her hip. Anticipation was nearly as potent as any aphrodisiac.
After another turn, he finally caught her exotic scent, like spices, elusive amongst the fog of rosewater and lavender in which the other women were drenched. Pressing his nose into the hollow of her neck would be a joy on those mornings he woke next to her.
“And you are recovering from the loss of your benefactor?” The subject was delicate—he was not the sort to ask a woman if she wished to shag him for money. Or jewels. Or whatever it was women desired. And she was a titled lady, which afforded respect, even if his mind traveled down a disrespectable path.
“Benefactor?” she quizzed with a wrinkled brow, and then nodded. “Oh, yes, Geral—His Grace,” she amended. “I will miss him. He was a dear, kind man.”
She did not reciprocate with a question of her own and the conversation stopped. His gaze searched her face. Porcelain skin and long eyelashes. A small, dark beauty mark near the corner of her left eye. Her hair wasn’t the color of a Siberian winter but rather the honeyed gold of summer.
He often thought she should have blue eyes, but their color was an unusual shade of violet, made more vivid by the color of her rich gown.
There was something unique and sultry about her. Perhaps it was in her words and voice with only the remnant of a Russian accent, smoothed over by the years she had spent in London. Or maybe it was the way she glanced up at him, all demur yet somehow conveying sensuality.
Or maybe it was because she was unaware of her effect on him.
As the dance ended, he had no chance to direct the conversation to his request. While most women would flirt and tease or at the very least make small talk, Lady Klee had been utterly proper. Reserved.
“Would you care to step on to the balcony and take some fresh air?”
She smiled. “Your offer would be most welcome.”
She set her fingers to his arm as he led her through the crowded ballroom. “Quite a crush this evening.”
“I have been overly warm since I arrived,” she said.
“Would you care for refreshment instead?” He sounded like the veriest bore.
“Oh, perhaps later.” They stepped through the double doors. The change in the air was immediate and welcome.
As he led her down the marble stairs, she said, “I was happy to hear of your sister’s marriage. I felt as though I had a hand in it.”
The circumstances of Christina’s marriage involved more secrets than Mark cared to think about, let alone discuss. Heat suffused his neck at the idea some else knew. Mark tugged at his cravat, heating noticeably, alone with her in the dark.
“How so?” he asked, turning toward her.
“She and your other sisters had accepted an invitation to one of my balls last year and the marquess arrived, looking all wicked and determined. If I had to guess, I would say he attended only because of your sister. He had never come to one of my soirees before, you see.”
They strolled along the shell-lined path.
“I didn’t make the connection until they married,” she finished.
“Then you should be complimented on your match-making skills. I believe she is happy with Lord Dane.” A romantic notion to be sure, one Mark wouldn’t mind spread around ton, if it deflected or hid the facts. The sordid truth was so much more base and scandalous.
“Baroness, I have something to ask you.”
The shadows were enough to give privacy but not enough to allow one to be indiscreet.
“Of course,” she said, glancing up at him again.
“Perhaps it is too soon. I know for my part the ton will frown on my… Well, I have come this far, the direct approach might be best.”
She laughed lightly. “Goodness, you sound serious. I hope I will not disappoint you.”
“No. It is just that I see our circumstances are similar, and I do feel a certain attraction for you.”
She set her hand to her chest. She bit down on her lip, but the sensual glance she imparted nearly had him tongue-tied.
“Since the Duke of Melrose passed and you are no longer under his protection, I had thought to offer myself in that role. I do not know the proper etiquette for such a matter, and of course I will provide those luxuries to which you are accustomed.”
He studied every reaction, hoping to see some acknowledgement that she understood his request before he actually had to say the words.
“It would be a temporary arrangement, until I remarry, but I would make it worth your while.”
“A temporary arrangement?” she asked. Her words were barely audible.
“For a year or so.”
Her gaze was averted. “Such a tempting offer,” she said.
“You wish to think about it. I understand.”
“Yes, there is much to think about. If you’ll excuse me.”
“Baroness, I would be honored if you would be my mistress.” He squeezed her hand. “We don’t have to be alone.”
Mark stared after as she hurried toward the house. She hadn’t said no. He was certain she would consider his request most seriously.
* * * * *
Could she die now? Should she put on sackcloth? Dab her face with ashes? Good Lord, he wanted her to be his mistress.
Katrina Angerstein Klee pressed her hands to her face and took a deep breath. She felt the heat of embarrassment burn from her forehead to her tightly laced stomach. Did all of London think she was Geral’s mistress? She wanted to hide behind the velvet curtains in the quiet library where she’d taken refuge. Oh, she must leave! She couldn’t bear to have any one look at her with suspicious knowing.
And worse? That for two seconds, she had actually believed Mark Turnbow was about to offer for her. Their acquaintance was informal and superficial, but she was not without some awareness that he was dashing, titled and perhaps seeking a wife to bear an heir. She was aware of her own physical appeal, as well. Such arrangements were common among the aristocracy…but then she wasn’t a true aristocrat.
Her heart had tripped happily as if she were a first-year debutante.
Until she remembered the on dit recently passed around after his wife had died. Some nonsense about marrying for money and glad that he was now free of those bounds. Oh God, and did he really think she was some promiscuous, foreign parvenu?
She had never given a thought or hope that the earl, or any noble with such a title, held regard for her. He had certainly never shown any real attraction, as she would expect of a married man, but tonight, she had sensed something different in the way he had approached her, as if he had noticed her for the first time.
How could she be so naïve?
And so desperately womanish. Why had marriage come to mind when they were nothing more than acquaintances? She thought she was stronger than that, unwilling to grasp an earl’s coattails to elevate her standing.
Another wave of heat passed through her when she remembered the baron’s coattails she had grasped.
She left the ball as soon as it was convenient, excusing herself by confessing to a raging headache. It was no lie.
She could not face him in the brightly lit confines of the ballroom. She hadn’t even bothered to glance over her shoulder to see if he followed her from the manse. When she had married, it had taken many long months to overcome the stigma of being a foreigner and a cit—one who dared to enter their hallowed realms. And now she wanted nothing more than to disappear. She wanted nothing more than to return to her homeland where such missteps did not occur.
Only she couldn’t.
Not as long as Samuel’s brother was the guardian to her three sons and in control of the family funds.
How foolish and selfish of her to
want to belong in English society. How insulting to be reminded that her stock, her ancestry, would always be considered inferior.
When she stepped from her carriage, she glanced up at the modest townhouse, grateful for this one piece of unentailed property. She was so appreciative Geral had encouraged her, through Samuel, to buy this home so that she would have some security. She had never imagined she would need it so soon.
Grandfather Angerstein had been one of Geral’s oldest friends. Geral, entering the last stages of his life, had reached out to her. For comfort, maybe, or because he was lonely and knew her when she was a child. Nevertheless, she wanted to make him happy in his last days because he had stories she’d never heard and could speak a few words of Russian. Often, they had laughed together. They’d been friends but nothing more.
She should have chided Lord Compton; she should not have put herself in such a position. If Peter Klee, Samuel’s brother, heard of this potential scandal, what would he do? How would he make her life even more unbearable?
Geral had attempted to assist, but even his influence had not been enough to thwart Peter’s ambition to control the estate assets, such was the power of a guardian. There was no reason to think he would enrich himself, but she couldn’t help but think it. She hoped there was something left for Ivan when he turned twenty-one. She’d had one to many tiffs with Peter to think he’d look out for her interests.
This was not Geral’s fault. An aged and ill duke was not as powerful as one in his prime, one willing to take on the world and win.
The night air had cooled after a refreshing rain. Katrina stood outside, nearly paralyzed in her tracks. What an odd, eye-opening night!
By slow bits, she collected her thoughts and then walked up the stairs. Tomorrow, she would face the dilemma with more clear-headedness. The Earl of Compton had just taken her off guard. She had allowed herself to believe in miracles.
She grabbed the handrail and started up the marble steps, allowing herself to smile then. Mark Turnbow!
