Only a Mistress Will Do

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Yes, I suppose you could.” He shook his head back, setting his hair to swinging.

  Her stomach clenched and she braced against the ache in her heart.

  “If you’d prefer him, I can still challenge Manning. Make him fulfill his promise to you.”

  “No.” She leaped to her feet and grasped his hand. Flames licked through her veins. “There has been enough bloodshed. Let us forget and try to forgive.”

  Gazing softly into her eyes, he raised her hand to touch his lips. “Does that mean you can now find it in your heart to forgive me, my dearest one?”

  Her body trembled and she tried to draw away, but he clasped her hands to his chest, heat blistering her as though she stood in an inferno.

  “I scarcely dare to hope you can forgive me, Violet, still I must ask again. I swear to you, if I could return your brother to you and forfeit my life instead, I would do it this instant.”

  “No!” She wrenched her hand free and pressed it against his lips. “Do not say such a thing, ever. I would not have my brother back at the expense of your life.” Giving in at last, she leaned against his stalwart frame, soaking in his warmth and the spicy bergamot scent inextricably linked in her mind to Tris. “I have come to understand he was in the wrong. I would have you both, if God could change what is past, but as he cannot, I will be content with the man he chose to let live.” Looking up into the softly shining pools of blue, she cupped his cheek. “It would be a poorer world for me were you not in it, Tristan.”

  He folded his arms around her and clasped her to his chest. The regular thud, thud of his heartbeat the sweetest sound imaginable. “You may visit whom you will, Violet. I only pray you find the place in someone’s heart that is not mine to give you.”

  Heart breaking, she wrenched herself away. He was right. She must do what must be done. Unable to bear the thought while in his presence, she grasped her skirts and ran for the stairs, tears pouring down her cheeks despite her attempts to stem them. Some things simply could not be stopped.

  Chapter 21

  “Damnation.” Tris peered at the sky as the light snow of the early morning gave way to thick, wet flakes. He’d left at first light and planned to arrive at Harper’s Grange no later than 6 or 7 o’clock. The weather, however, had not cooperated. He rapped on the trap.

  “Yes, my lord?” Hunched against the cold, Stokes squinted through the thickly falling snow.

  “How much longer to the Grange?”

  “I’d say about another six or seven hours.” He glanced around at the swirling snowflakes. “Maybe more if this gets worse.”

  Tris sighed. His raw mood had deteriorated with the long journey and little but his thoughts of Violet to keep him company. He’d done nothing all morning but think of her. At least if he’d made it to Lord Downing’s he would have had companions to distract him from brooding. Dismal to think of spending the night on the road with no company, but there was nothing for it. “What’s the nearest inn we can make?”

  Flipping his collar up to avoid the blustering wind, the coachman shivered and said, “Woolhampton’s the closest, my lord. ‘Bout an hour, I expect. The Angel would be my choice.”

  “Right, then. We’ll stop there for the night.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Stokes’ relieved face vanished as the trap dropped into place, leaving the carriage colder than before.

  To keep his sanity, Tris elected to spend the evening in the common room, drinking the inn’s best ale and being regaled with stories from the innkeeper about the local squire whose stallion kept trying to kill its master. He’d been thoroughly entertained until the group broke up to wend their ways home through the still blowing snow.

  As soon as Tris closed the door of his chamber, however, the image of Violet, warm, sweet, beckoning him to bed filled his mind. “God, help me.” Rubbing his hand over his face, he attempted to dispel the vision, to no avail. She would haunt him the rest of his life and he had no one but himself to blame.

  A hesitant knock on the chamber door brought him a thankful respite. Even if it were only Saunders with some question about tomorrow’s outfit or warm water to wash with, it would save him from more thoughts of her.

  A ready smile on his face, he opened the door on Meg, the serving girl from downstairs, a porcelain ewer in her hands. What the devil...?

  “Beg pardon, my lord, but I was told to bring up your washin’ water by Mr. Saunders.” She ran her gaze down the length of his body and a smile touched her lips. “I’ll just put it behind the screen for you.” Before he could protest, she strode past him and disappeared behind the folding screen in the corner.

  A minute passed, but the girl didn’t return. Letting his head droop, Tris groaned aloud. Damn Saunders. In the past Tris hadn’t minded the valet scaring him up a bit of entertainment for the night, and he’d certainly not be able to relieve his needs once he arrived in Harper’s Grange. Possibly not until the wedding sometime this spring. “Meg?”

  The girl stepped from behind the screen. She’d removed her fichu and plumped her breasts so they almost spilled over her white and gray striped bodice. “Yes, m’lord?”

  Tris swallowed hard. To his dismay, his cock had perked up at the sight of the girl’s pale, rounded mounds. “You can go now.” A surge from below made him wince.

  Meg’s brow puckered. “I thought…I thought I might help you, my lord.” She faced him and jerked her bodice open. Round and dark, her nipples peeked over her shift and stays.

  Temptation to give in overwhelmed him. The girl was willing and his stiffening flesh ached for a warm nest. But not this one. “Not this evening, I think.”

  Her face flushed red and she flew behind the screen.

  He gazed about, searching for a decanter. He’d need a drink, no, several drinks as soon as the woman left.

  Meg strode out, her clothing askew, but covering the essential parts, and made a silent beeline for the door, her face still the color of a ripe persimmon.

  “Wait.”

  She skidded to a halt in front of him, her eyes narrowed.

  Tris opened his valise and grabbed a coin from the pouch of traveling money. He laid it on the table. “Thank you for fetching the water, Meg.”

  She glanced from him to the coin, a gold sovereign. In one liquid movement, she scooped the coin up, curtsied, and sped out the door.

  “Oh, Christ.” Tris spied the decanter at last and helped himself to a healthy glass full. Agonies raged in his groin. At least he could take care of that later if need be. The more burning question was what if he couldn’t put Violet out of his mind? And worse, what would he to do if he couldn’t bring himself to take Dora to his bed?

  * * * *

  Next morning dawned cold and crisp, the sun glinting off the new fallen snow. With only forty miles left to Devizes he certainly should arrive in time for tea. The night before, as he’d tossed and turned thinking of Violet, he’d decided his time in the carriage might be best spent by concocting a plan of courtship for Dora. If he could find some shared interest, some mutual pastime, perhaps his affection for her would grow enough so he would want to attend to his husbandly duties. There was time. They would not be wed for almost three months, although on second thought he should urge Downing to move the date up. Once married, he would have to cease his obsession with Violet Carlton for there would be no way to break the marriage bond.

  The carriage started and Tris settled down to listing outings, activities, and topics of conversation with which to draw out his bride-to-be. If the girl would be his wife, he’d best try to find a way for them to scrape along amiably.

  Five hours later Tris gladly relinquished his list, with its measly four items, as the carriage swept up the long driveway to the massive stone building—half Tudor manor, half medieval fortress that was Harper’s Grange. The original structure, the castle that formed the rear portion of the house, had been standing since the Conquest. The Tudor section had been added aft
er a fire had destroyed the Great Hall two centuries before. That he was marrying into one of the oldest English families hadn’t impressed Tris until now.

  The doors opened as he walked toward them.

  “Lord Trevor?” The ancient butler, eighty years old if he was a day, ushered him into a long foyer hung with medieval battleaxes. “Welcome, my lord. The family has been expecting you.” The stooped, little man neatly peeled the heavy cloak from Tris’s shoulders as he stared at the full suits of armor lining the corridor leading toward the main portion of the house.

  “Lord Downing is quite the collector of antiquities.” Tris gestured to the walls as he removed his gloves and hat and handed them to the butler.

  “Not so much a collection as family history, my lord,” the man replied, carefully handing the outerwear to another servant, then headed down the corridor at a sedate, almost snail-like pace. “These are all family heirlooms passed down from the earliest Viscount Downing who came over with William the Conqueror as a squire to Sir Jacques de Main.” They continued into the Great Hall, also decorated with all manner of weaponry. Swords, daggers, maces, helmets, sets of chainmail hung as if a reminder—or a warning—of the martial ancestry of the house.

  Tris shivered. The room was chilly even without the hostile decorations.

  “Lord Downing gave instructions for you to be brought to his study immediately.” The wizened servant crossed the Hall and continued down another corridor, his heels tapping on the slate-paved floor. When they reached a dark oak door, bound with black metal strips, he halted. “I will see your things and your man settled.” He bowed and opened the door.

  Although less war-like, Downing’s study nonetheless presented a severe decor. Walls papered a pale gray should have lightened the room considerably, had not the deep maroon carpet and the dark polished wood molding cast a somber pall over it. The gloom seeped into Tris’s bones, weighing him down as soon as he entered.

  “We expected you yesterday, Trevor.” Lord Downing looked up from a letter he was writing, a frown on his deeply lined face.

  “Snow held me up.” Tris bristled, then plopped down in the chair opposite the man. He damn well didn’t have to account for his time to his future father-in-law. “I lodged at The Angel in Woolhampton.

  “Holman runs a decent establishment.” Downing gave Tris a nod, whether to commend his choice or the publican remained unclear, then he returned to his document. The scratching of the pen warred with the loud, steady ticking of the longcase clock to his right.

  If the man wasn’t going to tell him why he’d been summoned before he could even wash and change, he could at least offer him a drink. Tris eyed the massive sideboard, where several decanters displayed tempting libations and licked his lips.

  “Solmes thinks he can outlast me.” Lord Downing placed his pen in the inkpot, shook pounce onto the sheet, gently swirled the letter then poured the sand back into the pounce pot. He raised the paper toward Tris. “I’ve had a bill in my pocket for well-nigh four years, just because Solmes wanted it passed. I suspect it will come up for a vote only if I die before him.” He folded the piece of foolscap and held a stick of black sealing wax in the candle’s flame.

  The hiss as the fat drops of wax sizzled into the flame reminded Tris of the sound of searing flesh and he shivered again. God, he needed a drink.

  “Now, Trevor,” Lord Downing said as he dripped the molten wax onto the letter and plunged his signet ring into the puddle. “We have several matters to settle regarding your marriage to Dora.” A narrow face and pinched nose made the viscount resemble a hawk. He turned furtive eyes that missed nothing on Tris. “There is an adequate property only a mile away from the Grange. I’ve made inquiries of old Leinster and he will be willing to sell it at a fair price.”

  “Indeed? Has it just come up for sale?” Did Downing need guidance on buying the estate? Had he been brought here to give business advice?

  “It’s not for sale.” The pale, watery blue eyes gazed at him with thinly veiled contempt. “Leinster hasn’t parted with an inch of land in twenty years. But I have sufficient inducement that assures me he’ll sell it to you.”

  “Sell it to me?” Tris bolted upright in his chair. “I’ve no notion of buying an estate out here.” His gut tightened. He sensed a trap closing around him.

  “I doubt Dora will wish to leave her home or the society she’s grown up in. I trust you will be willing to accommodate her wishes.” The keen gaze sliced into Tristan’s heart.

  “Of course I will consult her, but it is fairly customary for a man’s wife to leave her home and cleave to her husband, is it not?” He was not about to be coerced into burying himself in the country because his wife’s father wanted him under his thumb.

  “She can cleave to you just as well down here as elsewhere. However,” Downing scratched his chin, “if you prefer not to purchase an estate quite yet, we can make arrangements to lodge you here at the Grange. Simon and his wife have been happy here for the past eight years.”

  Eight years. Tris’s stomach lurched. Christ, but he needed that drink now. He’d be damned if he’d give up his freedom and live with this tyrant. “I believe that won’t be necessary, my lord. I shall inquire of Dora at dinner as to her wishes in the matter.” He shot to his feet, eager to quit his lordship in record time. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I will refresh myself before the dinner gong.” He bowed and made himself saunter out the door. Damned if he’d run like a scared rabbit, but he’d never seen this side of Downing before. And he didn’t like it one bit. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  * * * *

  “Smithfield is overrated, if you ask my opinion.”

  After enduring Simon Harper’s ongoing conversation during dinner, his opinion would be the last thing Tris would ask for. “I’ll go to Barnet in April and come back with a horse that will stop everyone in their tracks.”

  Dinner had been family only, which didn’t help to raise the pall Lord Downing’s revelation had laid over Tris. Harper trying to monopolize his conversation had been abominably tedious.

  Worse, he’d not been able to speak with Dora, even though she was his dinner partner. Every attempt to engage her had been thwarted by Simon. He’d been painfully aware of her presence, however. She’d worn an elegant rose-colored gown that accentuated the pink cheeks in her otherwise pale face. The ensemble, with her hair swept up on top of her head in a masterful coiffure, made her look older than eighteen, more womanly, which was encouraging. Still, she kept her head bent through most of the meal, avoiding his eyes. He’d managed a few remarks to her, all answered with a mumbled “Yes, my lord.”

  Frustration made him stab at the food on his plate, spearing hunks of potato and venison viciously, like a caveman on a hunt. He was willing to try to make their match work, but she had to make some effort on her part.

  “Simon,” Lord Downing fixed his son with a stern eye, “I received a bill today from Tanner’s for a new post-chaise. I do not recall giving an order for such a conveyance. Pray, shed some light on this for me.”

  Harper’s face went white then red. He turned to his father and Tris seized the reprieve to engage to Dora.

  “Have you ridden in a post-chaise before?”

  She tucked her golden head and whispered, “No, my lord. Only the family carriage.”

  Tris had to duck his head toward hers to catch the answer. He waited for her to elaborate, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. This would never do. She must talk about something or he’d never learn anything about her. If he could get a rise out of her there was a chance she’d forget her shyness for two minutes. “Perhaps your brother will take you out now that he’s apparently ordered one.” He indicated the end of the table where Downing and Harper were arguing bitterly over the carriage, Harper banging his hand on the table, raising his voice to be heard over his father’s stentorian tones.

  “I very much doubt it, my lord.” Dora shook her head,
her attention on the roll she was shredding onto her plate.

  “Tris.”

  Startled, she raised wide blue eyes to him. “I beg pardon, my—”

  “We agreed I would be Tris when we were en famille.” He grinned and her shoulders relaxed. Good.

  “Very well then, Tris.” She smiled at him and he caught his breath. The gentle curve of her lips lit her face in the loveliest way. Her cheeks pinked and her eyes crinkled in a charming fashion.

  “You should smile more often, my dear. You are quite lovely when you do.”

  Her face suffused with a deep red and she hastily grabbed her water glass.

  “Why do you doubt he will take you riding?”

  The light in her eyes extinguished as if snuffed by a cold wind. “Simon hates me.” She set the glass down on the table with a dull thud.

  Surprised by the anger in her voice, Tris leaned back in his chair. Dora had just become much more interesting.

  “He has never done one nice thing for me my entire life, save marrying Judith.” The liquid blue eyes turned to him again. “She has been my best friend since she came here. I’m sure if Simon had known we’d like each other so much he’d have married someone else.” Abruptly, she returned her gaze to her plate. “I am so worried for her. She’s been in poor health for so long. I don’t know what I will do if…if…”

  “Don’t fret yourself, my dear.” Tris covered her small white hand with his and gave it a pat. “The doctor has been tending to her, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he cannot say what is wrong with her.”

  “Then we must pray very hard she recovers quickly enough to attend our wedding.” He squeezed her hand and was rewarded with a fleeting smile.

  “Yes, my…Tris.”

  With a laugh he picked up his wineglass. He was apparently marrying a neglected younger child. Not the heir, not possessed of a forthcoming nature, she’d likely been overlooked all her life. So a little attention might go far toward forging a bond between them. “I happen to have a post-chaise in my carriage house in London. When you’re next in town I’ll take you out. The world goes by very fast in a post-chase. They are rather sporty.”