His Secret Mistress

by Cathy Maxwell

  He was being provocative. She ignored him and focused on the business at hand. “Nestor, we’ll start with your line. Begin—”

  The sound of galloping hooves interrupted her concentration.

  God help her if Winderton had returned.

  She deliberately ignored the rider. That didn’t stop her actors from craning their necks to see who was coming.

  Kate thought to chastise them—and then an awareness, almost as if the air around her became suddenly charged, made her look in the rider’s direction as well.

  It wasn’t Winderton.

  Instead, a powerful chestnut galloped right into their small encampment heading straight for where she stood at the edge of the marked-off ground.

  The rider reined in. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a hat pulled low over his eyes. He looked right at her, and, again, her every sense responded to him.

  Few Corinthians could have dressed as well as he did. His boots, in spite of the dust, were London made and of the finest materials. Buff breeches encased long, muscular legs and no local tailor had the skill to create the cut of his bottle green jacket.

  Nor did this man while away his time in clubs. He was strong, vital . . . his unshaven jaw was lean and his scowl fierce.

  It took all Kate’s courage to stand her ground. He eyed her as if she was beneath his contempt. That only made her hold her head higher, her back straighter.

  He spoke. “Miss Addison?”

  Abruptly, immediately, she recognized him.

  Her heart pounded. She fought against a wild dizziness. Now, Arlo’s stealing her money, running off with the vicar’s daughter, the wagon breaking, all of it was nothing when compared to this fated meeting.

  “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  How could she ever forget that voice? Low, deep, a hint of masculine raspiness. Many an actor would have sold his soul to possess it.

  Except now it lacked any hint of warmth or a once-earnest shyness. Instead, it demanded she acknowledge him. As if she had been waiting for years for him to decide to honor her with his presence and should now bow in submission?

  Long ago, when she had been trusting and in love, Kate Addison had given herself to Brandon Balfour. In turn, he’d sold her out, abandoning her as if she was nothing more than chattel to be handed from one man to the next.

  Her sister Alice had warned her that those who had hurt her would reappear in her life again. It was the way of the world, Alice had assured her. And Kate had best be prepared because when those people returned, she would get to mete out justice . . .

  Brandon Balfour sat on his mighty steed and wanted her to recognize him, to remember him.

  She would not give him that satisfaction.

  Her smile polite and serene, she answered, “I’m sorry, good sir, have we met before?”

  Chapter Three

  Kate Addison didn’t recognize him?

  Bran’s self-assurance eroded slightly. He had expected to be her reckoning, her past catching up with her. He had assumed she would remember him on sight and fall to her knees in remorse and fear over how callously she had once treated him.

  He was eager for her to realize what she’d let slip through her grasping fingers—because he was no longer the lowly, unknown architect who counted his every penny. No, he was a man of the world.

  Yes, he was still trying to establish himself in London but his years in India, and shrewd management, had made him richer than any of the peers and nabobs who had once tried to seduce her, the acclaimed “Aphrodite” of the London stage, with money and gifts.

  Of course, a reckoning was a flat thing when the other party didn’t even recognize you.

  Granted, almost fifteen years had passed since they’d last seen each other, but still . . . she had loomed large in his imagination, no matter how much he’d tried to deny her.

  It also didn’t help the awkwardness of the moment that she was still beautiful. No wonder his nephew had fallen at her feet. In her demure day gown, a dress so well fashioned even Lucy would not have faulted it, and her thick, raven-black hair artfully styled, Kate could have easily passed for a member of the nobility.

  She must be what? Five and thirty? Her hair was as shining as if she was twenty. No age lines creased her features except at the corner of her eyes, and that was as it should be. She’d always enjoyed a good laugh. The sound of it had charmed everyone around her.

  Then there was the hue of her eyes . . . they were the deep, shadowy blue of storm clouds and yet, he remembered, sometimes they could turn as brilliant as crystals. He’d never seen their color anywhere else. He had looked—

  Blinding insight struck him. Claims of happy bachelorhood aside, if you had asked him fifteen years ago what he had expected by six and thirty he’d say he would have a wife, children, and all that wedlock offered. For the last decade and a half, there had been times when he’d come close to marrying, and yet he’d always pulled up short because of Kate.

  He’d met lovely women, suitable women, but none had ever stirred his soul the way she once had. It was as if she had ruined him for others—

  God, he was pathetic, because she didn’t even recognize him. Therefore, he was not about to act as if he remembered her.

  They were not alone for their meeting. They stood in front of a ratty-looking faded blue tent that he assumed served as the living quarters for her actors. Several of them, men and women of various ages, watched their meeting with great interest.

  “Miss Addison, I take it?” He hadn’t meant to put quite so much inflection on her address. Any other spinster of her age would have blushed out of humility.

  Not Kate. She coolly met his eye. “You know I am. You asked for me and you spoke directly to me.”

  “I was being polite.”

  She cocked her head as if she didn’t believe him. “And you are?”

  “Mr. Brandon Balfour, the Duke of Winderton’s guardian.”

  Even with his name, and his relationship of power over the duke she gave no sign of recalling him. Briskly, she asked, “How may I help you, Mr. Balfour?”

  That voice. Throaty and yet with a hint of spun honey and precise diction. He’d adored the sound of it. There wasn’t the slightest hint of feminine submissiveness, something he was surprised he admired—and there he was again, falling under her spell.

  Forget Winderton. She was a threat to his peace of mind, to his sanity. Any thoughts of being diplomatic left Bran’s mind. He wanted her gone from Maidenshop and he didn’t give a devil’s damn of what anyone thought of him. “I’m here to tell you to leave the area. You have one day to pack your things and be gone. If you aren’t, the magistrate will be paying you a visit.” He knew Mars would not be pleased with his threat, but a friend was a friend. Mars would use the weight of his office if asked.

  That broke her composure. “On what grounds are you ordering me to leave?”

  “Ah, Miss Addison, you are more clever than that. You know why I want you gone.”

  “Because of the duke’s kindness toward us?”

  Bran didn’t hide his contempt. “Is kindness what we are calling it now?”

  She drew herself up, facing him as if she was a cobra ready to strike. “Very well,” she corrected herself. “Are you threatening a group of actors plying their craft because the duke is infatuated with me? He is a grown man. Almost one and twenty. He can make his own decisions.”

  “But not without my permission, if he wants his inheritance.” Bran liked letting her know the power he wielded. “Twenty-four hours,” he reiterated and started to turn his horse. He’d had his say.

  Kate’s voice stopped him. “See here, you can’t just order me to leave. Warlords no longer exist. We gave up the feudal system centuries ago.”

  “Not in Maidenshop,” he tossed back at her. Orion, still fussy because he believed he deserved a good long rest, pranced as if he was a spirited animal fit for a king and not the most hardheaded creature in the district. Bran gave Kate a
mirthless smile. “Don’t test me, Miss Addison. I will win.”

  She moved toward him. “And what if I told you I’m not interested in Winderton? That he is safe from a harpy like me? Will that make you see that your high-handed orders are ridiculous?”

  “Actually, it makes me more fearful for his soul than before. I would not wish for Winderton or any other decent man to fall prey to your wiles.” Her spell was that powerful. Just the sight of her brought back aching memories of the night they’d shared. He’d worshipped every inch of her skin. Its taste had reminded him of sweet strawberries and her scent was that of a field of wildflowers—

  The temptation to dismount, to walk up to her to see if her kiss was as he remembered was strong. He had to remind himself that, while he had been her first, he’d not been her last. She hadn’t even waited twenty-four hours to be faithless to him.

  And a woman like her would adore stirring up the rivalries of men. Bran would not let that happen.

  “Good day, Miss Addison.” He put heels to horse and rode away.

  His nephew would be furious with him once he caught wind of this story, and he would hear of it. Bran would be wise to confess all to his nephew himself. There had been too many witnesses.

  However, duke or no, his nephew was Bran’s responsibility for another few months and he was willing to use every means in his power to protect him from a Delilah like Kate Addison.

  “Are we leaving, Kate?”

  It was Silas who asked, but she knew the entire troupe wanted to know.

  She’d watched Balfour gallop away, hoping that his horse bucked and he broke his neck. That didn’t happen. And now she had a decision to make.

  She faced them. Most appeared worried. They knew her purse was almost empty, that she had few resources left. The trip to London was costing more than she had anticipated. There was also the small matter of their wages.

  The last thing she had needed was Brandon Balfour and his threats.

  Still, she’d not given him quarter. She’d held her own and she was proud of it. She’d need that courage to face down her past in London.

  Her gaze went to where Balfour had disappeared down the road. He’d changed from those days long ago. He’d grown into a man, yes. His strong jaw and gray eyes that had the ability to see right into a person’s soul were still there, but little else of the things that had once drawn her to him. He’d become one of them, those powerful men whose narrow thinking had driven her off the London stage—and he had been part of their machinations, she reminded herself. He’d always been one of them. She’d been too infatuated with him to realize it.

  Now here he was—looking down his nose and threatening her, branding her a tart. He knew nothing about her . . . except that she had once trusted him. And she wanted nothing more dearly than to make him squirm in the most uncomfortable way possible for betraying her. She, who disregarded most men, deeply needed to bring this one to his knees.

  “Well, Kate?” Silas prodded.

  “We are not packing. We’ve announced two weeks of performances.”

  “Then we take him on?”

  She smiled with an assurance she wanted to feel. “I will not be threatened. Besides, we still need two wheels and an axle for the wagon to move.”

  A ripple of laughter went through the men and women of her company. “I promised you London,” she said, “and London you will have. I always keep my promises.” That last was for him, betrayer of young souls, self-appointed warlord, supposed gentleman.

  “That man isn’t going to be pleased we are still here,” the usually quiet John observed. “And local authorities can be nasty.”

  He was right, of course. Balfour worried for his nephew; who knew what he might do?

  Well, she now had a score to settle, and she was about to give Balfour something to truly stew over.

  “Robbie.” He jumped to obey. He was slight of height with curling blond hair. “Find the Duke of Winderton and tell him that I have changed my mind. I accept his invitation to the dance this evening.”

  Silas stayed Robbie with a hand on his arm. “Are you certain, Kate? That man Balfour will be furious. You are poking a hornet’s nest.”

  “Oh, I’m doing more than poking. I’m taking a paddle to it.” She nodded to the wardrobe mistress. “Mary, do we still have that saucy costume?”

  “The one with the bold blue stripes?”

  “And the cherry bodice. I’ve a mind to wear it this evening.”

  A low whistle and a hum of excitement met this announcement from everyone but Silas. “Kate,” he warned.

  She rounded on him. “Earlier, you pointed out that my going, especially on the duke’s arm, would be a good advertisement for our performances.”

  “In something a bit more circumspect.”

  “Oh, no, Silas. The last thing I want is to be circumspect.” She turned to Mary. “As I remember, the bodice is—” She made an imaginary cut line low over her breasts.

  “It is.”

  “Let’s make it a touch more brazen. We need to school the honorable Mr. Balfour on the danger of threatening Kate Addison.”

  “But you need to go easy on the lad,” Silas cautioned, referring to the duke. “He’s smitten, Kate.”

  “If anything, my performance this evening will put him off me.”

  “I wouldn’t be certain of that,” Nestor responded.

  Chapter Four

  Once he reached the main road, Bran reined Orion in. His gloved hands shook with anger, while every masculine part of him reacted as if he’d been waiting for Kate to reappear in his life, as if he had somehow known their paths would cross again, and was ready for the chase—something he would not let happen. He was done with her. He’d cut her out of his life once. Pride alone dictated he would not give her any quarter.

  Still, he hadn’t expected to come across her practically in his back garden. His local residence at the Smythson Dower House was little more than a mile away. Fate had placed her right next door.

  She also seemed determined to countermand him. Yes, he’d had the last word, except he knew she would rebel. Her chin had been too high and her eyes had blazed with suppressed defiance.

  Oh, yes, Kate was not one to docilely obey.

  The question begged, what was his next step?

  He knew Lucy would be waiting for a report. He also should search out Christopher and explain his actions. Better his nephew hear about the confrontation with Kate from his lips than from hers. Winderton would not be pleased. He’d long ago grown tired of having to listen to Bran’s dictates.

  Or, Bran could go to The Garland for a tankard and a moment to steady himself.

  Without another second’s hesitation, he steered his horse toward The Garland.

  Maidenshop was full of activity. Mrs. Yarborough, the dressmaker, was open early and with good cause. Pony carts, a coach, and several mounts were tied up outside. Presumably the owners were collecting gowns for the Cotillion.

  St. Martyr’s rector was instructing a group of men in the cleaning of the grounds. He nodded to Bran as he rode by. A small army of women with their arms loaded with fresh cut flowers from their gardens bustled around the church’s old stone barn decorating the hall.

  As Bran approached The Garland, Mrs. Warbler and several of her friends stood outside her door across the road. They all stopped their conversation and gave him a squinty-eyed look.

  Conscious he was being watched, Bran dismounted and tied his very tired horse to a post. “Just a bit longer,” he promised Orion. The answer was a snort. Bran ignored him and went inside.

  The remains of the breakfast feast had been cleared away. The widowers, Mr. Fullerton and Sir Lionel, still sat at their table in the corner. They looked over the rims of their tankards as Bran walked in. “Balfour,” Sir Lionel croaked out in greeting as if he hadn’t seen him only hours ago. Both men were already at the bottom of a barrel.

  Removing his hat, Bran nodded to them before turning to Old Andy wh
o appeared to snooze in a chair by the taproom door. At the sound of the door closing, the man roused himself to see who had entered. “I thought you would be plucking birds,” Bran said.

  “I have the boys in the back doing exactly that now,” Andy said. “Then they will wash behind their ears and make a few pennies tending horses at the dance this evening. They are all good lads. Stout or ale?”

  “Ale.” Bran could do with something stronger. He flung himself in a chair on the opposite end of the room from Fullerton and Sir Lionel.

  “Are you attending the dance tonight?” Andy asked bringing him his tankard.

  “Can I avoid it?”

  “Not now that you are in Maidenshop,” Andy assured him. “Was Mrs. Warbler out on her step? She was there earlier.”

  “She was.”

  “Then she and her group of biddies will hunt you down if you aren’t at that dance. They won’t rest until all of us are under a woman’s thumb, including me.” He set the brimming tankard on the table beside Bran’s chair.

  “Which we are equally determined to avoid,” Mars chimed in. He came out from the taproom. He was without his coat and his sleeves were rolled up. “Save for Sir Lionel who flirts with Mrs. Warbler outrageously.”

  “I do not,” the esteemed gentleman answered, proving that his hearing was remarkably good, even in his cups. “I’m waiting for the damn woman to go inside her house so that I can sneak out of here.”

  “What happened to your chair bearers?” Mars asked good-naturedly.

  “He sent them home,” Fullerton said. “Don’t know how we will make it without them.”

  “I’ll have a cart sent for,” Sir Lionel answered. “I say, my lord, this seminar tomorrow—is it going to be boring or can we expect some entertainment?”

  Mars removed a rook feather from his rolled sleeve. “Depends on your point of view. I imagine Thurlowe will find it fascinating, our friend Balfour may be interested, and the rest of us will be learning more than we wish about rocks while enjoying what promises to be a fine day with a keg or two.”