The Accidental Mistress (6 page)

"Hyde Park, my lord," the coachman announced before he just as quickly slid the little door closed once again.

The marquis grew still against her, a muffled groan resonating softly from between his lips.

She groaned as well, only then realizing the coach was no longer moving. A gentle darkness engulfed the interior, the sun having begun to set without either of them taking the slightest notice.

And thank heavens for the concealing shadows,
she mused, imagining the shockingly improper sight the pair of them would have presented to both his servants and any casual passersby who happened to glance inside the coach.

Still dazed from a surfeit of passion, Lily struggled to free herself, sliding ignominiously off his lap onto the seat. With a hasty tug, she pulled her shirt closed, fingers shaking as she worked to fasten the buttons.

The marquis brushed her hands away. "Let me."

She hesitated briefly before acquiescing to his demand.

Efficient as a valet, he fastened her shirt, tucking the loosened tails in a bit at her waist before straightening the rumpled lines of her coat.

The casual intimacy stunned her, but considering what they had been doing not two minutes ago, she supposed she had little cause to act the outraged maiden.

Surveying her in the dim light, he reached out and slid the tie from her hair.

"Oh," she gasped as her straight, thick locks fell forward across her cheeks, the ends just brushing the tops of her shoulders.

"Your hair is mussed," he explained. Without awaiting her permission, he combed his fingers through her tresses, his touch sending a fresh rush of pleasure through her already awakened senses. She could tell he liked it as well, and thought for a moment that he was about to kiss her again.

Instead, he gathered her hair at her nape inside his fist, then tied the thin strip of black silk in place. Once he'd finished, he didn't immediately release her. "Are you sure you won't allow me to see you home? I do not like the idea of leaving you here, even if you plan to travel the rest of the way by hackney."

"Do not worry, my lord. I shall be fine. And now, I really must be going. Thank you for the meal and the ride and …" She broke off, feeling her cheeks ignite with heat. "Well, thank you."

"Will you go and not even tell me your name?"

She paused, reading the need in his gaze.

What does it matter?
she mused.
Once we part, I shall never see him again.

Her lips turned up in a bittersweet smile. "It's Lily."

Then, before she could stop herself, she laid a palm against his cheek and brought his head down for one last impulsive kiss. She savored the sweetness of his lips, wanting to memorize the sensation so she would remember just as he'd promised she would.

Ending their embrace as quickly as it had begun, she turned, opened the door, and leapt to the ground.

As she hurried toward a cab, she sensed him following. Yet he did not try to stop her as she climbed into the nearest hackney and gave the driver the name of a hotel, careful to keep her voice lowered so only the man could hear.

With a nod and the flick of his whip, the driver set his horses into motion.

Turning her head, she gazed over her shoulder and saw Vessey watching, his golden hair glinting in the lamplight. She stared for a long minute more, then forced herself to put him from her sight. As for putting him from her mind, well, that she feared was going to take a good deal longer.

Two days later, Lily sat in the law offices of Pennyroyal and Sons, Mr. Eustace Pennyroyal himself at her service.

"Well then," the solicitor told her, "it will only be another minute or two for my clerk to locate the file containing your grandfather's bequest. In the meantime, may I offer you a cup of tea? The water should be hot by now."

Glancing at the room's small fireplace and the kettle resting on its metal hob grate, Lily nodded her agreement. "Thank you, Mr. Pennyroyal, that would be most welcome."

As the solicitor crossed to prepare the beverage, she glanced around the office, the walls lined four-square in heavy leather-bound books, most of which she assumed dealt with the law. Resting one of her black-gloved hands against the skirt of her black muslin gown, she tried to relax. For the first time in nearly a week, she felt fully herself, dressed once more in feminine attire.

Yesterday's trip to the secondhand clothing stalls that lined Petticoat Lane had provided her with a new gown and accessories, items she hadn't been able to carry with her from home. A few extra pence in the stall owner's palm had convinced the woman to keep her silence about the "boy" who'd purchased the garments, and the young woman who had emerged from the dressing area afterward.

Although her new attire wasn't as fashionable as her own clothing would have been, the gown had once belonged to a gentlewoman, and more important, had been all Lily could afford. Once she had her inheritance in hand, she would see about locating a proper modiste and having a new wardrobe created. She also planned to locate a better hotel—her third since arriving in London—after she left the solicitor's office today.

She'd checked out of the first hotel after only one night, deciding she had better not chance returning to "Jack Bain's" room dressed as a woman after her return from Petticoat Lane. And although last night's new lodging had proven adequate, she'd felt distinctly uncomfortable at breakfast this morning when a pair of male lodgers decided to join her at table over plates of toast and eggs. She'd paid her tab with relief and departed.

"Here we are," Mr. Pennyroyal declared. Smiling at her over the pair of half-glasses perched on the end of his long nose, he passed her a cup and saucer, the Darjeeling's sweet fragrance drifting upward like a rare perfume.

Taking a sip, she gave herself a moment to enjoy the small luxury after days of privation. Of course, there had been a few bright spots during her journey to London. The delicious meal at the inn with Lord Vessey and the ride in his luxuriously appointed coach. And, of course, his kisses and the dangerous yet glorious touch of his hands.

Warmth shot into her cheeks, turning them an incriminating shade of pink she hoped the solicitor would ascribe to the temperature of her tea.

I must stop thinking about the marquis,
she warned herself.
He is out of my life and I have to forget him.
An objective that had so far proven impossible, her dreams filled with nothing but the man.

Silently she ordered herself
to concentrate on her future.
To focus on the freedom that was so nearly at hand, courtesy of her mother's last loving gift.

Lily would never know why, but when her mother married Gordon Chaulk, she had failed to inform him of the inheritance her own father had set aside for Lily. Ten thousand pounds, or so her mother had told her only five months ago. Perhaps even then, her mother had realized she would not survive the year, and that she'd kept the secret as long as she dared.

After one of Chaulk's far too frequent beatings, Lily had tended to her mother's wounds as she always did, cleaning the blood from her swollen face, binding the broken ribs she'd received from crashing into a wall when he'd hit her. Lily had imagined her asleep, and was about to tiptoe from the room, when her mother reached up and grasped her wrist.

"There's money from your grandfather," she had whispered. "It's in London at Pennyroyal and Sons. Use it and get away while there's still time. Go now. Save yourself, Lily."

Of course she hadn't left. How could she while her mother was alive and in need of her? But as fiercely as Lily had fought to convince her mother to live, Louisa Bainbridge Chaulk had withered away. A winter pneumonia, the doctor said, but Lily knew the truth. Her mother had given up on life, her heart crushed by the two men who should have cherished her the most.

Without question, Chaulk was a vile human being, but at least his brand of cruelty was straightforward, predictable even, in a horrific kind of way. The misery inflicted by Lily's father, however, had been of a far more insidious nature. Although he'd never laid a rough hand upon his wife, he'd done far worse—taking her love and devotion, then using it, however unintentionally, to slowly break her heart one piece at a time.

As dashing and handsome as the prince in a fairy story, Timothy Bainbridge was the fourth son of an earl. A devil-may-care sort, he could charm the gold from a leprechaun and leave him smiling for his loss. When her father set you in his sights, his focus was absolute, his attention mesmerizing in a way that left you feeling, for that brief span of time, as if you were the most special person on earth.

Lily remembered the feeling, knew the giddy, almost druglike rush of having his unique and undivided attention—yet knew as well the soul-crushing agony of wanting his love and approbation so badly she would have given anything in order to attain it.

But as she and her mother had discovered, Timothy Bainbridge bored easily, needing constant novelty in his life, as well as ever-increasing doses of excitement and adventure in order to be happy.

Instead of settling him down as many had imagined marriage would, the commitment had only driven him to take more chances, to chase more unknowns, to face bigger, ever greater dangers and risks. And in the meantime, while he'd been off hunting tigers in India, climbing mountain peaks in the Alps, and sailing the wide China seas, she and her mother had been left to fend for themselves.

Money would arrive, but only when he remembered to send it, which was sometimes as often as every month but at others as seldom as once a year. There would be a flurry of letters and gifts, strange and beautiful objects that arrived from all over the world, then suddenly all communication would cease.

And occasionally—usually when life at home had taken on an almost normal rhythm—he would appear on the doorstep unannounced. Once again he would dazzle them with his charm, making them want him to stay when, of course, they both knew he never would.

Lily had hated him. She'd been resentful of his absences, angry at him for causing her mother to sob hysterically each time he left, and then to grow pale with worry when he failed to write and let them know he was alive and well.

His death had been almost a relief when it had come—the letter from an official in one of the Canadian colonial provinces explaining that Mr. Bainbridge had met his end after being severely mauled by a bear. Yet despite her animosity toward her father, Lily had wept just as hard as her mother, an emptiness and grief lodging inside her that she knew would never completely go away.

Unlike other girls, who dreamt of a perfect man who would one day arrive to sweep them off their feet, she'd known that spring of her thirteenth year that she never wished to love, never wished to marry. When a woman wed, she became the property of her husband, her physical and emotional safety his to decide. Better to be alone, she reasoned, than to risk the promise of betrayal and pain. Better a lonely heart than one shattered by despair.

Her father had taught her one lesson: never trust a man. Her mother's second husband had only reinforced that belief.

"How is the tea, Mrs. Smythe?"

Lily startled, frowning as she took a moment to remember that
she
was Mrs. Smythe. At least that's what she had decided to inform the solicitor upon her arrival.

As an unmarried woman of only twenty years of age, Lily knew it would be greatly frowned upon for her to apply for use of her inheritance, even for funds legally set aside for her use. Custom called for her guardian to make the request—in her case, Gordon Chaulk. Obviously, that option was out of the question.

And although she didn't believe Mr. Pennyroyal knew anything about her mother's remarriage, she couldn't take the chance of him contacting her stepfather about the transaction. So, to give herself a measure of credible autonomy, she had decided to invent a husband. Then, in a subsequent flash of inspiration, she had just as quickly killed him off.

She smiled to herself, still rather proud of having thought of the ploy. Now she had only to act the part of a young, grieving widow and let matters play out as they would.

"The tea is delicious, thank you." She took another sip, then sent him a demure smile.

He set his own cup aside. "My sincere condolences on your losses. What a dreadful time you must have had, with first the death of your husband and then your mother. The passing of loved ones is never an easy matter."

"No, indeed." Thinking of her mother, she had no difficulty coaxing an expression of genuine sorrow. "It is one of the reasons I decided to come to London. Too many sad memories at home."

"Where did he fall, if I might ask?"

For a second she didn't know what he meant.
Where did who fall?

She nearly blurted out the question before realizing he meant her "husband."

Dear heavens,
she mused,
I am going to have to do better than this if I am not to be caught! And gracious, I suppose he expects me to name a battle. Think, Lily, and be quick about it.

Taking another sip of her tea, she gave herself a minute to compose her answer. Her cup clinked as she set it onto its saucer.

"Vittoria," she said in a somber tone, "not quite a year ago." She was glad now that she had always made time to read the news reports about the war.

"Ah, Vittoria. A great victory for the British and Portuguese. Helped us topple the little emperor off his throne and put him on a tiny one in Elba, where he belongs. Seems fitting, I think. You must be very proud of your husband's noble sacrifice."

She nodded. "Of course, and relieved to be at peace once again."

Will that clerk never return?

As if he'd heard her wish, a tap came at the door only moments later, one of Mr. Pennyroyal's four assistants rushing in to place a thick set of bound papers before his employer. Once the young man had departed and closed the door, the solicitor reached out and untied the ribbon that held the file shut. He shuffled through a couple of pages before pulling one free.