His Lady Mistress (12 page)

Harding gulped audibly as he took the money. ‘Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘No.’ Max dragged on clothes with scant regard for fashion beyond getting them on right side out. When he got his hands on Miss Verity Scott, he thought he might just wring her neck. After which he’d teach her a salutary lesson on the perils of deception and cheating.

He’d fired a pistol. Now he had to face the consequences of missing his aim.

He stalked into the bleak, shabby little chamber without bothering to knock. ‘Good morning, Miss Sc—’

The icy greeting froze on his lips in response to the chill emptiness of the room. Nothing. Nothing and no one. The room was empty of all save the narrow, uninviting little bed and—the irony nearly choked him—a very battered campaign chest. The bottom half sat under the window, the top half at the foot of the bed.

Savagely he stared down at the painted letters on the top. Faded and worn, the name of Scott was yet visible. And it was obvious enough where someone had scratched out the first part of a W to leave a V. Ye gods! He’d sat on the curst thing the other night. And all the while the little wretch must have been weaving her plans.

He swore. Why couldn’t she have just
told
him? Trusted him. Surely she must have known he wouldn’t refuse to help her? That he would have forced the Faringdons to treat her decently, provide for her properly. Dash it all! He’d have provided for her himself if necessary! But no! Trust had little to do with it. She’d decided to chance a throw for the lot—himself included.

She had known perfectly well that she could trust him. She had known who he was from the start. Perhaps even before she tumbled into his arms the other night. He had to acknowledge that she’d stalked her quarry brilliantly. She’d cast her lure and played the fish with consummate skill. He’d been landed so neatly he hadn’t even felt the hook.

A startled gasp brought him around, lifting his gaze from the chest. Even now that he knew the truth, it was impossible not to admire her acting as she stared in apparent horror at the painted accusation. His mouth twisted at the blanched cheeks. Perhaps she was genuinely horrified. She couldn’t have meant to spring her trap quite this soon.

Wide grey eyes lifted to his. Pain stabbed at him, swiftly buried in icy rage.

‘Good morning. I came up to see if there was anything you wished to take with you.’

Her mouth trembled and he fought down a surge of heat as he remembered that same mouth held captive beneath his, open and vulnerable. Pain flared again. He’d thought what they had found special. Damn it! He’d thought
her
special. That he would be able to…
No!
He wouldn’t think of it. All the time it had been no more than a honeyed trap. ‘I—’

He cut her off. ‘Just the campaign chest, then. I’ll ask Harding—you
do
remember Harding?—to bring it with him on the mail. We’d best hurry. Explanations are so awkward, are they not, Miss Scott?’

Miss Scott…

The chilly words lashed her. He knew then. His contempt flayed her. An implacable judge had replaced the tender, impassioned lover. And she had been found wanting.

‘You…you don’t understand…’ She had not lied. Not really. Her name changed nothing. Her situation remained the same whether she was Selina or Verity. Or did it? Who had gone to him? Selina, or Verity?

‘Oh, I think I understand well enough. Now, hurry. We must be going.’

The meaning of his words finally sank in. ‘Then…you’ll still take me?’ Was that relief, churning her stomach? Or fear? She would still escape. But her hands shook. Had Selina become his mistress, or Verity? To be his mistress as the anonymous Selina was one thing. To be his mistress as Verity Scott, while he judged her with those cold, lambent eyes, was quite another.

‘Oh, yes. I’ll take you.’ His voice cut like a knife. ‘After all, with a little schooling you will warm my bed quite satisfactorily. You’re eager enough at least. I’ll say that for you.’

She felt cold, clammy with horror at the amused boredom in his voice. She had thought, when he made love to her again, that he wanted her, desired her. Now the truth broke over her in a bitter wave. She hadn’t satisfied him. But, now he knew the truth, she had disgusted him with her wanton behaviour.

Never in her life had she thought she would say it, but, ‘Can’t…can’t you forget I’m…I’m…
her
and just…just think of me as…Selina?’ She couldn’t even say her true name. Not with those eyes scorching into her. Not with haughty disdain curving the mouth that had loved her so tenderly. Not when she remembered the tenderness he had shown Selina. His sweetheart.

A harsh laugh broke from him. ‘No doubt your father would prefer that, but I’m afraid it’s a little late for self-delusion. Get a cloak on and come with me.’

‘No.’ The refusal was out before she’d even known it was there. She couldn’t go with him. Not now. Not as Verity Scott. Not as his whore. And she sensed that was how he thought of her now. Selina’s fall he could understand and sympathise with, but for the gently bred Miss Scott to do what she had done was unforgivable. Selina was no more.

‘No? May one ask why not?’

‘I…I won’t be…’ She stopped, a blush mantling her cheeks.

‘My whore? You’re that already, my dear. Quite willingly. I made sure of that. Now come. I have ordered my carriage and I would like to be in London by nightfall. I have our marriage to arrange.’

Everything went misty, colours swirled together dizzily as she clutched at the doorframe. ‘What…what did you say?’ It came out as a whisper.

‘I wish to be in London by nightfall. It’s only seventy miles and—’

‘No. The bit about our marriage…’ Her voice failed. If anything, the disgust in his eyes deepened.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Spare me any more play acting, girl! I had enough of that last night. And very affecting it was. But morning is here now, although I doubt you intended to enlighten me quite this soon. I play by the rules. You will marry me as fast as I can get a special licence and find a parson.’

Chapter Six

‘N
o!’ Horror tore the exclamation from Verity. Sick and shaking, she stared up at him as the golden eyes narrowed to blazing slits.

‘No?’ Velvet soft, his voice seared her. ‘You lied to me about your name, you tricked me into taking your virginity…Exactly what did you expect of me when I discovered the truth?

‘Let me make my position quite plain, Miss Scott: I had no intention of ever marrying, but then neither did I have the intention of taking the maidenhead of my late commander’s only daughter. Or anybody’s maidenhead for that matter. My opinion of
you
may leave a great deal to be desired, but I have enough respect for your father’s memory to make you my wife rather than my whore.’

His lip curled. ‘At any rate, I have enough respect for him to attempt to repair the situation. Whether or not my efforts are successful will rest with you.’

‘I don’t want to marry you,’ she whispered. It was a lie. She did want to marry him. But not like this—with his every look and word branding her a whore, a despicable little bitch who had schemed and plotted to trap a wealthy husband.

He laughed harshly. ‘I dare say you don’t. Not now that you’ve realised I am not so easily manipulated and controlled
as you might have hoped. You’ve made my bed. Now you shall lie in it.’

‘You don’t understand!’ she cried. ‘I never intended you to even know who I was! I never intended to—’

His harsh expletive shocked her. ‘Likewise, rubbish,’ he snarled. ‘There are two possibilities: either you intended to trap me into marriage, or you intended to be my whore.’

‘Stop saying that!’ she cried. Bad enough her own conscience screaming at her, but to hear him constantly saying it was like a knife thrust, twisting deeper every time.

‘Neither intent is honourable.’ His hard voice overrode hers. ‘Frankly I’m not sure which disgusts me more, but that changes nothing. You will marry me. And by God, you will learn to conduct yourself as befits a lady and your father’s daughter! At least I can do that much for him.’

With a sickening lurch, Verity realised that it didn’t matter whether he believed she had intended to trap him or not. Whatever he thought, he still despised her, thought her a disgrace to her name. It was not her
per se
whose good name he wished to protect, but her father’s. And, perhaps to a lesser extent, his own.

What had she expected?

His voice shattered her thoughts. ‘Don’t waste time, Miss Scott. You’re coming with me, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming from the house.’

By the time Max’s hard-driven horses reached Highgate Hill late that afternoon and he saw London spread out below, he had long since come to terms with the fact that he had made a complete and utter fool of himself. There was only himself to blame for allowing desire to rule him the previous night. If he had listened to that warning voice telling him to take her to Almeria and find her a respectable position, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. He’d taken his pleasure. Now he had to take the consequences. Marriage.

His betrothed sat silently beside him. He had not heard a
word out of her since lunchtime except for
no, thank you
to the sandwiches offered her at the Green Man in Barnet, where they made their last change. He frowned. She should have eaten. She had scarcely touched her lunch and she was quite thin enough already.

She had said nothing when it came on to rain and he wrapped her tattered old cloak more securely about her, simply nodded to acknowledge his action. Apparently she didn’t even possess a bonnet. She sat beside him in utter silence with her dark curls becoming more and more untidy.

Didn’t most females chatter? Wouldn’t any normal woman be trying to placate his fury and twist him around her little finger by now? Not Miss Verity Scott, apparently.
She
was indulging in a fit of the sulks and for the most part appeared to find the scenery on the opposite side of the curricle fascinating.

‘Is it very much further, my lord?’ The small, tired voice took him by surprise. He glanced at her, but she was staring straight ahead, her face hidden by her untidy hair.

‘Oh, you can still speak, can you?’ He couldn’t help the bite of sarcasm in his voice. Especially since his fingers itched to slide into the tumbling curls and push them back. He remembered how they had felt spilling over his chest. Cool, burning silk. His grip tightened on the reins and his horses steadied at the sudden pressure.

She turned away again. ‘I wasn’t aware I had anything to say that you were prepared to listen to, my lord. Is it very much further?’ The voice sounded odd, slightly strained.

He shrugged. ‘An hour or so. Hungry, are you? You should have accepted the sandwiches.’

She said nothing and he told himself that she deserved it. That to extend her fit of temper to refusing food was too ridiculous to deserve any sympathy. His conscience suggested that he was being unpleasantly vindictive, that there was little reason in marrying the chit unless he meant to do better than this.

Curse it! How could he ever have any sort of trust or affection for her when she had trapped him? And as for her ridiculous claim that she now didn’t wish to marry him! What nonsense!

A movement beside him caught his attention. Miss Scott appeared to be wiping her eye. Wonderful! Now she was going to cry at him. Cynically he waited to hear the inevitable sob. And waited.

With a curse he pulled up the horses and set the brake. There were a few things that they might as well have clear between them right now. Such as that he would not be manipulated by a few spurious tears. He’d had quite enough of that in his life, thanks very much. Setting his hands to her shoulders, he swung her around to face him. And froze as she jerked her face away. He had seen enough.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks stained with tears. He could even see the marks where her underlip had been gripped between her teeth. All he had intended to say to her fled in the face of one scorching question: for how long had she sat there beside him, weeping silently? He hadn’t even known a woman
could
cry silently. How did she intend to manipulate him if he couldn’t hear her?

And she looked exhausted, her face white and the grey eyes wreathed with shadows. Yet she had been sitting spear straight beside him. What to say? Anger at her still gripped him, but he reached out to put his arm around her shoulders, to draw her to him. He couldn’t help it. His whole angry, confused being cried out in protest before those shattered, reddened eyes.

She jerked back from him. Again.

Without a word, he released the brake and set the horses in motion. Of all the things he resented about Verity Scott at that moment, the most excoriating was that she had made him feel like the lowest of scoundrels.

Never before had Max driven into London delighted to know that his Aunt Almeria was in residence. Usually it took
an outright command on her part to get him over her threshold. On this particular evening he pulled up outside her Grosvenor Square townhouse voluntarily.

Verity didn’t move. She had been asleep on his shoulder for the last half-hour. He doubted that she had even realised when she finally sagged against him. And she felt right there. Just as she had the night before when she had lain in his arms…

She deceived you. Trapped you. All that sweetness is no more than honey to bait the victim.

It would only be safe to enjoy the sweetness if he remembered never to trust it again. Remembered that it was all an act; that given a chance, she would manipulate him.

Twenty minutes later he took his leave of his startled aunt and sleepy betrothed. Mounting into the curricle, he acknowledged that he could have handled the situation with more grace. That depositing a sleeping girl on the drawing-room sofa, announcing her as his intended bride and that he would be back with the special licence as soon as possible—and in the meantime would Almeria kindly organise a suitable wardrobe at his expense—might not have been the most tactful way of presenting Verity to his aunt.