His Lady Mistress (13 page)

He had no time to waste being tactful with Almeria. His marriage was none of her business. His brother, on the other hand, had every right to know before Almeria managed to spread the news all over town, which she would do before midnight even if she had to invite herself out for dinner.

He signalled for the footman to stand away from the horses’ heads as an elegantly gowned female figure appeared in the doorway.

‘Max!’
it shrieked.

Pretending not to have heard, Max gave his tired horses the office and set off down the street at a spanking trot. God only knew what Almeria wanted to know, but Max was only too happy to leave it in the hands of the Almighty.

All he wanted was to get home. And forget how Verity had clung to him even as he settled her on the sofa still half-asleep. He bit his lip to think of how exhausted she must have been to sleep on his shoulder like that, insensible to the roar of London’s traffic and the jolting of the carriage over the cobbles. Something within him rebelled at the thought of leaving her with Almeria.

He hardened his heart. She had trapped him. And, in doing so, she had put him in the position where he would have to break a promise. Several promises. One to his brother, one to their mother, and one to himself.

His bride would have to learn how to conduct herself with the dignity and discretion expected of a Countess. Almeria was one of the
ton
’s highest sticklers. Who better to teach the new Lady Blakehurst how to go on?

A small, apologetic voice suggested,
Yourself, perhaps?

His jaw set harder. As far as he could see, there was only one way that he could salvage something of the promises he was about to break. And spending overmuch time with his bride would merely remind him of all he could not have.

Max entered the library and flinched as Richard looked up, patently surprised.

‘Well, about time! What on earth did you find to entertain you at the Faringdons for so long? I expected you back days ago.’

Max watched guiltily as Richard levered himself out of the chair and limped over to a side table. Half an hour. Half an hour at birth to make the difference between them. Not if he could help it. ‘Something came up,’ he said. ‘Everything all right here?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ asked Richard, pouring a glass of brandy. ‘Are you feeling quite the thing, Max? You look odd. Brandy?’

Max tugged at his cravat, which felt abominably tight.
‘Yes. Yes, please.’ He went over and took the glass from Richard. ‘How’s…how’s your leg?’

His brother stared. ‘My leg?’

‘Yes. Your leg. The left one. The one I nearly—’

‘What the deuce brought
that
up?’ Richard sipped at his brandy. ‘It’s much the same.
Are
you feeling all right?’

‘Fine,’ lied Max.

Limping back to the chair, Richard lowered himself into it carefully. ‘Well, you don’t look it. What’s happened to set you all on end? Miss Celia’s version of hunt-the-husband give you a bilious attack? Don’t tell me you’ve offered for the chit?’

A perfectly genuine shudder rippled through Max. ‘No. It’s not as bad as that.’ He walked over to the window and stared out into the street. Marriage to Verity would not be anywhere near as depressing as marriage to Celia Faringdon. Or would it? He bethought himself of the decisions he had made regarding his marriage and wondered. Celia would not have presented him with any of the temptation Verity did.

The door opened and Clipstone, the butler, advanced into the room. ‘A note from Lady Arnsworth, my lord.’

Richard took the note from Clipstone and held it out to Max as though it might bite. ‘How the devil did Almeria know you were back? The woman’s a witch. Oh, well, better you than me.’ This last held a distinct hint of relief.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ burst out Max, swinging away to the window. ‘I told her everything she needs to know. What more does she want? Read it, will you?’

Raising his brows, Richard broke the wafer and opened the note.
‘The girl is still asleep. What is her name?’

Max came to a dead halt in his pacing. Damn the chit! Would she never stop wrongfooting him? Making him feel a complete scoundrel?

Muttering, he strode over to Richard, twitched the note out of his hand and stalked to the desk. He dipped Richard’s quill
in the ink pot and scrawled,
Verity Scott
. Without a word he resealed the note and handed it to Clipstone.

‘Very good, my lord.’

The moment the door closed behind the patently agog butler, Richard asked, ‘Who the devil is this girl and why is she still asleep?’ He took a mouthful of brandy.

‘Verity Scott. My bride,’ announced Max, ignoring the second part of the question. He didn’t want to think about the reasons she had for being totally exhausted.

Richard’s face turned purple and a fine mist of brandy sprayed across the desk as he choked on the cognac. A muffled squawk from behind the door suggested that Clipstone’s discretion had been soundly defeated by his curiosity.

When Richard could finally speak, he spluttered, ‘Why, you double-dealing
bastard
, Max! Why in Hades didn’t you tell me?’

Shame lashed Max. ‘I’m sorry, Ricky. I…I know after I persuaded you to leave Oxford and come home, but you mustn’t think this materially alters your expectations—’

‘What the deuce are you talking about?’ interrupted Richard, plainly incensed. ‘The devil take my so-called expectations! I want to know why my only surviving brother saw fit to marry without even giving me the chance to stand up for him! I
can
stand up, you know, despite this curst leg!’

Despite his anger and frustration, Max grinned. ‘Probably because I’m not married yet.’

‘Oh.’ Richard subsided slightly. ‘Well, that’s all right then. When’s it to be, and who the blazes is Verity Scott? Apart from your
intended
bride, of course.’

‘As soon as I can get the licence. And I’ll be grateful for your support.’

Richard tossed off the rest of his brandy and poured another. ‘Rather sudden, isn’t it? Do you want to tell me about it?’

Max sat down in a large leather chair. ‘I compromised her. Or rather, to be quite accurate, she trapped me. Which is why
I say that your expectations will remain unaltered…’ His voice trailed off. It was entirely possible that Richard’s expectations were already sunk. He dismissed the thought. Possible, but improbable. He couldn’t be
that
unlucky.

‘Trapped you?
You?
’ Richard sounded as though he might be trying not to laugh. ‘A mere Miss Scott managed to snare the untouchable Blakehurst? After you foiled the machinations of every matchmaking mama between Land’s End and John-o’-Groat’s?’ He grinned. ‘Well, at least you can count on your heir having a few brains.’

‘Ricky.’ Max’s deadened voice silenced his brother. ‘I’m not joking. As far as I am concerned, you will remain my heir. And I promise you, even if the title goes to…goes elsewhere, the unentailed property will still go to you or your son.’

Richard looked up and met Max’s eyes for the first time. ‘You’re serious. It can’t be
that
bad!’

Max faced that penetrating gaze and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Richard. This is the last thing I ever intended. And if it were anybody else’s daughter, she could go to the devil with my good will.’

Richard sat down again, stretching his leg out before him. ‘I’ve missed something here.
Who
is Verity Scott?’

Gritting his teeth, Max replied. ‘She’s the daughter of my late C.O. And she was the reason I went to stay with the Faringdons. You know why I feel responsible. I wanted to see for myself that she was all right.’

‘And she trapped you.’ Richard sounded as though he had bitten a lemon.

‘Yes.’

‘And you feel you absolutely have to marry her.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes.’

‘Max, has anyone ever told you that your sense of responsibility is blown out of all proportion?’ Richard shook his
head. ‘I don’t suppose there’s the least use in my offering to marry the blasted wench to oblige you?’

Every muscle in Max’s body tightened in a surge of primitive fury at the idea of anyone, anyone at all, even Richard, so much as touching Verity, let alone marrying her. Somehow he choked back the savage response on his lips and shook his head.

‘Hmm. Very well, you’ve said it all,’ remarked Richard.

‘I didn’t say a single bloody word!’ grated Max.

‘You didn’t have to,’ said Richard drily. ‘But you might like to unclench your fists. Or were you planning to start a mill with me?’

Startled, Max looked down. His fists were clenched so hard the knuckles had whitened. Dragging in a deep breath, he forcibly relaxed them.

‘Game of chess, Max?’

He nodded. Anything to distract him from the bitter ashes of his dream. God help him, he had a bride. Not a mistress.

Verity sat up with a jolt of fright, staring into the fire-lit room. Chills rippled through her. The bed felt strange, the shadows flung by the dancing fire confused her. When had her cold, miserable little room sprouted a fireplace? Then she remembered. London. Max had brought her to London. Was this his house? She didn’t think so. He had brought her here and left her with…a lady. Very elegant and polite. Aunt…Aunt something he’d called her.

Lying back, Verity closed her eyes. She would worry about her situation in the morning. One thing was certain. She would not be marrying Max…Lord Blakehurst. The drive to London had convinced her of that.

His image burned into her behind her tightly closed eyelids. The gentle dream lover had turned into furious, bitter reality. She didn’t blame him in the least. She loathed herself for what she had done. How could she have been so shame
less as to go to him and accept his offer?
Selina went to him. Not Verity. Verity died and Selina took her place.

Verity wished she could believe that. But it wasn’t true. For some reason Max had slipped past the guard she had set on herself.
Verity
had gone to him, had consented to be his mistress. Selina was gone and Verity was alive again. And her cowardice had betrayed another man.

‘I’m Verity,’ she whispered into the darkness. ‘I love him and I can’t marry him.’ He deserved better than a woman who would have consented to be his mistress. Who
had
consented to be his mistress. Who had flung herself at him. He deserved a woman he could care for and respect. A woman who could bring more to her marriage than a ruined name and sordid scandal.

She had offered to be his mistress. She had bargained with him, then lain with him. Shamelessly. She shivered at the memory of his mouth and hands. His searing possession of her body. If only she could stop her memories there, with his tender, passionate lovemaking…but memory was like time, relentless, dragging her with it, until she saw again his disgusted, furious face as he stared down at the campaign chest and felt the knot tighten on his neck.

All his bitter words stabbed into her.
He called you a whore. You disgusted him. And he believes you trapped him on purpose.
She couldn’t live with him like that. She couldn’t live with herself. In the morning she would have to cry off. If he still wanted her, she would be his mistress. But never his wife.

No doubt Aunt…Aunt whoever-she-was would be only too happy to give her a reference and save her nephew from such a disastrous
mésalliance
.

‘Cry off?’

Verity gulped. She had expected Lady Arnsworth to be delighted, but the look of outrage on the lady’s face suggested far otherwise.

‘
Cry off?
First you entrap my nephew and then you propose to
jilt
him at the altar?’ Lady Arnsworth appeared to be choking on the words. Her face had become an alarming mottled purple.

Verity felt the room closing in around her, a gilded, upholstered trap. Explanations were useless and her self-control too shaky to attempt them. Biting her lip, she said, ‘He…he does not wish to marry me. I
cannot
marry him. Please…you must send him a message…this must go no further…’

Her ladyship snorted. ‘According to Max it has already gone too far.’

Verity felt her face flame and Lady Arnsworth’s lip curled scornfully. ‘Quite so. Now, enough of this nonsense. You are to be married as soon as possible. By special licence. And the betrothal notice will be in the papers tomorrow.’ She paused for effect. ‘Unless you desire to make him look a complete fool and scoundrel, you will marry my nephew.
He
at least has some sense of honourable conduct, for which you, Miss Scott, ought to be profoundly grateful.’

‘But…but surely the notice could be stopped,’ faltered Verity. ‘No one need know he applied for a special licence—’

‘My dear Miss Scott, Max having informed me that I should see you established in society, naturally I mentioned his betrothal at dinner last night. By now all London will know that he is to marry. Unless you intend jilting him at the altar, you have no choice.’

The room swirled around Verity in a gilded haze as the trap crashed shut. Max’s words came back to her in mocking torment:
You have made my bed. Now you must lie in it.

Gripping the arm of the chair until her fingers ached, Verity wondered which of the pair of them would come to regret the marriage more bitterly. Her husband at least would have the comfort of knowing that he had behaved honourably.

Righteous indignation seeping from every pore as she rose, Lady Arnsworth surveyed her errant houseguest. ‘My poor sister must be turning in her grave!’ she declared. ‘But the
person for whom I feel the most pity in this disgraceful affair,’ she continued, ‘is Richard. And as for Max! With all his experience he should have known better, but it is no more than he deserves, to be trapped by a scheming, little adventuress with fewer morals than he has himself!’

Verity swallowed hard as the door shut with what, in a less well-bred woman, would have been described as a bang. Who Richard might be, she had no idea, nor why he was most to be pitied. Why her deceased mother-in-law would be disturbing the graveyard was self-evident. No mother would desire such a connection for her son.