Mistress By Mistake (31 page)

Here’s a sneak peek at UNDONE, the historical romance anthology featuring Susan Johnson, Terri Brisbin, and Mary Wine. Turn the page for a preview of Susan’s story, “As You Wish.”

F
ortunately for the earl’s pressing schedule, the night was overcast. Not a hint of moonlight broke through to expose his athletic form as he scaled the old, fist-thick wisteria vines wrapped around the pillars of the terrace pergola. The house to which the pergola was attached was quiet, the ground floor dark save for the porter’s light in the entrance hall. Either the Belvoirs were out or already in bed. More likely the latter with only a single flambeau outside the door.

He’d best take care.

Kit had described the position of Miss Belvoir’s bedchamber—hence Albion’s ascent of the wisteria. Once he gained the roof joists of the Chinoiserie pergola, he would have access to the windows of the main floor corridor. From there he could make his way to the second floor bedchambers, the easternmost that of Miss Belvoir, where, according to Kit, she’d been cloistered for the last month, being polished by her stepmother into a state of refined elegance for her bow into society a few weeks hence.

Which refinements, in his estimation, only served to make every young lady into the same boring martinet without an original thought in her head or a jot of conversation worth listening to.

He hoped there wouldn’t be much conversation tonight. If he had his way there wouldn’t be any. He hoped as well that she wouldn’t prove stubborn, but should she, he’d stuff his handkerchief in her mouth to muffle her screams, tie her up if necessary, and carry her down the back stairs and out the servants’ entrance. It was more likely though—with all due modesty—that his much-practiced charm would win the day.

Pulling himself over the fretwork balustrade embellishing the pergola, he stood for a moment balanced on a joist contemplating which window would best offer him ingress. His mind made up, he brushed himself off, navigated the vine-draped timbers, and reached the window. Taking a knife from his coat pocket, he snapped open the blade, slipped it under the lower sash, and pried it up enough to gain a fingerhold.

Moments later, he stood motionless in the dark corridor. The stairs were to the right if Kit’s description was correct. After listening for a few moments and hearing nothing, he quietly made his way down the plush carpet and up the stairs. A single candle on a console table dimly illuminated the hallway onto which the bedrooms opened. Pausing to listen once again and distinguishing no undue sounds, he silently traversed the carpeted passageway to the last door on his right.

It shouldn’t be locked. Servants required access if the bellpull by the bed was rung. For a brief moment he stood utterly still, wondering what in blazes he was doing here about to abduct some untried maid in order to seduce her. As if there weren’t women enough in London who would welcome him to their beds with open arms. Considerable brandy was to blame, he supposed, and the rackety company of his friends, who had too much idle time on their hands in which to conjure up wild wagers like this.

Bloody hell. He felt the complete absence of any desire to be where he was.

Then again, he recalled with a short exhalation, he’d bet twenty thousand on this foolishness.

Now it was play or pay.

He reached for the latch, pressed down, and quietly opened the door.

As he stepped over the threshold he was greeted by a ripple of scent and a cheerful female voice. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

The hairs on the back of his neck rose.

His first thought was that he was unarmed.

His second was that it was a trap.

But when the same genial voice said, “Don’t worry, no one’s at home but me. Do come in and shut the door.” His pulse rate lessened and he scanned the candlelit interior for the source of the invitation.

“Miss Belvoir, I presume,” he murmured, taking note of a young woman with hair more gold than red standing across the room near the foot of the bed.
She was quite beautiful. How nice. And if no one was home, nicer still.
Shutting the door behind him, he offered her a graceful bow.

“A pleasant good evening, Albion. Gossip preceded you.”
He was breathtakingly handsome at close range. Now to convince him to take her away.
“I have a proposition for you.”

He smiled. “A coincidence. I have one for you.” This was going to be easier than he thought. Then he saw her luggage. “You first,” he said guardedly.

“I understand you have twenty thousand to lose.”

“Or not.”

“Such arrogance, Albion. You forget, the decision is mine.”

“Not entirely,” he softly replied.

“Because you’ve done this before.”

“Not this. But something enough like it to know.”

“I see,” she murmured. “But then I’m not inclined to be instantly infatuated with your handsome self or your prodigal repute. I have more important matters on my mind.”

“More important than twenty thousand?” he asked with a small smile.

“I like to think so.”

He recognized the seriousness of her tone. “Then we must come to some agreement. What do you want?”

“To strike a bargain.”

“Consider me agreeable to most anything,” he smoothly replied.

“My luggage caused you a certain apprehension, I noticed,” she said, amusement in her gaze. “Let me allay your fears. I have no plans to elope with you. Did you think I did?”

“The thought crossed my mind.” He wasn’t entirely sure yet that some trap wasn’t about to be sprung. She was the picture of innocence in white muslin—all the rage thanks to Marie Antoinette’s penchant for the faux rustic life.

“I understand that women stand in line for your amorous skills, but rest assured—you’re not my type. Licentiousness is your raison d’être I hear—a very superficial existence I should think.”

His brows rose. He wondered if she’d heard about Sally’s when she mentioned women standing in line. She also had the distinction of being the first woman to find him lacking. “You mistake my raison d’être. Perhaps if you knew me better you’d change your mind,” he pleasantly suggested.

“I very much doubt it,” she replied with equal amiability. “You’re quite beautiful, I’ll give you that, and I understand you’re unrivaled in the boudoir. But my interests, unlike yours, aren’t focused on sex. What I do need from you, however, is an escort to my aunt’s house in Edinburgh.”

“And for that my twenty thousand is won?” His voice was velvet soft.

“Such tact, my lord.”

“I can be blunt if you prefer.”

“Please do. I’ve heard so much about your ready charm. I’m wondering how you’re going to ask.”

“I hadn’t planned on asking.”

“Because you never have to.”

He smiled. “To date at least.”

“So I may be the exception.”

“If you didn’t need an escort to Edinburgh,” he mildly observed. “Your move.”

“You see this as a game?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And I’m the trophy or reward, or how do young bucks describe a sportive venture like this?”

“How do young ladies describe the snaring of a husband?”

She laughed. “Touché. I have no need of a husband though. Does that calm your fears?”

“I have none in that regard. Nothing could induce me to marry.”

“Then we are in complete agreement. Now tell me, how precisely does a libertine persuade a young lady to succumb to his blandishments?”

“Not like this,” he drily said. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

“We strike our bargain first. Like you, I have much at stake.”

“Then, Miss Belvoir,” he said with well-bred grace, “if you would be willing to relinquish your virginity tonight, I’d be delighted to escort you to Edinburgh.”

“In the morning. Or later tonight if we can deal with this denouement expeditiously.”

“At week’s end,” he countered. “After the Spring Meet in Newmarket.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not acceptable.”

He didn’t answer for so long she thought he might be willing to lose twenty thousand. He was rich enough.

“We can talk about it at my place.”

“No.”

Another protracted silence ensued, only the crackle of the fire on the hearth audible.

“Would you be willing to accompany me to Newmarket,” he finally said. “I can assure you anonymity at my race box. Once the Spring Meet is over, I’ll take you to Edinburgh.” He blew out a small breath. “I’ve a fortune wagered on my horses. I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

This time she was the one who didn’t immediately respond, and when she did, her voice held a hint of melancholy. “I do understand. My mother owned the Langley stud.”

“That was your mother’s? By God—the Langley stud was legendary. Tattersalls was mobbed when it was sold. You
do
know how I feel about my racers then.” He grinned. “They’re all going to win at Newmarket. I’ll give you a share if you like—to help set you up in Edinburgh.”

Her expression brightened and her voice took on a teasing intonation. “Are you trying to buy my acquiescence?”

“Why not? You only need give me a few days of your time. Come with me. You’ll enjoy the races.”

“I mustn’t be seen.”

Ah—capitulation.
“Then we’ll see that you aren’t. Good Lord—the Langley stud. I’m bloody impressed. Let me get your luggage.”

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“W
here are you going now?”

“To get my grandmother.”

“She’s at my place and she’s doing just fine. She’s probably sleeping by now.”

“But she’s
my
grandmother.” Cal kept walking till Churchill caught up to him and took his arm, the unexpected light touch stopping him faster than any hard punch. She could still do that after so many years. What was it about Churchill that got to him? Auburn hair pulled back in a loose knot and held in place by a pencil? Her slim figure under the simple skirt and blouse? Her long legs? All of it, dammit, all of it. The whole uptight librarian package drove him nuts because he knew somewhere under all that uptightness there was something a little reckless and hot as hell.

“She’s fine. I tried to call you about what happened, but with all the racket coming out of that heap you call a car the world could have exploded and you wouldn’t have heard a thing. Miss Ellie thinks I’m out getting dog food, so I better get back in case she wakes up.” Church let out a sigh and let go of Cal’s arm. “That’s not a lie. Seems I always have to get dog food except when he won’t eat dog food and I have to fry chicken or scramble an egg or make quiche.”

“You cook quiche for a dog?”

“He has separation anxiety. He liked Jersey.” She didn’t say anything for a moment and stared at him. Her blue eyes suddenly went dark and soft and too damn sensual for a hot summer night in Savannah with no one around but the two of them. “Did you take Dodd’s money?”

He had to bring an end to the conversation before her damn questions and her ability to turn him upside down made him say something he’d regret and mess up everything he set in motion. “You want to know why the police hauled me in? One of the guys who worked pit here at the track three years ago wound up dead. They think I had something to do with it. I’m a felon, and that means any crime within a fifty-mile radius has my name on it. That should answer your question.”

“Why would your robbery have anything to do with the dead person?”

“You aren’t nearly as smart as people say you are, Ace.”

She didn’t scare off easy, he’d give her that. Bet those Jersey boys had their hands full when Little Miss Know It All showed up wanting her car back. Churchill McKenzie didn’t do “I don’t know” well. “Go home.” He walked across the track. “Thanks for taking care of Miss Ellie,” he added without turning around. He slid through the open window of Mud Monkey and gunned the engine to drown out any other questions or comments Churchill had. She shook her head at him and walked away till Killer ran ahead, nearly pulling her off her feet. Who was taking who for a walk? He stifled a laugh making him feel better than he had since…since he kissed her. Damn that kiss, why did he do that? Why did she have to be there? Why couldn’t she have kept her job in Jersey? Everything was going okay, he had everything under control for a long time now and then Churchill came back to Savannah and talked to Miss Ellie. Cal had a bad feeling things would not end with one talk. He had to keep a clear head and stop her before she got involved.

Trouble was, when it came to Ace McKenzie there was not one thing clear at all. He was attracted to her and shouldn’t be for a grocery list of reasons. They were opposites on every front, the librarian and the jailbird. The darling of Savannah—just ask anyone—and the devil—just ask anyone.

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B
o shot through the goal crease and slammed the puck into the net.

“Morning!”

That voice cut through his focus and, without breaking his stride, Bo changed direction and skated over to the rink entrance. He stopped hard, ice spraying out from his skates, and stood in front of the wolfdog.

He stared down at her and she stared up at him. She kept smiling even when he didn’t. Finally he asked, “What time did we agree on?”

“Seven,” she replied with a cheery note that put his teeth on edge.

“And what time is it?”

“Uh…” She dug into her jeans and pulled out a cell phone. The fact that she still had on that damn, useless watch made his head want to explode. How did one function—as an adult anyway—without a goddamn watch?

Grinning so that he could see all those perfectly aligned teeth, she said, “Six-forty-five!”

“And what time did we agree on?”

She blinked and her smile faded. After a moment, “Seven.”

“Is it seven?”

“No.” When he only continued to stare at her, she softly asked, “What to meet me at the track at seven?”

He continued to stare at her until she nodded and said, “Okay.”

She walked out and Bo went back to work.

Fifteen minutes later, Bo walked into the small arena at seven a.m. Blayne, looking comfortable in dark blue leggings, sweatshirt, and skates, turned to face him. He expected her to be mad at him or, even worse, for her to get that wounded look he often got from people when he was blatantly direct. But having to deal with either of those scenarios was a price Bo was always willing to pay to ensure that the people in his life understood how he worked from the beginning. This way, there were no surprises later. It was called “boundaries,” and he read about it in a book.

Yet when Blayne saw him, she grinned and held up a Starbucks cup. “Coffee,” she said when he got close. “I got you the house brand because I had no idea what you would like. And they had cinnamon twists, so I got you a few of those.”

He took the coffee, watching her close. Where was it? The anger? The resentment? Was she plotting something?

Blayne held the bag of sweets out for him and Bo took them. “Thank you,” he said, still suspicious even as he sipped his perfectly brewed coffee.

“You’re welcome.” And there went that grin again. Big and brighter than the damn sun. “And I get it. Seven means seven. Eight means eight, etc., etc. Got it, and I’m on it. It won’t happen again.” She said all that without a trace of bitterness and annoyance, dazzling Bo with her understanding more than she’d dazzled him with those legs.

“So,” she put her hands on her hips, “what do you want me to do first?”

Marry me? Wait. No, no. Incorrect response. It’ll just weird her out and make her run again. Normal. Be normal. You can do this. You’re not just a great skater. You’re a
normal
great skater.

When Bo knew he had his shit together, he said, “Let’s work on your focus first. And, um, should I ask what happened to your face?” She had a bunch of cuts on her cheeks. Gouges. Like something small had pawed at her.

“Nope!” she chirped, pulling off her sweatshirt. She wore a worn blue T-shirt underneath with B&G P
LUMBING
scrawled across it. With sweatshirt in hand, Blayne skated over to the bleachers, stopped, shook her head, skated over to another section of bleachers, stopped, looked at the sweatshirt, turned around, and skated over to the railing. “I should leave it here,” she explained, “In case I get chilly.”

It occurred to Bo he’d just lost two minutes of his life watching her try and figure out where to place a damn sweatshirt. Two minutes that he’d never get back.

“Woo-hoo!” she called out once she hit the track. “Let’s go!”

She was skating backward as she urged him to join her with both hands.

He pointed behind her. “Watch the—”

“Ow!”

“—pole.”

Christ, what had he gotten himself into?

Christ almighty, what had she gotten herself into?

Twenty minutes in and she wanted to smash the man’s head against a wall. She wanted to go back in time and kick the shit out of Genghis Khan before turning on his brothers, Larry and Moe. Okay. That wasn’t their names, but she could barley remember Genghis’s name on a good day, how the hell was she supposed to remember his brothers’? But whatever the Khan kin’s names may be, Blayne wanted to hurt them all for cursing her world with this…this…Visigoth!

Even worse, she knew he didn’t even take what she did seriously. He insisted on calling it a chick sport. If he were a sexist pig across the board, Blayne could overlook it as a mere flaw in his upbringing. But, she soon discovered, Novikov had a very high degree of respect for female athletes…as long as they were athletes and not just “hot chicks in cute outfits, roughing each other up. All you guys need is some hot oil or mud and you’d have a real moneymaker on your hands.”

And yet, even while he didn’t respect her sport as a sport, he still worked her like he was getting her ready for the Olympics.

After thirty minutes she wanted nothing more but to lie on her side and pant. She doubted the hybrid would let her get away with that, though.

Shooting around the track, Novikov stopped her in a way that she was finding extremely annoying—by grabbing her head with that big hand of his and holding her in place.

He shoved her back with one good push, and Blayne fought not to fall on her ass at that speed. When someone shoved her like that, they were usually pissed. He wasn’t.

“I need to see something,” he said, still nursing that cup of coffee. He’d finished off the cinnamon twists in less than five minutes while she was warming up. “Come at me as hard as you can.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking him over. He didn’t have any of his protective gear on, somehow managing to change into sweatpants and T-shirt and still make it down to the track exactly at seven. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she told him honesty.

The laughter that followed, however, made her think she did want to hurt him. She wanted to hurt him a lot. When he realized she wasn’t laughing with him—or, in this case, laughing at
herself
since he was obviously laughing
at
her—Novikov blinked and said, “Oh. You’re not kidding.”

“No. I’m not kidding.”

“Oh. Oh! Um…I’ll be fine. Hit me with your best shot.”

“Like Pat Benatar?” she joked, but when he only stared at her, she said, “Forget it.”

Blayne sized up the behemoth in front of her and decided to move back a few more feet so she could get a really fast start. She got into position and took one more scrutinizing look. It was a skill her father had taught her. To size up weakness. Whether the weakness of a person or a building or whatever. Of course, Blayne often used this skill for good, finding out someone’s weakness and then working to help them overcome it. Her father, however, used it to destroy.

Lowering her body, Blayne took a breath, tightened her fists, and took off. She lost some speed on the turn but picked it up as she cut inside. As Blayne approached Novikov, she sized him up one more time as he stood there casually, sipping his coffee and watching her move around the track. Based on that last assessing look, she slightly adjusted her position and slammed into him with everything she had.

And, yeah, she knocked herself out cold, but it was totally worth it when the behemoth went down with her.