More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (63 page)

I will never lose my trust in him because I will never stop loving him or knowing beyond any doubt that he loved me
.

Even the most experienced courtesan could be naïve on occasion, it seemed. Bamber had changed his mind. Her trust had been misplaced.

“You can order her off the premises without further ado,” the duke said. “I daresay she is even now packing her trunks—she knows the game is up. She could see that I recognized her. I will be eternally thankful that I did not bring Angeline with me. She wanted to come since Jane had to remain with the baby, but it has long been my practice to endure our sister’s incessant chatter only in small doses. Besides, I believe Heyward said no even before I did, and for some reason I still have not fathomed—it is certainly not fear—Angeline obeys him.”

But Ferdinand was not listening.

It is because he gave it to me
, she had said only an hour or so ago when he had asked why she loved Pinewood. London’s most celebrated courtesan had fallen in love with one of her clients—and had made the cardinal mistake of believing that he loved her in return.

“Where will she go?” he asked, more of himself than his brother. If she was no relative of Bamber’s, her options were cut down considerably.

“To the devil, for all I care,” Tresham said.

Ferdinand’s hands closed more tightly about the sill.

“Good Lord, Ferdinand,” his brother said, “you have
not conceived a
tendre
for the woman, have you? If this does not beat all—my brother infatuated with a whore!”

Ferdinand gripped the sill as if for dear life. “Whatever she is,” he said without turning, “she is under my protection while she is beneath this roof, Tresham. You will not use that word either of her or to her while you remain here, or you will answer to me.”

“Good God!” the Duke of Tresham said after a short, pregnant silence.

IOLA DRESSED CAREFULLY FOR DINNER IN A
pale blue silk evening gown, fashionably high-waisted and low at the bosom, but neither overdaring nor dowdily demure. It was one Mrs. Claypole herself had commended. Viola had Hannah dress her hair in a smooth, elegant chignon. She wore no jewelry, but only an evening shawl about her shoulders.

She had no idea whether Lord Ferdinand and the Duke of Tresham intended to dine at home. She had no idea if she would be denounced and banished from the dining room if they were there. But she was no coward. She would not hide away in her room. Neither would she go quietly if they tried to rid themselves of her company for dinner. After all, she was still living here under the assumption that she belonged here, that it was they who were the usurpers. No proof to the contrary had yet been shown her.

They were both in the dining room, both wearing black evening clothes with white linen, looking very much like the sons of Satan. They rose and bowed at her entrance.

They dined together, the three of them, in a strange charade of civility. Both gentlemen were meticulously polite, making sure that she had everything she needed, careful not to choose any topic of conversation that might exclude her. Under other circumstances, Viola
thought, she might have enjoyed herself. But these were not other circumstances. She was scandalously alone with two gentlemen. One of them knew who she was—or who she had been. It was impossible to tell if the other did too. But he would soon.

Viola did not afterward know quite what had been served for dinner or how many courses there had been. All she took away with her was the impression that Mrs. Walsh had excelled herself in deference to the presence of a duke at Pinewood. She found the meal interminable and rose to her feet as soon as she decently could.

“I will leave you to your port, gentlemen,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I will bid you good night and go straight to my room. I have a slight headache. I trust you are happy with your room and have everything you need, your grace?”

“Everything, thank you, ma’am,” he assured her.

“Miss Thornhill.” Lord Ferdinand Dudley drew a folded piece of paper from a pocket of his evening coat. “Would you oblige me by reading this in your own time?”

The will?
But it was just a single sheet. The Earl of Bamber’s will would surely be a fat document.

“Yes.” She took it from him.

It was not the will, she discovered when she had reached her room. It was not really a letter either. It was some sort of declaration, written in a bold, black hand. It stated that although the will of the late Earl of Bamber was not for copying or perusal by anyone unconnected with its contents, it had been produced and read in its entirety by the Duke of Tresham, his claim to an interest in its contents having been acknowledged. The paper asserted that beyond any doubt the will made no specific
mention of Pinewood Manor in Somersetshire and none of Miss Viola Thornhill. It was signed by the duke in the same bold, black hand, and by George Westinghouse, solicitor of the late Earl of Bamber.

Viola folded the paper and held it in her lap for a long time while she stared into space. He simply would not have changed his mind. And he would not have delayed. He had known that his health was poor. He had not expected to live more than a month or two longer. He would not have forgotten.

She would not lose faith in him—not again.

The will must have been changed without his knowledge. But there was no way on earth she was going to be able to prove that, of course. And so she had lost Pinewood. How sad he would be if he could know! She felt as sad for him at that moment as for herself—she could feel only numbness for herself. He had thought she was safe and secure for life. He had been cheerful, even happy, as he had bidden her good-bye forever—they had both known it was forever.

A tear plopped off Viola’s cheek and darkened the fabric of her skirt.

T
HE
D
UKE OF
T
RESHAM
stayed only until early afternoon of the following day. He was interested in seeing the house and park and home farm, all of which Ferdinand showed him during the morning, but he was eager to return to London and his family. The baby was colicky, he explained, and Jane needed his support during the nights of disturbed sleep. Ferdinand listened to the
explanation in some fascination but without comment. Was it not a nurse’s job to stay up with a fussy baby? Did Tresham really allow his sleep to be disturbed by a child?

Was it really possible that a marriage that had begun four years ago as an apparent love match had continued as such? With Tresham, of all people? Could he possibly be steadfast in his devotion? And faithful to Jane? Could she be faithful to him? Even now, after she had dutifully borne Tresham two sons—an heir and a spare, to use the vulgar parlance? Jane was a beautiful woman, and a spirited one too.

Was there really such a thing as true, lasting marital love? Even within his own family?

But it was too late to take any real interest in learning the answer. One day too late. Yesterday she had been Viola Thornhill, wholesome, lovely, innocent. Today she was Lilian Talbot, beautiful, experienced—and deceitful to the core of her cold heart.

“I wish you had let me have a word with her this morning, Ferdinand,” the duke said as they stood together outside his traveling carriage. “You lack the necessary resolve for performing unpleasant tasks. And you are emotionally involved. I could have had her out of here by now.”

“Pinewood is mine, Tresham,” Ferdinand said firmly. “And everything concerned with it, even its problems.”

“Take my advice and don’t allow her to spend another night here.” His brother laughed shortly. “But Dudleys have never taken well to advice, have they? Will we be seeing you in London before the Season is over?”

“I don’t know,” Ferdinand said. “Probably. Maybe not.”

“A decisive answer indeed,” Tresham said dryly, and took his seat in the carriage.

Ferdinand raised a hand in farewell and watched until the carriage disappeared among the trees. Then he turned and walked back into the house with firm strides. It was time to get rid of the intruder. It was time to harden his heart and behave like a man. Like a Dudley.

The butler was hovering in the hall.

“Jarvey,” Ferdinand said grimly, “have Miss Thornhill in the library within the next two minutes.” But he paused when his hand was on the doorknob and the butler was already on the second stair. “Jarvey, ask Miss Thornhill if she will wait upon me in the library at her earliest convenience.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He stood at the library window, looking out, until he heard the door open and close behind him. He had not even been sure she was at home. He turned to look at her. She was dressed very simply in a light muslin day dress. Her hair was in its usual neat coronet of braids. He looked her over from head to toe. Perhaps after all Tresham had been mistaken, and his own memory had played tricks on him.

“Good afternoon, Miss Talbot,” he said.

She did not answer immediately. But his foolish hope died an instant death. A faint smile played about her lips. It was just the expression she had worn at the theater—and in the hall yesterday when he had presented her to Tresham.

“You address me by a name that is not my own,” she said.

“You knew very
well
where I had seen you before,” he
said, his eyes raking her again, with anger this time. How dare she look just so at him! He had been kind to her. But then, she would despise kindness. Good Lord, he thought as if realizing it for the first time, he had been sharing a house with
Lilian Talbot
.

“On the contrary.” She raised her eyebrows. “Where
did
you see me, Lord Ferdinand? It was not in any bed you have ever occupied. I believe I might have remembered that. Of course, despite your claim to be wealthy, you probably could not have afforded me, could you?”

Her eyes were sweeping over him as she spoke, giving him the peculiar notion that he was being stripped naked and found wanting—rather as if he had regressed ten years or so to the time when he had shot up to a gangly, spindly height, all legs and sharp elbows and teeth too large for his face.

“At the theater,” he said. “With Lord Gnass.”

“Ah, yes, Lord Gnass,” she said. “He
could
afford me and liked demonstrating the fact.”

He could hardly believe how she had been transformed before his eyes.

“I suppose,” he said curtly, “Viola Thornhill is an alias. No wonder Bamber has never heard of you. I suppose no one at Pinewood or in the neighborhood knows your real identity.”

“Viola Thornhill is my real name,” she said. “Lilian Talbot died a natural death two years ago. Are you disappointed? Were you hoping to sample her favors before you toss me out? I was always too expensive for you, Lord Ferdinand. I still am, no matter how large your fortune is.”

She was regarding him with that sensuous, scornful
half smile. He was repulsed by it and by her words. But he felt his temperature rise despite himself.

“I would waste not a penny of my fortune on purchasing the favors of a whore, Miss Talbot,” he told her. He probably would have felt instant shame at his choice of words if she had shown any sign of mortification or even anger. But the look on her face merely deepened to amusement.

“I could not be tempted,” he added.

She came closer then, stopping just beyond touching distance—and after he had taken an involuntary step back until his heels clicked against the base of the wall behind him. Her eyes had become heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes, he thought. With a voice to match, he observed a moment later when she spoke again.

“That sounds very much like a challenge,” she said. “I am very, very skilled, my lord. And you are very, very male.”

She seemed somehow to have sucked half the air out of the room, leaving precious little to supply the need of his lungs.

“Would you care to make a wager?” she asked him.

“A wager?” He felt deuced uncomfortable, though he would not take another step back even if he could. He was already trapped against the window, looking like a bloody idiot. How had he maneuvered himself into this awkward position anyway? He was the one who had summoned her. He had been going to give her a piece of his mind before ordering her to leave before sundown.

“That I can seduce you,” she said. “Or not. However you want it phrased. Bed you. Pleasure you. Cater to all your deepest and darkest sexual fantasies.”

Fury held him speechless.
This
was the woman he had
pitied? Grown to like? Even fancied himself half in love with? Considered marrying? Was he indeed so gauche? Such a dupe? So easily manipulated? For he could see clearly now that he had been clay in her hands from the first. She had soon realized that she could not drive him away and so had planned a different solution to her problems. She had accomplished her goal with humiliating ease—humiliating for him. If Tresham had not arrived when he had and recognized her, there was no knowing what the rest of the day might have accomplished for her. He might be betrothed to her now. He might at this moment be at the vicarage, arranging to have the first banns read on Sunday.