No Man's Mistress (18 page)

Just there, she thought, her eyes on the distant hill, Ferdinand had held and kissed her hand and begun to ask her to marry him. She had not allowed him to speak more than her name, but she was convinced that that was what he had been about to do, presumptuous as it might be to believe it. For a moment she had been very, very tempted. It had taken all her willpower to snatch away her hand and turn the moment.

He can destroy you—if you do not first snare his heart
.

She had not been able to bring herself to do it.

And there, just there, she thought, moving her eyes lower, she had run shrieking and laughing into his arms and had kissed him with all the passion she had ruthlessly denied just a few minutes before. It had been one of those magical moments, like the throwing contest at the fête and the maypole dance and the kiss behind the oak. One more brief memory to tuck away for future comfort. Except that comfort would be all mingled up with pain.

It would have been easy to snare his heart. And easier still to lose her own.

The door opened behind her.

“Hannah,” she said, “the Duke of Tresham has just arrived from London.”

“Yes, Miss Vi.” Hannah did not sound at all surprised.

“He recognized me.”

“Did he, lovey?”

Viola drew a slow, deep breath. “You might as well pack my things,” she said. “I think you might as well, Hannah.”

“Where will we be going?” her maid asked.

Again the slow breath. But it did not keep the tremor from her voice when she spoke. “I don't know, Hannah. I'll have to think.”

“Come into the library,” Ferdinand said, leading the way. He felt a little embarrassed being caught returning from a walk with Viola Thornhill as if it were the most proper thing in the world to be sharing a house with a single young lady and living on amicable terms with her. He poured his brother a drink.

Tresham took the glass and sipped from it. “You get yourself into the most unbelievable scrapes,” he said.

Ferdinand felt irritated again. He was three years younger than his brother, and Tresham had always been autocratic, especially since inheriting the title and all the responsibilities that went with it at the age of seventeen, but Ferdinand was no longer a boy to be criticized and scolded—especially in his own home.

“What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Throw her out on her ear? She is convinced that Pinewood is hers, Tresham. Bamber—Bamber's father, that is—promised it to her.”

“Are you sleeping with her?” his brother asked.

“Am I… Good Lord!” Ferdinand's hands closed into fists at his sides.
“Of course
I am not sleeping with her. I am a gentleman.”

“My point exactly.” Tresham had his quizzing glass in hand again. If he raised it to his eye, Ferdinand thought, he would be sorry.

“It was rash of her to insist upon staying here with me, of course,” Ferdinand said. “But it is also a measure of the trust she has placed in me as a gentleman. She is
an innocent, Tresham. I would not sully that.” He thought guiltily of the kisses he had shared with her.

His brother set down his glass on a library shelf and sighed. “You really don't know her, then,” he said. “You have not recognized her. I suspected as much.”

And Tresham
did
know her? Ferdinand stared as him transfixed, a premonition of disaster holding him motionless.

“She has looked familiar from the start,” he said. “But I just cannot place her.”

“Perhaps,” the duke said, “if she had introduced herself by her real name, Ferdinand, your memory would not have played such tricks on you. She is better known in certain London circles as Lilian Talbot.”

Ferdinand stood where he was for a moment longer before turning sharply and crossing the room to the window. He stood there with his back to the room, all the cloudy layers ripping away from his memory.

He had been at the theater in London one evening several years ago, sitting in the pit with some friends. The play had already begun, but even so, there had been a sudden noticeable stir from the boxes and a buzz from the predominantly male preserve of the pit. Ferdinand's nearest companion had dug him in the ribs with an elbow and pointed with his thumb toward the party arriving late in one of the boxes. Lord Gnass, an aging but still notorious roué, was removing the russet satin cloak of his female companion to reveal a shimmering gold gown beneath—and a daring amount of the voluptuous flesh of the woman inside the gown.

“Who is she?” Ferdinand had asked, raising his quizzing glass to his eye, as a large number of other gentlemen were doing.

“Lilian Talbot,” his friend had explained.

It was the only explanation necessary. Lilian Talbot was enjoying enormous fame even though she was rarely seen in public. She was said to be lovelier and more desirable than Venus or Aphrodite or Helen of Troy all rolled into one. And almost as unattainable as the moon.

Ferdinand had been able to see that reports of her had not been exaggerated. Even apart from her glorious, shapely body, she had a classically beautiful face and hair of a rich dark red set in elaborate but elegant curls high on her head and trailing down onto her long, swanlike neck. She sat down, set one bare arm along the velvet edge of the box, and directed her gaze toward the action on the stage as if she were unaware that the attention of almost the entire audience was on her.

Lilian Talbot was London's most celebrated, most sought-after, most expensive courtesan. But part of her allure was the fact that no one, not even the wealthiest, highest ranked, most influential lord of the
ton
, had ever been able to persuade her to become his mistress. One night was all she would grant of her favors to any man. Some said that no one could afford more than that anyway.

Lilian Talbot. Alias Viola Thornhill.

I am no man's mistress
.

“I saw her only once at the theater,” Ferdinand said, staring at the fountain in the box garden without seeing it. “I never met her. Did you?”

“Once,” Tresham said.

Once?
“Did you—”

“No,” his brother replied coolly, without waiting for the question to be completed. “I preferred to mount mistresses for long-term comfort rather than one-time-only courtesans for sensation and prestige. What the devil is she doing here?”

“She is a relative of Bamber's,” Ferdinand said, bracing both hands on the windowsill. “His father must have been fond of her. He sent her down here and promised to leave her Pinewood in his will.”

The duke laughed derisively. “She must have serviced him well if he was prepared to offer her such an extravagant gift after one night,” he said. “Doubtless he paid her outrageous fee as well. But he came to his senses in time. It is why I am here, Ferdinand. You might wait until doomsday for Bamber to exert himself. I called on his solicitor and persuaded him to let me see the will. There is no mention in it of either Viola Thornhill or Lilian Talbot. And the present Bamber has never heard of the former, though perhaps he has of the latter. He was clearly unaware that she was living here. Pinewood Manor is without a doubt yours. I am pleased for you. It appears to be a pretty enough property.”

Not a relative, but a satisfied customer.

He loved me
. Ferdinand could hear her voice down on the riverbank as if she were still speaking.
And I loved him
.

Pinewood had been the impulsive gift of a grateful, dazzled man, who had just been well serviced in bed.

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.

V
iola dressed carefully for dinner in a pale blue silk evening gown, fashionably high-waisted
Y
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.