His Mistress by Morning (8 page)

Charlotte blushed, for she’d meant it quite innocently. In the reflection, she spied Fenwick glancing heavenward, obviously viewing such a statement as only one more burden for him to bear for this household.

Just then a footman came bustling in the room. “Fenwick, where is his nibs? I’ve got a message from ’er ladyship that the old girl wants ’em to—” The man came to a fumbling halt before the startling tableau of the family butler, Lord Trent, and his lordship’s mistress standing together as if such a sight were perfectly normal. The man muttered something in Gaelic, then snapped his mouth shut.

Fenwick straightened. “What is it, Patrick? Be quick about it, lad.”

The butler’s authoritative voice snapped the poor servant out of his shock. “Her ladyship sent me to see what is taking Lord Trent so long. She’s in an awful state over his absence. Ready to ring a peel over someone’s head about it, she is.” He bobbed his head toward the viscount. “’Iffin you don’t mind me saying.”

“Not in the least. My mother can be, well, shall we say, a rather formidable pain.”

“Her ladyship is correct,” Fenwick said. “You should be at the Burkes’. They are probably waiting to make the
announcement
.”

His emphasis on the last word startled Charlotte probably more than Lyman’s foul treatment had.

Announcement? But that could mean only one thing….

Sebastian heaved a sigh and wiped his hand on one of the leftover cloths. “There now, Paddy, you’ve delivered your edict, and I am off to my…breakfast,” he said, correcting Fenwick. “Come along, my dear, I doubt I can trust you to Fenwick’s tender care—I hear tell he was a lascivious devil in his younger days and may still have a bit of the masher left in him.”

Fenwick colored, while Paddy smirked—that is until the butler shot the younger servant a quelling look that warned both against laughing at his lordship’s jest or repeating it.

Sebastian led Charlotte along, not that she really noticed herself being towed out of the house, for she was lost in thought.

It wasn’t just a mere Venetian breakfast the Burkes were throwing this morning, but a betrothal party. For Lord Trent and Miss Burke
.

Outside the house, his smart and dashing curricle awaited him, and they stopped before it.

“I suppose you must go,” she said, once again feeling all too lost and alone.

“What? Are you leaving me to the wolves so soon?” he said, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. The entire scene would have been delightfully romantic if she hadn’t known where he was going. “There now, Lottie, my love. You don’t think I’m going to leave you here on
the street, do you? Actually running into you was fate—you’ve saved me from myself.”

“But your mother…and…and…”

“Miss Burke,”
he said, finishing it for her. “You know how I feel about all that.”

No, no, she didn’t
.

“My parents are putting pressure on me to marry the chit, her family is delighted, but…I…” He took a deep breath, then looked down at her. “She’s not you.”

Charlotte took a step back.
Not me?

“Don’t look like that,” he rushed to say. “I know you think I should marry her.”

Marry Miss Burke? She’d rather see him marry some…Cyprian. Charlotte winced.

Sebastian continued to explain. “Certainly would plump up the pockets, marrying Lavinia and all, but demit, Lottie, how can I? Not until I know for certain that…”

He gazed into her eyes, a pleading look that pierced her heart.

Know what?
she wanted to demand.

“Oh, you are a wretched girl,” he laughed. “I swear I could drown in those eyes of yours. Now do what you do best and lead me astray today.” He grinned, once again the rakish devil she didn’t recognize but found utterly irresistible. “Or at the very least let me take you home—unless you want to walk?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she didn’t mind walking since it was only just around the corner, but then she remembered she didn’t live around the corner anymore.

For that matter, she didn’t have any idea how to get to
Little Titchfield Street, as she hadn’t been paying attention earlier.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I would be in your debt.”

He laughed at her prim speech. “You are in an odd mood today. ‘In my debt,’ indeed!” He bowed formally, deep and low, and when he arose, there was that mischievous light in his eyes. “Come along, Lottie, my love. I have a better idea. Let us see how this day fares. Forget the Burkes, forget my mother, forgo your fittings and interminable admirers, forget everything but us. Will you? Will you spend the day with me?”

Her heart quaked, for wasn’t this what she had always dreamed? Wanted more than anything? Wished for all these years?

So what else could she do but take his hand….

T
he horses set out smartly and quickly, and Charlotte caught hold of the first thing she could find to hang onto, which happened to be Lord Trent’s solid arm. She’d never ridden in anything so high, and now she found herself almost dizzy, what with the way it swayed and the speed with which Sebastian drove.

“Must you go so fast?” she asked as he wheeled daringly around a corner.

“How else can I get you to hold me so?” he teased, glancing down to where she had a tight grip on his sleeve. “Of course, father’s valet will be in a pique over the creases.” He winked at her and tore around another corner.

The ribbons of her bonnet flapped wildly, and her heart beat with the same incoherent flutter.

Whatever am I doing here?
she thought.
This is utter madness.
Proper ladies certainly didn’t ride about unescorted and in such a madcap fashion.

But never in her wildest dreams (which, given her
current circumstances, had been rather tame) would she have imagined what it was like to be the object of Lord Trent’s affections.

His very heart.

She slanted a glance up at him, and right then he turned and grinned at her, the kind of bonny, shared bon vivant sort of look that tugged at her heart. As if he knew just how to please her and delighted in doing so.

“Why aren’t you at Arbuckle’s?” he asked. “Studio too cold for you?”

Charlotte colored. The temperature had been the least of her concerns.

“I wasn’t inclined to pose today,” she said quite honestly. She didn’t care what Quince said; she and this Lottie creature were about as far apart as King George and the poor man’s sanity.

Standing about in her altogether? Charlotte shuddered.

He laughed and shifted the reins from one hand to the other. “No wonder you turned up in Mayfair—you’ve put that old fusspot Arbuckle in knots, and I gather you’ve left Finny in a snit.” He turned and smiled at her. “To be honest, I don’t like the idea of you posing for him.”

“You don’t?” she said, feeling thrilled to have someone on her side.

“Certainly not,” he told her, buoying her convictions for a moment until he continued, “can’t afford to buy the demmed thing myself, and it will cause a regular riot when Arbuckle exhibits it. Not that you care—you’ll be purring over the added attention. Buried in flowers and offerings.”

“Exhibit it?” Charlotte barely heard the rest of his lament, still stuck on the notion that this painting would be
hanging for all to see. Her stomach sank with dread.

“It will be last year all over,” Sebastian said, shaking his head. “You’ll be the talk of the town for weeks.” He turned and looked at her almost wistfully. “Sometimes I wish you were plain and proper, a regular miss like one of my sisters.”

“But I am,” she protested.

Sebastian burst out laughing, as if he’d never heard anything so funny. “You? Ordinary?” His gaze swept over her artful gown and fancy bonnet. “Lottie, there isn’t an ordinary bone in your body.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. She didn’t feel anything but ordinary. Certainly the clothes and hair were different, but she was the same Charlotte Wilmont he’d overlooked so easily yesterday.

Oh, what a tangle.

“What say we attend the races out at Lord Saunderton’s?” he was asking. “He and the earl intend to settle their bet this afternoon over the earl’s new Arabian and Saunderton’s roan, but I hear tell they’ve opened up the afternoon for all sorts of contests.”

“Horse races?” she managed. He wanted to take her to something as scandalous as a private horse race?

Hadn’t she heard her mother aver that those sort of events attracted the worst sort of triflers and rakes, pickpockets and sharpsters and all sorts of ladies of negligible reputations like Corinna Fornett…

Or Lottie Townsend.

His brows waggled. “They’re going to be running your favorite, Rathburn.”

“My—” Charlotte pressed her lips together. She had a favorite racehorse?

“And if that isn’t enough, they’ve got O’Brien and McConnell slated to box—but this time bet on McConnell. I know you fancy that O’Brien’s more handsome, but I hear tell McConnell’s in rare form of late, and I do say, O’Brien is due to lose.”

“O’Brien?” she repeated, a bit dazed. First a favorite racehorse, now a pugilist?

“Oh, then have your O’Brien,” he said, not even noticing her shock and confusion. “But don’t you remember the last time Saunderton had one of these races and you insisted on betting on that Scottish fellow, oh, what was his name—” He looked at her as if she was going to have it on the tip of her tongue.

She shook her head wanly.

“No matter, we were both rather foxed that afternoon,” he said, settling back in his seat. “You insisted that Scottish bloke was going to win and you bet all your money on him, only to see him take a facer two minutes in and land at your feet.” He laughed uproariously, then paused and looked at her as if he expected her to be just as gay about it. “Oh, you can’t still be vexed, ’tis a funny story. I don’t know who you were more in a temper at—me for letting you bet all your money or the poor delirious Scot for bleeding all over your new gown.”

Blood?
She’d have to see blood? Oh, she didn’t care what Quince averred about this life being hers—she couldn’t imagine ever choosing to watch two men pummel each other, let alone get close enough to find herself in the midst of it.

“I’m sure there will be dice and quinze enough to delight even you,” he told her. “What do you say, Lottie? Shall we spend the day doing what we love?”

As scandalous as it all was, never mind the fact that she hadn’t the least notion how to play quinze, dice or bet on a horse, Sebastian had said the one thing that would have convinced her to dare the very gates of hell—which surely a race at Lord Saunderton’s was as close as one could get.

“We.”

Never mind Miss Burke’s Venetian breakfast. Forget his pending betrothal. His family’s expectations. Society’s scorn.

“We.”

The connotations of those two letters pressed together tangled up her common sense and let the wild beat of her heart be her answer.

“Yes. That sounds utterly delightful,” she told him, primly folding her hands in her lap, as if she’d just accepted a dance at Almack’s.

Sebastian laughed uproariously. “Delightful? That’s yet to be seen. We’ll see how delightful the day is if we come home with empty purses like we did the last time.” He continued chuckling. “Hope you’ve learned your lesson since then.”

“I assure you,” she told him, “I am quite a changed woman.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Don’t change too much, Lottie. I love you just the way you are, just the same as you were the day we met.”

The day we met.
Those words brought Charlotte’s gaze up. How had they met? Since it was obvious she was no longer bosom bows with Hermione, they would have had to have met some other way.

“Lord Trent—”

“Gads, Lottie, you are formal today. Is this your way of sending me packing?”

“No! Never!” she gasped. She couldn’t imagine herself ever sending him away.

“Sebastian, then,” he told her.

“Sebastian,” she repeated, liking the intimacy of it. “How did we meet?”

He looked over at her, his brow furrowed. “You are an odd one today.”

“Humor me,” she said, smiling as winsomely as she could. “Tell me how we met.”

He shook his head. “Whatever for?”

“I just like the way you tell it. Indulge me,
Sebastian
.” She let his name purr over her tongue, and it seemed to do the trick.

“Well, enough. I won you in a bet,” he said as they wheeled past a grinning old woman selling posies of violets from the wide basket in her arms.

“Quince!” called out a deep, sultry voice.

The lady flinched and tried to duck into the crowd, but a strong hand clapped down on her shoulder and held her fast.

She glanced around at the tall, stunningly handsome man who held her. Stylish to the point of perfection, he wore his burnished hair a la Brutus, while his azure coat only made his sky blue eyes look all that much more piercing. He hadn’t shirked on a perfectly tied cravat—a waterfall, she believed it was called—and finally, his long, muscular legs were encased in black Hessians that shone like a new moon.

His beauty and perfection would have turned heads—female and male alike—if he’d been able to be seen, but Milton barely tolerated this realm, considered it beneath himself to be gaped at by mere humans.

“Milton, you bothersome devil!” She tried to twist free, but his hand went to her elbow and he started to steer her toward an empty alley. “Whatever are you doing here?”

He snorted in reply.

So he knew about the wish. That couldn’t be good news.

Quince decided another tack was needed. “Posies, my lord,” she said, taking one of her bundles and shoving it up under his nose.

He brushed aside her offering and frowned at her. “I’ll have none of your tricks, Quince. I can only imagine what sort of deviltry you’ve doused those blossoms in. Tell me, will they turn my affections to thoughts of love? Make me more amenable to this disaster you’ve concocted? I hope not, since you’ve been warned time and time again not to play such games with these poor defenseless mortals.”

She buried the violets back in her basket, hastily and with no small measure of guilt.

“Now where is the ring?” he demanded, only letting her go once they’d reached a large pile of refuse. The stench burned her delicate nose, and she turned and gazed longingly toward the bright sunshine filling the street from which they’d come.

But Milton stood between her and freedom, and he looked in no mood to let her pass.

Not until he’d concluded his business.

“Where is the ring?” he repeated.

Quince shifted the basket in front of her. Poor protection, but it was all she had. “I fear that’s a long story—”

He crossed his arms over his vast chest. “I have as long as it takes.”

Of course he did. This was Milton.

“I truly meant to retrieve it—”

“You always do—”

“This time was different,” she insisted. “I had every intention of arriving in time to gain it, but when I got there it was already gone.”

Milton shot her one of his infamous arched glances, the kind that sent the rest of her kin into a panic, but she clung to her resolve.

And her story.

“The solicitor arrived before I—”

“A solicitor?”

“A fellow who assists in the law, a lawyer.”

Milton snorted again, showing his disdain for the profession. Time had never given lawyers and their ilk a favorable impression. “And so what does this…this…”

“Solicitor,” she supplied.

“Lawyer,” he said, “have to do with the ring? Slipping past this fellow should have been no problem for someone with your proclivity for, shall we say, avoidance.”

Quince smiled, despite the fact that she knew he wasn’t offering praise for her “talents.” “He already had the ring and had passed it on. With it on her finger, what could I do?”

“It took you that long to find it?”

“I, um, well, you know dear Ursula died rather abruptly, and there was that other matter, which, I might remind you, you insisted I finish first—”

“Quince, if I didn’t know better, I’d guess you deliberately dawdled and let my ring pass on to Ursula’s niece.”

“My ring”?
Of all the high-handed, arrogant…

“Well, did you or didn’t you?” he demanded.

She pressed her lips shut and decided it was the better
part of valor to say nothing. No use telling an outright lie. Milton would see right through that, and then there would be hell to pay.

Literally.

“What’s done is done,” she finally declared. “And now Charlotte has the ring.”

“Yes, she does. You should never have let her keep it.”

“What was I to do? Like I said, it was on her finger by the time I arrived.”

“Then you should have stolen it back,” he pointed out. “It isn’t like you haven’t done
that
before.”

Quince glanced away. Milton and his impeccable memory.

“And now see what has happened!” he declared. “She’s gone and made a wish. Another wish, Quince.” He shook his head.

“Hers was such a tiny one—”

Milton’s gaze darkened like a thundercloud, and this time Quince’s bravado started to crack.

“A tiny one?” He pressed his lips together. “You’ve turned the entire world upside down. You’ve made a mess of things.” His jaw set with the same impassible fortitude of a Scottish mountain.
“Again.”

“Again?” Quince ruffled at this. “When have I ever—”

“The Hundred Years War?”

“I hardly think you can still hold me responsible for that,” she huffed.

“It was only supposed to last for fifty, Quince!”

She stared at the toes of her boots and didn’t dare look up into his most likely furious gaze.

“End this wish, Quince.”

Her head swung up. “I can’t! She’s wished, and you for
one know I certainly can’t just end it like that,” she said, snapping her fingers at him.

“Yes, you can. From what I heard her saying, protesting more like it, she was none too pleased with your handiwork. Find this girl and tell her the truth—that all she has to do is disavow her wish and all will return to normal.”

How like Milton to eavesdrop. Hadn’t the man any pride?

Anyway, a little protest was normal in these circumstances. Charlotte would come around eventually.

“But Milton, with a little time—”

“How long?” he asked. “Ten years? Twenty.
A hundred?
” His brow quirked upward.

Gracious, couldn’t he forgive her for that one?

“Quince,” he said, his words thick with warning. “None of your protests, none of your chicanery. Tell this girl at once that she can go back, and when she does, get my ring.”

“You won me?” Charlotte said, not knowing whether to be insulted or outraged.

Rather a bit of both, she had to imagine.

“Perhaps I cheated a bit,” Sebastian admitted, looking well pleased with himself.