Rules for Being a Mistress Read online

  They sat together on the bottom step, water up to their shoulders, and burned.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you, too,” he answered.

  “I think,” said Lady Rose Fitzwilliam to her partner as they were waltzing in her mother’s drawing-room, “that Miss Vaughn must be in love with you, Marcus. Why else would she refuse an offer from the Marquess of Redfylde?”

  It was a week after Lord Redfylde’s abrupt departure from Bath.

  Westlands looked smug. He suspected as much himself, and he rather enjoyed hearing the words spoken aloud. “Of course, she is in love with me,” he said proudly. “She has been in love with me since she was a child, poor girl. I gave her her first kiss.”

  Rose shivered. She could still feel her first kiss. Dante Vaughn, the blond god of love, had given it to her, behind a curtain at Lady Arbuthnot’s ball.

  A few feet away, Lord Ludham was patiently teaching Miss Vaughn the waltz. Miss Vaughn had never waltzed before, and she needed the practice for the ball Lady Matlock was giving in honor of her daughter’s betrothal. They had only been practicing a few days, but already poor Miss Vaughn was limping. It was as if she had been engaged for hours in some extreme activity that had left her body painfully sore. She could scarcely move.

  Millicent glided by in the arms of Roger Fitzwilliam. She had persuaded him to change his scent and he had promised to quit smoking. At first Miss Carteret had balked at attending the waltzing sessions at Lady Matlock’s. “I already know how to waltz,” she had protested, pouting. “I waltz very well.”

  “You must pretend not to,” her mama instructed. “Men love teaching women how to do this and that. It makes them feel masterful. So you must always pretend to be ignorant, Millie.”

  “I think,” Millicent sniffed now, “Miss Vaughn is only pretending to be ignorant in order to keep dancing with his lordship.”

  “I think,” Lord Westlands said, “she needs a better partner.”

  He wondered if it would be thought odd if he left Rose to teach his cousin the waltz. Ludham was obviously making balls of it.

  As he was just deciding against it Sir Benedict Wayborn suddenly left his partner, Lady Serena, and cut Lord Ludham out.

  Rather than pretend he was holding her left hand in his nonexistent right, Cosima simply placed both her hands on his shoulders. “There,” Benedict said, pleased with himself. “That ought to make her ladyship angry enough to refuse me.”

  The tips of her breasts tingled as always at the sound of his voice.

  “I have been a perfect beast to her for the last week, and still she won’t give me an answer. Stop fighting me, Miss Vaughn,” he added crossly as she stumbled against him. “Yield when I advance.”

  It took her a moment to realize he was referring to the dance. “In your dreams,” she said. “You must have me confused with that redhead of yours.”

  “Believe me, Miss Vaughn, there is no confusion. The one is sweet and generous, and the other is cold and heartless.”

  She raised a brow. “If that’s how you feel, maybe you should marry her, instead of me.”

  “We both know that is not possible.”

  She watched Serena whirling around the room in the arms of Lord Ludham. “Have you said at least three beastly things to her today?” she asked sullenly.

  “Certainly I did. I told her I despise women who dye their hair. I told her her maid is prettier than she is. And I declared my intention of waltzing with every young woman at Lady Matlock’s ball.”

  “You’re a cold hard bastard,” said Miss Vaughn. “No wonder she loves you so much.”

  The butler drifted into the room and spoke quietly to Lady Matlock, who was languidly fanning herself on a sofa as her guests danced. “What!” she cried, jumping up like a young gazelle and clapping her hands for the musicians to stop.

  The butler then addressed the company at large. “His Grace, the Duke of Kellynch.”

  “Bollocks,” Cosima whispered, her grip tightening on Benedict’s shoulders as her father’s half-brother lumbered into the room. Kellynch’s dark eyes widened appreciatively in his puffy, red face, then narrowed, as he saw the partner she was still embracing.

  Benedict calmly disentangled himself.

  Lady Matlock ran forward to greet her caller. “James! This is an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Emma,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks in the continental manner. “You’re looking ravishing, as usual. Sorry to interrupt,” he added carelessly.

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “These young people are just practicing the waltz,” she explained, “for a little ball I am giving in honor of my daughter’s engagement. It’s at the end of the month. The ball, not the engagement. I hope you will attend, now you are in Bath.”

  He leered at her. “Tempting,” he said. “Very tempting. But, I’m afraid, I have pressing concerns in Ireland. I shan’t be staying in Bath more than a day or two.”

  Miss Vaughn snorted audibly, drawing His Grace’s attention. “Perhaps you will introduce me to your company, my dear Emma?” he suggested. “Which of these charming young ladies is your daughter?”

  Rose came forward shyly and curtseyed.

  “Lovely,” the duke said greedily. “Charming.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew the Duke of Kellynch, Mama!” Rose said, staring at the infamous duke in fascination. She had heard that he was a rake and a libertine, but, she supposed, that must have been in his younger days. He was far too fat and old now to chase women. But he had Dante’s cool green eyes, so she could not help liking him.

  Kellynch chuckled. “I knew your mother when she was your age, my pretty. And she was just as luscious then as you are now. Tell me: who is the lucky man you have chosen for your husband?”

  “I have the honor of being engaged to Lady Rose,” said Westlands.

  Kellynch ignored him. “Come, my lovely,” he said to Rose. “Introduce me to your friends. But first, give your Uncle Jimmy a kiss. A little jealousy will do your young man good.”

  Giggling, Rose obliged him with a peck on the cheek. Rather unconventionally, she brought the duke to her guests, rather than the reverse, which would have been more proper. “Miss Vaughn, you know, of course,” she said when they reached Cosima.

  “Of course,” he said, kissing his niece’s hand extravagantly. “The beautiful and talented Cosy Vaughn. You have made quite a fool of poor Lord Redfylde, from what I hear, Cosy. It is all over London. I hope you will not live to regret your choice.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Uncle James,” she answered tartly. “I believe you know Sir Benedict Wayborn.”

  Kellynch looked amused. “Sir Benedict Wayborn?” he echoed, smiling. “I think not.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Benedict, frowning. “We did meet. Your Grace has forgotten.”

  “Oh, we’ve met, I grant you,” Kellynch replied. “But you’re not Sir Benedict Wayborn. You have been deceiving your company most shamefully.”

  He rocked on his heels, enjoying the sensation he had touched off in the room.

  “An imposter!” cried Lady Matlock. “How can this be?”

  “Ben?” said Cosima.

  Rose’s eyes were starting from her head.

  “What nonsense,” said Benedict. “Of course I am Sir Benedict Wayborn.”

  “No, you’re not,” Kellynch insisted. “You’re the Marquess of Oranmore.”

  “Oh, God!” said Cosima.

  “I am no such thing,” Benedict said firmly. “My maternal grandfather is still very much alive, I can assure you.”

  “Kenneth Redmund has been dead four months,” Kellynch declared. “May God rest his black and tarnished soul.”

  “It’s true,” Cosima said suddenly. “It was in the Times of Ireland, about the time we were leaving for England. Your grandfather’s dead, Ben. I’m sorry.”

  Benedict was taken aback. “It was not in the English papers,” he said. “My grandmother sent me
no word.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t, would she?” Kellynch snorted. “Your grandmother never forgave your mother for marrying against her wishes. She’ll cut you out of the succession, if she can.”

  Benedict scoffed. “This is all nonsense. Even if my grandfather is dead, I am not Lord Oranmore. There are at least four, possibly five, people who stand between the title and me.”

  Kellynch looked disappointed. “Too bad. I thought I was onto something there.”

  The small gathering in Lady Matlock’s drawing-room sighed in disappointment.

  Cosima exclaimed in disgust. “Very funny, Uncle James!”

  Kellynch laughed. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

  “Bastard,” she muttered.

  “And this is Lord Ludham,” Rose said quickly, leading the duke away. “And this is Lady Serena Calverstock. By Order of Precedence, I ought to have introduced them to you first,” she said ruefully. “Then Lady Dalrymple, then…But in all the excitement, I’m afraid I forgot all about the Order of Precedence.”

  “I have that effect on women,” Kellynch said modestly. He looked at Serena, smiling.

  “It’s quite all right,” Ludham assured Rose. “We are all friends here. We do not stand on ceremony. Serena is not offended, are you, old thing?”

  Serena could scarcely breathe, let alone speak. She stared at Kellynch in silent horror. He might have been a handsome rake in his youth, but he was a loathsome, bloated beast now. Redfylde had lost her bills to this man? For a moment, she feared she was going to faint.

  Ludham was concerned. “Serena? Are you quite all right?”

  Serena forced herself to smile. “Yes, of course, Felix. Perfectly all right. What brings you to Bath, Your Grace, if you have pressing concerns in Ireland?” she inquired politely.

  “I was feeling a little gouty,” Kellynch replied. “I decided to stop in Bath to sample the local cure. I’m a little acquainted with your brother-in-law, my dear,” he went on, his eyes resting on her powdered bosom. “Redfylde and I play cards whenever we are both in London with nothing else to do. From time to time, I sell him some horses.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said coolly.

  “May I just say, you are more beautiful than your portrait in the National Gallery.”

  “I was but sixteen when that was painted, Your Grace,” Serena replied.

  He shrugged. “It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at thirty than she is at twenty. You make the case for it. Redfylde told me you were a beauty, but he did not do you justice. A man could drown in your eyes, eh, Lord Ludham?”

  The lady flinched, wondering what else Redfylde had told the old degenerate.

  “They are striking up the waltz again,” said Kellynch, looking at her greedily. “Will you dance with me?”

  Serena curtseyed. She had no choice but to dance with him, and he knew it, she thought bitterly. There was no doubt in her mind that he had come to Bath to take possession of her. Unless she wanted to go to debtor’s prison, she would have to give him what he wanted. A private humiliation, she thought, must be easier to bear than a public one.

  “You dance beautifully,” the old lech murmured, closing his eyes as he turned her. “You make me wish I were twenty years younger.”

  Serena struggled to maintain her composure. “What do you want of me, Your Grace?”

  He raised his brows. “Want of you?”

  “I am not a child, Your Grace,” she said impatiently. “I know you have my bills. I cannot buy them back from you, as I’m sure you must know. I know that you can throw me into debtor’s prison any time you like. What are your terms?”

  He drew in his breath wistfully. “I don’t have your bills, my beauty. I wish I did, but I lost them on the turn of a card, I’m very sorry to say.”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said. “You won them from Redfylde on the turn of a card!”

  “I did,” he agreed, “but then I lost them again. Perhaps I gamble too much.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. When I found out you were thirty, I’m afraid I lost interest. How was I to know the years had been so very kind to you? God knows they have not been kind to me,” he complained.

  “Who?” she demanded. “Who has my bills?”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to use them to get you into bed,” said Kellynch. “But I daresay he has been preoccupied with the beautiful Miss Vaughn.”

  Serena gave a faint cry of distress. “Felix?” she hissed. “Felix holds my debts?”

  Kellynch was surprised. “Ludham? No! It is Sir Benedict Wayborn I mean.”

  Serena’s stricken violet eyes swung across the room and came to rest on that gentleman. He was dancing with Miss Vaughn. They seemed to be enjoying each other’s company.

  “It really is too bad,” Miss Vaughn was saying to her partner. “I’ve always wanted to be a marchioness. Ever since I was a little girl.”

  He smiled at her. “Then you should have married Redfylde,” he said.

  She shook her head. “He’d sell my house to Kellynch in a heartbeat, put my mother in a private hospital, and send Allie away to some cold English school where I’d never see her. No, thanks. Besides, you must know I could only marry with an Irishman.”

  “I’m not an Irishman.”

  Her green eyes sparkled. “No! You’re Protestant Ascendency scum. But that’s close enough for me. I’m sorry about your grandfather,” she added softly.

  “I never knew him. Shall we change partners?” he asked at the end of the dance. “It will appear conspicuous if we do not.”

  “You should dance with Serena,” she suggested impishly. “It will give you the opportunity to say three more beastly things to her. And step on her feet.”

  He did not wait long to take advantage of that opportunity.

  “You are looking very tired today, Serena,” he said. “Are you ill?”

  Serena looked at him coldly. She was fortunate, in a way, that marriage had always been Sir Benedict’s objective. Other men were not so “honorable.”

  “I’ve decided to accept your offer, Sir Benedict,” she calmly announced.

  He looked relieved.

  “I quite understand,” he said. “I don’t know what’s come over me the last few days. I’ve been beastly to you, I know. I do apologize, and I absolutely wish you the best.”

  She stared at him in angry astonishment. “Are you mocking me?”

  He shook his head. “No! Naturally, I’m very sorry that you find you cannot marry me. I am swallowing my disappointment as we speak.”

  “Sir Benedict,” she said severely, “I have just agreed to marry you. I am accepting your offer of marriage.”

  “Oh,” he said, stepping on her foot again. “Sorry! Are you sure? Quite sure? You don’t want to think about it a little more, perhaps?”

  “Bastard.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She forced a smile. “I said: of course, I’m sure. Felix!” she called to her cousin, who was dancing nearby with Miss Vaughn. “Felix, wish me happy. I have just agreed to become Sir Benedict’s wife.”

  Chapter 19

  “An interesting development,” Kellynch remarked, sidling up to Miss Vaughn.

  Cosima was rigid with impotent rage.

  “Excuse me,” she said, moving away from her uncle. “I have to go and collect my mother from the baths.” She could not bear to look at Benedict and Serena. She had no intention of congratulating them. She felt sick. Quickly, she took her leave of Lady Matlock.

  As she was leaving the drawing-room, Kellynch caught her by the elbow.

  “I’ll go with you, my dear. I have my carriage.”

  She tried to withdraw her arm, but he would not allow it. “What are you doing here in Bath?” she asked as they went out. “I haven’t changed my mind about selling Castle Argent, if that is what you think.”

  “It’s not always about you,” he chided. “It’s Allie’s birthday
,” he reminded her. “Did you think I would forget the birthday of my favorite niece just because she happens to be the sister of my least favorite person in the whole world?”

  “Oh, God!” Cosima said, horrified and guilty. Sadly, for the past week, she had gone completely shameless. If she wasn’t writhing in ecstasy with the man like an abandoned harlot, she was sure to be thinking impurely about him at all other times. She had forgotten Allie’s special day. Her golden birthday, too, for Allie was turning ten on the tenth of the month.

  She felt exactly like the wicked hussy she was.

  “Well, you’ve been busy pursuing your own pleasures,” Kellynch said dryly. “Dancing, breaking hearts. I’m not surprised you forgot your own sister’s birthday.”

  Cosima’s face was red. “You’re right! I’m the worst sister in the whole world. I’ve got to get her a present, Uncle Jimmy. Help me, please.”

  He yawned as the footman put down the steps of his big, comfortable carriage. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. “I daresay, Aggie did not remember either.”

  “No,” Cosima admitted, “but I’ve nothing like her excuse. She’s not getting any better.”

  “Well, she never was entirely well,” he pointed out, climbing into the coach, and beckoning her to follow. After a moment’s hesitation, she did. “Poor woman.”

  “The baths don’t seem to be helping much.”

  “At least she’s clean,” he said dryly. “I thought I’d take you all to the theater tonight,” he went on. “A girl only turns ten once.”

  She frowned. “What’s the play? Some of these plays are not appropriate for children, you know. It’s all smut and violence these days, everywhere you turn.”

  “It’s The Beaux Strategem, one of Sheridan’s best. I took you to see it in Dublin when you were Allie’s age, and look how beautifully you turned out. Do you remember?”

  “No.”

  He looked at her in silence for a moment. “You look thin, Cosy. I thought Lent had been and gone. You’re nearly as stringy as old Nora Murphy. I almost didn’t recognize you.”