The Accidental Mistress (2 page)

Of course, were his older brothers, Arthur and Frederick, alive, he wouldn't be facing this particular dilemma. Arthur would be marquis now, no doubt long since married with children of his own. But by some cruel twist of fate, both of his brothers had lost their lives during an attempt to save a tenant's child from drowning in a storm-swollen river. Frederick had dived in first; then, when his brother failed to emerge, Arthur had followed. In the end, all three had perished, both men and the child.

Ethan had often wondered what might have happened had he been home that fateful day instead of traveling on the Continent. Would he have been able to save them? Or would he, too, have lost his life? He knew he would gladly have traded places, gladly have died in order to save the life of even one of his brothers. Instead, in an instant, he'd gone from third in line to being marquis, a position he had never once craved for himself.

After the accident, he'd arrived home raw with grief over the loss of his brothers only to find every eye upon him—family, servants, and tenants, all looking to him for guidance and reassurance. Feeling his old, carefree life slip like sand from his grasp, he'd done his best to step into Arthur's shoes and honor what his older brother had left behind.

In the twelve years since, Ethan had risen to the challenge, learning what he must, meeting each expectation and every demand with determination and fortitude. There was one obligation, however, upon which he had long turned his back, stubbornly retaining that last bit of independence—until now.

He remembered his friend the Duke of Wyvern's reaction when he'd mentioned his decision last week.

"You cannot mean it," Anthony Black had said, his brandy snifter frozen halfway to his mouth. "Why on earth do you want to go and get leg-shackled? Especially when you've a surfeit of beautiful, willing women climbing in and out of your bed. Women, I might add, who have no expectations of achieving a ring out of the deal."

Leaning back in his chair at Brooks's Club, Ethan met his friend's midnight-blue gaze. "Because it's time, Tony, whether I want it to be or not. I can't put this off forever. I need to think to my future, the family's future. It's my duty to set up my nursery and father an heir or two to assure the title."

Tony waved a dismissive hand, his ruby signet ring winking red as a prime Bordeaux in the mellow candlelight. "That's what cousins are for—to continue the line when the present titleholder doesn't wish to be bound for life."

"So you are as set against marriage as ever, then?" Ethan said, already knowing Tony's answer. "But won't you regret not having sons? Do you truly not mind the idea of letting your cousin Reggie inherit the dukedom?"

Tony produced a quiet snort. "Reggie is a bit of a dandified fool, I'll grant, but he'll do well enough. Besides, I don't plan on dying anytime soon. If I have my way, I'll outlive Reggie, and one of his sons or grandsons will take the title. As for sons of my own, well, one can't have everything in life."

The duke rubbed a fingertip over one of the understated gold buttons on his white Marcella waistcoat. "Besides, just think if I swore off my bachelor state and married some vapid miss. We'd likely end up at each other's throats and she'd give me nothing but daughters, just to be spiteful. No, my friend, I prefer to remain single."

I wish I could be so sanguine,
Ethan had mused at the time.
How much simpler everything would be.

"If you are determined to pursue this folly," Tony said, "which I can see by your face that you are, then I assume you will be dancing attendance on this year's crop of eligible debutantes."

Ethan grimaced. "I've already viewed this year's crop and last year's as well—the past decade's worth, come to think, and there's none who strike my fancy. Each girl is just like the next, all of them silly, giggling misses who think of nothing but acquiring a fine title and enough money to keep them in fancy silks, grand carriages, and extravagant parties for the rest of their natural lives." He shook his head. "No, courting one would be grim work indeed, especially since any girl I chose would undoubtedly expect me to profess undying love for her, despite us both knowing such devotion to be a lie."

"If not the marriage mart, then what? I fail to see how you plan to accomplish your goal otherwise."

Ethan set a fist beneath his chin. "Have I ever told you about my neighbor, the Earl of Sutleigh? When my brothers and I were all just babes, my mother apparently made a pact with the earl, the pair of them deciding that one of her sons would someday marry one of his daughters. A tacit understanding has existed between our families ever since, though it is not widely known.

"Arthur, of course, was expected to marry Sutleigh's eldest girl Matilda, but that idea ended with his death, and Frederick's. If Mother could have managed it, she would have pushed the match for me, but I wasn't about to wed then no matter Mama's protestations. The following spring Matilda married another and I was off the hook."

"So what has changed?"

"Sutleigh's youngest daughter, who just turned seventeen. After a great deal of consideration, I've decided to offer for her. Not only is she eminently suitable to be my marchioness, marrying her will honor the old agreement between her family and mine."

"Good God, Ethan, have you even met the chit?"

"Yes, for a few minutes at last year's family yuletide celebration. She's a pretty child, well-bred and biddable. What more do I need to know?"

"That you are insane to bind yourself to her. You'll be bored in a fortnight."

"If I am, what will it matter? She will provide me heirs, and in return I will allow her to go her own way so long as she is discreet. The arrangement is sure to suit us both."

So why does it already seem so hollow and dissatisfying?
he wondered.

Perhaps he'd spent too much time around his friends Rafe and Julianna Pendragon. Of all the couples he knew, their marriage was one of the few based on genuine, lasting love, the relationship made even more special by its uniqueness. But such unions were rare, particularly for those of their class.

"So when is the felicitous event?" Tony questioned with a cynical twist to his lips.

"Not for some months yet, since Amelia is still in the schoolroom. I've sent a letter asking to call upon her father and he has agreed. I have no doubt he will greet my offer with felicity. So I am off to Bath, where the earl is taking the waters. I don't expect the two of us to arrive at anything more than a casual understanding for now. Next year, after Amelia has enjoyed a bit of the Season, will be soon enough to discuss a settlement and make the engagement official."

And so everything had gone—his assumptions proving true a couple of days later over glasses of the foul-smelling water served at Bath's Pump Room. The earl expressed great pleasure at Ethan's proposal, granting him the right to seek his daughter's hand in marriage. Nothing would be said to Amelia for now, they agreed, but the earl assured him she would accept his offer without hesitation when the time arrived.

With that settled, Ethan had headed back toward London.

Tired and hungry from the journey, he'd stopped here at The Ox and Owl to change teams and break his fast. Raising a hand now, he signaled for the serving girl, sending her off for a bottle of brandy.

Hips swaying, she soon returned, an open bottle and a snifter in hand. Setting the glass on the table, she leaned forward to pour, making sure he had a keen view of her very healthy breasts, her bodice straining wildly to contain them.

Once his beverage was poured, he handed her a coin. "Thank you, love."

The girl giggled, then made a little cooing noise before slipping the sovereign between her breasts. "Is there anything else I can be gettin' fer you, my lord? Anything at all?"

For a second, he debated the offer. "The brandy will do."

Bobbing a curtsey, she sighed out her disappointment. "If you change your mind, you've only to say."

Forgetting her the moment she'd gone, he removed a cheroot from his inner coat pocket and used his silver cutter to snip off the end. He was withdrawing a match when a new group of people entered the room.

By the weary look of them, he assumed they were travelers fresh off one of the mail coaches that made regular stops along this route. As he watched, three men and a woman shouldered their way forward, leaving a boy to stand alone in the doorway.

Top hat pulled low across his eyes, the youth was a curious figure. Slight as a wisp, the child's out-of-date clothing hung a bit too large on his lean frame. Just as antiquated was the thick rope of fire-colored hair he'd gathered into a queue along the back his neck. Possessed of a soft chin and rounded jaw, his smooth cheeks were years away from whiskers.

What a babe-in-the-woods!
Ethan mused.
Not a day above fourteen, if I don't miss my guess.
Looking again, he noted the boy's delicate heart-shaped face, fair skin, and pretty pink lips that formed a perfect cupid's bow.

As he watched, the child scanned the room, clearly seeking a place to sit. After a long moment, the youth spied an empty spot along the far wall and crossed to slide onto the end of a bench seat. Ethan couldn't help but smile at the obvious gap the boy left between himself and the burly laborer to his side.

The servant girl arrived moments later to take the youth's order, a teasing grin on her lips that the boy was clearly too young to appreciate. With a laugh and a shimmy of her hips that drew suggestive remarks from a pair of men at another table, she soon retreated into the kitchen.

Pouring more brandy into his glass, Ethan quaffed a slow mouthful, then lighted his cigar and took a leisurely pull. As he did, his eyes went again to the child, watching as the serving girl returned to set a steaming cup of tea and a plate of biscuits and jam before him.

Laying a napkin across his lap, the boy took up a knife and cut open one of the biscuits, his movements delicate, with none of the usual ham-fisted carelessness of a child still learning to control his developing body. When the youth reached for his tea, his movements betrayed him once more, as he lifted the cup between a pair of slender, elegantly balanced fingers.

Poised fingers.

Dainty fingers.

The kind that clasped "just so," employing a hold no male—man or boy—could ever hope to achieve.

A burst of knowledge suddenly sizzled in Ethan's brain. Staring harder, his eyes narrowed as he more closely studied the shape of the youth's face—the soft sensuality of his lips, the almost porcelain smoothness of his translucent skin.

That's no boy,
Ethan realized.
That's a woman!

A wide smile tilted Ethan's lips, together with a great deal of intrigued speculation.
Who in the world is she,
he wondered,
and what does she think she's about, masquerading in masculine garb?
Unable to look away, he watched again as she sipped her tea, her gaze finally lifting to briefly survey the room. And in that instant, he finally got a glimpse of her eyes.

Green and gorgeous, they were as intense as a cat's and just as full of curiosity, trimmed with a fringe of long, fire-colored lashes that were as luxurious as they were feminine.

He sucked in a breath at the sight, a hard pull of desire springing to life beneath his trousers. Now that he'd deduced the truth about her gender, he couldn't believe he'd been fooled for so much as an instant. With the possible exception of her cropped hair, there was nothing remotely masculine about her—not her features nor her figure nor the manner in which she held herself, each gesture of her hand and face announcing her innate femininity.

Glancing around, he checked to see if anyone else had noticed, but none of the other patrons were paying her the least heed, busy with their own conversations and concerns.

Amazing,
he mused,
that I am the only person in this room who has guessed that we have an imposter in our midst
,
and a lovely little imposter at that.

He supposed the reaction was normal enough. As a rule, people often saw what they expected to see, not pausing long enough to question, not even when the truth was literally staring them in the face.

Perhaps the success of her disguise was for the best, though, he decided. A woman without escort took great chances—especially a female daring enough to portray herself as a man. Not only did she hazard social censure, she ran the risk of inviting unwanted attention from all sorts of dangerous individuals. Some men would interpret such a provocative act as license to do as they pleased with her—anything they pleased, regardless of gaining her consent.

Whoever the minx was, she clearly had no notion of the potential jeopardy in which she'd placed herself. Continuing his contemplation of her over another swallow of brandy, he estimated her age. Twenty or twenty-one, he suspected. Young enough to make mistakes, but old enough to know better than to have made this particular one.

Filling her cup with the last of the hot tea left to her in a small teapot, the young woman took a single, restrained sip, then returned her cup to the saucer.

Scant moments later, she jumped and turned her head, clearly startled by whatever the hefty man on her other side had barked out. Leaping up with surprising speed, the young woman flattened her back against the wall to let the man pass.

As willowy as she might be, there simply wasn't room for them both. Nonetheless, the man made an attempt to shuffle by, jarring the table and tipping over the cup of tea on his way.

Hot liquid flowed outward in a quick rush and splashed onto his trousers. Beating frantically at the spreading stain, he knocked into the table again, huffing out a bellow worthy of an enraged bull.

Ethan surged to his feet and started across the room.

The man turned on the girl. "Look what you've done! Ruined me duds and damn near scalded me jewels besides. You'll have to answer for this, boy."

"I am sorry, but I…" The girl broke off, obviously realizing her voice was high enough to give her away had anyone cared to listen.