His Favorite Mistress (13 page)

If she wasn’t careful, she could see herself falling in love with him. If she didn’t guard her heart, she might lose it to him irreparably. Perhaps she should listen to his warnings and stay away. Maybe she should do as he told her and just forget about him.

But it was already too late for that, she realized. For good or bad, forgetting Wyvern was already an impossibility. Besides, she didn’t want to forget, just as she didn’t want to let him go, not without seeing where matters might lead between them if given a chance. Nor did she want to travel the prudent path and make sure her heart stayed whole. She wanted to know if she could feel more. She wanted to know if he might feel more as well.

And there was only one way to find out.

Chapter Seven

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
not long after first light, Gabriella slipped out of bed and crossed to the huge mahogany armoire that stood on the far side of the room. Pulling out her new Bishop’s blue riding habit, she began to dress, grateful that she didn’t require the services of her maid since the garment buttoned in the front using a series of military-style frogs. After lacing her feet into a pair of sturdy black leather boots, she went to her dressing table and picked up her brush. A few quick strokes later, she twisted her heavy mass of hair into a knot, then artfully pinned the tresses atop her head. Pausing long enough for an appraising glance in the pier glass, she let herself out of her room and into the hallway.

A brisk stride soon brought her to Wyvern’s guest bedroom door. Raising her hand, she rapped quietly before she had time to reconsider her actions. Shifting her feet, she waited. Perhaps he was asleep and hadn’t heard her knock, she mused. She rather hoped that might be the case, imagining how delicious he would look opening the door all tousle-headed and barefoot, dressed in nothing but a thin silk robe.
Oh, I am a wicked girl!
she reprimanded herself.
But what is the fun of having an imagination if one never puts it to use?

She was just raising her hand to tap again when the door swung open to reveal a man—but not the one she expected to see. It was Wyvern’s valet, an expression of curiosity lining his proper face.

“Who is it, Gull?” called the duke in his rich voice from somewhere inside the room.

“A lady, Your Grace,” the servant replied, turning halfway around in order to address his employer. “Miss St. George, I believe.”

A pronounced pause ensued, followed by the muffled sound of footsteps against the carpet. The servant stepped away as the door was pulled wide. And there stood Wyvern, fully dressed and obviously long since out of bed.

“Take those downstairs,” he told the valet, pointing toward a pair of valises. “And if you would be so good, pray inform Hitchcock that I shall be along directly.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Gull bowed, then moved to collect the leather cases. With a small nod to her as he passed, he left the room.

“Who is Hitchcock?” she inquired, taking a single step over the threshold.

“My coachman.” He picked up a pair of leather gloves and pulled them onto his large, elegant hands. “What are you doing up and about when the rest of the house is still slumbering in their beds?”

“I am often up early. I find it the very best time of day.” She cast a glance around the room. “But why is your luggage packed? Surely you are not leaving?”

“I am, yes.” He looked away for a moment. “Unavoidable business at my estate.”

A streak of disappointment went through her.
How interesting,
she mused,
that his “unavoidable business” has cropped up today, and at such an early hour, too!
Fleetingly she wondered if yesterday’s spontaneous, impassioned kiss might have anything to do with his hasty decision to leave.

“Oh, well, that is too bad,” she said in a casual tone designed to hide her chagrin. “I had thought we might go for a ride, since I wanted to try out my new habit. The village seamstress delivered it only yesterday.” She held out her skirts to better display the garment.

His gaze swept slowly over her attire, an appreciative little smile playing across his mouth. “The gown is quite lovely, though by no means as beautiful as its wearer. As for the ride, I am sure one or more of the other guests would be happy to accompany you for a morning jaunt—once they’re awake, that is.”

“Doubtless you are right,” she said.
So much for my grand plan to spend more time with Wyvern,
she silently bemoaned. She bit the edge of her lip as she cast about for a way to keep him with her for a little while longer. “Have you had breakfast? Surely you can remain long enough to take a meal.”

“I already ate here in my room. Tea and toast with a hearty side of ham steak.”

“Ah. Well then, I suppose I shall see you in London. You are coming for the Season, are you not? Julianna and Rafe have decided to sponsor me—whatever that might entail.”

“A great many dances and parties, followed by balls and soirees and routs.
That
is the Season,” he told her with apparent humor. “You shall have a splendid time, I am sure.”

“I do like to dance,” she confessed. “What of you, Your Grace?”

He shook his head. “I rarely take to the floor.”

“That cannot please your hostesses.”

“Over the years, they have learned to deal with the loss.”

She considered his statement for a moment. “But surely you make an exception on occasion. If you will recall, you do owe me a favor.”

One dark eyebrow swept upward. “Are you calling in my pledge in exchange for a dance?”

“Oh, it would have to be more than a single dance,” she teased. “Two, at the very least.”

A laugh rumbled from his throat. “Two dances, hmm? Well, I suppose I could be persuaded. And since I am not the kind of man to stint on his promises, I will be generous enough to make it a trio. How is that?”

She inclined her head. “A trio sounds most pleasant. I shall look forward to the occasions. Although,” she drawled, “you could always dance with me and still let me retain the favor for later, you know.”

“But then what might you demand?” he asked, a twinkle showing in his deep blue eyes.

She tossed him an impish grin. “One never knows.”

He laughed. “If you will forgive me, Miss St. George, my journey is a long one and the hour grows late. I fear I must take my leave of you.”

Her heart sank, the delight that had been floating inside her bursting like a handful of soap bubbles. Striving not to let her emotions show, she maintained her smile. “Safe journey, then.”

“And to you as well, when you leave for London. Until we meet again.” Executing a dashing bow that made her insides tingle, he tipped his hat and strode away.

“Yes, Tony,” she whispered to herself. “Until next we meet.”

“One lump or two, Miss St. George?”

From her perch on a silk-covered Sheridan chair in the Countess of Sefton’s grand drawing room three and a half weeks later, Gabriella glanced up to meet the inquiring gaze of her hostess.

“Two, please,” she replied, knowing better than to ask for the three lumps she really wanted, since such a request would apparently show a marked lack of refinement on her part.

While she waited for the older woman to pour, she met Julianna’s eye, her friend giving her an encouraging little smile before turning away to respond to something said to her by the lady on her opposite side.

A moment later, Gabriella accepted the cup of gently steaming tea, murmuring her appreciation to the countess with what she hoped was a friendly yet gracious smile. Only after Lady Sefton went on to serve another of the ladies did Gabriella take a careful sip of her tea, forcing herself not to fidget lest she bobble her drink. After all, according to Julianna, today’s afternoon call was of the utmost importance to her future in Society. Make a good impression here, she had been told, and she would find all of London’s doors opened for her admission. Make a bad one, and…well, she didn’t need to dwell on that, did she?

Earlier, Julianna had tried to alleviate any potential nervousness by telling her to think of the Season as nothing more than a very large house party. However, despite the advice and the ease with which she had fit in among Rafe and Julianna’s titled friends and relations in the country, she was finding London Society an entirely different matter.

For one thing, she had never actually lived among the Quality—not as one of them, anyway—and despite being a natural mimic, she still found herself having to watch everything she did and said when out in company for fear of making a mistake.

Polite Society, she had rapidly learned, was an intricate maze of inflexible rules and obscure customs, a thorny thicket that seemed specifically designed to trip up those not raised within its lofty confines from the moment of their birth. And yet with Julianna’s calm—and never critical—assistance, she was fast absorbing everything she needed to know. At least that’s what she was trying to do.

One matter about which she had absolutely no complaint since returning to London was her wardrobe. From the moment of their arrival in Town, she and Julianna had descended upon the shops. Even now, she could barely believe her change of circumstances. For the first time in her life, she had truly elegant clothes—beautiful gowns the likes of which she had only dreamed, in luxurious silks, sumptuous satins, and delicate muslins in an array of stripes, patterns, spots, and hues. As if caught inside a happy whirlwind, she had found herself taken in hand, pinned and fitted and passed from mantua maker to milliner to glove maker and shoemaker—everyone working in concert to turn her into a true debutante.

To her private amazement, Julianna had seen to it that she was presented at Court, since a proper coming out would not have been possible otherwise. Now Julianna was working to get her admitted to Almacks, the Ton’s most exalted inner sanctum.

Already she had received a veritable bounty of gifts for which to be grateful, her debt to Rafe and Julianna far more than she could ever repay. And so, despite her reservations about this particular afternoon call, she had vowed to make a favorable impression.

According to Julianna, the Countess of Sefton was the most affable and easygoing of the Almacks’s patronesses, which is why she had chosen to approach her in hopes of securing the vouchers required for admittance into the assembly rooms. Sadly, if the countess would not consent, there was little chance that any of the other patronesses would agree to do so either.

“Cake?” the great lady offered.

Keeping a steady grip on the bone china tea saucer between her fingers, Gabriella took a moment to decide how best to answer. Somehow, an outright refusal seemed impolite, so she nodded her head. “Yes, thank you, your ladyship. They look quite delectable.”

The older woman smiled. “Oh, they are. My chef makes the finest desserts in all of London, if I do say so myself. Though it is easy to indulge a bit too freely, if one is not careful.”

“Then I shall have to content myself with only the one,” Gabriella said, using a pair of silver tongs to place a single icing-covered square onto her plate. With the countess still watching, she forced herself to eat a small, delicate bite. As the sweet melted on her tongue, she couldn’t help but give a completely honest reply. “Oh, you are right, this is wonderful!”

The countess laughed, an enigmatic smile crossing her lips. “Exactly so.”

Gabriella patted her mouth with her napkin, then took a sip of her tea as the older woman finally looked away.

Had that been a test?
she wondered.
More importantly, did I pass?
Unsure, she remained silent.

“So I hear Wyvern has decided to grace us with his presence at the Hoxleys’ ball this evening,” said one of the other women, her marriageable daughter at her side. “I do hope that means he plans to cease this nonsense of his and finally look for a bride.”

Gabriella forgot all about her cake.
Wyvern at the ball tonight?
she thought.
Well, it is about time!
Taking another sip of her tea, she worked to conceal her interest in the news.

In spite of his promise to see her here in Town, she had not caught so much as a glimpse of him since her arrival. Initially, she understood that he had remained at his estate to take care of whatever business had drawn him home. But late last week, she had heard Rafe mention the duke, commenting that he and Tony had shared drinks and a game of cards at Brooks’s Club together with some other friends.

The following day, she had waited with undeniable anticipation for Wyvern to put in an appearance at the townhouse. But he had not called. Nor had he called on any of the days to follow—not even to see Julianna, which as she had learned, was the polite thing to do. Surely the man could find a few minutes to drop by and pay his addresses. After all, how was she to test her feelings for him if he was never around?

But apparently the two of us will be at the same ball tonight!
Suddenly anticipation lightened her spirits.

“So what do you think, Lady Pendragon?” the woman continued. “Your husband is a particular friend of the duke’s, is he not? Maybe Wyvern has said something of his intentions to you?”