Oh, the boy was polite; Marianna had raised him to have beautiful manners. There was no whiff of the City to Viscount James Horace Ryland. Con knew James was capable of a great deal of mischief, if the reports of his schoolmasters were anything to go by, but their encounters as father and son thus far had been punctiliously correct, bland if not downright dull. James held himself aloof, his cool blue eyes assessing Con’s every good intention.
Con was already on his way back to England from his selfimposed
exile when news reached him of his wife’s death. It was very clear that James thought this effort was too little too late. But how could Con have imagined that Marianna would die before her fortieth birthday? She had not been ill—and then she was, suddenly.
He had found all the letters he had written to James amongst her papers. It was these bundles of parchment that jogged his memory for the book. Marianna had saved each one, and from the looks of them they had been read and reread. He owed his wife something for keeping him alive to James.
By the time he arrived on English soil, Marianna had been buried at All Saints next to her father for weeks, and he had mostly managed his confusion and anger. He set the renovation of Ryland Grove in train, arranging for his warehouse to be emptied of some of its treasures, and went to London to be nearer to his son, and to transform Conover House to his taste as well. It was hypocritical for him to observe a year of mourning, so he had summoned Laurette and asked her to marry him. Stunned when she said no, he couldn’t imagine why she refused. He hadn’t known about Beatrix then.
When Berryman’s business associate Foster finally gave him Marianna’s letter revealing that he’d not only abandoned a son but a daughter, Con had made a hash of it all and confronted Laurette. All the years of repressed emotion blossomed to the surface again—his feelings of being impotent, betrayed, manipulated. For every mile he rode, his fury mounted. He had been so angry, mostly at himself. But then he began to see a way to get Laurette to change her mind.
The fact that he knew neither of his children well shamed him. He’d had no choice with Beatrix; that was all Berryman business. But he’d walked away—no,
run
away from his son and heir. The book was his feeble attempt to rectify part of the past.
He assembled the manuscript and letters on the desktop.
He once found school a bore and the papers his uncle waved before his face baffling. Who could imagine the Mad Marquess working on his memoirs when he could be making merry with his mistress? He almost chuckled. It would do to keep his sense of humor, rusty as it was.
One day she’d not be crying in his arms but laughing with joy. In the meantime, he’d continue his celibacy, and revisit his journey to Tunis and the ruins of Carthage nearby. Not in person, of course. He’d not leave England again without Laurette and his son and daughter. But tonight he would reread the letter he had written to James describing the walled seventeenth-century medina.
He turned up the lamp and held the worn letter in his hand, ruefully realizing that the little boy he’d written to probably had no interest in the shadowed winding streets scented with incense and spices, the multilingual merchants hawking everything from live chickens to exquisite silver that he’d described so vividly. James was not much more than five or six when Con had written the letter.
But Con could almost taste the strong bitter coffee he had shared with his traveling companions, or hear the mournful call to prayer at the Great Mosque. In his mind’s eye he saw the blue-and-white hillside houses of Sidi Bou Said perched over the Gulf of Tunis outside the city. The shore had reminded him of the water that surrounded his own island and connected him to so many different countries. These reflections would be meaningless for James even now. But surely his son would be interested in the exploits of the Phoenicians, and Dido, and Hannibal as he invaded Italy with his elephants, so Con set to describing Carthage and inserting a bit of a history lesson in his manuscript. After some consideration, he decided it would be ghoulish to mention the hundreds of graves where small children had been sacrificed to the gods and then buried. That horror would be best left to the real history books.
Con worked late into the night, pausing only to toss more
fuel into the fire. When his hand was tired and his mind empty, he put himself to bed. He’d try his luck with Laurette again tomorrow. He was probably the only man in London who kept a mistress for her own pleasure, not his. But like his memoirs for James, the little house was a temple to his love for Laurette, and it was just the beginning.
L
aurette heard the front door close and shot out of bed. Con had
left
her? She gazed down at her flushed freckled body, then went to the dresser. Martine had reluctantly folded Laurette’s ancient nightgown amongst the newer fripperies. Laurette pulled it over her head and paced her room. Con had
left
her, left her with an aching inside so deep even he would not be able to fill it. It wasn’t just his body she craved, but the friendship they’d shared so long ago.
But they were different people now. He’d had experiences that were completely alien to her. Laurette imagined him a pasha indolently sprawled on pillows, surrounded by skilled seductresses who fulfilled his every erotic need.
She would never sleep tonight; she was too enervated. Con had brought her to intense orgasm as she stood pliant to his probing tongue and fingers. She had wanted more. Last night had been a revelation—she was still a woman and Con was still the man who completed her.
Laurette wanted to slap some sense into her idiotically romantic head. What rubbish. She was independent, had been even when her poor parents were alive. She knew how to take care of herself. With Sadie’s help, of course. They had made a quiet and satisfying life in Lower Conover, raising vegetables and ornery chickens, doing what they could for their neighbors. Laurette had found a vocation replacing the
Trumbull sisters, her parlor filled in the afternoons with village girls looking to improve their education. Her teaching methods were unorthodox but reasonably successful. And in each grubby little face she looked for a glimpse of what her daughter might be like, off in her fancy school.
Laurette sighed. She would write to Beatrix tonight, and James, too. She’d somehow explain her temporary new address. She was less than twenty-five miles from Eton College now—perhaps she could arrange a day to see James. She’d got just a glimpse of him in December, when Con was doing his damnedest to be Father Christmas and Lord Bountiful wrapped in one. It wasn’t presents James needed from his father, and someday Laurette would tell Con so.
He seemed unaware that Laurette even knew James. And what would he say if she told him his wife had been her best friend?
She would not have believed such a thing possible twelve years ago.
On first meeting, Marianna reminded Laurette of an expensive porcelain doll, but there was something about her which looked sturdy, unbreakable. She would not break easily. A woman of lesser strength would never have befriended her husband’s mistress.
It would be awkward to reveal the truth now, and disastrous if James guessed what was happening between his father and favorite honorary aunt. James would view it all as betrayal of the first order. He’d loved his mum and loathed his dad.
Laurette braided her hair over her shoulder and sat at the pretty desk, lighting another branch of candles. The letter to James flowed in fun. She was more careful with Beatrix, parsing each word to perfection. Tomorrow she’d send them off with Martine with some of her coins, avoiding Con’s franking privileges.
She blew out the candles and padded over the thick carpet to her golden bed. The day had been both exhausting and exciting.
She would have to find a balance for the next six months if she were not to expire at the end of it. Exit. Exhumation. Exhibit. Exhilaration. She removed the sponge and let it fall to the carpet. Exploration. Explanation. Extinction.
It was in this fashion she finally fell asleep.
Laurette had written her letters yesterday. Nothing much had transpired to fill up any other pages or any more hours to her day. She had awakened early as was her custom, although Caesar the rooster was not responsible, just the sound of a merry whistle somewhere in one of the back gardens. She doubted any of them were as lavishly appointed as hers. She had stretched on her little balcony and spied over the high walls. Martine had brought her breakfast and seemed to think she should be eating it in bed. Laurette disappointed her by sitting in a chair near the window screen, letting the morning breeze waft over her and the coddled eggs.
She bathed and dressed. She made the tour again of the house without Nadia, poking into every chest and under every fat cushion, admiring the art work and selecting a book. She settled for some hours in her green upstairs sitting room, unable to make sense of the words before her. Her mind kept wandering, wondering what Sadie would do when she got Laurette’s letter. Wondering when Con would come. Feeling Con’s skillful hands slide over her skin when he did.
When Nadia found her, she discovered she was now expected to come downstairs for lunch. Still full of breakfast, Laurette was tempted to decline. She thought of Qalhata’s fierce face and set the book aside. The cook had evidently taken her words to heart, for the portions were fewer but the dishes more than delectable. She ate until she thought she’d burst.
The afternoon now stretched before her. There would be no afternoon callers or jaunts to the shops. There was no basket of mending she could muck up with her crooked
stitches or vegetable plot to weed. But the day was fine, so she walked about in the garden, watching the bright yellow birds flit from branch to bush. The fountain burbled, the flowers exuded their fragrance, the sun braved the haze of the city to shine on her bench. Laurette sat in the square of warmth and gazed up at the windows next door, all discreetly laced and swagged in curtains. She wondered if the other mistresses were as bored as she. Perhaps she could form a kind of Mistresses’ Union, where they might take tea together—or something stronger—and complain about their ennui. She let out a laugh.
“What is so amusing?”
Con walked toward her, looking every inch the marquess this afternoon. His bottle-green coat and buff breeches showed every muscle, the stock at his neck was blindingly white. A large emerald held it in place, glittering in the sunlight. If he wasn’t careful, he’d invite every ambitious footpad in London to rob him. The stone alone could feed her and Sadie for years.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I was not expecting you until this evening.”
“I wanted to see how you are getting on.” Con sat down next to her. His thigh brushed hers and she resisted the impulse to push closer.
“I am, if you must know, dead bored.”
Con raised an eyebrow.
“I’m used to activity, you know. Vincent Lodge takes a great deal of work, and then there are my pupils.”
Both eyebrows were raised now.
“You, a teacher?”
“I am not stupid!” Laurette said hotly.
“No, of course you’re not.” Con took a hand and kissed her fingertips. Laurette sat up straighter even though Con kept hold of her hand.
“The Trumbull sisters passed away, you know. A few afternoons a week some of the village girls come to visit. We—we
discuss things.” She trembled as Con rubbed her palm, each circle tingling to her toes.
“So.” Con’s face was dark. “You are now the genteel impoverished spinster the children seek for improvement.”
“It is not so bad,” Laurette whispered.
“I can give you more.”
Laurette tugged her hand away. “You cannot make me feel useful here. I imagine Qalhata would slice my throat if I invaded her kitchen.”
“My dear, I imagine any cook worth his or her salt would absolutely forbid you from ever entering their domain,” Con drawled.
Laurette’s cheeks grew hot. She had once been fairly hopeless in domestic matters. “I’ve improved. I had to.” She thought of the scores of burnt meals that she and Sadie had eaten stoically until Sadie had taken her very firmly in hand. With a few simple ingredients and subdued ambition, one could manage well enough.
“No doubt.” Con stood up abruptly. “If you wish to feel useful, let us go upstairs.”
“Now?”
Laurette gulped.
“Now.”
She rose from the bench, smoothing her skirts. Any hope of flattering candlelight was burned away by the steady sunshine. Years ago she had eagerly exposed every inch of herself to him in daylight, but she had been a foolish girl. Now it seemed she was equally foolish, for her heart raced with anticipation. Her pale lashes fluttered to her cheeks.
“As you wish.”
She could feel his eyes upon her as he followed her through the tiled garden path and into the house. He caught her when she tripped on the stairs, then wound his arm around her as they climbed up together, his hand firm upon her waist. He said nothing, but the pressure of his fingertips
implied control. She belonged to him, and he would not let her fall.
Or get away.
Her bed was already turned down and a fire crackled in the hearth. Nadia or Martine must have had instructions upon his arrival. The house was silent. Laurette wondered if the servants had been dismissed for the afternoon, or imprisoned in their rooms. It was mortifying to know they were aware of her role as Con’s mistress. She was determined to be very quiet in Con’s arms, as silent as the house itself.
She stood still as he unhooked and unlaced her down to her rosette-ribboned garters and stockings. Despite the fire, gooseflesh washed over her. Con held her shoulders and stepped back, as though eyeing his purchase. She raised her chin.
Years ago she would have teased and asked if he liked what he saw. She might have spun about the room unpinning her hair and darting beyond his reach. He would have caught her—she would have made sure of it—and they would have collapsed on the bed in a burst of laughter. They would have fallen over each other in a frenzy, hasty with their kisses and awkward embraces. Judging from Con’s performance two nights ago, he’d acquired considerably more finesse.