More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress (21 page)

How could she be his mistress? she had asked herself, sitting upright on the sofa before lying down to sleep. She simply could not do it unless she felt something for him as a person. Did she? She did not
love
him, of course—that would be patently rash. But did she like him? Feel some affection for him? Some respect?

She thought of their endless verbal scraps—and smiled unexpectedly. He was a haughty, tyrannical, thoroughly irritating man. But she had the distinct impression that he enjoyed the way she stood up to him. And he
did
respect her opinions, even if he never admitted as much. The fact that she was alone tonight, their liaison unconsummated, was proof enough of that. And there was his strangely admirable sense of honor. He had faced Lord Oliver in a duel rather than call Lady Oliver a liar.

Jane sighed. Ah, yes, she liked him well enough. And, of course, there was the artistic, more sensitive side to his nature, which she had glimpsed that night in the music room. And his intelligence. And his sense of humor. All the many fascinating facets of his character that he kept carefully hidden away from the world.

And there was their mutual desire for each other. Jane felt no doubt that it
was
mutual. If she had been just any woman, any prospective mistress to him, he would have sent her on her way as soon as she raised the question of a contract. But she must remember—always, for as long as their liaison lasted—that it was only passion he felt. Sexual passion. She must never mistake the feelings of the Duke of Tresham for love.

It was not going to be easy to be his mistress.

Jane slept on the sofa and dreamed of Charles. Her closest friend. Her beau. Like someone from another lifetime. He was sitting in the rose arbor at Candleford with her, telling her about his sister's new baby and telling her too how they would set up their own nursery as soon as they were able after her twenty-fifth birthday freed her to marry whomever she chose.

She awoke with wet cheeks. She had deliberately not thought of Charles after her flight from home. She had succeeded all too well. Why had she not thought of going to him now that she had the money with which to travel? Was he still at his sister's in Somersetshire? Or had he returned to Cornwall? She could have found a way to reach him without being caught. He would surely know what to do, how to protect her, how to hide her if necessary. Most important of all, he would believe her story. He knew how desperately eager the new Earl of Durbury was that she marry his son. He knew how despicable Sidney could be, especially when he was in his cups.

She could still do it, of course. She had been paid yesterday before leaving Dudley House. She had not yet become the Duke of Tresham's mistress. She could leave before he came back and avoid the necessity of giving up her virtue.

The very idea of such a fate would surely have brought on a fit of the vapors just a few weeks ago. Now, with surprising belatedness, she had thought of a decent alternative.

But the trouble was that she did not love Charles. Not as a woman should love her husband. Not as Mama had loved Papa. She had always known it, of course. But she
had always
wanted
to love Charles because she liked him and because he loved her.

If she went to him now, if he somehow extricated her from the tangle she was in, she would be bound to him for life. She would not have minded just a few weeks before. Friendship and affection would have been enough.

No longer.

Was being the duke's mistress preferable to honorable marriage with Charles, then?

It was a question Jane could not answer to her own satisfaction before his grace's arrival in the middle of the morning. It was a question whose answer she recognized with some reluctance after she had heard his knock and had opened the sitting room door to see him step into the hall and hand his hat and gloves and cane to Mr. Jacobs. He brought all his energy and restlessness and sheer maleness with him—and Jane realized she had missed him.

“Jane.” He strode toward her, and they retreated into the sitting room together. “He won. By scarcely the length of his horses' noses. He was behind a full length coming into the final bend, but he accelerated into it and took Berriwether by surprise. They thundered into Brighton almost neck and neck. But Ferdinand won, and three-quarters of the members of White's have gone into mourning.”

“He came to no harm, then?” she said. “I am glad.” She might have commented again on how foolish such races were, but he looked so very pleased with himself. And she really was glad. Lord Ferdinand Dudley was a pleasant, charming young man.

“No. No harm.” He frowned suddenly. “He does not choose his servants wisely, though. He has a valet who
does not allow for the fact that a man sometimes turns his head without warning while being shaved. And he has a groom who allows half the world into his stable and carriage house the day before a race in order to admire the tools of his master's trade. There is no proving who arranged for Ferdinand's death during that race.”

“But you suspect Sir Anthony Forbes or one of his brothers?” she asked him. She seated herself on the sofa, and he sat beside her.

“More than suspect.” He looked about the room as he spoke. “It is the way they work. I did something to their sister; they do something to my brother. They will be sorry, of course. I will deal with them. What have you done to this room?”

She was relieved at the change of subject.

“I have just removed a few things,” she told him. “All the cushions and a few of the ornaments. I have ideas for extensive changes to both this room and the bedchamber. I would not be needlessly extravagant, but even so the cost would be considerable.”

“Quincy will take care of the bills,” he said with a careless wave of one hand. “But how long is all this going to take, Jane? I have the feeling you are not going to allow me to bed you until everything is to your liking, are you?”

“No,” she said with what she hoped was suitable firmness. “A week should be sufficient once the order is given. I have spoken to Mr. Jacobs, and he says the suppliers will fall all over themselves to be prompt as soon as he mentions your name.”

The duke did not answer her. Obviously the truth of that statement was no surprise to him.

“Let us discuss this contract, then,” he said. “Apart
from
carte blanche
to tear down my house and rebuild it, what are your demands, Jane? I will pay you a monthly salary five times higher than what I paid you as a nurse. You will have your own carriage and as many servants as you deem necessary. You may clothe yourself in as much finery as you wish with all the accessories and direct the bills to me. I will be generous with jewels, though I would prefer to buy those myself. I will take on full responsibility for the support and future placement of any children of our liaison. Have I missed anything?”

Jane had turned suddenly cold. Her own naïveté quite mortified her.

“How many children do you presently have?” Foolishly she had not thought of becoming with child.

His eyebrows rose. “You can always be relied upon to ask unaskable questions, Jane,” he said. “I have none. Most women who make their living by such arrangements as this know how to prevent conception. I assume you do not. You
are
a virgin, are you not?”

It took a great deal of fortitude to keep her eyes from sliding away from his very direct gaze. She wished blushes were as much within her control.

“Yes.” She kept her chin up. “There is one expense you do not need to burden yourself with. I do not need a carriage.”

“Why not?” He rested one elbow on the back of the sofa and set his closed fist against his mouth. His dark eyes did not look away from hers. “You will need to shop, Jane, and get out to see the sights. It would be unwise to rely upon me to take you about. Shopping bores me. When I come here, I will be far more eager to take you to bed than out for a drive.”

“The servants can shop for food,” she said. “And if
you object to the clothes I wear, you can send dressmakers here. I have no wish to go out.”

“Is what you are about to do so shameful to you, then?” he asked her. “You really feel you cannot show your face to the world ever again?”

She had answered that the day before. But it would be as well, she thought, if he believed it. Strangely, it was not true. Life had become a practical business, which she must direct and control as best she was able.

He did not speak again for some time. The silence stretched between them while he stared broodingly at her and she gazed back, uncomfortable but unwilling to look away.

“There is an alternative,” he said at last. “One that would bring you fame and fortune and great esteem, Jane. One that would save you from the degradation of bedding with a rake.”

“I do not consider it degrading,” she told him.

“No?” He lifted his free hand and cupped her chin. He ran his thumb lightly across her lips. “I am not intimate with the inner circles of high culture, Jane, but I daresay my word carries some weight almost everywhere. I could introduce you to Lord Heath or the Earl of Raymore, two of the more prominent patrons of the arts. I have every confidence that if either one of them heard your voice, he would set your feet on the road to fame. You are that good, you know. You would not need me.”

She gazed at him in some surprise. He wanted her—she did not doubt that. But he was prepared to let her go? Even to help her be independent of him? Quite unconsciously she parted her lips and touched her tongue to the pad of his thumb.

His eyes met and held hers. And she felt raw desire
knife down inside her. She had not intended to provoke such a moment. Neither had he, she suspected.

“I do not want a career as a singer,” she said.

It was the truth even apart from the fact that she could not flirt with danger by going before the public gaze again. She did not want to use her voice to earn a living. She wanted to use it for the pleasure of people who were close to her. She had no yearning for fame.

He leaned forward and set his mouth where his thumb had been. He kissed her hard.

“But you do want one as my mistress?” he said. “On your terms? What are they, then? What do you want that I have not already offered?”

“Security,” she said. “I want your agreement to pay my salary until my twenty-fifth birthday even if you should dismiss me before then. Provided I am not the one to break our agreement, of course. I am twenty now, by the way.”

“For five years,” he said. “And how will you support yourself after that, Jane?”

She did not know. She was supposed to come into her inheritance then—all of her father's fortune that had not been entailed on his heir. But of course she might never be able to claim it. She would not suddenly stop being a fugitive simply because she had reached the magic age of freedom.

She shook her head.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I will never tire of you, Jane.”

“Nonsense!” she told him. “Of course you will. And long before four and a half years have passed. That is why I must protect my future.”

He smiled at her. He did not smile nearly often enough. And altogether too often for her peace of mind.
She wondered if he knew what devastating charm his smile hinted at.

“Very well, then,” he said. “It will be written into the contract. Salary until dismissal or your twenty-fifth birthday, whichever comes later. Anything else?”

She shook her head. “What about your conditions?” she asked him. “We have come to an agreement on what you will do for me. What must I do for you?”

He shrugged. “Be here for me,” he said. “Have sexual relations with me whenever I can persuade you that you want them as much as I do. That is all, Jane. A relationship between a man and his mistress cannot be legislated, you know. I will not even try to insist upon obedience and subjection, you see. You would not be able to keep such a promise even if you could be persuaded to make it. And damn me for a fool for saying this aloud, but I believe it is your very impudence that attracts me. Shall I have Quincy draw up the contract and bring it here for your perusal? I imagine he will be vastly diverted by such a task. I will not bring it myself, Jane. I will not come again until you send for me. I will assume when I do hear from you that the bedchamber abovestairs is ready for use.”

“Very well, your grace,” she said as he got to his feet. She stood up too. A week was going to seem like an eternity.

He framed her face with his hands. “That will have to change too, Jane,” he said. “I cannot have you
your gracing
me when we are in bed together. My name is Jocelyn.”

She had not known his name. No one had ever used it in her hearing. “Jocelyn,” she said softly.

His very dark eyes were normally hard and quite opaque. It was impossible to see more of the man than
he was willing to reveal—and that was usually not very much, she suspected. But for a moment after she spoke his name, Jane had the distinct feeling that something opened up behind his eyes and that she was falling into them.

For only a moment.

He dropped his hands and turned toward the door.

“One week,” he said. “If the renovations are not complete by then, Jane, a few heads are going to roll. You will warn all the workmen involved?”

“Yes, your grace,” she said. “Jocelyn.”

He looked over his shoulder at her and opened his mouth to speak. But he changed his mind and strode from the room without saying another word.

ANY OF MICK BODEN'S ACQUAINTANCES ENVIED
him his job. There was a certain glamour about being one of the famed Bow Street Runners. The common fallacy was that he spent his working days literally running to earth all of London's and half of England's most desperate criminals and hauling them off to the nearest magistrate and the just reward for their dastardly deeds. They saw his life as one of endless adventure and danger and action—and success.