The Secret Mistress

Chapter 11

ANGELINE WOKE UP smiling.

She gazed up at the elaborately pleated canopy over her bed and stretched until her toes cracked and her fingers curled over the top of the headboard. She laced her fingers behind her head.

She could tell that it was raining even though the curtains were still drawn. She could hear a pattering against the windowpanes. But it felt as if the sun were shining.

Was it possible for life to be brighter?

Vauxhall Gardens must be the most wonderful, most magical place on earth. Everything about it was perfect. And the company had been the best possible. Conversation had been lively and conducted on a variety of subjects, all of which she had found interesting. Mr. Lynd had danced with her. So had Viscount Overmyer and Cousin Leonard. The music had been divine, the food scrumptious.

The fireworks had been breathtaking, awe-inspiring. They had been beyond the power of superlatives to describe, in fact. The only disappointing thing about them, as she had said at the time, was that the display had come to an end far too soon. As had the evening, of course.

But it had been by far the most wonderful evening of her life.

Oh, by far.

Angeline bent her legs at the knee and rested her feet flat on the mattress, the blankets tented over them.

Her mind had been skirting around the very best part of it all. She had allowed the memories to crowd into her mind the moment she awoke, but she had very deliberately kept the best for last so that she could give it her undivided attention. And even now she would think of that very best memory a bit at a time, keeping the very, very best, the very most glorious until last.

The Earl of Heyward.

Even his name was lovely. So much lovelier than any other she knew. Poor Martha was smitten by Mr. Griddles. And if that name were not bad enough in itself, there was his first name. What parents would inflict the name Gregory upon a poor baby when his last name was Griddles? But that was precisely what his parents had done.

The Earl of Heyward was Edward. Edward Ailsbury.

His conversation was sensible. He had participated in every topic of discussion without trying to dominate any, and he had expressed his opinions even when they had conflicted with someone else’s—and yet he had listened courteously to those other opinions. He was obviously fond of his family. He had taken Lady Heyward for a stroll while Angeline danced with Cousin Leonard. And he had looked a little sheepish when Mrs. Lynd, while talking briefly about her children, had said that her youngest, as well as Lady Heyward’s daughter and Lady Overymyer’s three, would grow fat before summer came if her brother kept taking them to Gunter’s for ices.

“But what are uncles for, Alma,” he had asked, “if not to spoil their nieces and nephews horribly before taking them home to their parents?”

“And you have promised to take all five of them to the Tower of London next week, Edward,” Lady Overmyer had added. “Is that not a little rash of you?”

“Probably,” he had agreed. “I shall enforce good behavior by threatening to forgo the ices on the way home.”

They had all laughed, and Angeline had stored in her heart the image of Lord Heyward as a doting uncle.

But the very best part could be postponed no longer. Her memory was fairly bursting with it. She wiggled her toes against the mattress and closed her eyes.

He had kissed her.

She had kissed him.

Her very first kiss.

He had taken her off the main avenue, where everyone else was walking, and had found a quiet, enchanted little clearing into which moonlight poured—so much more romantic after all than the lamps—and he had kissed her once, then drawn her right into his arms and kissed her again.

Oh, it had been nothing like anything she had ever expected a kiss to be. She had always wondered what her lips would feel like when being kissed and what the man’s would feel like. She had wondered how she would breathe. She could not remember breathing at all, but she supposed she must have done so or she would be dead.

She could not even remember clearly what her lips had felt like, or his. For a kiss had proved to be far more than just a touching of lips. Their whole bodies had been involved, their whole beings. Oh, goodness, as soon as his lips had touched hers for the second time, his mouth had opened and so had hers—and he had pressed his tongue into her mouth. It sounded shocking if it was put into words. But she was thinking more in remembered sensations than in words.

Her insides had turned to a sort of aching jelly. Her legs had felt weak. She had been throbbing in a place to which she could not put a name. And their bodies had been pressed together. He had been all hard-muscled, solid, unfamiliar masculinity and familiar cologne, and she had clasped him to her with arms that strained to draw him even closer. But how much closer could he have got short of removing a few layers of clothes? The very thought of that reminded Angeline of how hot that clearing had seemed for the few minutes of their embrace. As though someone had lit a fire and piled on a forest of kindling and a ton of coal.

His one hand had been spread—oh, dear—over her bottom. The other had come beneath one of her breasts and closed about it.

It was surely the most startlingly glorious first kiss anyone had ever experienced. Not that she was interested in anyone else for the moment.

It had been the very best experience of her life. She could not imagine that anything in her life could exceed it. Ever. Except that she had wanted it to go on and on forever, and of course it had not.

And the dear man had apologized afterward.

As if he had somehow taken advantage of her. As if he had somehow compromised her. He had even said so. A lady’s honor could not be compromised if there was no one there to see, could it?

Indeed it could, said Miss Pratt’s voice in her head, at its most severe. A lady must always be a perfect lady, even in the privacy of her own boudoir.

Which was about the most stupid of many stupid pronouncements Miss Pratt had made.

She had told him it was her first kiss. She had told him it was wonderful. Perhaps she ought not to have said either thing. She must have sounded very naive. But why not? Why pretend to be worldly-wise and jaded when one was not? She had begged him to tell her he was not really sorry, and he had admitted it was a lovely evening.

Lovely was an understatement. For she had made perhaps the most wonderful discovery of all last night. Lord Heyward was a very proper, serious-minded gentleman to whom courtesy and reason and good sense were more important than posturing and violence. But it could always be said that such men were dull. Tresham called him a dry old stick.

But it was not so.

She now knew from personal experience that such a man could also be passionate in his private dealings with the woman he loved. Very passionate indeed.

With the woman he loved.

Angeline’s eyes were still closed. She wiggled her toes and opened her eyes at last. Was that who she was? The woman he loved? She must be. He could not possibly have kissed her like that if she was not. Could he?

She would see him again this evening. At least, she hoped she would. There was Lady Hicks’s ball to attend, and apparently it was always one of the great squeezes of the Season.

Oh, surely he would be there too.

She threw back the bedcovers and swung her legs over the side of the bed to the floor. She had planned to walk in the park this morning with Martha and Maria—she had so much to tell them. It was still raining, of course, so that idea must be abandoned. But there were always shops just waiting to be shopped at, and there were tearooms where one might sit and talk with friends. She had far too much energy to remain at home merely waiting for this evening to come.

WHEN EDWARD ARRIVED at Dudley House later the same afternoon, he was shown into the library on the main floor while the butler went off to see if the Duke of Tresham was at home. Edward could not even allow himself the luxury of hoping he was not. Besides, he was almost sure Tresham would be here. He had been at the House earlier, as had Edward himself. He would certainly have returned home before going out for the evening.

Edward looked around at the shelves of books that lined the walls and wondered if Tresham ever as much as opened the cover of any of them. The large oak desk was clear apart from an inkpot and some quill pens on a blotter. Comfortable-looking leather winged chairs flanked the fireplace. A chaise longue was set at the other side of the room. One could not imagine Tresham spending much of his time in a library of all places.

He walked closer to the fireplace for the simple reason that he did not want to be found hovering just inside the door, looking as uncomfortable as he felt. But a man stood in front of his own hearth, not someone else’s. He changed direction and crossed to the window instead. He stood looking out.

He did not believe he had ever felt more depressed in his life. Or more purely embarrassed. He wished he were anywhere else on earth but where he actually was. On the opposite side of Grosvenor Square he could see a maid cleaning off the boot scraper outside one door and found himself envying her her quiet, uncomplicated existence. Which was nonsense, of course. No one’s life was all quietness or lack of complications. It just seemed sometimes that someone else’s life—everyone else’s in this case—was preferable to one’s own.

As luck would have it, his mother and Lorraine had just been returning from a visit as he was leaving the house, bringing with them both his grandmother and Juliana, and they had all, of course, wanted to know where he was going all spruced up and freshly shaven.

“Oh, out,” he had said vaguely, kissing his mother and grandmother on the cheek.

“Take my word for it, Adelaide,” his grandmother had said, “there is a lady involved. Lady Angeline Dudley, I trust.”

“She was at Vauxhall with us last evening,” Juliana had said, smiling. Just as if his mother and grandmother had not already known that.

“I do hope you are not planning to take her driving in the park, though, Edward,” his mother had said, glancing out the hall window. “It is not actually raining again, but it is going to be at any moment. I do not at all like the look of those clouds. What a gloomy day it has been.”

“Perhaps,” his grandmother had said, waving her lorgnette in his direction as though conducting a symphony, “he is going to Dudley House to propose marriage to her, Adelaide. Did he dance with her at Vauxhall, Lorraine? Did he steal a kiss from her? Vauxhall is the very best place in London for stolen kisses. I still remember that. Ah, the memories.”

They had all laughed, and Lorraine’s face had turned an interesting shade of pink.

And they had forgotten to demand an answer to the question. Or had there been a question? Edward had escaped before any of them could remember it—or remember to ask it.

They would know soon enough.

He was dreading hearing the library door open behind him. He would hate it even more, though, if it were the butler who opened it with the news that His Grace was indeed from home. He would not have been shown into the library, though, if that were the case, would he?

Did the man always keep guests waiting so long? How long had he been waiting? It felt like an hour. It was probably no more than five or ten minutes. And then the door opened and he turned.

Tresham was looking very black-eyed. Why was it his eyes that one always noticed first? His eyebrows were also raised. His long fingers were curled about the handle of a quizzing glass. If he had the effrontery to lift it to his eyes …

He did not.

“Heyward,” he said, the hint of a sigh in his voice. “For a moment I was propelled back in time when my butler handed me your card. But then I remembered, alas, that that Heyward is no more. To what do I owe the pleasure? I hope my guess is not correct.”

Of course it was correct. And he could hardly have been more insolent if he had tried.

“I have come to ask for the hand of Lady Angeline Dudley,” he said.

This time the sigh was not hinted at. It was quite explicit. And it was not immediately accompanied by words.

“Have you?” Tresham said. “In marriage, I presume you mean. How very tedious of you. She will say no, you know.”

“Perhaps,” Edward said stiffly, “we may allow her to say it, Tresham. Or yes, as the case may be. I merely need your permission to pay my addresses to her. I would imagine my eligibility is self-evident, but I am quite prepared to give you details should you feel obliged to hear them.”

Tresham regarded him silently for a few moments before dropping his quizzing glass on its ribbon and making his way across the room to sit behind the empty desk.

“I do indeed insist that Lady Angeline say no for herself on such occasions,” he said. “One would not wish to develop a reputation for being a tyrant of a brother, would one? But you would not have had the experience. Both your sisters were married before you inherited your title.”

He was not the first to offer for her, then, Edward thought. Of course, she had mentioned Exwich proposing to her, had she not? It was a great pity she had not accepted one of her other suitors, even if he could not in all conscience wish Exwich upon her. But such a thought was pointless.

“Do take a seat,” Tresham said, indicating a chair across the desk from his own with one indolent hand. “You will indeed convince me that you are an eligible suitor for Lady Angeline’s hand before I allow you to speak to her, Heyward.”

He was quite within his rights, of course. But surely almost any father or brother but Tresham would have left details of a marriage settlement to be worked out after the lady had said yes. Very well. Marriage settlements worked both ways. She must bring an acceptable dowry to the marriage. They would discuss that too.

Edward seated himself, quite determined not to appear an abject supplicant.

He looked the Duke of Tresham in the eye and raised his own eyebrows.

ANGELINE HAD READ the same page of the same book half a dozen times in the last half hour, and she still had not absorbed a word of it. It was Mr. Milton’s Paradise Lost and needed her full attention. It was a work of literature of which she believed Miss Goddard would approve. Not that she had seen that lady at all since her first visit to the library. If she had a chance to talk to the Earl of Heyward this evening—if?—she would mention it to him. She had already read six of the twelve books that comprised the work and had enjoyed them immensely. Miss Pratt had never let her read it because someone had once said in the governess’s hearing that Mr. Milton had made Satan far more attractive than God. Angeline had been relieved at the time for it was a very long poem and she had never enjoyed reading poetry. But it was turning out to be fascinating.

She could not to save her life read this page today, though.

She could not wait for this evening to come. Would he somehow contrive to kiss her again? Could she somehow maneuver matters—

The drawing room door opened, and she looked up to smile at Tresham. He was not smiling back. He was looking horridly bored. It was a growingly familiar look.

Oh, no, she thought with an inward sigh. Who was it this time?

“You had better go down to the library, Angeline,” he said. “Another eligible hopeful anxiously awaits his fate.”

She closed her book after placing her bookmark to mark her page.

“Must I?” she said. But it was a pointless question. Yes, of course she must. “Who is it this time?”

He almost grinned. Certainly he looked amused.

“The dry old stick,” he said.

“The Earl of Heyward?” Her voice rose to a squeak.

“None other,” he said, and now he definitely was grinning. “Contain your passion, Angeline, and go on down there. The man is desperate for a wife, I hear, but he might at least be realistic in his choice. I almost said no on your behalf, but I could not deny you the pleasure.”

She was already on her feet, she realized when she went to get up. She stared at him, speechless.

The Earl of Heyward had come to offer her marriage?

Already?

She did a panicked mental review of her appearance. She had changed into a day dress after returning home from shopping with her friends, though she had not had Betty redo her hair. What was the point when it would have to be done yet again this evening and she was not going anywhere or seeing anyone before then? And it had not looked too badly flattened from her bonnet, not after she had fluffed it up with her hands, anyway. Her dress was the old sunshine yellow one with the colored stripes about the hem that she so liked. It was just the thing for such a gloomy day, she had thought.

Was she looking good enough to face a marriage proposal from the Earl of Heyward? But if she suggested going up to her room to change and have her hair done first, Tresham would look at her as if she had suddenly sprouted an extra head.

“I shall go down,” she said meekly, though she thought her heart might well beat its way through either her chest or her eardrums or both at any moment.

“There is no need to look so tragic,” her brother said, holding the door open for her. “It will all be over in five minutes. And tomorrow it will be someone else.”

She made her way downstairs, wondering if her legs would hold her up. How could one body, even if it was unnaturally tall, contain such happiness?

The butler himself was waiting outside the library to open the door for her. He closed it behind her after she had stepped inside.

He was standing in front of the desk, all neat and smart and unostentatious in his dark green coat with buff-colored pantaloons and immaculately shining Hessian boots and white linen. His hair was neatly combed. She could tell he was freshly shaved. He had probably used that lovely cologne again, though she could not smell it from here.

He had had the advantage of her. He had known about this proposal and had been able to dress and groom himself accordingly.

She felt almost suffocated with love for him.

He was not smiling. Of course, he would not be. This was a solemn occasion. He would not smile at their wedding either. She would wager on it, though of course she had been told innumerable times that a lady never wagered. Everyone was agreed, though, that the few coins a lady bet at card games did not constitute wagering.

She smiled at him even though she knew he would not smile back.

And she remembered last night and that kiss. Was it possible that this was the same man? That passion in private moments could so transform a person?

“Lord Heyward,” she said.

He came hurrying across the room toward her, all earnest attention.

“Lady Angeline,” he said, reaching out a hand for hers and closing his fingers warmly about it when she put it in his.

And then—oh, and then.

He went down on one knee before her in a gesture that was absolutely unnecessary and did not at all suit his character but was nonetheless hopelessly romantic.

She gazed down at him with parted lips and shining eyes.

“Lady Angeline,” he said, “will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”

Yes, yes, yes. Oh, yes, yes, Y-E-S!

But something happened in the moment before the words could spill past her lips. Or perhaps in a fraction of that moment.

It was something that took her forever to put into words in her head when she looked back later, but took the merest fraction of a second to dash into her consciousness now and drown the words that were about to be spoken.

He had said nothing about love or happiness or her making him the happiest of men. It was as if he were down on one knee because he had been told by someone that that was the way a marriage proposal was done.

He had never said anything about love—not about loving her, anyway. Quite the contrary, in fact. He had said just last evening that he believed in marital fidelity but not in romance or falling in love.

When she had told him later, after their kiss, that it had been the loveliest evening of her life, he had replied that it had been a lovely evening—and that was after she had said her memories would be ruined if he regretted kissing her. Really it had been the most lukewarm of responses after the volcanic eruption of their embrace.

And volcanic eruptions of that nature did not have to proceed from love, did they, despite what she had thought at the time. Not for men, especially. Men were always taking mistresses, and presumably it was not so that they could sit beside them on couches and hold their hands and kiss them chastely on the cheek once in a while and be comfortable.

Passion could mean lust as easily as it could mean love.

Lord Heyward could not possibly love her anyway. She had done nothing but embarrass and disgust him from the moment of their first encounter. She was not at all the sort of woman with whom he must dream of spending the rest of his life. If there was such a woman, she was surely Miss Goddard. She was serious and dignified and intelligent and pretty, and they were already such close friends that they used each other’s given name. Indeed, probably the only reason he was not at Lady Sanford’s now proposing marriage to Miss Goddard was that according to his strict code of gentlemanly conduct he had compromised her last night and so was here instead. And his family probably disapproved of Miss Goddard because she was not as dazzlingly eligible as Angeline was.

But eligible was not the same thing as suitable. Miss Goddard was far more suited to him. She, on the other hand, was as unsuitable as she could be. She was tall and dark and ugly. She could not even arch her eyebrows without wrinkling her forehead horribly and looking like a startled hare. She was loud and stupid and indiscreet. She prattled on about trivialities just as though there was nothing between her ears except fluff. She had no dress sense whatsoever—just consider her hats, which everyone thought so hideous. Just consider this dress. All she had ever read were lurid Gothic novels and six and a half books of Paradise Lost—not even quite a half. And she could not even read that intelligently. She too thought Satan a splendid character and God a great yawn. And her mind could be distracted merely at the thought of another ball to attend.

She was hopeless.

She was unlovable.

Their developing romance had been entirely in her own head.

“Lord Heyward,” she said, gazing into his eyes, willing him to assure her that every bad thing she had ever been told about herself—even though she knew every one of them was true—was so much nonsense, and that even if it was not he did not care a tuppenny toss for any of it because he loved her to distraction, “is this because you kissed me last night?”

And the horrible thing was that he stared back at her and did not immediately rush to deny it.

“I compromised you,” he said. “I have come to make amends.”

Oh, Tresham had been right all along, she thought. He was a dry, dry stick that had been baking out in the desert for a hundred years. Except that he had every right to feel reluctant to marry her. Any man would. Men only flocked here to propose to her because she was the Duke of Tresham’s sister and had an almost indecently large dowry. No man could have any other reason.

“You do not love me?”

And why had she whispered the words? Perhaps because she ought not to have uttered them at all. She could not possibly have sounded more abject if she had tried.

He got to his feet though he still retained hold of her hand—in both his own.

“I am fond of you,” he said, “and I do not doubt affection will deepen between us as time goes on. I hope I did not give the impression I have come here today only because I kissed you last evening. I—”

He seemed lost for further words.

“I am the most eligible of prospective brides,” she said. “And you need a bride. I need a husband, and you are the most eligible of prospective grooms. It does rather sound like a match made in heaven, does it not?”

He was frowning.

“It is not quite like that,” he said. “I-I want to marry you. Dash it all, Lady Angeline, this is the first marriage proposal I have ever made. I hope it will be the last. I have made a mess of it, have I not? Do forgive me. What can I say to put it right?”

But there was nothing. She had asked him right out if he loved her, and he had answered—I am fond of you, and I do not doubt affection will deepen between us as time goes on.

She would have been far more cheered if he had said a definite no, he did not love her at all, in fact he hated her.

There was passion in hatred.

There was none whatsoever in I am fond of you, and … affection will deepen between us.

Angeline slid her hand out from between his and looked down at it, forlorn and cold and on its own again.

“I do thank you for your flattering offer, Lord Heyward,” she said, “and for your concern to make all right after last evening. But there was no need to be concerned, you see. No one knew and no one will ever know. Not unless you tell. I let you kiss me, and I kissed you back because I wanted to, because I had never been kissed before and I am nineteen years old and it is a little ridiculous and pathetic never to have been kissed. Now I have been, and I thank you for the experience. It was really very pleasant, and next time I will know far better what to expect and how to behave. And I will not expect everyone whom I will allow to kiss me to rush here the next day to offer me the respectability of marriage. Not that I will allow everyone, or even many men, to kiss me. I’ll probably allow very few, in fact. Of course, you are a gentleman, which not many men are despite what their birth and upbringing may lead them to call themselves. I am sure you do not make a habit of slinking off into the bushes with every girl who has never been kissed just so that you can show them how it is done. That would not be at all honorable, and you are always unfailingly honorable. Besides, you would be forever dashing off to propose marriage the day after, and one of them might say yes and you would be miserable forever after. Unless you loved that particular one, of course, except that—”

I am babbling.

She stopped doing it and turned her hand over so that she could examine her palm with as much attention as she had been giving the back of her hand.

There was a short silence.

“I am sorry,” he said then.

His voice was quiet, flat.

And that was all. There was another silence, a rather lengthy one this time, and then she was aware of him bowing rather abruptly to her. He left without another word. She heard the door open quietly and then close just as quietly. There was no passion even in his exit.

The long line that curved around her palm from just below her forefinger and disappeared into the folds of her wrist was her lifeline, was it not? It looked as if she was going to live at least a hundred years. That meant she still had eighty-one left.

Eighty-one years of heartbreak. Would it fade by about the seventieth of those years? The seventy-fifth?

The door opened again, much more forcefully.

“Well?” Tresham asked.

“Oh.” She looked up. “I said no and sent him on his way.”

“Good girl,” he said briskly. “Am I supposed to escort you to the Hicks ball tonight, or is Rosalie coming by here?”

You, she was going to say. But she was not sure she could get even the one more word past her lips without its wobbling all out of control and making her feel like a prize idiot.

She yanked the door open and fled out into the hall and up the stairs, leaving someone else to close the door behind her.

The Duke of Tresham stared after her, his brows almost meeting above his nose.

“What the devil?” he asked of the empty room. “All I asked was whether I am to escort her to this infernal ball tonight.”

And then he scratched his chin and looked thoughtful.