The Accidental Mistress Read online

  He assumed she had loved the man and yet she never mentioned him, not even by so much as a casual reference.

  Why?

  Was it because those days with John Smythe had been so brief and fleeting, their details already beginning to grow dim and fade? Or was it because the pain of his loss was still too sharp to be borne, buried too deep to be brought forth without cracking the barrier she wore around herself like a snug-fitting cloak?

  And she did keep a barrier between them—a thin, nearly transparent wall, like a piece of glass through which he could see but not touch. She might give him her body, but her mind and innermost emotions remained her own. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he wanted more. Wanted her. All of her.

  Mind, body, and soul.

  What is she hiding, and why will she not tell me?

  If shaking her would have done the trick, he might have tried the maneuver. But Lily was the most independent-minded female he’d ever encountered, and nothing would force her to reveal things she did not wish to share. So he would have to employ alternate means. What those were, he would need to ponder.

  For now, he wanted her thoughts off John Smythe and focused on him.

  The footman departed, along with Mouser, who followed the man out on a quick dash, in hopes no doubt of being invited to share a dish of interesting morsels in the kitchen.

  As soon as they had gone, Lily stood. He knew that she was planning to do a bit of shopping this noontime and would therefore need to change from her morning gown into a day dress before leaving the house.

  She was about to excuse herself when Ethan pushed back his chair and reached forward, curling his fingers gently around her wrist. “Come here,” he murmured.

  “Ethan,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

  He grinned and tugged her forward, tumbling her across his lap. “I just want a kiss.”

  “Is that all you want?” She gave him a smile that was as much a tease as it was a scold, then leaned close to press a quick peck to his lips. “There. You’ve been kissed.”

  He locked his arms around her back. “That was no kiss. You will have to do better.”

  “Will I indeed?”

  “Hmm, quite definitely. Kiss me, and don’t stint on the tongue.”

  Her eyes flashed wide, then she laughed. “You are wicked.”

  “And you love it.”

  She snuggled against him, casting a glance toward the door. “What about the servants? Someone might come in.”

  “If they do, they’ll leave again soon enough. I think by now your staff has an idea that the two of us kiss. Now quit talking and get to it.” With the flat of his hand, he gave her a light swat on the behind.

  She inhaled on a sharp breath, then relaxed and sidled closer, locking her arms around his neck. A moment later, her mouth met his own, plundering in a way that turned his body hard and ready.

  Closing his eyes, he gave himself over to the pleasure, her lips as savory and intoxicating as wine. Plying her nimble tongue to devastating effect, she more than satisfied his earlier command, his blood flowing like a swift, fierce current inside his veins.

  At length he pulled back, senses on fire. Meeting her gaze, he noted the dreamy glaze of desire shimmering in her emerald eyes, the delicate smile riding her rosy mouth, her cheeks brushed with a similar heightened hue.

  He considered taking her right there, and was of half a mind to do so in spite of their location, when she leaned close and skimmed her mouth over his cheek, pressing a kiss behind his ear.

  A blissful shiver radiated along his spine.

  “Take me to our bed, Ethan,” she whispered. “Love me where we can be alone.”

  At her words, something shifted in the vicinity of his heart, a sensation that had nothing at all to do with passion. Love her? The question elicited equal parts anxiety and elation.

  Do I love Lily?

  In that moment, he realized he could love her if he let himself, with a fierceness he feared would either lift him to impossible heights or send him crashing into black despair.

  And if she does not—or worse, cannot—love me?

  He would think of neither possibility for now, he warned himself, shaking off the thoughts. What he and Lily shared was good, almost too good. Why sully the waters with troublesome quandaries and questions?

  Enjoy the now. Relish having her here in my arms, asking to be taken to her bed—our bed.

  “Yes,” he said, placing her onto her feet. “Let’s go where we shall be alone, just us two.”

  With his arm around her waist, they walked out of the room.

  Ethan dipped his head to keep from hitting the lintel as he strode through a London tavern’s low entrance two days later. Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the array of diners—common clerks and government officials who were congregated to enjoy their afternoon nuncheon break before returning to their duties.

  The room was dim, illuminated only by the sunlight streaming through the vinegar-streaked windowpanes in a way that created alternating pools of shadow and sunshine. Scanning a bit farther, he located the object of his search, a sandy-haired man not much older than himself. Tucked into a far corner, the slim fellow sat at a small, wooden dining table, a leather-bound book open near his elbow. Ethan watched as his old friend ate a bite of what appeared to be a meat pie before turning a page and continuing to read.

  On silent shoes, Ethan slid into the chair opposite. “You are not an easy man to find, do you know that?”

  The sandy-haired man startled and glanced up. With a small thunk, he laid his fork onto his pewter plate. “Blue blazes, Vessey, you shouldn’t sneak up on a fellow like that, especially not when he’s eating. I’ll probably go home with dyspepsia tonight because of you.”

  “Hallo to you too, Ross. And if you have indigestion this evening, blame it on the beef pie and that tankard of ale you are consuming.”

  “Pigeon pie,” Ross corrected, “and I always said you should have let me put you into service as a reconnaissance man during the war. A waste of those quiet, catlike skills, if you ask me.”

  “I performed a few interesting tasks over the years as I recall, without the necessity of joining up. As you well know, I had the title and couldn’t risk shaking hands with the sharp side of a bayonet or a shiv. My mother had lost two sons already; she didn’t need to worry about losing a third.”

  Ross waved a hand and ate a forkful of pie. “True, true.” Lifting his tankard, he drank deeply, then set it down, lifting a napkin to wipe his lips dry. “Well then, what brings you to this side of Whitehall? For that matter, what are you doing in London at all? Shouldn’t you be off hunting pheasants or some such by now?”

  “I could say the same of you, but I suppose Foreign Office business takes precedence.”

  “Indeed it does. So, what do you want?” Ross leaned his chair back against a worn spot on the tavern wall.

  “Do I have to want something?” Ethan asked in feigned innocence.

  Ross released a guffaw. “If you did not, you’d have sent a note ’round inviting me to dinner. Let’s have it.”

  Smiling, Ethan leaned forward. “There’s a man, an army officer, about whom I’d like some information. I was hoping you could help.”

  “Why don’t you just go to Regimental Headquarters and ask yourself?”

  “The man in question is dead. I figured you would have easier access to his records.” Ethan rubbed a thumb over one of the gold buttons on his waistcoat. “Plus, it is a matter of personal interest that I would rather keep private. You are a man I know I can trust.”

  “Buttering me up now, are you?”

  “Yes, if you require the greasing.”

  A deep-throated laugh burst from Ross’s mouth as he tipped his chair forward. “Doesn’t sound like a terribly difficult assignment; I shall see what I can do.” Reaching inside his coat, he withdrew a thin silver case containing paper and a small pencil. “So what is the fellow’s name?”

  “Jo
hn Smythe,” Ethan said, reciting the proper spelling so there would be no mistakes.

  “Rank?”

  Ethan frowned, realizing he didn’t know. “I am not certain, lieutenant or captain would be my guess.”

  “Regiment?”

  “He was in the infantry, killed in the Battle of Vittoria. Beyond that, I do not know. His widow comes from Cornwall, so perhaps the 32nd Foot, though it is entirely possible he purchased a commission wherever one was available.”

  Ross paused in his note-taking, an intrigued gleam in his gray eyes. “I understand you have taken up with a rather comely young widow of late. She wouldn’t have been this fellow’s wife, now, would she?”

  “Just find out what you can with my thanks.” Ethan extended a palm.

  Ross accepted and the two men shook hands.

  “Well, I shall leave you to your book and your meal,” Ethan said, rising to his feet. “And we will have to meet for that dinner you mentioned one of these evenings.”

  “I look forward to the occasion.”

  With a nod, Ethan turned his back and made his way out into the street and the midafternoon crowd.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LILY WAS SMILING several days later as she and Ethan strolled arm in arm through the throng gathered for a fair being held a few miles north of London. As if a small city had sprung full-grown from the earth, scores of farmers, tradesmen, and vendors lined the makeshift lanes to offer their wares, while musicians played, jugglers and mimes amused, and barkers called out in an effort to entice the curious and unwary alike. The enlivening scents of herbs and apples clashed with the heavy aromas of sizzling meat, yeasty ale, and quite a number of unwashed bodies. For Lily, the panoply was all part of the excitement and vitality of the event.

  Knowing herself safe in Ethan’s care, she paid scant heed to the clusters of half-drunken men they passed, nor did she notice the occasional hard-eyed ruffian who slithered through the crowd in hopes of liberating coins and watches from their unsuspecting owners. She knew Ethan would do an excellent job of avoiding any unsavory types.

  “Have a comfit,” she suggested, extending the small brown paper sack of sugared almonds Ethan had purchased for her. “They are utterly delicious.”

  “They must be,” he teased, “considering the number of them that you have already consumed.”

  “If you are going to make comments like that, I may decide not to share, after all,” she replied in feigned affront.

  With a wink of apology, he dug a hand into the sack and popped a couple in his mouth. “They are quite tasty,” he agreed, reaching again for the sack.

  Playfully, she held it away. “Say please. Otherwise they are all mine.”

  “Going to make me beg, are you?” He met her gaze. “Very well, then. Please, may I have some more?”

  She blinked, a bit surprised at his easy acquiescence. “Of course, since you asked so nicely.”

  Instead of reaching inside the sack, however, he slid his arm around her waist and pressed her close against his hip, his mouth lowering to her ear. “You realize I shall now require you to return the favor.”

  “What do you mean?” she murmured.

  “Only that I will have to make sure you beg a boon from me,” he stated on a husky growl. “Perhaps I shall do so tonight. In bed, I believe. It shall be my very great pleasure to keep you teetering on the edge of desire until you are literally pleading with me to satisfy you. I can hear you now, crying out—please, Ethan, please!”

  A hot fist curled low in her belly, warmth spreading through her that had nothing to do with the sun, infusing her cheeks with betraying color. “You wouldn’t.”

  He sent her another wink, a naughty one this time, that promised he would be doing exactly as he’d said.

  Her mouth grew dry and her body moist at the idea.

  Laughing, he removed his hand from her waist and linked their arms together again. Reaching into her bag of comfits, he drew out a fresh helping, then urged her to continue their leisurely stroll among the revelers.

  As they walked, Lily fought to restore her composure, peeking upward through her eyelashes to find Ethan calmly eating his sugared almonds as though he hadn’t just been whispering lustful suggestions in her ear. Her equanimity, and her pulse rate, had finally calmed by the time she and Ethan stopped to watch one of the animal acts.

  A trio of small dogs wearing orange-and-red-checkered harlequin hats and tiny matching capes danced on their hind feet, spinning slowly as they barked and jumped to the enthusiastic commands of their owner. She and Ethan laughed and clapped along with the crowd, delighted by their antics. Next came a quartet of cats, each of whom could walk across a tightrope and leap through suspended rings of fire. Cheers rang out when the act concluded, Ethan tossing several coins into the performer’s cap.

  Afterward, she and Ethan wandered the grounds, stopping to buy warm beef pasties and cups of cool cider. Once their meal was finished, they took seats on one of the wooden benches set up in front of the acting troupe’s tent, and settled in to watch an exaggerated yet lively comedic farce that made some rather pointed jests at the church and government, including a few at the Prince Regent himself. Ethan, she noticed, took no offense, laughing at a number of the jokes, which she had to confess were very amusing.

  The tableau was nearing its end when a sudden flash of light caught her eye, the glint like that of metal reflecting off the sun. Glancing over, she noticed a man standing in front of a nearby vendor’s cart, his back turned toward her. Thick-necked and stocky, he had the build of a bull, his ill-trimmed black hair crushed under a beaver hat, the cut of his clothing marking him as a member of the gentry.

  A shiver chased under her skin, something about him seeming familiar. He reminded her of…Edgar Faylor.

  Abruptly, her mouth grew dry, her heart pounding so hard she could hear the quick beats echoing between her ears. Surely it was not him. Surely the man she saw was not Faylor, but another who shared no more than a faint resemblance to the crude brute her stepfather had once wanted her to marry.

  Shrinking down in her seat, she huddled closer to Ethan, closing her eyes as she tried to take comfort from his reassuring warmth and strength, her body suddenly gone cold.

  He is not Faylor, she assured herself. The real Faylor is hundreds of miles away in Cornwall, not here at this impromptu fair on the outskirts of London. It is not him. Oh God, please let it not be him.

  Long seconds passed before she could gather the courage to look again. Slowly, careful to keep as much of her face shielded by her bonnet brim as possible, she finally forced herself to look. And saw only the vendor’s cart.

  The thick-set man was gone.

  Hurriedly she glanced through the nearby crowd, searching for him, but there was no one even remotely similar. Whoever he was, it was as though the man had vanished.

  Perhaps I only imagined the man looked like the squire, she thought. Regardless, at least he had not turned, had not seen her. She was still safe.

  Turning back, her gaze collided with Ethan’s, his eyes filled with concern. “Lily, what is wrong? Your cheeks are pale as powder.”

  “I am f-fine. I—”

  She wanted to tell him, but she could not. To reveal her concern over Edgar Faylor would be to reveal everything—all her secrets, all her lies. How would Ethan react if he knew the truth?

  He clasped her hands, chaffing them. “Your fingers are like ice. You aren’t coming down ill, are you?”

  Knowing she needed some explanation for her behavior, she seized on the excuse. “I am sorry, but I think perhaps I am. I believe I would like to go home now.”

  “Of course. We’ll leave immediately. Are you all right to walk?”

  Goodness, she thought, realizing he would carry her if she wished. Her heart turned over in her breast, warmth bursting at his kindness, his caring. Another emotion shifted inside her as well, one she knew she dare not acknowledge.

  “I can walk,” she murmured. �
��Let us go, Ethan. Take me home.”

  Lily’s “illness” did not last long—a warm bath, a light meal, and a night spent wrapped inside the protective comfort of Ethan’s embrace doing a great deal to drive away the worst of her fears.

  By breakfast the following morning, she had convinced herself she must have been mistaken about the man’s identity. He had resembled Faylor, true, but nothing more than that. There must be any number of stocky, dark-haired, bull-necked men in England, she argued to herself; Faylor was but one. She had jumped to conclusions, she decided, and let her anxiety overrule her good sense. The man at the fair had been no more than a stranger, and she would do well to put the incident out of her mind.

  For the remainder of the day she did exactly that, allowing Ethan, who was still concerned that she might be coming down with a cold, to cosset her. At his suggestion, she agreed to stay at home and relax on the sofa for the day. When she refused to take a midday nap, he produced a deck of cards and the pair of them indulged in a lively game of piquet. She won, though she suspected Ethan might have let her take a few extra points here and there.

  He stayed to share an early dinner of roast chicken, buttered parsnips, and tender, golden-orange carrots. Cook fixed a toothsome apple cobbler for dessert, which was served with an utterly decadent brandied whipped cream.

  Afterward, they retired to her sitting room, where they settled together into a wide, cozy chair in front of the fireplace. Having already chosen a book, Ethan read to her, his deep, melodious voice lulling her into a state of drowsy relaxation.

  She was drifting, her eyes half-closed, when he set the book aside and carried her to bed. He stripped her, then himself, toasty as a stove as he climbed in next to her, and tucked them both inside the sheets.

  Her eyes opened hours later to find the bedchamber swathed in darkness, a last few embers glowing red in the fireplace. She turned and snuggled closer against Ethan, adoring the sensation of his naked flesh sliding against her own. Breathing in his clean, musky scent, she rubbed her cheek against his chest, then laid her lips on the spot, kissing his shoulder before moving upward to drop lazy kisses against his collarbone, neck, and the whisker-rough skin of his cheek.