The Secret Mistress

“Poor Edward,” she said as they walked away. “I will not hold you to your offer. I will not expect you actually to dance with me. It is quite unbearably stuffy in here, is it not?”

“You will stroll with me on the terrace?” he asked hopefully. “I cannot tell you how grateful I would be.”

She chuckled softly.

“And were you implying back there,” she asked, “that I was one of the other beautiful ladies in the room? Being the Earl of Heyward has given you a flattering tongue.”

She was wearing a light blue gown that was neither fashionable nor unfashionable, neither new nor old, neither pretty nor ugly. It was the kind of gown one purchased, he thought, when one did not intend to buy a dozen and did not want the chosen one to be so distinctive that it would be recognized wherever she went. It was not inexpensive—her father, though not extraordinarily wealthy, did not lack for funds either. She wore no jewelry or other adornments. Her brown hair was dressed in a knot high on the back of her head with a few ringlets curling over her temples and along her neck to soften any suggestion of severity. She was of medium height and slender, pleasing figure. She had a pretty face made more so by the bright intelligence of her gray eyes.

“I was not just implying,” he said. “I was stating.”

“Then thank you,” she said as they stepped through one set of open French windows onto the terrace beyond. “You were quite right about Lady Angeline Dudley, though. She is indeed beautiful, even though I suppose it is possible to list all sorts of defects if one considers her person piecemeal. As is true of everyone. There is no such thing as pure beauty. Her beauty comes more from within than from without. I see her only through a woman’s eyes, of course, but it seems to me that she is the sort of lady who is far more attractive to men than to other women. Am I right?”

He looked down at her as they began to stroll. With almost any other lady he would suspect an ulterior motive in her question, a plea to be assured that indeed he did not find Lady Angeline attractive at all, but that he found her irresistibly so. Eunice, he knew, had no such motive.

“I do consider her lovely to look at,” he said. “But she is oh so frivolous, Eunice. She turned her ankle deliberately so that she would not have to dance with such a clumsy fellow as I. I wonder how many people noticed that she rested the wrong foot on the stool I fetched for her.”

“Oh,” she said, and when she looked back at him there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I did not. But how very careless of her.”

“And then she proceeded to regale my ears,” he said, “with a tale of how she broke her leg last year after climbing a tree to avoid the attack of an angry bull. She had been knowingly crossing his meadow because she was late for some visitors who were coming. She expected me to laugh at the story.”

“You must admit,” she said, “that it is rather droll.”

He had a sudden mental image of Lady Angeline Dudley dashing across a meadow and straight up the trunk of a tree with a bull in hot pursuit. It was rather funny, he supposed, when translated into pictures rather than just words. And he had to admit one thing in the woman’s favor. She did not mind laughing at herself. It was the very last thing most people were inclined to do.

“Oh, I suppose so,” he said, “if one ignores the fact that she might have been killed, either by the bull or by her subsequent fall from the tree.”

“But then she would not have been telling the story to you or to anyone else,” she said very sensibly, “and the question of its humor or lack thereof would not have arisen.”

“I suppose not,” he said. “She was in Hyde Park this morning, Eunice, when I was riding there early with Headley and Paulson. She arrived there alone, or with only a groom to accompany her, anyway, and met her brother quite by accident—the other brother, Lord Ferdinand Dudley, not Tresham. He was there with some other men, and she proceeded to gallop along Rotten Row with them despite the mud, whooping as she went. And she was wearing the most garish hat I have ever seen. If there was a color yet invented that was not in it, I would be surprised.”

“At least she did take a groom,” she said as they came to a stop against the stone balustrade and turned to gaze down into the garden, which was dimly lit by a few lamps swaying from tree branches.

Did it take Eunice to convince him that he really was stuffy? But really, a young lady who had not even been officially out at the time ought not to have made such a public exhibition of herself. Had she even known any of those men apart from her brother? But it was just like Eunice always to see the best in another person. She was quite unlike those tabbies with whom she had just been sitting. Poor Eunice. It was no wonder she did not enjoy social events.

“Edward,” she said, “I think you really ought to pursue a courtship with her.”

“What?” he said, jerking his head sideways to stare at her.

“She has enormous consequence,” she said. “You have only to look about you. I doubt there are many members of the ton who are not here this evening. And the reason is that this is Dudley House and the host is the Duke of Tresham and the ball is in honor of his sister, who has just made her come-out and is now ready to take a husband.”

“But, Eunice—”

She did not let him finish.

“And she is rather lovely and full of life and fun,” she said. “She has qualities that are perhaps missing from your life.”

For a moment he was stunned into silence.

“They are qualities I can do very well without,” he said firmly when he found his voice again. “She is a Dudley, Eunice. Tresham is her brother. He was one of Maurice’s closest friends, if you will remember. They were every bit as wild and irresponsible as each other. It was Tresham Maurice was racing against when he died.”

“Lady Angeline Dudley is not the Duke of Tresham any more than you are Maurice,” she pointed out. “And to be fair, Edward, the duke is still a single man, and he is still young, probably no older than you are. Who knows how he will behave when he is married? He may change completely. Many men do, you know, particularly if they have a fondness for their wives. Your brother unfortunately seemed not to be reformed by marriage. But we ought not to judge him, not having walked in his shoes. Though I suppose you have more of a right to judge than I do. But he changed you, Edward, or at least had a powerful influence upon you. The wilder he grew, it seemed, the more you moved to the opposite extreme. Perhaps it is not the best place for you to be. Extremes usually are not. I know you are determined not to be the husband he was, but perhaps …”

She stopped. Was she saying he was wrong? That he ought to be less concerned about duty and good sense and … and plain decency? Surely not. Not Eunice!

“Perhaps?” he prompted.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “But I do think you should seriously consider marrying her, Edward.”

He drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

“I still want to marry you,” he said. And suddenly he really did, very much indeed. Without further delay. By special license. Then he would be comfortable and safe.

She sighed.

“It did seem a good idea at the time,” she said softly, “and it still would be … comforting to lean upon it. One feels a little bereft to be entirely free. But I do