The Secret Mistress

“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