The Secret Mistress

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