The Secret Mistress

free. Free to enjoy all the myriad activities of the Season while searching for the man of her dreams.

Angeline sighed again, more wistfully this time.

She had already found him once, of course. Except that she had not set eyes upon him since that day at the Rose and Crown Inn and would probably never do so again. It would be very romantic to pine for him for the rest of her life but not at all practical. She would grow old and be a spinster and an unpaid nanny to all the children Tresham would produce once he had finished sowing his wild oats and taken a wife. And eventually she would shrivel up like a dried prune and be nothing but a burden to all her nephews and nieces and great-nephews and great-nieces and on down the generations while she relived the ever-dimming memory of the one meeting she had had with the love of her life when she was nineteen.

It all sounded ridiculously pathetic. And ridiculously … well, ridiculous.

She was going to put him right out of her mind from this moment on. There, it was already done. Tonight she would meet other gentlemen—hordes of them, if Ferdinand was to be believed. Tonight she would begin to fall in love again.

But her thoughts were distracted at that moment by the sounds of a small commotion in Grosvenor Square below her window. She leaned forward on her forearms and peered downward.

Marsh, Tresham’s head groom, was standing down there holding onto the bridle of a horse that was literally champing at the bit in its eagerness to be off on its morning gallop. And Tresham, all black and long-legged in form-fitting riding clothes, was hurrying down the steps, pulling on his riding gloves as he went. He swung himself up into the saddle, and even as Angeline watched, he assumed instant command of his restless mount and rode off without further ado.

Angeline was assailed by a wave of envy bordering on jealousy.

He must be going for an early morning ride in Hyde Park. She would give anything in the world to be going with him. It was chilly and windy and ever so slightly drizzly, all weather conditions that would make almost any delicately nurtured female shudder with distaste and cling tenaciously to the indoors until the sun deigned to make an appearance.

But she was not a delicate female.

Cousin Rosalie had not said exactly when she would arrive to supervise while Betty got Angeline all decked out in her court finery, but it would probably be ten o’clock at the very earliest. That gave her almost three hours to kick her heels. Or to …

Her hair would get damp.

Not if she wore her oldest—and still her favorite—riding hat. Besides, damp hair dried quickly.

Her complexion would turn rosy.

She would look vibrantly healthy among all the wilting lilies who would also be making their come-out. It never hurt to stand out from the crowd. And the worst of the shine would have faded from her nose and cheeks before she needed to leave the house again.

Marsh would refuse to saddle a horse for her without Tresham’s consent. No, he would not. Not if she behaved as if it had all been planned yesterday, and—what? Had his grace not informed Marsh about it and instructed him to have a mount ready for her? How very odd!

No harm would be done. What could she be expected to do alone for three whole hours, after all—at least three? She would only get more nervous thinking about her curtsy and the tricky maneuver of backing out of the queen’s presence without tripping over the train of her gown. Not that the possibility had struck her until this very moment. But now that it had, it would consume her mind and her nerves for every idle moment until she was safely out of the royal presence.

What better way to distract her mind and her nerves than to go for a morning ride? She would take a groom with her. She was not so lost to all conduct that she would go tearing in pursuit of Tresham without proper chaperonage. Besides, Marsh would never allow her to set one horse’s hoof beyond the stable doors unless there was someone trustworthy with her.

Tresham would not mind if she joined him on his ride.

Well, he probably would, but he was not her father. He was only her guardian, and he had not exerted himself greatly so far to be a vigilant one—except that he had surrounded her with governesses and servants from the moment he became duke at the age of seventeen. And except that he had given vent to a minor volcanic eruption when he had discovered at that inn that the Reverend Coombes had abandoned her and that none of the four grooms or footmen from Acton had been in sight when she rushed downstairs to greet him and that Betty had still been half asleep up in her room. Now he had imposed Rosalie on her. Not that Rosalie was a great imposition.

He would not scold her today, would he? Not in public, anyway. Or in private. Not today. This was her very special day, perhaps the most special of her whole life, and he would not wish to upset her.

And if she stood here any longer holding this rather garrulous mental debate with herself, she thought, straightening up and closing the window, it would be too late to go, and now that she had conceived the idea of taking a morning ride in order to relax her nerves, she could not possibly do without it.

Well, perhaps she could. But she would not.

She strode off in the direction of her dressing room.

THIS WAS THE day, Edward thought as he woke up—and wished he could simply fall back to sleep.

There was his maiden speech to deliver in the Upper House. It had been written and rewritten and then written again. It had been practiced and repracticed and practiced again. And just last night—and every night for the last two weeks—he had been assailed by terror at the conviction that it was utter rubbish and he would be laughed out of the House and expelled from the ranks of the nobility.

He was not usually given to vivid, ridiculous imaginings.

And then tonight there was the Tresham ball and the set he was to dance with Lady Angeline Dudley. It was only a dance, he had tried to convince himself. But it was the opening set of her come-out ball, and every eye in the ballroom—virtually every eye in the ton, in other words—would be fixed upon them. His only hope, a faint one, was that most of those eyes would be directed exclusively at her. She was, after all, the most eligible young lady on the market this year and most people would be getting their first look at her.

However, he would think of the ball and that particular dance later.

He went out for an early morning ride in the park despite the inclemency of the weather—it was cloudy and chilly, and a light but persistent drizzle kept everything and everyone uncomfortably damp. If one waited for clement weather in England, though, one might find oneself riding for brief spells once or twice a fortnight if one were fortunate. Besides, he had made arrangements to meet two of his oldest and closest friends and he would not let them down, supposing that they braved the drizzle and the chill, that was.

They both did.

Edward’s stomach was feeling rather queasy, and he was tired after a night of what he might have thought had been sleepless if there were not the memory of bizarre dreams, all of which had proceeded along the same general lines. In one he had begun his speech in the House of Lords with a flourish until he had faltered at the realization that he had forgotten to put on any clothes before leaving home. In another, he had got up to speak, opened his mouth, noted the respectful attention with which all his fellow peers were regarding him, and realized that he had forgotten to bring either his notes or his memory with him.

“Damnation,” Sir George Headley said as they rode through the park together. “I counted upon the Row being deserted this morning. I need a good gallop to blow away the fumes of too much