Mistress by Midnight Read online

  Mistress

  by Midnight

  MAGGIE ROBINSON

  BRAVA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2011 Maggie Robinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Brava and the B logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6799-3

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-6799-1

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: January 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Prologue

  Dorset, 1808

  Despite it being high summer, Con was so pale that he looked ill. But he had come to her at the ring of stones, and that was the important thing.

  In a few days’ time, he would belong to some other woman. He would stand in front of the altar at All Saints, and pledge his troth to Marianna Berryman, that sleek stranger who looked very like a cream-fed cat.

  Laurette understood this rationally. Con had to enter this alliance for the sake of his estate and the people who depended on him. Two villages in his purview had suffered year after year from neglect. The prosperity of the local populace rested upon the shoulders of a nineteen-year-old boy. When others his age were out carousing, Con was promising his future away.

  What she planned for the twilight was foolish. It would mean nothing in the wider world, but it meant everything to her. She smoothed the fabric of her beaded blue dress—the dress she had worn for her hopeless come-out—and almost enjoyed the shock on Con’s face when he saw her. She had lowered the neckline—if her chest were the heavens, infinite constellations of stars were twinkling brightly.

  But Con loved her freckles.

  “I am considerably underdressed, I see.” He wore a homespun shirt and breeches, clean but worn. New clothes were filling his closets, but she was glad he didn’t come to her wearing Berryman largesse.

  “This is a special occasion.”

  Con laughed a bit bleakly. “Yes, it’s Wednesday evening. Bring out the fireworks.”

  “I didn’t think of those. But I do have a bottle of champagne I pinched from my father’s cellar.”

  “I’m not thirsty, Laurie.” He collapsed onto the ground, but made no motion for her to join him. She could feel his retreat as though it were a living thing. Carefully she spread her skirts and sat beside him.

  “You’ll ruin that dress.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll never wear it again. But I wanted to wear it for you tonight. So you would remember.”

  “I’ll never forget you, Laurie, and that’s the problem.”

  She clasped a hand. “This is to be my wedding dress, Con. I’m going to marry you tonight.”

  He pulled away. “Don’t be daft. I’ve signed all the papers. Berryman will send me to jail if I renege now.”

  “You’ll marry on Saturday, just as they planned. But your heart will always belong to me.”

  “You know it will, but what good is even saying it? This is over, Laurie. We are over.”

  His words were brutal. His thick black brows drew into an angry frown.

  “Please give me tonight, Con. I want us to stand in this magical place under God’s sky. To speak what’s in my heart. To be your wife of the heart, if not in a church register.”

  She searched his face for a reaction. At first there was none. Then residual anger turned to incredulity, and, eventually, a faint smile.

  “A pagan wedding for my pagan girl. It’s not much to cling to.”

  “It’s all I’ll ever have,” she said simply.

  He kissed her then, too gently. She stole control and toppled him on his back, eating him up with hands and mouth as if she were starving. If she didn’t stop she would make love to him before she said the words she had labored over so long. She broke the kiss, leaping to her feet.

  “We shall continue all that in a moment, my Lord Conover. First I want you to stand up with me before the altar stone.”

  He shook his head. “You really are serious.”

  “I am.”

  “All right.” Con got to his feet, brushing off his threadbare pants. “I wish—”

  Laurette placed a finger on his lips. “No regrets. We have tonight, as the sun is sinking and the shadows loom. Now, hold my hands.”

  “Yes, madam.” He brought them to his lips.

  “That’s soon to be Lady Conover to you. Oh, don’t look so stricken. I know this is all pretense. But when winter comes, the thought of this summer evening will keep me warm.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “It will have to be. Now then.” She squeezed his hands. “I, Laurette Isabella Vincent, do take thee, Desmond—”

  “Thee?”

  “Quiet. Your turn will come. Do take thee, Desmond Anthony Ryland, seventh Marquess of Conover, to be the husband of my heart, and the keeper of my soul and body for all eternity. Though circumstances may part us, nothing will ever break the bonds of our friendship and love.”

  The next part was tricky. She certainly was not going to promise to obey. Not Con or anyone.

  “I do solemnly promise to be mindful of thy wishes in all things, even if I do not always agree. I will love you—thee—and support thee until I cease to draw breath. I pledge this to thee before the altar of the Ancients, in the sight of God our Father, whose ways may be a mystery at present.”

  There had been more, but her throat was becoming thick as Con looked down on her, his black eyes somber. “Amen.”

  He kissed the tear from her cheek. “I, Desmond Anthony Ryland, seventh Marquess of Conover, take thee Laurette Isabella Vincent as my wedded wife of the heart. I shall be true to thee until death. I love you so much, Laurie, my heart is breaking.”

  They held each other as the sun dipped behind the megalith, casting its last light on the sparkles of Laurette’s dress. The champagne was forgotten, but the consummation of their union was not.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1820

  Laurette knew precisely what she must do. Again. Had known even before her baby brother had fallen so firmly into the Marquess of Conover’s clutches.

  To be fair, perhaps Charlie had not so much fallen as thrown himself headfirst into Con’s way. Charlie had been as heedless as she herself had been more than a decade ago. She was not immune even now to Con’s inco
nvenient presence. She had shown him her back on more than one occasion, but could feel the heat of his piercing black gaze straight through to her tattered stays.

  But tonight she would allow him to look his fill. She had gone so far as having visited Madame Demarche this afternoon to purchase some of her naughtiest underpinnings. Laurette would have one less thing for which to feel shame.

  Bought with credit, of course. One more bill to join the mountain of debt. Insurmountable as a Himalayan peak and just as chilling. Nearly as cold as Conover’s heart.

  She raised the lion’s head knocker and let it fall, once, composing herself to face Con’s servant.

  Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, opened the door himself.

  “You!”

  “Did you think I would allow you to be seen here at such an hour?” he asked, his face betraying no emotion. “You must indeed think me a veritable devil. I’ve sent Aram to bed. Come into my study.”

  He was a devil, suggesting this absurd time. Midnight, as though they were two foreign spies about to exchange vital information in utmost secrecy. Laurette followed him down the shadowy hall, the black-and-white tile a chessboard beneath her feet. She felt much like a pawn, but would soon need to become the White Queen. Con must not know just how desperate she was.

  Though surely he must suspect.

  He opened a door and stepped aside as she crossed the threshold. The room, she knew, was his sanctuary, filled with objects he’d collected in the years he’d been absent from Town and her life. Absent from his own life, as well. The marquessate had been shockingly abandoned for too long.

  She had been summoned here once before, in daylight, a year ago. She was better prepared tonight. She let her filmy shawl slip from one shoulder but refused Con’s offer of a chair.

  “Suit yourself,” he shrugged, sitting behind his desk. He placed a hand on a decanter of brandy. “Will you join me? We can toast to old times.”

  Laurette shook her head. She’d need every shred of her wits to get through what was ahead. “No thank you, my lord.”

  She could feel the thread of attraction between them, frayed yet stubborn. She should be too old and wise now to view anything that was to come as more than a business arrangement. As soon as she had seen the bold strokes of his note, she had accepted its implication. She was nearly thirty, almost half her life away from when Conover first beguiled her. Or perhaps when she had beguiled him. He had left her long ago, if not quite soon enough.

  A pop from the fire startled her, and she turned to watch sparks fly onto the marble tiles. The room was uncomfort ably warm for this time of year, but it was said that the Marquess of Conover had learned to love the heat of the exotic East on his travels.

  “I appeal to your goodness,” Laurette said, nearly choking on the improbable phrase.

  “I find good men dead boring, my dear. Good women, too.” Con abandoned his desk and strode across the floor, where she was rooted by feet that suddenly felt too heavy to lift. He smiled, looking almost boyish, and fingered the single loose golden curl teasing the ivory slope of her shoulder. She recalled that her hair had always dazzled him and had imagined just this touch when she tugged the strand down.

  She had hoped to appear winsome despite the passage of time, but her plan was working far too well for current comfort. She pushed him away with more force than she felt. “What would you know about good men, my lord?” She scraped the offending hair back with trembling fingers and secured it under the prison of its hairpin. It wouldn’t do to tempt him further. Or herself. What had she been thinking to come here?

  “I’ve known my share. But I am uncertain if your brother fits the category. A good, earnest young fellow, on occasion. A divinity student, is he not? But then—I fear his present vices make him ill-suited for his chosen profession. Among other things, he is so dishonorable he sends his sister in his stead. Your letter was quite affecting. You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble on his account, but I hardly see why I should forgive his debt.” He folded his arms and leaned forward. “Convince me.”

  Damn him. He intended her to beg. They both knew how it would end.

  “He does not know I’m here. He knows nothing,” Laurette said quickly, and stepped back.

  He was upon her again, his warm brandied breath sending shivers down her spine. She fell backward onto a leather chair. A small mercy. At least she wouldn’t fall foolishly at his feet. She closed her eyes, remembering herself in such a pose, Con’s head thrown back, his fingers entwined in the tangle of her hair. A lifetime ago.

  She looked up. His cheek was creased in amusement at her clumsiness. “He will not thank you for your interference.”

  “I’m not interfering! My brother is much too young to fall prey to your evil machinations.”

  Con raised a black winged brow. “Such melodramatic vocabulary. He’s not that young, you know. Much older than you were when you were so very sure of yourself. And by calling me evil you defeat your purpose, Laurette. Why, I might take offense and not cooperate. Perhaps I am a very good man to discourage him from gambling he can ill afford. But I will be repaid.” He leaned over, placing his hands on the arms of Laurette’s chair. His eyes were dark, obsidian, but his intentions clear.

  Laurette felt her blush rise and leaned back against her seat. She willed herself to stay calm. He would not crowd her and make her cower beneath him. She raised her chin a fraction. “He cannot—that is to say, our funds are tied up at present. Our guardian….” She trailed off, never much able to lie well. But she was expert at keeping secrets.

  Con left her abruptly to return to his desk. She watched as he poured himself another brandy into the crystal tumbler, but let it sit untouched. “What do you propose, Laurette?” he asked, his voice a velvet burr. “That I tear up your brother’s vowels and give him the cut direct next time we meet?”

  “Yes,” Laurette said boldly. “The sum he owes must be a mere trifle to you. And his company a bore. If you hurt his feelings now, it will only be to his ultimate benefit. One day he will see that.” She glanced around the room, appointed with elegance and treasure. Brass fittings gleamed in the candlelight. A thick Persian carpet lay under her scuffed kid slippers. Lord Conover’s study was the lair of a man of exquisite taste, and a far cry from Charlie’s disreputable lodging. She twisted her fingers, awaiting his next words.

  There was the faintest trace of a smile. “You give me far too much credit. I am neither a good man, nor, despite what you see here, so rich a man I can ignore a debt this size. We all need blunt to keep up appearances. And settle obligations.”

  Laurette knew exactly what his obligation to her cost him and held her tongue.

  Con leaned back in his chair, the picture of confidence. “If I cannot have coin, some substitution must be made. I think you know what will please me.”

  Laurette nodded. It would please her too, God forgive her. Her voice didn’t waver. “When, Con?”

  He picked up his glass and drained it. “Tonight. I confess I cannot wait to have you in my bed again.”

  Laurette searched her memory. There had been very few beds involved in their brief affair. Making love to Con in one would be a luxurious novelty. She was not prepared, however; the vial of sponges was still secreted away in her small trunk at her brother’s rooms. She had not allowed herself to think the evening would end in quite this way. But she had just finished her courses. Surely she was safe.

  “Very well.” She rose from the haven of her chair.

  His face showed the surprise he surely felt. Good. It was time she unsettled him.

  “You seem to be taking your fate rather calmly, Laurette.”

  “Did you arrange it? That it would come to this?” she asked softly.

  “Did I engage your brother in a high stakes game he had no hope of winning? I declare, that avenue had not occurred to me,” Con said smoothly. “How you must despise me to even ask.” He motioned her to him. After a few awkward moments, Laurette walked towa
rd him and allowed him to pull her down into his lap. He was undeniably hard, fully aroused. She let herself feel a brief surge of triumph.

  Con placed a broad hand across her abdomen and settled her even closer. “How is the child?”

  Was this an unconscious gesture? Con had never felt her daughter where his hand now lay, had never seen her, held her. She fought the urge to slap his hand away and willed herself to melt into the contours of his hard body. It would go quicker if she just gave in and let him think he’d won. “Very well, my lord. How is yours?”

  “Fast asleep in his dormitory, I hope, surrounded by other scruffy little villains. I should like you to meet him one day.”

  She did not tell him that his son was already known to her, as his wife had once been, improbably, her friend. “I don’t believe that would be wise, my lord.”

  “Why not? If you recall, I offered you the position as his step-mama a year ago. It is past time you become acquainted with my son, and I with your daughter.” His busy fingers had begun removing hairpins.

  Laurette said nothing, lulling in his arms as his lips skimmed her throat, his hands stroking every exposed inch. In dressing tonight, she’d bared as much of her flesh as she dared in order to tempt him. She wondered how she could so deceive herself. Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. And that was the problem.

  Laurette pressed a gloved finger to his lips. “We do not need to discuss the past, my lord. We have tonight.”

  “If you think,” he growled, “that I will be satisfied with only one night with you, you’re as deluded as ever.”

  An insult. Lucky that, for she suddenly retrieved her primness and relative virtue. She straightened up. “That is all I am willing to offer.”

  He stood in anger, dumping her unceremoniously into his chair. “My dear Miss Vincent, if you wish me to forgive your brother’s debts—all of them—I require a bit more effort on your part.”