Page 8 of Only a Mistress Will Do

The carriage hit a bump. He blinked and looked out the window. They were leaving the Covent Garden area, heading into more respectable territory.

So what must he do with Miss Carlton? His plan to move her to his mistress’s house would do for a while, but he couldn’t keep her there indefinitely. If recognized, she’d be assumed to be his latest bit of skirt and her reputation would be just as ruined as if she’d been discovered at Vestry’s establishment.

“Is it very far, Lord Trevor?” Miss Carlton spoke, pulling him out of his reverie.

“Not very, Miss Carlton. We’ll have you there and in bed in no time.”

She jerked her head up, her eyes wide. “What?”

Tris wanted to cut out his tongue. “I beg your pardon, but you seem fatigued after the trials of tonight. I believe a good long rest will put you to rights.”

She pulled the blanket closer and stared out the window at the inky night.

Tris leaned back in his seat, the creak of the well-oiled leather loud in the now dead silence of the carriage. He would have a word with Madame Vestry as soon as possible. Had bringing him in to debauch Miss Carlton been a master touch in getting revenge on the marquess? Or had she gambled he’d question the girl before he ruined her? The woman had a penchant for playing games, so Duncan had told him. Tris had patronized her house for years—three of his mistresses had come from the House of Pleasure, all well trained in the ways of pleasing a man. He’d certainly never had a complaint with his treatment there. Until tonight.

The woman across from him sat with her head bowed so only her dark hair showed. In his mind’s eye it lay spread out over the white pillowcase, her face turned to the side in a profile reminiscent of the head on a Greek coin. Beauty and grace fanning his desire. Her soft skin beneath his hand, her tantalizing nipples, dark hued like her hair, both above and below—

The carriage hit another rut, jolting him out of his daydream. Damn, but this must stop. He could not have erotic fantasies about the woman he intended to save.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” She had raised her head to look at him.

God’s bones, had he spoken aloud? Tris froze, hoping to Christ he wasn’t blushing. He swallowed, although his mouth had dried as if he’d eaten sand. “Are you quite all right, Miss Carlton? That was a nasty bump. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t come to grief.”

A warm flash of red lips and white teeth, her smile did nothing to cool his ardor. The happiest he’d seen her tonight, though.

“No, my lord, I am not hurt. Although the road is quite rough in places.” The smile left as quickly as it appeared, replaced with a sober look in her big whiskey-colored eyes. “I have yet to thank you properly, my lord, Trevor, is it?”

“Yes, I am sorry, Miss Carlton. We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Viscount Trevor, Tristan to my friends.”

Immediately, she returned her attention to the darkness of the London night. “I am truly grateful, Lord Trevor, for your kindness earlier.” The robe had fallen to her lap and she pulled it up to her shoulders. “Few men would have cared enough to listen to my story. I believe most would have seen to their own pleasure first and asked questions later if at all.” She sought his eyes at last, their frankness piercing him. “You are a true gentleman, my lord. Thank you for rescuing me.”

At a sudden loss for words in the face of her honest gratitude, Tris clenched his fist. Cad described him earlier in the evening, not rescuer. He cleared his throat, incredibly aware of his state of arousal and his recent thoughts about the luscious woman seated before him. Damn, but he must get himself under control.

“I fear your rescue is far from complete, Miss Carlton. I have yet to discover a way to remove you permanently from the threat of a life at The House of Pleasure.” How the deuce he was to accomplish it remained to be seen. Perhaps Duncan would have an idea. “We must find some means of respectable employment for you, which for a gentlewoman means either as a companion to a woman of good reputation or a governess in a good household.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Her eyes lit up, eagerness in her face. “I will be happy to take any decent position you find for me. I can sew a fine seam, if that helps at all.” She shook her head, the light fading from her eyes. “Although that skill helped me not at all when I asked for a position at the mantua makers in the more fashionable section.”

Tris cocked his head. “If you sew as well as you claim, why would they not take you on?” The modistes he’d always patronized when furnishing his amours were usually dreadfully understaffed. It had taken him ten days to get Serena completely outfitted.

The woman laced her fingers together and pressed back in her seat. “Because I would not admit my situation to be as dire as it was until too late.” With a little shake, she settled back into the seat. “When my brother’s estate was settled, our home had to be sold, and though it brought a decent amount, half of it had to go for the funeral expenses and to pay off Jamie’s debts.” She stared not at him, but spoke to the corner of the carriage beside him. “He had expected me to marry well, you see, therefore his money had flowed rather freely. Then he died in May, so of course, I was in mourning throughout the season. My grandmother insisted I return to society before I should, for we knew the only way to secure our future was through a decent marriage.”

“But you were unsuccessful?”

The scornful gaze she turned on him made his stomach churn. “With the handicaps of no dowry and a disgraced brother, I’m surprised I received any invitations, much less proposals. I did attend some functions, but it was to no avail. We spent the winter quietly, outside of London in less expensive lodgings and prayed for the spring.” Again she drew into herself. “Then this past March, my grandmother died.”

Tris grasped her hands as she tried to blink back tears. “My dear, I am so terribly sorry.” Her hands, bare and smooth to the touch, sent a current of warmth up his arm.

She fought for control, at last looking him in the face. “Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded and released her, sorry to let her go.

“I mourned her loss deeply, but could not afford to lose that season as well. Her final words were a prayer I would find a kind man to take care of me.” A catch in her voice, Miss Carlton dashed a hand across her eyes. “I finally had the great good luck to make the acquaintance of a Miss Forsythe, who had just arrived from Ireland.”

“Miss Alethea Forsythe? Lady Braeton’s cousin?”

“Yes.”

“I have met her. She seems sweet.” A rather brash young woman, also.