His Mistress by Morning (31 page)

The three ladies stared at him.

“It doesn’t matter to you?” Charlotte asked.

He shook his head and grinned, quite rakishly. “It might have mattered once, but not now.”

She smiled back.

“It will matter when all society knows the truth of her birth,” Lady Wilmont spat, still furious.

“Aurora, you will hold your tongue,” Finella said, sounding to Charlotte like her beloved, calculating, no-nonsense Finny. “Or I will cast you out of this house tonight. It is still
my
house.”

Aurora drew herself up. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I would and I will!” Finella told her. “You leave Charlotte be. She is well and safe with Lord Trent.”

“She was seen on Little Titchfield Street with this man,” Aurora shot back. “He has no intention of marrying her. Lady Burke told me so.”

“Lady Burke?” Sebastian said.

Aurora’s nose rose in the air. “Yes. She and I are old school friends. She came by yesterday and told me everything—she told me you were all but betrothed to her daughter—not that your Marlowe tendencies aren’t keeping you from luring Charlotte into a life of sin. She heard from a very reliable source that you were offering Charlotte a house on Little Titchfield Street! We all know what
that
means.”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I can imagine who that reliable source might be. Lord Burke. Most likely visiting his mistress at Number 15. Poor woman.”

Lady Wilmont’s eyes widened.

Charlotte and Sebastian looked at each other and laughed.

“Now I know why you want to buy that house!” he teased. “To watch the comings and goings.”

“Oh, this is scandalous!” Lady Wilmont declared.

“Finella, you needn’t throw me out, I’m leaving.”

But no one seemed to notice, for Sebastian had taken
his Lottie into his arms and was kissing her, and Finella, well, she was busy crying tears of joy for her dear daughter, for somehow, for someway, all her wishes for Charlotte had suddenly come true.

They arrived at Lady Routledge’s just as Miss Burke was finishing her recitation.

She paused for a moment, an imperial tip to her nose.

Then the polite applause rose in the room, led by Lady Routledge, who nudged those closest to her to clap their hands with a little more enthusiasm.

The lady came up to the stage, beaming in joy at her ingénue. “Oh, yes, Miss Burke! So edifying, so stirring! Dear me, it almost makes me want to seek another husband.” She sighed and then continued on as Miss Burke sought her seat in the front row between her beaming parents, “I had thought there was to be one more performance, Miss Charlotte Wilmont, but unfortunately, Lady Burke informed me that the lady will be unable to attend and will have to forfeit her wager with me.”

“Oh, that isn’t so, Lady Routledge! I am here,” Charlotte called out from the back of the room.

All eyes turned, for most everyone had heard of the challenge and was there for the evening just to see if Miss Wilmont might actually best the imperious old matron.

“Oh, my, so you are!” the lady said, sounding none too pleased.

Charlotte pushed her way to the front of the crowd, towing a disgruntled Herr Tromler along. “I fear I am going to make a dreadful hostess if I can’t even arrive on time,” she said in a loud aside to Lady Routledge’s guests.

There was a genial round of laughter to her announcement, which buoyed her spirits.

“Yes, but you must perform,” Miss Burke pointed out. “You were to share a talent.”

Charlotte laughed. “Miss Burke, your memory is amiss. I have no talents. Save a good enough ear to know that I should never force anyone outside the church walls to listen to me sing.” She climbed atop the tiny stage that had been set up at the head of the room and paused.

What a difference a fortnight made. Why, before her wish she would never have dreamt of getting up before all these people, and now…

All she had to do was look at the light of love in Sebastian’s eyes, remember the power of his kiss, and she could have borne being presented at court.

“I hope I will make up for my rare lack of talent and my late appearance by introducing you to Herr Tromler.” She waved him forward. “I ask only your indulgence for a few minutes, for I think you will find your patience well-spent.”

The man shuffled forward in his borrowed coat and frightening thatch of hair that appeared to defy any comb. When he got to the stage, he glared at his audience.

Murmurs of dismay whispered through the room, and most of the front row pushed their chairs back.

“Herr Tromler,” Charlotte whispered to him. “Play something that speaks of love.” Then she turned a radiant smile toward him.

His sharp brows and hawkish gaze softened. “For you, Fräulein Wilmont, I would play anything. Even something as complicated as love.”

She stepped off the stage, and Tromler tucked his violin under his chin. For a moment he closed his eyes, and everyone in the room held their breath.

Not a moment after he touched his bow to the strings, the sweet strains of music filled the room and another refrain echoed forth—sighs of rapture as the jaded hearts of the
ton
melted amidst the sweet and wanton music that came from Tromler’s violin.

Charlotte made her way to Sebastian’s side. He too was as awestruck as the rest of Lady Routledge’s guests.

But not for long. Charlotte slid her hand into his, and when the warmth of their fingers twined together, Sebastian awoke as if from a dream and stared down at her.

He said not a word but pulled her swiftly and quickly from the salon into an adjoining room, where he immediately kissed her.

Kissed her until a soft moan of desire escaped her, until her legs wavered beneath her.

“I’ll be ruined by tomorrow if we continue,” she whispered to him, even as a thunderous roar of applause erupted from the salon.

“We’ll be married tomorrow, so it will matter not,” he told her quite sensibly.

May 29, 1810
A Perfect Tuesday for a Wedding and a Few Surprises

W
hile Sebastian had promised Charlotte the night of Lady Routledge’s soirée that they would be married the next day, their delighted but horrified mothers had insisted on a little more respectable waiting period, say three months.

Sebastian, nearly as impatient as his bride to be wed, had conceded and agreed to five days, but only under protest.

So with a Special License procured, the entire
ton
abuzz over this startling turn of events, Lord Trent’s wedding to Miss Charlotte Wilmont became the event of the Season, with the Marlowe house overflowing with guests. Invited and uninvited.

Lady Walbrook didn’t mind the crush in the least, for as she liked to declare (to anyone who would listen), “I am just so delighted that Sebastian has finally shown
some sensibility about marriage and chosen such a perfect bride.”

Perfect was one of the words that came to Sebastian’s mind as he stood at the bottom of the stairs awaiting Charlotte to make her way down. His jaw dropped when she appeared in a low-cut Grecian-styled gown that made every other male in the room curse Trent for his “bloody good luck.”

At the sight of Charlotte, Herr Tromler struck up a flurry of winsome and romantic notes that added the perfect backdrop to their wedding. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as Miss Charlotte Wilmont gently lay her hand onto Lord Trent’s sleeve and they made their way down the aisle to the vicar.

Almost immediately, Charlotte turned to Sebastian and said, “Why are we starting so late?”

“Rockhurst,” Sebastian whispered back, smiling apologetically at the beaming guests on either side of them.

Charlotte glanced up toward the best man and scowled. No shy bridal nerves for her.

“I’d forgive him if I were you,” Sebastian whispered over to her, a wry grin on his lips.

“Whatever for? We’ll be stuck here for a good three hours listening to toasts and other nonsense. And now he’s added another hour to that!”

She sputtered something else that sounded most like a curse and Sebastian had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Yes, life with his Lottie would never be dull.

They had arrived before the vicar, and the man stood with one brow arched, shooting them the most baneful look. The good man wasn’t fond of the notion of hasty weddings, and he had his own suspicions about this
licentious pair, but since the archbishop had signed the license, what was he to do? “Dearly beloved—” he began.

Sebastian leaned over and whispered to Charlotte, “The earl was late because he was bringing good news.”

“I see no good news in coming late—”

“The
Agatha Skye
docked this morning.”

This stopped her tirade. But if Sebastian thought she would be as shocked as he had been when the earl had told him of the unexpected arrival, he was wrong.

“About demmed time,” the bride huffed.

“We’re rich, Charlotte,” he whispered back. “You’ve saved me and my family from ruin. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you.”

Charlotte tipped her head toward him and sent a sly, slanted glance up at him. “Well, if Rockhurst hadn’t been late, we’d be that much closer to you getting a start on that.”

“Ahem,” the vicar coughed.

Sebastian and Charlotte nodded in unison at the man to get on with the vows.

“Whatever is taking so long?” she whispered to her groom.

“I haven’t the vaguest notion,” he replied.

“And so,” the vicar intoned, “with this ring—”

And in no time, Sebastian slipped a new ring on Charlotte’s hand. One filled not with wishes but with the promise of a future marked with passion and, most importantly, love.

“Go up to her and wish her many happy returns and then get my ring,” Milton was saying as yet another toast was raised to the happy bride and groom.

“Yes, Milton,” Quince said. “I know what to do.”

“Harrumph,” he snorted. “If that were true—”

Quince ignored him and made her way through the crowd, her gaze fixed on the happy bride.

“Charlotte, my dear girl, there you are! And so beautiful!” Quince reached out to catch Charlotte’s hands. “I am so very happy for you.”

“Oh, Quince,” Charlotte said, hugging the woman close. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Don’t you think of such a thing. Does my heart good to see you so happy.” Quince smiled, then felt an odd nudge in the middle of her back.
Yes, yes. I’ll get on with this.
“But since you mention it, there is one small favor,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to where Milton stood pressed uncomfortably into a corner. “I need the ring back.” She paused, then leaned forward and said, “If it were ever to fall into the wrong hands—”

“Oh, yes!” Charlotte exclaimed. “How right you are. I never thought of that.” She handed Quince the bouquet of violets she’d been carrying, then glanced down at her hand. “Oh, dear! Oh, my! It’s gone! I had it before the ceremony, but now it’s gone.”

Quince didn’t know whether to be elated or panicked. “Never mind, dear, you enjoy your wedding. And enjoy your life. ’Tis what you wished for.”

“But the ring—”

“Don’t fret another moment about it,” Quince assured her. “I’ll find it.”

I’d better and be quick about it before someone else does,
she thought as she worked her way back to Milton.

He greeted her with an extended hand and exactly four tersely issued words. “Give it to me.” Make that six words. “Now, Quince.”

“Can’t,” Quince told him as she settled against the wall beside him.

“And why not?”

“’Tis gone,” she said.

“How can that be?” Milton blustered. “It was on her hand when she came in for the ceremony.”

“Well, it isn’t on it now. It must have fallen from her finger in the last hour or so.”

“Well, go find it,” he ordered.

Now it was Quince’s turn to snort. “If you want it so badly, you go find it,” she said, waving her hand toward the crowded room. Given Milton’s distaste for mortals, she found it shocking when he actually took a deep breath and waded into their midst to start searching.

She cursed under her breath, for he really meant to gain his ring back this time. And she wasn’t quite ready to let him have it back. Not yet. So she joined him in the search.

“Have you found it?” he asked when they bumped into each other near the punch table. Milton was down on his hands and knees searching the floor, doing his best to remain unseen and unstepped upon.

“No,” she told him. “Have you?”

“Would I still be here if I had?”

Much to her amazement, Viola Marlowe happened by and turned a quizzical eye on them. “Excuse me, sir, have you lost something?” she said directly to Milton.

Quince looked up at the girl in shock.
She could see him?

“Yes,” he said, “but I do believe I found it.” He held up a watch fob, which was enough to satisfy the youngest Marlowe, who smiled, then tripped away into the crowd.

“She can see you,” Quince said, still a bit stunned.

“Yes, and can you imagine if
she
found my ring what might happen?”

Quince shuddered and continued her search, now with a little more urgency. “If you weren’t so bound and determined to have it back—”

Milton froze as a soft humming filled the room. Quince heard it as well and got to her feet.

“Goodness,” she whispered. “Someone has found it.” She looked frantically about the throng of guests to determine who had it, but it was impossible to tell. There were just too many people in the room.

“Be calm,” Milton said as he rose from the floor, though he looked anything but. “It isn’t too late, as long as they don’t—”

And then it was.

“Oh, if only…”
came a soft whisper.

“No!” gasped Milton. “Not again.”

“Oh, how I wish—”

Then it was cast, a new wish, and the room thrummed and spun around them.

“Quince!” he cried out in his anger. “This is all your doing!”

But when he looked around to find her, she was already gone. Bid by the ring, bound by the promise by which it had been wrought.

“This is the last one, Quince,” he whispered into the ethers. “The very last one.”

And before he slipped into shadows, he could have sworn he heard her soft, delighted laughter teasing him, just as it had on their wedding night.

Charlotte leaned over and laid her head on Sebastian’s shoulder as they rode away from the Marlowes’ town
house off on their honeymoon. It was nearly ten, and they probably wouldn’t get much further than an inn outside of town, but Charlotte didn’t care. Now and forever, she and Sebastian would be together, and she couldn’t think of a better future.

Rockhurst had loaned them his curricle, and Sebastian sat grinning beside her, positively in alt over the opportunity of driving such a reckless vehicle.

“I thought we would never get out of there,” she said as they pulled out of Berkeley Square.

“If you hadn’t invited half of London, we might have been able to leave hours ago,” he said, casting a bemused glance at her.

“I didn’t invite all those people. Why, I didn’t even know most of them,” she shot back.

“Oh, but they seemed to know you,” he teased back. “My very own Original. Did you hear Lady Routledge claiming that she’d introduced us as a favor to your mother?”

Charlotte laughed. “Yes. But I don’t mind in the least—she’s taken in Herr Tromler and means to see that all the world hears him play. She’s quite determined.”

He snorted. “Speaking of determined, whatever were you thinking introducing Finella to Lord Boxley? Why, he’s twenty years her junior!”

She smiled to herself. Finella, now her dearest mother in truth. If anything, she deserved a chance at happiness. The one she missed all those years ago. Now that the truth had finally been revealed, Finella’s sharp lines had softened, and mother and daughter had found a camaraderie that freed them both from the conventions that had kept them apart all these years. “She’s not that much older than him. Besides, they looked quite smitten, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” he said, still shaking his head over the unlikely pairing. “And Lady Wilmont? Were you matchmaking yet again when you seated her next to Lord Pilsley?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said without any reserve. “Did you see her smiling and flirting with him? Apparently they shared a bit of
tendrè
years ago, and now that he’s widowed, well…”

“Are you going to make a career of this penchant for matchmaking?” he asked.

“Well, you do have four unmarried siblings.” Charlotte tipped her head back and smiled seductively at him. “Or do you like the idea of setting up our house with your entire family underfoot?”

He replied without hesitation, “How can I help?”

They both laughed, then fell into a companionable silence, Charlotte wishing they were well and out of London and at the inn where Sebastian had taken rooms for the night. Their wedding night. She sighed impatiently and wished them ten miles further ahead—that is, until they turned onto Great Russell Street and a large building came into view.

Charlotte sat up. “Sebastian?”

“Yes, Lady Trent?”

She smiled.
Lady Trent.
Now she finally had a name she could truly call her own. “Do you have thirty quid?”

“Married just a few hours and already you want my money?” He made a low, teasing whistle.

“Do you have it?” she asked impatiently as they drew closer to the massive structure on their left.

“Yes. But why do you want thirty quid?”

Charlotte didn’t answer, but leaned over and fished around beneath the curricle’s seat. There it was, the stash
of bottles Rockhurst kept beneath. She grinned. “Pull over,” she told him, pointing to the curb.

“Whatever for?” Sebastian asked.

“Because I want to go see Townley’s statues,” she said, pointing at the British Museum, which they were about to pass.

“Charlotte, ’tis late at night. The museum isn’t open. Besides, even if it were, we haven’t the necessary tickets.”

“We’ve got everything we need,” she told him, plucking out one of Rockhurst’s bottles of French wine. “Besides, I want you to sketch me tonight.”

“Sketch you?” He glanced over at her. “How did you know that I—”

She grinned. “Please, Sebastian?”

He pulled the carriage to a stop. “Am I to understand you correctly that you want to enter the British Museum at night, using means, that I have to assume, are highly irregular if not outright illegal, and then have me sketch you?”

She nodded. “In the nude. The sketching part, that is.”

Sebastian nodded. “You’re quite possibly mad.”

“But you love me,” she whispered back.

“So I do,” he said before he gathered her into his arms and kissed her, thoroughly and soundly. And by the time he was done, she watched him take a nonchalant glance up at the museum, his eyes alight with a dangerous, calculating gleam.

But before she could ask him again, he answered her, kissing her again, this time more rakishly than the last, his hands claiming her body and tugging her up against him.

Charlotte sighed with delight.

She’d gotten her wish. She was now and forever the woman Sebastian loved. And when his hand slid so daringly, so very rakishly beneath her gown, she realized something else.

She’d gotten her wish and so very much more….