The Accidental Mistress (40 page)

"Those are Andarton family jewels, and yours, by right, as my bride. And as undeniably lovely as they are on you, what I have here is a special gift meant only for you. I hope you will like it."

"I like everything you give me," she murmured. But a moment later, a gasp caught in her throat as he opened the box to reveal the jewelry inside. Simply designed yet stunning all the same, the necklace was fashioned of round, perfectly matched diamonds set in gold. At its base lay a large, oval gemstone of the purest, most luminous blue she had ever seen.

"I know that cerulean is your favorite color," he murmured, "so I had Rundell and Bridge search for a sapphire that most closely matches the sky on a brilliant, sunny day. They found this one. What do you think?"

Reaching out a trembling hand, she brushed one fingertip over the stone, finding the surface smooth and surprisingly warm. "It's breathtaking."

"I wanted you to have this," he continued, "so you can take a little piece of the sky with you wherever you go."

"Oh, Ethan." Forgetting all about her wedding finery, she flung her arms around him and pressed her lips to his.

He kissed her back, smiling against her mouth. "So you like it?"

"I love it," she sighed. "But not half as much as I love you."

"And I adore you. I promise to make you happy."

"And I promise the same."

"Here," he said, moving a step back. "Let's put this on you." Reaching around, he unfastened the clasp of the necklace she was wearing and set it on a dressing table. Lifting his gift from its velvet bed, he placed the sapphire and diamonds around her throat, then hooked the clasp. "There," he pronounced. "Glorious." The gemstone winked, its rich shade truly resembling a piece of sunny sky.

Moving closer, she kissed him, pouring all her love into the embrace.

"I cannot wait until tonight," he murmured against her mouth.

"Even though you snuck into my room last night? That was very naughty of you, you know. What if we'd been caught?"

He grinned. "We weren't. And after weeks without you, I couldn't stay in my room, knowing you were only just down the hall."

"I stopped taking the contraceptive herbs," she confided. "I might already be with child."

His arms tightened at her waist. "If you are not enceinte now, I'll take great pleasure making sure you are soon."

She laughed, until he silenced her again with another lengthy kiss. Her eyes were closed and she was floating on a surfeit of pleasure when a sharp exclamation broke the quiet.

"
Aah!
What do you two think you're doing?" demanded Davina in obviously shocked tones as she rushed into the room. "You can't kiss before the ceremony!"

Ethan lifted his head and grinned. "As you can see, we already are."

"What I mean is that you are not allowed to be together," Davina said, her outrage plain. "
Shoo,
my lord!
Shoo, shoo.
"

Ethan straightened, lifting a brow as if he had never before been told to
shoo.

Julianna entered the fray. "Yes, Ethan, let her go and take yourself off. Rafe and Tony are waiting for you below, checking their watches every half-minute and grumbling about being late. It's really quite bad of you, stealing in here to see Lily when you ought to be at the chapel."

Lily eased out of Ethan's arms and turned, pointing a finger at her new necklace. "He came to give me this."

The other women moved forward for a look, letting out cries of delight. "It's fabulous!"

"Stunning!"

"I know," Lily said, smiling widely. "It's my own little piece of sky."

Davina recovered first. "As beautiful as your necklace may be, we are all late now. What are you still doing here, my lord? Do you not know it is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?"

Ethan paused for a moment, then met Lily's gaze. "I don't hold with such superstitions. Besides, with Lily by my side, I have all the luck I will ever need, and all the love, as well."

Read on for a sneak peek at

London
February, 1815

All it will take is a single bullet straight through the heart,
Gabriella St. George told herself as she clutched the pistol in her hand.

She was a good shot and had confidence in her skills. After all, she'd been taught by the best—the Great Moncrief himself, who was billed in entertainment circles as the finest sharpshooter known to the civilized world. Her biggest concern was finding the courage to hold fast to her resolve and carry through with her plan—that and keeping her arm from shaking so violently that she fouled her aim.

She supposed she had good reason for her jitters, despite the fact that this wouldn't be the first time she had taken a life. True, all those she had killed before had been animals—rabbits and birds that she'd hunted for food as she'd traveled across England. She'd even been known to poach a deer on occasion in order to hold starvation at bay. But tonight would be different.

For tonight she planned to kill a man.

Easing deeper into the late evening shadows that painted the walls and corners of the study black, she waited, knowing that eventually he would come. She'd been observing him this past week and knew his habits, knew that he always stopped in this room for a few minutes each night before retiring upstairs.

Thanks to a maid who didn't mind chatting with a friendly stranger while out completing her errands, Gabriella had learned that, except for the servants, he was alone here in this immense townhouse. His wife and young children, so she had been told, were at his estate in the north of England.

The information had come as a relief, since she had no desire to involve innocents. After all, his crimes were his alone; he was the only one deserving of retribution. Even so, she couldn't completely set aside the guilt that nibbled at her, aware that her actions tonight would bring grief to others. But she pushed aside her qualms, reassuring herself once again that he deserved the judgment she planned to mete out.

One life,
she argued,
in recompense for another.

When she'd slipped through a convenient window a couple of hours ago, she'd heard the low rhythm of male conversation, punctuated by sporadic bursts of laughter. He'd invited friends over, a small group of men gathered to share dinner, then drinks while they played a few rounds of cards. Having long ago learned the art of patience, she'd settled into a corner, gun in hand, and allowed time to pass.

At length, the house had grown quiet as his guests said their farewells and departed, the servants retreating to make their way to their beds. Only the steady tick-tock of the room's finely-crafted satinwood casement clock broke the silence, together with the gentle crackling of the fire she'd watched a maid refresh about an hour earlier.
Not long now,
she judged,
and he will be here.
Shifting slightly, she worked to ease the stiffness and pent-up tension that had gathered in her muscles and joints.

Another five minutes elapsed before she finally heard footsteps. Pressing her back flat against the wall, she sank deeper into the concealing shadows and watched him stride into the room.

From the moment he entered the study he dominated the space, commanding his surroundings with not only his impressive size and athletic grace, but with the innate forcefulness of his personality. Despite the tenebrous light, she recognized the arrogance in his gait, along with an unmistakable air of noble authority she would have assumed was bred into him from birth had she not known otherwise. Before tonight, she'd only viewed him from a distance, yet he seemed taller up close, his hair darker, so deep a brown as to be nearly black. A trick of the late evening shadows, she assumed.

Shivering, a tingle whispered along her backbone, her heart pounding with the force of a hammer striking an anvil; a reaction she had never before experienced while observing the man. Likely the sensation was a product of the tension she felt, well aware the moment she had been preparing for was now nearly upon her. Gathering her nerve, she tightened her grip on the gun and let him come farther into the room.

Reaching the desk, he searched for a match and candle. Light flared to life moments later, illumination spreading in a comfortable yellow glow over the space. She forced herself not to tremble, holding her position as he stepped toward a nearby bookshelf and began to peruse the titles.

She moved forward, the pistol held straight out before her. "Rafe Pendragon," she declared in a clear, unwavering voice. "Prepare to pay for your crimes."

His shoulders stiffened before he slowly turned to face her.

Only then did she see him fully, her gaze riveted to his impossibly handsome face. Classically hewn cheekbones framed a long patrician nose, his forehead strong, his jaw and chin cleaved from a heritage of ancient aristocratic stock. His lips were blatantly seductive, as if nature had designed them to entice a woman into wanting to commit any number of earthly sins. Then there was his complexion—swarthy instead of pale, with a delicious evening's growth of whiskers that only enhanced his aura of masculine sensuality. Yet of all his attractive qualities—and they were legion—his most compelling physical feature was his eyes. Rich and deep-set, they were a pure, almost velvety blue, dark as midnight yet brilliant as a summer sea. Right now those eyes were gazing at her, full of keen observation and powerful intellect.
He is studying me,
she realized,
just as I am studying him.

A soft gasp escaped her lips, but she held herself and the gun steady. "You're not Pendragon!" she accused.

The stranger arched a dark eyebrow. "Indeed no, I am not. I trust you won't shoot me for disappointing you, Miss …" He let the sentence trail off. "You are a miss, are you not, despite your present choice of masculine attire?"

Earlier this evening she'd decided to dress as a boy. After all, sneaking into a townhouse to kill a man was not easily accomplished while wearing a gown, stays, and petticoat.

She ignored his query. "Where is he?"

"Rafe, I assume you mean. Well, I am not likely to aid you by revealing his whereabouts. Why do you want to harm him anyway? Is it money you're after?"

Her shoulders tightened. "I am no thief. If I were, I could have liberated a king's ransom from this room while the lot of you were having dinner. Yes," she offered when he tipped his head in inquiry, "I have been here for some while, waiting unobserved."

"A regular little cat, are you? Tiptoeing in on silent feet. A useful ability for any person, I will admit."

"I have many useful abilities, but I am not here to engage in a round of banter with you, whoever you might be."

"Ah, forgive my lack of manners," he drawled. "Wyvern at your service. I would make you a bow were I sure you wouldn't put a bullet in me while I attempted the move."

"I won't shoot unless you give me cause," she stated, inching the pistol higher. "In the interest of safety, however, I suggest you take a seat over there." She nodded toward an armchair that faced the desk.

"Thank you, no. I am perfectly comfortable standing."

"Comfortable or not, pray be seated."

At a height of more than six feet, he towered over her. Aware she needed every possible advantage in a situation that was suddenly not going at all as she'd planned, she knew he would pose far less of a threat were he ensconced in a chair. Despite his apparent affability, she didn't trust him for a second.

He met her gaze, then shrugged. "Very well, if you insist. After all, you are the one with the weapon. But first, tell me what grievance you have against my friend. He doesn't generally engender such a violent reaction, especially among the fairer sex."

Her breasts rose and fell beneath her threadbare linen shirt, a cold lump wedged deep within her chest. "He harmed me and mine, and that is all you need to know. Believe me, I have just cause for despising the man."

"Did your family fall upon hard times, then? Did you lose your home and decide to lay the blame at Rafe's doorstep?"

"Believe me, whatever blame I cast belongs at
no other
doorstep but his."

Wyvern crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the desk. "How old are you? You look little more than a girl."

She drew herself up. "I am a woman grown. Seventeen, if you must know, though I fail to see what difference it makes."

"Oh, it doesn't, not really. It strikes me, however, that most young women your age would be tucked up tight inside their houses, far too afraid to venture out on their own, let alone go about dressed in male attire, and brandishing a pistol."

"You will find that I am not like most young women."

The edge of his mouth tipped upward, a twinkle glittering in his brilliant blue gaze. "Yes, so I am beginning to see."

A fresh tingle inched down her spine as if he had reached out and stroked a hand over her skin, the sensation having nothing to do with the peril of the situation, and everything to do with her awareness of the man himself.

Indisputably, he is the most breathtaking man I had ever encountered. But I have no business noticing such things,
she scolded herself,
particularly not now when I have come on a mission of vengeance. A mission I cannot afford to delay.

"Now, Mr. Wyvern," she said, determined to move matters forward. "If your curiosity has been satisfied, I suggest you take that seat."

"It's Wyvern. Just Wyvern."

"Fine,
Wyvern—
"

"As for my curiosity," he continued, "you have done nothing but further whet my appetite. You haven't even told me your name."

"No, I have not," she stated emphatically.

He inclined his head. "As you prefer, then. Now, which seat is it that I am to take?"

Mildly surprised by the question, she hesitated, relaxing her stance a bit as she gestured toward the correct chair. "That one. Just there."

"Here?" He pointed, stretching out a hand.

She frowned, wondering if he might be hard of hearing. "Yes, there."