Worth Winning
Authors: Parker Elling
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015
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Book 1
Love in Disguise
Chapter 1
In retrospect, Charles really should have known better.
He should have known that a mistress like Loretta Fanshawe would come with a price.
Charles Burnsten, the sixth Earl of Dresford, knew he was a sought-after protector and was usually quite careful in selecting his mistresses. Though none of the women who occupied his bed ever laid claim to his heart, he was generous both during and after an affair, providing the money, the jewels, and even the brief boost in reputation (of a sort) that came with being the mistress of the Earl of Dresford.
In return, he expected a modicum of skill in the bedroom; monogamy, as well as a certain amount of discretion for the duration of the affair; and, of course, the good grace to let things go when a relationship had reached its natural conclusion.
None of these things were ever verbally agreed upon. They were just known. And always adhered to.
Except now, here, was Loretta Fanshawe, making a nuisance of herself. Yes, she was beautiful in the frail way that ballerinas are, and quite sought after in her own right—she was, after all, a young widow of independent means who had a reputation for being particularly creative in the bedroom. But she was not Charles’s typical mistress. Though he occasionally indulged himself with a particularly fetching actress or singer, he was usually quite satisfied with slightly older widows who were experienced enough to separate the physical from the emotional. He willingly traded youth for discretion: far better the circumspect matron than the giddy debutante.
But Loretta had approached Charles at a time when he was between mistresses and—truthfully—a little bored. She had propositioned him in the middle of the ballroom, her lush, long lashes fluttering and her cinched bosom straining to be released from its restraints. Yes, it had all been a trifle overdone. Yet he’d been intrigued by her brazenness and was feeling a bit lazy. Selecting and setting up a new paramour was a tedious and lengthy process. Faced with the possibility of merely acquiescing to the admittedly delectable female presenting herself, he’d taken a long look at her and then shrugged. Why not?
After a few months, the affair had naturally run its course, which is to say, Charles had become bored with Loretta’s theatrical tendencies. She had been a pleasurable bedmate, and socially she was quite adept—always able to turn the latest gossip into an interesting tidbit with her incisive brand of humor. But in time, her tendency toward malicious gossip had begun to pall, and, as often happened during the course of such affairs, Charles found his mind wandering, and his already lukewarm affection waned. Though Loretta had hinted several times that they might pursue a more permanent relationship, Charles was not interested. Indeed, the fact that she genuinely seemed to believe a widow of her questionable, almost salacious reputation might be a fitting candidate to be the future Countess of Dresford . . . well, it showed an appalling lack of sense, not to mention wit. (Which of course, only further weakened her case, a point Charles was loath to mention.)
If he did marry, it would be to produce heirs, and he would choose one of the many boring, bland debutantes who cycled through the ballrooms year after year. Someone who would bear him children, have long conversations about the linen rotation with his housekeeper, and fade conveniently into the background of his life. The last person he’d choose would be an overly experienced widow with loose morals and a flair for smashing vases when in a temper.
No, no, no. Charles shook his head and almost shivered at the idea of such a disastrous match. Loretta had been quite entertaining, yes. But that was where it should have ended.
Previously, he’d always been able to end such affairs peacefully and without too much drama. He hated the recriminations and tears that sometimes accompanied such conversations and had long ago found that gifts, in the form of expensive jewelry, went a long way toward soothing bruised egos and those mercurial things women labeled their sensitivities, their
feelings
.
But with Loretta, nothing had gone as planned. The first time Charles had tried to break things off, more than a month ago, Loretta had laughed at him and said in that pretty lilting voice of hers, “Don’t be daft. We’re wonderful together.” She had told him quite confidently that what they had was special and unique and that she had never felt for anyone else what she felt for him. Charles had been hard put not to roll his eyes. He wondered how much she would have protested if he hadn’t been the wealthiest, most titled of her conquests. Still, he’d refrained from expressing such dubious thoughts. His purpose, at least then, had been to appease her, not fan the flames. He’d told his secretary, a staid young man who took his duties very seriously, to add matching earrings to the ruby necklace he’d already given her and had thought the matter done.
But Loretta Fanshawe had proven to be more tenacious than he’d originally guessed. Though she’d had many lovers in the past, she claimed that
she
had always been the one to end the affair. She began approaching him discreetly, at balls they both attended, inviting him back to her home, saying that she was sure he had some spare time for her that no man had ever walked away from her, nor did she believe that one
could ever
walk away from her. That there were pleasures he hadn’t even begun to imagine . . .
When that failed, she had, like the chameleon she was, switched tactics again: she said she needed his advice and missed his embrace. Despite his rapidly thinning patience, he’d tried to be polite. He’d made excuses, saying he was already engaged with one task or another, until finally, one night the previous week, he’d run out of platitudes—it was her seventh attempt, after all, and he felt that even the slowest of brains should have figured out the overwhelming pattern by then. He’d said, quite bluntly, “It’s over. Truly. Time to cut line and move on.”
Though she had looked shocked and disappointed, she had picked up her skirts and left, knowing it would be unwise to cause a public scene. She was a beautiful, shrewd woman, heavily in demand; Charles felt certain that she would soon find another protector, and then, finally, the thing would be over and done with.
Yet here he was at White’s, more than a week later, a
n
d still the woman had not given up! Charles had avoided the more popular balls these past few days; such events usually veered between moderately and dreadfully boring, especially during the season’s zenith. But now that there was the additional annoyance of the-ex-mistress-who-would-not-quit, it seemed wiser to stick to his clubs. Somehow, Loretta had tracked him down even here, in broad daylight, sending an overly scented appeal, written in a flowery scrawl that was extraordinarily difficult to decipher, disturbing what would have been an otherwise perfectly restful afternoon at his club.
Charles squinted and finally gave up trying to muddle his way through her handwriting—it was much the same as what she’d already said, that she considered him a dear friend and was certain they could come to some mutually beneficial arrangement. She truly
believed
—this had been underlined three times, for emphasis—in their future together. If he hadn’t already heard that she seemed close to accepting a liaison with Lord Jennison, an aging baronet with more money than sense, he might—just might—have felt a smidgen of . . . well, something. Instead, he snorted at what was a blatant last-ditch effort to better her situation. Charles ripped the card neatly in two and motioned for the waiter to come and pick up the remnants of Loretta’s impassioned pleas.
“Tired of your latest conquest already?” Archibald Barrington, Viscount Robeson asked, taking the wing-tipped chair across from him and motioning to the torn parchment as the waiter left them. To his left, Oliver Stanley, Baron Billings approached and threw Charles a quick, half-apologetic smile. Oliver spread his hands in supplication, as if to say: don’t blame me.
Charles didn’t bother to hide his grimace. Oliver was an old friend, practically a brother—the two had grown up together, as their main properties abutted one another—but he and Robeson had never gotten along. Nothing overt, just a mutual antipathy that had caused them to cross paths only rarely over the years.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Charles said.
Robeson waved for a waiter and ordered a snifter of brandy before speaking again. “Loretta Fanshawe is your latest, isn’t she?”
His tone sounded bland and disinterested, but Charles recognized the jealousy Robeson tried so carefully to hide; Loretta had told Charles about Robeson’s advances in an effort to impress upon Charles how sought after she was. Charles shook his head. Why could no one understand that quantity and quality were very different phenomena? He’d never been particularly impressed by how many suitors his mistresses may or may not have turned down, especially when the suitor in question was someone like Robeson, who had nothing more than looks, a title, and an exceedingly supercilious attitude to recommend him.
In retrospect, the mere fact that he and Robeson had briefly been interested in the same woman should have served as a warning that Loretta was trouble.
Then again, a lot of things about Loretta had become clearer in hindsight.
“I’ve always considered gossip distasteful, and, as I said before: it’s hardly any of your business.”
Robeson’s handsome face flushed briefly. “If you knew you would tire of her, and so quickly, why did you bother in the first place? Some of us might have been interested . . . seriously interested . . . before she became
your
used goods.”
Oliver, ever the peacemaker, tried to butt in with a “Now, now” but was quickly waved aside by Robeson, who seemed intent on carrying on his one-sided argument. “Who’s to say I wouldn’t have kept her well, and longer?”
Charles closed his eyes briefly. Loretta Fanshawe hardly seemed worth arguing over; still, he was damned if he would let a man like Robeson lecture him on morality. “If I understand you correctly, you are disappointed that a particular lady was unaccepting of your attentions. In which case, that is your business—and hers. It has always been my experience that women have the power to choose their protectors. If our interests have coincided, however briefly, in the past, rest assured that they won’t in the future. If you’re inclined to engage a new mistress, by all means, don’t let me stand in your way.”
Robeson shrugged his massive shoulders under a tightly fitted, overstyled topcoat. “Easy for you to say, now that you’re done with her.”
Charles spread his hands wide and made a show of examining his fingernails, hopeful that Robeson would move on now that he’d said his piece, and he would still be able to salvage some of the afternoon. He wondered idly when town life had become so boring, so crammed with meaningless arguments like quibbling with Robeson over a woman neither of them now wanted. He would have laughed if he hadn’t been one of the unfortunate participants.
