скачать книгу бесплатно
More Than a Mistress
Ann Lethbridge
Public Gentleman, Private Rogue!Charles Mountford, Marquis of Tonbridge, has long felt the weight of responsibility. He knows he must do his duty and take a wife. But when he’s left snowbound with the unconventional Miss Honor Meredith Draycott, he finds his inner rogue wants to come out to play…Merry doesn’t need a man – no matter how handsome he is! Sadly society takes a different view. Charlie is more than happy to make her socially acceptable, but only if she acts publicly as his betrothed and privately as his mistress!
‘Afraid you will lose again?’
‘Not at all,’ Charlie drawled. ‘My interest is waning. I’m afraid I need more of a challenge.’
Merry eyed him suspiciously. ‘Fifty guineas a point and a hundred for a win is reasonably challenging.’
‘I’m not trying to fleece you, Merry, but I think both of us can lose a few hundred guineas in a night and not turn a hair.’
Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘Do you want to make it thousands?’
He grinned and leaned on his cue. ‘That is more of the same, isn’t it?’ Oh, God, he was going to hell for this. ‘In this next game, how about for each point we lose we remove an article of clothing?’
AUTHOR NOTE
This is my second story about the Mountford twins. You will recall Robert in THE GAMEKEEPER’S LADY. This is his older brother Charlie’s story. Charlie is the heir to the dukedom, and you couldn’t meet a man more different from his brother—although their twin bond is strong. The women who catch the eye of these brothers are not at all alike. In this story Merry surprised and intrigued me, I must say. It was only when we had completed our journey together that I fully understood her.
I had fun writing the same scene in both books from the perspective of each brother, though it is the only place their stories intersect. The fact that this summer I visited the place where this scene happens made it all the more interesting.
The story is set against the backdrop of Yorkshire, with its moors and sheep and woollen mills. I enjoyed my visit and I hope you do too.
If you want to know more about my books and my research, you can visit me at http://www.annlethbridge.com. I love to hear from readers.
About the Author
ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet, or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
Previous novels by this author:
THE RAKE’S INHERITED COURTESAN
WICKED RAKE, DEFIANT MISTRESS
CAPTURED FOR THE CAPTAIN’S PLEASURE
THE GOVERNESS AND THE EARL
(part of Mills & Boon New Voices… anthology) THE GAMEKEEPER’S LADY (linked to More Than a Mistress)
and in Mills & Boon
Historical Undone eBooks:
THE RAKE’S INTIMATE ENCOUNTER
THE LAIRD AND THE WANTON WIDOW
ONE NIGHT AS A COURTESAN
UNMASKING LADY INNOCENT
MORE THAN
A MISTRESS
Ann Lethbridge
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II BV/S.?.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
® and TM are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
First published in Great Britain 2011
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers,
1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
© Mich?le Ann Young 2011
ISBN: 978-1-408-92331-3
Version: 2018-10-26
This story is dedicated to the memory of my good friend and supporter, Jacques. He always gave me lots of encouragement and helped out with the French in several stories. He is missed.
Chapter One
January 1820
Only a man dedicated to duty travelled to Yorkshire in January. Hunkered against the cold, high on his curricle, Charles Henry Beltane Mountford, Marquis of Tonbridge, couldn’t miss the irony in his father’s proud words. What choice was there for Charlie, other than duty, if Robert was to be accepted back into the family? If he was found. No. Not if. When he was found.
Face stinging and ears buffeted by the wind, he lifted his gaze from the road to the leaden sky and bleak stretch of moors ahead. Three years and not one word from his wayward twin. While on some deep level, he knew his brother hadn’t come to physical harm, every time he recalled Robert’s face as he left, Charlie’s gut twisted with guilt.
He should not have said what he did, imposed his own sense of duty on his brother. They might look alike, but there the similarities ended. Their lives had followed different paths and each had their own roles to play.
Finally, after three years of arguing and pleading, he had sold his soul to bring his brother home. He would visit Lady Allison and begin the courtship his father demanded. The weight of duty settled more heavily on his shoulders. The chill in his chest spread outwards.
Damnation, what in Hades was the matter with him? Lady Allison was a modestly behaved, perfectly acceptable, young woman of good family. She’d make a fine duchess. Marriage was a small sacrifice to bring Robert home and banish the sadness from his mother’s face. Sadness he’d helped cause.
He urged his tired team over the brow of the hill, eager to reach the inn at Skepton before dark.
What the hell? A phaeton. Sideways on. Blocking the road. Its wheels hung over the left-hand ditch, its horses rearing and out of control. Coolly, Charlie pulled his ribbons hard right. The team plunged. The curricle tilted on one wheel, dropped and swung parallel to the obstruction. It halted inches from catastrophe, inches from a slight young man in a caped driving coat bent over the traces of the panicked animals of the other equipage, unaware of the danger.
Damn. What a mess. Charlie leaped down. Nowhere to tie his horses. He clenched the bridle in his fist. ‘Need help?’ he yelled against the wind.
The young man spun around. ‘By gum, you scared me.’
Not a man. A woman. Charlie stared, felt his jaw drop and could do nothing to stop it. Her eyes were bright blue, all the more startling beneath jet brows. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and black ropes of hair flew around her oval face in disgraceful disorder.
A voice in his head said perfect.
Her arched brows drew together, creasing the white high forehead. ‘Don’t just stand there, you gormless lump. If you’ve a knife, help me cut the bloody traces.’ She hopped over the poles and began sawing at the leathers on the other side with what looked like little more than a penknife.
Charlie snapped his mouth shut, pulled the dagger from the top of his boot and slashed the traces on his side. ‘Here, use this.’ He passed her his knife, handle first.
She grabbed it, cut the last strap and proceeded to untangle the horse’s legs with very little care for life and limb.
Charlie grabbed the bridle of her horses while hanging on to his own.
The young woman straightened. She was tall, he realised, her bright sapphire eyes level with his mouth. ‘Thank you.’ She dragged strands of hair back from her face and grinned. ‘The damned axle snapped. I must have been going too fast.’
Another Letty Lade, with her coachman-style language. ‘You were lucky I managed to stop.’ He glanced around. ‘Where is your groom?’ No gently bred female travelled alone.
‘Pshaw.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I only went to Skepton. I don’t need a groom for such a short journey.’
Reckless, as well as a menace on the road. ‘It seems on this occasion you do.’ He huffed out a breath. He couldn’t leave her stranded on the side of the road with night falling. ‘A broken axle, you say?’ It might be a strap, in which case he might be able to fix it. ‘Hold the horses for a moment, please.’
With a confidence in her abilities he didn’t usually feel around females, he left her holding the horses and went to the back of her carriage. He crouched down beside the wheel and parted the long yellowed grass on the verge.
Blast. No fixing that. The axle had snapped clean in two near the offside wheel. She must have hit the verge at speed to do so much damage.
He returned to her. ‘No hope of a makeshift repair, I’m afraid. I’ll drive you home.’
‘That’s reet kind of you,’ she said, her Yorkshire accent stronger than ever. Then she smiled.
It was as if he’d looked straight at the sun. The smile on her lips warmed him from the inside out. Lovely.
A distraction he did not need.
He glared at her. ‘Where do you live?’ His tone sounded begrudging. And so it should. The careless wench could have killed them both, or damaged some very fine horses. She’d been lucky. And she should not be driving around the countryside without a groom.
Her smile disappeared. She cocked her head on one side. ‘No need to trouble. I’ll ride.’ She jerked her chin towards her team.
‘One is lame. And the other is so nervous, it is sweating and likely to bolt. It is my duty to see you safely home.’
And his pleasure, apparently, from the stirring in his blood.
Damn it.
He looked up at the sky, took in the fading light. He’d be finding his way to Skepton in the dark if they didn’t get started. ‘I insist.’
‘Do you, by gum?’ She laughed, probably at the displeasure on his face. ‘I’ll not deny you your way, if you’ll tie these beasts on behind.’
Kind of her to oblige him.
Leaving her with his horses, grateful they were tired enough not to protest a stranger’s hand, he led her team to the back of the curricle and jury-rigged a leading string.
Returning to the girl, he shouted over the rising wind, ‘I’m going to push your vehicle further off the road.’
He strode to her wrecked equipage, put his shoulder to the footboard and pushed. The phaeton, already teetering on the brink of the shallow ditch, slid down the bank, its poles tilted to the sky. No one would run into it in the dark.
‘Strong lad,’ she yelled.
Good God, he almost felt like preening. He suppressed an urge to grin, climbed up on to his box and steadied his team. The perfectly matched bays shifted restlessly. Probably feeling the chill, as well as the panic of the other horses.
‘Can you climb up by yourself?’ he asked, controlling the beasts through the reins.
She hopped up nimbly. He caught a brief glimpse of sensible leather ankle boots and a silk stocking-clad calf amid the fur lining her driving coat before she settled herself on the seat.
A very neatly turned calf, slender and sweetly curved.
Bloody hell. ‘Which way?’
‘You’ll have to turn around. I was on my way home from Skepton.’
Skepton was at least five miles on. A mill town. Not a place a respectable female went without a groom. Just what sort of woman was she? Not gently bred obviously, despite the fine clothes. Apparently, he was soon to find out. He manoeuvred his carriage around in the road, the prospect of a warm fire any time soon receding.
He cast her a sidelong glance. She was as lovely in profile as she was full face. She had a small straight nose and full kissable lips. If Robert was in his place, he’d be enjoying himself by now, making love to her.
But he, Charlie, was a dull dog according to his last mistress. A prosy bore. Robert’s parting shot rang in his ears. Try to have a bit of fun, for once.
That was all right for Robert. He wasn’t the ducal heir with hundreds of people relying on his every decision. Hades, the last time he’d done as he pleased it had ended in disaster. For everyone, including Robert. Never again.
He’d do well to keep this woman firmly at a distance.
Mindful of the lame horse following behind, Charlie walked his team. He raised his voice to be heard over the wind’s howl. ‘As travelling companions, I believe introductions are in order. Tonbridge, at your service.’
‘Honor Meredith Draycott,’ she said. ‘Call me Merry. Thank you for stopping.’
As if he’d had a choice.
‘Tonbridge,’ she said. ‘That’s a place.’
He felt slightly affronted, as if she’d accused him of lying. ‘It is also my name.’
She considered this in silence for a second, perhaps two. ‘You are an of.’
