Mistress in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake's Unconventional Mistress / Marrying the Mistress. Juliet Landon

      About the Author

      JULIET LANDON’S keen interest in art and history, both of which she used to teach, combined with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favourite occupation. She is particularly interested in researching the early medieval and Regency periods and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Her heart’s home is in her native North Yorkshire, but now she lives happily in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.

      Mistress

      in the

      Regency Ballroom

       The Rake’s Unconventional Mistress

       Marrying the Mistress

      Juliet Landon

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      In The Regency Ballroom Collection

      Scandal in the Regency Ballroom –Louise Allen April 2013

      Innocent in the Regency Ballroom –Christine Merrill May 2013

      Wicked in the Regency Ballroom –Margaret McPhee June 2013

      Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom –Deb Marlowe July 2013

      Rogue in the Regency Ballroom –Helen Dickson August 2013

      Debutante in the Regency Ballroom –Anne Herries September 2013

      Rumours in the Regency Ballroom –Diane Gaston October 2013

      Rake in the Regency Ballroom –Bronwyn Scott November 2013

      Mistress in the Regency Ballroom –Juliet Landon December 2013

      Courtship in the Regency Ballroom –Annie Burrows January 2014

      Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom –Marguerite Kaye February 2014

      Secrets in the Regency Ballroom –Joanna Fulford March 2014

The Rake’s Unconventional Mistress

       Chapter One

       Richmond, Surrey. 1814

      ‘Well?’ said Letitia, closing the door of the parlour behind her, shutting off the gentle hum of voices. ‘What do you think? Shall you beg Mama to come and rescue me, or shall you tell her how capable I am?’

      Garnet placed an arm through hers and pressed it to her side. ‘Mama knows how capable you are, dearest. She simply didn’t want you to do this all on your own, that’s all. It doesn’t fit in with her plans for any of us, least of all her eldest daughter.’

      ‘Well—’ Letitia smiled, acknowledging the truth ‘—she always knew I’d go down a different path. She must have expected it. A pity she couldn’t find time to come and see for herself, though. She knows how to make her displeasure felt, doesn’t she?’

      Persephone, Garnet’s twin, was like her sister in everything except in the degree of assertiveness. ‘Oh, Mama’s displeasure is no rare thing these days, Lettie,’ she said. ‘You know how easy it’s been to set up her bristles since we lost Papa. You’re well out of it, but not too far for us to visit whenever we like.’

      ‘You approve, then?’

      ‘Of course we do,’ the twins chorused. ‘Very select. Seven lovely young ladies. Hanging on your every word. So respectful. Yes, Miss Boyce, no, Miss Boyce.’

      ‘Stop!’ Letitia begged them, laughing. ‘It’s only their first term. They’ll soon be pitching the gammon like the rest of us.’

      The white hallway was bright with spring sunshine that bounced off the jug of creamy lilac blooms and shone in patches upon the pink-toned Axminster rug. Through two open doors could be seen a polished post-chaise with the Boyce crest upon the panel, a liveried postilion sitting erect upon one of the horses while another waited on the pavement beside the folding steps.

      A large bay gelding was brought to a standstill behind the coach, its rider showing no sign of impatience as the three, with arms linked, came to stand beneath the elegant white portico, still finding last-minute messages to send, approvals to be repeated, thanks and farewells mixed like potpourri.

      ‘Lord Rayne is to escort us back to London,’ Persephone whispered, unable to prevent a deeper shade of pink creeping into her cheeks. ‘He’s so gentlemanly, Lettie.’

      ‘He’s taking us to Almack’s this evening,’ Garnet added, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘It will be the most horrendous bore, but Mama insists on it.’

      This, Letitia knew, was intended to convince her that they would not enjoy it much and that she would enjoy it less, even if she too had been invited by the handsomest beau of their acquaintance. She glanced up at him, then wished she had not, for he caught her eye in a look that seemed to reflect, with added amusement, a certain perception that was by no means enthusiastic. Without prejudice, her glance might have agreed with her sisters’ description of him as the most perfect tulip, the best-dressed, the most eligible parti, a Corinthian out of the very topmost drawer.

      But Letitia was prejudiced by the other epithets she had heard, not so glowing, that although he was wealthy and titled—and who in their right minds could ignore that?—he was also a rake. And what was her mother doing to allow her younger sisters to be seen exclusively in his company, she would like to have known. Granted, her lovely sisters had reached their twenty-second birthday some months ago, quite a serious matter for any ambitious mother. But Lord Seton Rayne, younger son of the Marquess of Sheen, must by now have had every heiress in London hurled at him, despite his reputation, and still he had not made a permanent choice.

      The look Letitia caught, the one that made her turn hastily away, seemed to have read her like a book. His slow blink returned to her, telling her in words as clear as the town crier that she might disapprove all she liked, but she had nothing to fear, that unmarried females who ran seminaries were of no interest to him except as objects of amusement, however well connected they might be.

      But if Letitia hoped to avoid an introduction, it was not to be. ‘Come,’ said Garnet, gently urging her forward. ‘Will you not allow me to present Lord Rayne to you before we leave? My lord, you said how you longed to meet our elder sister. Well, here she is.’

      He bowed from the saddle, touching the brim of his grey beaver with the silver knob of his whip, his dark eyes taking in her tall figure as if—she thought—he was about to make a bid at Tattersalls for a good general-purpose sort of hack. ‘Miss Boyce,’ he said, ‘I am pleased to meet you at last. I had begun to suspect that you were a figment of your sisters’ imaginations.’

      ‘I can well believe it, my lord,’ she replied, unsmiling. ‘I suppose you must meet so few women of independence, these days.’ Making it clear that this briefest of exchanges was at an end, she turned away to place a kiss upon her sisters’ cheeks, to shoo them into the carriage and to watch them move off, waving merrily.

      Responding to a signal from his rider, the bay gelding took his place on the far side of the carriage and pranced away, swishing his tail as if to cock a snook at the lone figure on the pavement who could not quite understand why she felt so buffle-headed and gauche. Had she been unnecessarily defensive? Had she taken his greeting the wrong way? Would he have noticed? Did it matter if he had?

      She walked back into the shadowy hall, studied