The Mistress. Сьюзен Виггс

was him.

      Black-haired, blue-eyed and utterly captivating, Dylan Francis Kennedy had the sort of face Kathleen pictured when she and Deborah stayed up late to read forbidden, romantic tales of chivalry and daring. A wealth of curling, glossy hair set off the chiseled masculine jawline. The artful curves of his cheekbones and gently cleft chin were echoed by the shape of a mouth that made Kathleen remember Phoebe’s description of him: delicious.

      Unfortunately, at the moment, the delicious Dylan Kennedy stooped and picked up both the diamond earring and Gran’s holy card.

      “Yours?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

      “Thank you kindly, sir.” Brazen it out, she told herself. In one swift movement she slid the card into the reticule, not bothering to secure the drawstring. But before she could take back the earring, he held it away from her.

      With a smile that struck her absolutely speechless, Mr. Kennedy said, “Allow me.”

      Chapter Two

      “Absolutely not,” Kathleen whispered after a long, awkward silence. She was aghast that this person would even consider such a thing. Letting a man put an earring on her, in a roomful of the best people in Chicago, would expose her as a fraud entirely. No proper lady would ever allow such a liberty. “Thank you for retrieving my earring. I shall retire to the powder room to put it back on.” She held out her gloved hand.

      His smile, and the merry gleam in his eyes, should have warned her. “My dear young lady,” he said, “where is the fun in that?”

      “Fun?” she squeaked.

      “Isn’t that why you’re here?” He lifted an eyebrow, a dark curve that made him look more intriguing than ever. “For fun?”

      Kathleen tried to gather her composure. In her fondest imaginings, she’d had clever conversations with dozens of men, had bantered and matched wits with people of breeding and quality. When no one was looking, she had practiced smiling, flirting, laughing, offering quips and amusing anecdotes. For the life of her, she could not think of one clever thing to say at this moment. But she was not about to let herself be struck dumb by a handsome man.

      “I thought saving souls was on the agenda tonight,” she said. “That should be fun enough for you.”

      “I’m a Catholic,” he said smoothly. “Not a sober, pinch-mouthed Protestant. They don’t believe in having fun. Not in this life, anyway.”

      His admission stunned her. The highest ranks of society normally looked down upon those of the Catholic faith. Only a certain privileged few could admit to it and still keep their place in society. That was one reason Lucy had picked Baltimore as Kathleen’s fictional hometown. There, some of the oldest families were descended from venerable Catholic clans from centuries ago, which made them acceptable to socialites.

      “Do I shock you?” he asked.

      “Certainly not. Sir.” She deliberately emphasized the formal address. She knew that in this society, a person kept certain things secret. What could his blunt admission mean? That he knew the mass card for what it was and saw through her ruse? Or that he felt a genuine affinity for her because they had something in common?

      His laughter was low and rich, a sound she thought she would never tire of hearing. “I beg your pardon. It’s unforgivable for me to indulge in an intimate conversation with you before I’ve even introduced myself.” His bow was perfectly correct. As if posing for a photograph, he leaned forward from the waist, one hand behind his back and the other held out palm up, as if in supplication. “Dylan Francis Kennedy, at your service.”

      She wondered if it was better to pretend ignorance or to admit she had known who he was all along. No, she couldn’t do that. He’d ask where she had seen him before and she’d be forced to admit that she had been spying on him at the Sinclair mansion. “How do you do,” she said. “I am—”

      “Kate.” He winked at her. “Your friend Miss Hathaway gave me permission to call you Kate. She said you were far too modest to demand a formal address.”

      She narrowed her eyes, skeptical of his dashing charm. “For all the gossip I’ve heard about you, I would expect informality.”

      “Now I am intrigued. What gossip?”

      “That you are heir to a Boston shipping fortune, just back from a lengthy tour of the Continent,” she said.

      “You must have seen that in the Tribune.”

      “And that you are looking for a wife,” she added.

      He laughed. “Ever since that nonsense was published, I’ve been inundated by ambitious matrons trotting out their rich daughters. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a parade of maidens, mind you—” he winked at her “—but I think I’ve narrowed the scope of my search.”

      She sniffed. “Then I shan’t tell you the rest. You’ll get a head swelled full of pride.”

      He chuckled. “Did your gossips say what manner of wife I’m seeking?”

      “No, but I heard you’ve left a trail of broken hearts scattered across half the continent.”

      “Patently untrue. I am the one who is brokenhearted. In all my travels, I have been asking for the unattainable.” He smiled sadly. “A woman of rare accomplishment and depth,” he said. “One who has red hair, flashing eyes and knows all the words to the Ave Maria.”

      “You are an unforgivable tease, sir,” she choked out, thoroughly intrigued.

      He touched her elbow, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I never tease. But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

      “Which secret?” she blurted out. She was usually in control of her tongue, but his touch, even the light cradle of his hand at her elbow, disconcerted her.

      “There’s more than one?” He had the most alluring manner.

      She bit her lip, thinking fast. Then she gave him the most dazzling smile she could muster. “Every woman has secrets,” she said. “The more, the better.”

      He constantly seemed as if he were on the verge of laughter. “My dear Kate, I was speaking of your true identity.”

      She gasped. “If you know my true identity, why do you still deign to speak to me?”

      “Because I want to put this earring on you. And if there’s any deigning to be done, then it is you who has to deign because it’s clear to everyone in this room that you outrank me.”

      “Outrank?”

      “I knew you’d be too modest,” he gently chided her. “Lucy warned me.”

      “She did?”

      “Yes. She said you’d never flaunt your family tree nor the wealth that shakes from its branches like autumn leaves.” He chuckled. “You see? I am insufferably vulgar, mentioning bloodlines and money in the same sentence.”

      “This is America,” she said, hoping her relief didn’t show. “We’re free to talk of anything we like.”

      “And we do, don’t we?” Still seeming to hover on the brink of laughter, he gestured at the exalted company in the room. The men wore custom-tailored suits and boiled collars so crisp that the edges seemed to cut their necks, and the women progressed through the conversation groups as if in the midst of a competitive sport.

      Dylan Kennedy’s suit, Kathleen observed, had the distinguished gentility of several seasons of age and wear, which made him look far more comfortable and natural in his role as lord of the manor. Not for him the spit shine and polish of new money, but the honored ease of generations of wealth. Next to him, even the English lord appeared bourgeois.

      Then he did a most unexpected thing. Placing his hand under her elbow in a proprietary fashion, he