Mistress to the Marquis. Margaret McPhee

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       ‘Arrangements like ours are not meant to last, Alice.’

      ‘They’re not,’ she agreed.

      ‘I have to do my duty.’ His mouth, which had always been so warm and smiling, was unhappy and determined, the expression in his eyes unreadable.

      Her heart was beating harder than a horse at full gallop. ‘Maybe you should have thought about your duty six months ago.’ When he had wooed her and swept her off her feet and made her his mistress within weeks of their meeting.

      ‘Maybe I should have,’ he said.

      His quiet admission stripped her raw.

      ‘For what it is worth, I really am sorry, Alice.’ He took a step towards her, reached out a hand as if he meant to touch her.

      Alice recoiled. It was a hand that had caressed her lips and stroked against her naked skin, a hand that had touched her in the most intimate of places. It was all she could do to stop herself from striking it away with every ounce of strength in her body.

      ‘You should go now,’ she said with feigned calmness.

       AUTHOR NOTE

      You met Alice and Razeby in DICING WITH THE DANGEROUS LORD—the story that belongs to their best friends, and in which Alice becomes Razeby’s mistress.

      During the Regency era it was considered completely acceptable for a gentleman and nobleman such as Razeby to keep a demi-rep woman such as Alice as his mistress. Marriage between them, however, would have been viewed very differently. But there were cases in which mistresses went on to marry their noblemen protectors. Margaret Farmer, a commoner and daughter of an Irish spendthrift, married Lord Mountjoy and became the Countess of Blessington. Sophia Dubochet, courtesan and sister of the infamous Harriette Wilson, married Lord Berwick.

      So, with those exceptions in mind, here in MISTRESS TO THE MARQUIS is Alice and Razeby’s own story of a love strong enough to defy the strictest social class rules of their time. I truly hope that you enjoy reading it.

      About the Author

      MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.

       Previous novels by the same author:

      THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

      MISTAKEN MISTRESS

      THE WICKED EARL

      UNTOUCHED MISTRESS

      A SMUGGLER’S TALE

(part of Regency Christmas Weddings) THE CAPTAIN’S FOBIDDEN MISS UNLACING THE INNOCENT MISS (part of Regency Silk & Scandal mini-series) UNMASKING THE DUKE’S MISTRESS* A DARK AND BROODING GENTLEMAN* HIS MASK OF RETRIBUTION* DICING WITH THE DANGEROUS LORD*

      And in Mills & Boon Historical Undone!

      HOW TO TEMPT A VISCOUNT*

* Gentlemen of Disrepute

       Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Mistress to

      the Marquis

      Margaret McPhee

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For my wee Wee Sister, Joanne—an extra spicy story especially for you!

       Chapter One

       London, England—April 1811

      ‘Razeby, you surprise me! I wasn’t expecting you until later.’ Much, much later. Miss Alice Sweetly’s fingers were flustered as she shoved the sheet of paper she had been writing upon into the drawer and rammed it shut, but her sudden anxiety had nothing to do with not being ready for her protector. Within seconds she was on her feet and hurrying towards the Marquis of Razeby to distract his interest from the desk. ‘You’ve caught me unawares.’

      ‘Forgive me, Alice. I did not mean to startle you when you were so absorbed.’ Razeby said in his rich, aristocratic voice.

      ‘Hardly absorbed. I was just writing a letter to a friend.’ In her nervousness her natural soft Irish lilt grew stronger than ever and she felt her face burn with traitorous colour at the lie.

      ‘Lucky friend.’ Razeby smiled with his usual good nature.

      She tensed in case he meant to quiz her on the fictitious letter and friend. But, true to form, Razeby trusted her and did no such thing. He did not even glance over at the little bureau.

      ‘Finish your letter. I will fetch myself a brandy while I wait.’

      ‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Embarrassment rippled through her, making her face grow hotter just at the thought of sitting back down at the desk with him watching. With a glance down at her shabby moth-nibbled woollen shawl and the morning dress beneath it, with its old-fashioned style, the pretty muslin faded and worn, she changed the subject. ‘Look at the state of me! I’m only wearing this old thing to keep my fine clothes good.’ It was a habit she found hard to break, having grown up with nothing. ‘And I’ve a lovely silk ready to wear tonight. I best get up the stairs and change into something decent.’ She made to pass him.

      But Razeby swept an arm around her waist, stilling her panic and pulling her against him. ‘Relax, Alice. You look beautiful just as you are. As ever.’ His eyes, deep brown and true, met hers as he stroked an escaped strand of hair away from her cheek. ‘And have I not told you, it is not the clothes that are important, but the woman beneath?’

      ‘Flatterer,’ she accused, but she smiled and his tall, masculine body in such proximity sent waves of attraction and excitement crashing through her.

      ‘It is the truth as well you know it.’ Razeby could charm the birds down from the trees. He was still smiling as he pulled her closer. ‘But if you have a wish for a new wardrobe, then you shall have one.’

      ‘I’ve no wish for a new wardrobe. I’ve enough dresses up those stairs to clothe half the women in London!’

      ‘I like buying you things—it makes you happy.’ He gathered her right hand in his left. ‘And I want you to be happy, Alice.’

      Alice tried to curl her fingers to hide the black inkstains that marred her fingers, but Razeby did not let her. He slid his thumb to rub against the marks on her skin.

      ‘Mmm…’ His eyes lingered over the inkstains before moving teasingly to hers. ‘I do believe a new pen is a requirement.’

      ‘No.’ She laughed, but her face flamed anew at the mention of writing and of the precious silver