Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple

her hands away and stood, stumbling backwards. Waves of heat and ice rolled through her and her lungs felt as tight as if a boulder was pinning her down.

      ‘Stop it. This is my home! My family!’

      He struggled to his feet, his hand braced against his side, and she felt tears burning on her cheeks at the clashing currents of fear and concern and need.

      ‘You would rather remain a servant here?’ he demanded and she clasped her hands together.

      ‘I am not merely a servant. I would never leave the King and Ari; they are all that matter in my life.’

      He looked away, the heat disappearing in a flash from his mouth and eyes as if it had never been. Like this he looked more than ever like a statue and it was hard to reconcile this stony façade with the appealing charm and that almost boyish need of just a moment ago. One of them had to be a lie, didn’t it?

      ‘It hardly matters,’ he said after a moment. ‘Fantasy is so much more rewarding than reality, anyway. But if you wish men to respect your boundaries, I suggest you refrain from flirting with them.’

      ‘I don’t flirt.’

      ‘More fantasy, darling. A dangerous one, too. Someone with your temper would do better to face your flaws or one day that meek little handmaiden act will go up in a ball of fire and then all hell will break loose.’

      ‘You don’t know me!’

      His mouth flattened.

      ‘I know your kind.’

      ‘My kind?’

      ‘Yes. Clever, quiet, with everything tucked in tight until it explodes and takes everyone with it without thought of the consequences.’

      The maelstrom of unfamiliar emotions gathered round a single core of fury and she clung to it with savage relief.

      ‘You are arrogant and presumptuous and annoying, and I am tired of sitting here in these horrible veils while you taunt me. I will tell the King you are perfectly able to travel and I hope he puts you on the very first ship off the island.’ She switched to Greek, stalking towards the door. ‘Yannis, open the door, I am coming out!’

      ‘Wait!’

      But she was already through the door, shoving a surprised Yannis aside. She stripped off the veils and left them in a heap in the corridor.

      * * *

      It took two more days for Alex to be dispatched. She knew the King had visited him, a chessboard under his arm, and once he even took Princess Ariadne, who came back bouncing with delight at how funny Apollo was.

      Though she held firm in her resolve not to see him again, she couldn’t prevent her disappointment that he never sent for her. His offer, offhand though it had been, burned like a lanced boil on her soul, but whether she hoped for it to be repeated or not, there was nothing but silence. Clearly he had had his fun, but now that he was to be on his way she was no longer instrumental. It was all for the better, she told herself, but it took every ounce of her resolve not to go and tell him precisely what she thought of his ingratitude and his stupidity and his insensitivity, just so she could see him one last time.

      The day he was escorted down to the King’s own frigate to be transported to Venice, she and Ariadne watched the procession from the Princess’s rooms. The dismal winter weather had burst into a benediction of sunshine in a transition typical of the Mediterranean, transforming the bay into a crystalline sparkle of sapphires and emeralds. Even leaning on a cane he stood almost a head taller than the men around him, the sun striking his hair with silver and gold as he boarded the white-sailed vessel.

      ‘Apollo is taking the sun with him.’ Ariadne sighed, her chin propped on her arms.

      Christina’s heart squeezed and shrivelled. Ariadne’s words were soppily sentimental, but that was precisely what it felt like. Ridiculous, she told herself. Just like the agony columns—absurd, mawkish, silly, stupid. Pathetic. Perhaps if she threw enough insults at this pain it would shrivel as well.

      The next day the rainclouds returned and life went on.

       Chapter One

      London—1822

      ‘You cannot be serious!’ Alex, Lord Stanton, paused with his glass halfway to his lips.

      ‘I am always serious,’ Sir Oswald Sinclair replied.

      ‘That is the gospel truth.’ Lord Hunter raised his own glass with a complicit grin at Alex and Lord Ravenscar, but Alex was in no mood to appreciate his friend’s sense of humour.

      ‘Hell, Uncle. The man had me shot and imprisoned. I still have a nasty scar to show for it. I have no intention whatsoever of inviting them to Stanton Hall, negotiations or no negotiations.’

      Sir Oswald’s expression rarely changed. Rather he used his quizzing glass as a way to communicate human emotion. It went up now, a faint but definite rebuke.

      ‘While you are indeed heir to the Marquessate and the Stanton estate, your father is still Marquess of Wentworth and as such he decides who is welcome at Stanton Hall and he and your delightful stepmother have expressed their willingness to allow me to bring guests to the hall for a few weeks while they are away.’

      ‘Don’t split hairs with me, Uncle. Why the devil can’t the discussions be held in London? And if not in London, why at Stanton?’

      ‘Because he asked. You might have put aside your past as agent for the War Office these five years for a more respectable post in the Foreign Office, but surely you are still aware how important it is that we secure Illiakos as a naval base in the Mediterranean.’

      ‘I am fully aware of its importance. The last thing we need is another bone of contention between the Turks and Greeks setting off the squabbling between Russia and Austria. I just spent a week with Razumov and Von Haas convincing them it is in everyone’s best interests to allow the English to take this particular piece off the board—for a price, of course. Just because I no longer run dubious errands for you around the world doesn’t mean I have become witless, Uncle.’

      ‘I am well aware of that, Alexander. But it might interest you to hear that Lucas sent word from Russia that though Count Nesselrode is on board and has convinced the Tsar of its wisdom, not all the powers in Russia are happy with this move since it might weaken the Greek position should they proceed with their resistance to Turkish rule. I prefer to have the King and his daughter where I...where we can control their surroundings and ensure they remain focused on the prize. We all want the same thing in the end.’

      ‘Not quite in the same way. So, my delightful Sinclair cousins still work for you?’

      Oswald’s mouth almost bowed into a smile.

      ‘They haven’t yet wearied of me as you did.’

      ‘I don’t think “wearied” is the right choice of word. Grew up might be closer to the mark.’

      ‘Ah, but that had nothing to do with me,’ Oswald replied and Alex’s lungs constricted with remembered shame and self-contempt. Trust his uncle to go for the jugular without the slightest effort.

      ‘No. That had nothing to do with you,’ he admitted and his uncle had the grace to show a glimmer of remorse, but before he could speak, Lord Ravenscar intervened.

      ‘His daughter? There’s a princess in there, too?’

      Hunter’s brow rose. ‘Shall I tell Lily you were asking?’

      Ravenscar grinned and raised his glass. ‘I’d back Lily against any princess, or a queen for that matter. I was thinking of our stubbornly unwed friend here and his annoying tendency to look down upon us married mortals. It’s about time he fell off his high horse. Maybe a princess will do it. Have you met her, Sir Oswald? Is she pretty?’

      ‘I