Mistress to the Marquis. Margaret McPhee

‘Maybe you should have considered your duty six months ago.’ When he had pursued her while the play in which she and Venetia had starred together took London by storm. 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.

      They stared at one another. He was grim-faced, serious in a way she had never seen him before.

      ‘For what it is worth, I really am sorry, Alice.’

      ‘So you said.’

      He swallowed. ‘Thank you for everything.’ His eyes clung to hers. He took a step towards her, reached a hand as if he meant to touch her.

      Alice recoiled, sweeping her eyes over his extended hand with its long manly fingers and its lightly tanned skin. 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.

      She raised her gaze to meet his with fierceness.

      He swallowed, glanced away, let his hand drop to rest by his side. ‘If there is anything more you need—’

      ‘There isn’t. You should go now,’ she said with feigned calmness before turning away again to the window. Clutching her dressing gown all the tighter around her, she stared down at the gas-lit street, seeing nothing of it, waiting only for him to leave.

      But he did not leave.

      She heard him come up behind her. He did not touch her, but she could feel the heat of his proximity scorch the length of her spine.

      ‘Alice…’ there was a straining pause ‘.I hope I have not… hurt you.’

      She turned to him, held her head up to look him defiantly in the face. ‘Hurt me? Don’t flatter yourself, Razeby. It was nice while it lasted, but…’ She gave a shrug as if she did not care and bit hard at her bottom lip to stop the threat of the betraying tremor.

      She saw the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat, the way his dark eyes studied hers.

      ‘That at least is something.’ He gave a nod. ‘Goodbye, Alice.’

      ‘Goodbye, Razeby.’ The words were tight. She forced a smile and turned away to the window again as if she were more interested in the dark view.

      He turned and walked away, but she could see the reflection of his leaving in the glass of the window pane and her own face watching, pale and haunting as a ghost.

      The bedchamber door closed with a quiet click that seemed louder than an almighty slam.

      She stood there and listened to the stride of his booted footsteps along the corridor and down the stairs. Her breath caught in ragged gasps, but she caught her hand to her mouth to silence them. Five minutes later the front door shut. Only then did she let herself sag back to lean against the wall and allow the sob to escape.

      For what remained of that night Alice sat in the little blue armchair by the fireplace and stared into the flames. They licked high around the fresh coal she had thrown on to it, devouring the black rocks with a ferocity that matched the force of emotion whirling and tumbling through her. It did not matter how much heat they threw out, it did not warm the chill from her bones. Nor did the dressing gown or the woollen shawl clutched tight around her shoulders. It was the shock, she thought to herself. And the anger. And that feeling that she had drunk ten cups of coffee and that it did not matter if she lay on the bed and closed her eyes; her thoughts were running so wild she would never sleep again.

       Don’t you dare shed a single tear for him!

      But her eyes were swimming and she felt she could have wept a waterfall. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, but no amount of swallowing could shift the boulder from her chest that felt like it was crushing her.

      It was just sex. It had always been just sex. And the way she was feeling now, so scraped and raw and bleeding, was down to the shock of it; that was all. Razeby’s words had come out of nowhere, catching her with her guard down.

      She breathed, calmed herself. Stared into the flames. She had survived worse things than this. She thought of her family back in Ireland, of her coming to London to find a job that she might help them, of the hunger and the desperation. She thought of playing the role of the masked Miss Rouge in Mrs Silver’s high-class brothel, her identity hidden from the world. So few people knew. But Razeby did. God only knew why she had told him. She was regretting that now.

      Her eyes glanced across at the bed with its sheets still rumpled from their lovemaking. Amidst them she could see the sparkle of the diamond bracelet, so brilliant and beautiful and expensive. She gave a shaky laugh and shook her head at what a fool she had been.

      Never let them see how much they hurt you. Her mother’s words, drummed into her across a lifetime, played in her head. The bastards can’t take your pride away from you unless you let them. Look life straight in the face, Alice, and always, always keep smiling.

      Alice was not clever. She was not smart. But she was practical and hard-working and determined. And she still had her pride, every damn inch of it.

      She turned her face away from the bed and, staring into the low golden flickers amongst the red glowing coals, made her plans.

       Chapter Four

      Within the hallowed grounds of Almack’s ballroom, the chandeliers sparkled beneath the flames of a thousand candles. The walls were painted a soft cream and outlined in antique gold. The ceiling had recently been reworked in an array of white plasterwork. In its centre was a line of three elaborate roses, from each of which hung an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a three-piece matching peering glass set above the fireplace, with candles fitted to the fronts and a series of matching mirrored wall sconces positioned at regular intervals around the room. Small chairs and tables were seeded around the periphery. The musicians played from the balcony above, the music floating sweet and melodic to fill the ballroom and haunt Razeby.

      ‘I was not sure they were going to let you in,’ he said to Linwood standing by his side.

      ‘I did have to call in a few favours.’

      ‘I am glad you did,’ he admitted.

      There was a small silence as the two men let their eyes wander to the other side of the dance floor and the crowd of white-dressed débutantes there that posed and giggled and chattered amongst themselves while their stern-faced turban-wearing chaperones looked on.

      ‘Does Alice know you are here?’ Linwood asked.

      ‘It is over between me and Alice.’ Razeby felt the weight of Linwood’s gaze, but he did not shift his own, just kept his face impassive and remained staring straight ahead so that nothing of his feelings showed.

      ‘I am sorry about that.’

      ‘So am I.’

      There was the music and the droning hum of surrounding conversations and the tinkle of women’s laughter.

      ‘You could have kept her on at least until you found—’

      ‘No.’ Razeby did not let him finish. ‘A clean severance is for the best.’ He met his friend’s eyes.

      Linwood raised an eyebrow. ‘I was under the impression that you and she dealt very well together.’

      ‘We do.’ He glanced away and corrected himself. ‘We did.’ He swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. ‘But she was my mistress, Linwood. And now it is time to find myself a wife.’

      Linwood looked at him with that too-perceptive gaze of his, as if he could see the way that Razeby’s stomach clenched at just the mention of her name. He was doing the right thing, the thing that had to be done. The thing he should