Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple

go to do his bidding; she needed time to recover from his unwitting blow.

      Lord Stanton. Alexander.

       Alex.

      What a fool she was. Almost six years had passed. One would think that was enough time for a foolish infatuation to fade, but her thudding pulse was proof the memory of those weeks was still alive inside her.

      She couldn’t face him...

       Of course you can, you silly girl. He won’t even recognise you. Why should he? He was delirious half the time and the rest of it those ridiculous veils covered you like a tent. Besides, you were just a girl and he was as handsome as a god and as charming as a devil. Of course you thought you were in love with him. But you are older now and quite a bit wiser.

       Perhaps this will even do you good, you will see an Englishman all starched and trapped in cravats and waistcoats and bowing and scraping to the King like all the other officials come to pay court. It would be different now.

      It had to be different. She didn’t want to have to nurse her way through another bruised heart in silence.

       Chapter Three

      Alex held his bay purebloods steady as he turned his curricle through the gates of Stanton Hall. It was usually at this point in the drive from London that his conflicted emotions reached their peak. He loved London and the excitement of his work at the Foreign Office, but there was something about coming to Berkshire and to his own wing at the Hall that calmed him, in particular when his father wasn’t in residence. It wasn’t that he disliked his sire and he certainly cared for Sylvia, his stepmother, and had a real and deep love for his two half-sisters, Anne and Olivia, but when they were away he revelled in having the Hall to himself. Then he could lower his guard and forget about duties and policies, Stantons and Sinclairs. Almost.

      This particular return, however, was overshadowed by the unwelcome guests awaiting him.

      ‘Have my uncle and guests arrived yet, Watkins?’ he asked his butler as he came downstairs after changing out of his driving clothes.

      ‘Yes, my lord. You were not expected until tomorrow and Count Razumov and Graf Von Haas and their entourages recently arrived and are resting in their rooms, but I believe his Majesty and the Princess and her companion, Miss James, have gone with Sir Oswald and Lady Albinia to inspect the gardens. Apparently his Majesty also has an interest in horticulture.’

      ‘Oh, God help me.’

      ‘Indeed, my lord. I presume you will join them outside?’

      ‘Not for the prospect of world peace, Watkins. I have work to do. They will manage without me until dinner.’

      He entered the library, a generously proportioned room overlooking the lawns and lake. He had his own study on the other side of the house, but he liked the combination of space and leather-bound warmth the library offered, with its deep, cushioned and curtained window seats overlooking the lake.

      Halfway to his desk he noticed a pair of pale yellow kid shoes on the carpeted floor by the curtains drawn over the far window seat. There was nothing peculiar about them except their very presence in the library when his sisters were away. He moved towards them but stopped when the curtains twitched and two stockinged feet peeped out below, moving slowly towards the discarded footwear, like a cat trying to escape detection. He remained silent, watching with appreciation the elegant line of foot and ankle, the slim calf, and with regret the appearance of the hem of a muslin skirt as the feet finally encountered the shoes and slid into them, sneaking back just as stealthily behind the curtains.

      ‘I’m afraid it is a bit late for concealment,’ he said, trying not to laugh. He had no wish to embarrass anyone, especially not if this was the Princess. ‘I am Lord Stanton. Will you please come out so we may introduce ourselves?’

      There was a moment’s silence and then the curtain was pushed aside. A young woman stood up, shaking out her skirts, her finger still held between the pages of a book.

      She was clearly embarrassed, her cheeks hot with colour, but she was just as clearly not the Princess. The Princess had been a child with black hair and brown eyes, not hair the shade of dark mahogany and eyes of a peculiar teal blue. His uncle had also claimed the Princess was exceedingly pretty and he was a stickler for accuracy. The woman facing him didn’t evoke the overused epithet ‘pretty’, but her features had a compelling harmony and her large, wide-set eyes were like staring into the distant shadowing of the ocean, the kind that fuelled travellers’ anticipation and fear. Then reality returned and he recalled Watkins’s words—this must be the Princess’s English companion.

      ‘I am sorry,’ she said, her voice low. ‘When I am reading, I forget myself. I hadn’t even realised I had taken off my shoes until I heard someone moving in the room.’

      The silence stretched as he tried to focus on her words, but they faded away from him, like a vaguely familiar foreign language. All that reminiscing with Hunter and Raven was clearly having some ill effects on him—for a moment he had been dragged back in time to a very different room. He struggled to regain his footing.

      ‘There is no need to apologise. You are more than welcome to use the library, Miss...’ He groped for the memory of the name Watkins had mentioned. ‘Miss James?’

      She smiled and her face transformed for a moment, solemnity disappearing under the weight of embarrassed amusement, quickly checked. It was a powerful transformation, like sun breaking through clouds above a stormy sea. He might have to reassess his initial impression—she might not be a beauty, but there was something about her features that went beyond classical features and made it difficult to look away.

      ‘I apologise, Lord Stanton. We were told you weren’t expected until tomorrow. I wouldn’t have come to the library if I had known you were arriving sooner.’

      ‘And why is that?’ he asked, moving closer. Surely if this was the girl who had nursed him she would say something, show some sign of recognition. But her eyes showed only embarrassment as she hugged the book to her.

      ‘Lady Albinia said the library is your domain when you are at the Hall. I meant to take a book upstairs with me, but then I saw the window seat and forgot. I don’t think I could have conjured a more perfect place.’

      He glanced at the window seat, at the cushions arranged into a little nest in the corner, still bearing the outline of her body. She turned and began arranging the cushions, plumping them back into shape, her skirts falling forward to accentuate the soft curves of her hips and behind. There was nothing intentionally provocative about her actions, any more than the surreptitious manoeuvre with her shoes had been calculated, but his body wasn’t in the least concerned with intentions. It was focused on actions and on curves and was heading deep into unrealisable potential when she finally finished and turned, her cheeks flushed and the apology still in her eyes.

      ‘There, now you won’t even know I was here.’

      He searched for an answer, something polite and non-committal and removed from the impressions his mind was struggling to master and the messages his suddenly rebellious body was sending.

      The silence began to sag in the middle and then, thankfully, there was a movement in the window and he forced his gaze to the sight of his uncle and aunt coming up the path from the gardens with the King and Princess. He grasped at the opening they offered as he would at a rope in a stormy sea. It made no difference whether this was the veiled girl or not. She was the Princess’s companion and a guest. His guest. Everything else must be put aside to be dealt with later, if at all.

      ‘Your solitude is about to be interrupted anyway. Why didn’t you join them? Don’t you like gardens?’ he asked, more bluntly than he might have intended, but Miss James didn’t appear to find anything strange with his question. She answered it as given, glancing down guiltily at the book she held.

      ‘I do, but I