While they had talked in that room during the afternoon, she had had lurid, uncomfortable images of lying tangled with him on the bed amid all that scarlet silk. She did not know what full sexual arousal felt like, but it must be something very like what she had felt then. What she had agreed to—or was about to agree to—had become appallingly real to her.
How could she be his mistress? she had asked herself, sitting upright on the sofa before lying down to sleep. She simply could not do it unless she felt something for him as a person. Did she? She did notlovehim, of course—that would be patently rash. But did she like him? Feel some affection for him? Some respect?
She thought of their endless verbal scraps—and smiled unexpectedly. He was a haughty, tyrannical, thoroughly irritating man. But she had the distinct impression that he enjoyed the way she stood up to him. And hedidrespect her opinions, even if he never admitted as much. The fact that she was alone tonight, their liaison unconsummated, was proof enough of that. And there was his strangely admirable sense of honor. He had faced Lord Oliver in a duel rather than call Lady Oliver a liar.
Jane sighed. Ah, yes, she liked him well enough. And, of course, there was the artistic, more sensitive side to his nature, which she had glimpsed that night in the music room. And his intelligence. And his sense of humor. All the many fascinating facets of his character that he kept carefully hidden away from the world.
And there was their mutual desire for each other. Jane felt no doubt that itwasmutual. If she had been just any woman, any prospective mistress to him, he would have sent her on her way as soon as she raised the question of a contract. But she must remember—always, for as long as their liaison lasted—that it was only passion he felt. Sexual passion. She must never mistake the feelings of the Duke of Tresham for love.
It was not going to be easy to be his mistress.
Jane slept on the sofa and dreamed of Charles. Her closest friend. Her beau. Like someone from another lifetime. He was sitting in the rose arbor at Candleford with her, telling her about his sister’s new baby and telling her too how they would set up their own nursery as soon as they were able after her twenty-fifth birthday freed her to marry whomever she chose.
She awoke with wet cheeks. She had deliberately not thought of Charles after her flight from home. She had succeeded all too well. Why had she not thought of going to him now that she had the money with which to travel? Was he still at his sister’s in Somersetshire? Or had he returned to Cornwall? She could have found a way to reach him without being caught. He would surely know what to do, how to protect her, how to hide her if necessary. Most important of all, he would believe her story. He knew how desperately eager the new Earl of Durbury was that she marry his son. He knew how despicable Sidney could be, especially when he was in his cups.
She could still do it, of course. She had been paid yesterday before leaving Dudley House. She had not yet become the Duke of Tresham’s mistress. She could leave before he came back and avoid the necessity of giving up her virtue.
The very idea of such a fate would surely have brought on a fit of the vapors just a few weeks ago. Now, with surprising belatedness, she had thought of a decent alternative.
But the trouble was that she did not love Charles. Not as a woman should love her husband. Not as Mama had loved Papa. She had always known it, of course. But she had alwayswantedto love Charles because she liked him and because he loved her.
If she went to him now, if he somehow extricated her from the tangle she was in, she would be bound to him for life. She would not have minded just a few weeks before. Friendship and affection would have been enough.
No longer.
Was being the duke’s mistress preferable to honorable marriage with Charles, then?
It was a question Jane could not answer to her own satisfaction before his grace’s arrival in the middle of the morning. It was a question whose answer she recognized with some reluctance after she had heard his knock and had opened the sitting room door to see him step into the hall and hand his hat and gloves and cane to Mr. Jacobs. He brought all his energy and restlessness and sheer maleness with him—and Jane realized she had missed him.
“Jane.” He strode toward her, and they retreated into the sitting room together. “He won. By scarcely the length of his horses’ noses. He was behind a full length coming into the final bend, but he accelerated into it and took Berriwether by surprise. They thundered into Brighton almost neck and neck. But Ferdinand won, and three-quarters of the members of White’s have gone into mourning.”
“He came to no harm, then?” she said. “I am glad.” She might have commented again on how foolish such races were, but he looked so very pleased with himself. And she really was glad. Lord Ferdinand Dudley was a pleasant, charming young man.
“No. No harm.” He frowned suddenly. “He does not choose his servants wisely, though. He has a valet who does not allow for the fact that a man sometimes turns his head without warning while being shaved. And he has a groom who allows half the world into his stable and carriage house the day before a race in order to admire the tools of his master’s trade. There is no proving who arranged for Ferdinand’s death during that race.”
“But you suspect Sir Anthony Forbes or one of his brothers?” she asked him. She seated herself on the sofa, and he sat beside her.
“More than suspect.” He looked about the room as he spoke. “It is the way they work. I did something to their sister; they do something to my brother. They will be sorry, of course. I will deal with them. What have you done to this room?”
She was relieved at the change of subject.
“I have just removed a few things,” she told him. “All the cushions and a few of the ornaments. I have ideas for extensive changes to both this room and the bedchamber. I would not be needlessly extravagant, but even so the cost would be considerable.”
“Quincy will take care of the bills,” he said with a careless wave of one hand. “But how long is all this going to take, Jane? I have the feeling you are not going to allow me to bed you until everything is to your liking, are you?”
“No,” she said with what she hoped was suitable firmness. “A week should be sufficient once the order is given. I have spoken to Mr. Jacobs, and he says the suppliers will fall all over themselves to be prompt as soon as he mentions your name.”
The duke did not answer her. Obviously the truth of that statement was no surprise to him.
“Let us discuss this contract, then,” he said. “Apart fromcarte blancheto tear down my house and rebuild it, what are your demands, Jane? I will pay you a monthly salary five times higher than what I paid you as a nurse. You will have your own carriage and as many servants as you deem necessary. You may clothe yourself in as much finery as you wish with all the accessories and direct the bills to me. I will be generous with jewels, though I would prefer to buy those myself. I will take on full responsibility for the support and future placement of any children of our liaison. Have I missed anything?”
Jane had turned suddenly cold. Her own naïveté quite mortified her.
“How many children do you presently have?” Foolishly she had not thought of becoming with child.
His eyebrows rose. “You can always be relied upon to ask unaskable questions, Jane,” he said. “I have none. Most women who make their living by such arrangements as this know how to prevent conception. I assume you do not. Youarea virgin, are you not?”
It took a great deal of fortitude to keep her eyes from sliding away from his very direct gaze. She wished blushes were as much within her control.
