Nicola Cornick Read online

  “I can understand your desire for revenge,” Belle said.

  “If your purpose is to punish me, then I wish you would do so directly.” She took a deep breath. “When I met you two nights ago, you said I owe you a debt and you told me what you consider payment. I will give you what you ask if you will promise to leave Chloe alone.”

  “You do understand what I want, do you not?” Justin had moved closer to her and she resisted the urge to back up.

  “I believe you wish me to…spend a night with you,” she said calmly.

  “A night? Not precisely. If you recall, I was to have you for a week. But of course there is interest, which by now is quite considerable.”

  “What is it you want?” She could barely speak.

  “I want you to be my mistress until the end of the Season.”

  The Duke’s Mistress

  Harlequin Historical #705

  Harlequin Historicals is delighted to present Mills & Boon author

  ANN ELIZABETH CREE

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

  #703 THE LAST CHAMPION

  Deborah Hale

  #704 THE ENGAGEMENT

  Kate Bridges

  #706 HIGH COUNTRY HERO

  Lynna Banning

  THE DUKE’S MISTRESS

  ANN ELIZABETH CREE

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and ANN ELIZABETH CREE

  My Lady’s Prisoner #680

  The Duke’s Mistress #705

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Prologue

  Sussex, July 1813

  He never would have anticipated that the means for his revenge would come through his wife. But when he saw how Justin Everard, the young Marquis of Wroth, looked at Isabelle, the sudden admiration in his eye, the way his gaze frequently fell on her during the interminable dinners, he knew he had found his tool. He would destroy Wroth, and with that destruction bring about the destruction of Wroth’s father, the Duke of Westmore. And then his own father’s death would be avenged at last.

  He had made his plans carefully. The two-week house party had proved perfect. He had thrown Isabelle in Wroth’s way as frequently as possible, appealing to her disgustingly sweet nature to befriend him. With satisfaction, he had watched Wroth become more enamoured with his wife each day. But, despite Wroth’s reputation, he made no move to actually seduce Isabelle, instead treating her with a protective chivalry which set his teeth on edge. For he needed an excuse to call Wroth out. To his fury, he realised his wife was succumbing to Wroth’s charm. There was nothing overt in her behaviour, for after two years of marriage she was still too prudish, too rigidly moral to ever display an illicit passion. If anything, she was undoubtedly horrified at her lapse.

  He did not love Isabelle. He had married her because, as Baron Allingham’s only child, she had brought to the marriage a generous portion. And in two years, on her twenty-fourth birthday, she would inherit a sizeable fortune from her grandmother.

  He had married her as well because he desperately wanted an heir but, despite her lovely body with its supple curves and his persistent efforts, she had failed him. Her barrenness only made him despise her more. But she belonged to him and he could not let her go unpunished.

  So the plan he had devised would destroy not only Wroth, but humiliate and chastise Isabelle as well.

  The knock on the door startled Belle. She had crept upstairs early as she had every night since arriving at Greystone nearly a fortnight ago. The other female guests of Sir Farley Greystone were too busy with their cards and gossip and lovers to notice or care if she left.

  She rose from the edge of the bed, her heart thudding. She unlocked the door and opened it. Eliza Pomeroy, her husband’s current mistress, stood on the other side. ‘Your husband wants you below,’ Eliza said without preamble.

  Belle stared at her, her stomach taking a sickening turn. ‘But why? Is he still not at play?’ She could not imagine what he could possibly want.

  Eliza looked at her, and her expression was not unkind. ‘Yes, and he wants you there. I think you had best go straight away. He is not in a pleasant mood.’

  But then Lucien rarely was, except when it served a purpose. And since she had served her purpose when he married her, she rarely saw the charm he could turn on at will. She followed Eliza down the hallway and down the winding staircase to the floor below. To her bewilderment, Eliza led her to the small saloon where there always seemed to be a card game in progress. She stepped inside the dimly lit room, its stale, rancid scent of smoke, sweat and alcohol assailing her senses. Confused, she saw several men still sitting around one of the small tables. She looked away, embarrassed to be there.

  Lucien rose in a fluid motion that was rarely impaired by drink. He had removed his coat and his elegant waistcoat was rumpled. He came to her side, smelling of brandy. ‘Ah, my lovely wife.’ His eyes glittered down at her with an odd sort of excitement.

  She suppressed the shiver that darted through her and forced herself to look at him and speak calmly. ‘Mrs Pomeroy said that you wished to see me.’

  ‘Yes. I do.’ His mouth curved in a cruel smile. He caught her wrist in a hard grip and pulled her around so she was forced to face the others. ‘My wife, gentlemen. And my next stake.’

  She froze. She heard Sir Farley say, ‘Damn it, Milborne. It’s one thing to wager your doxy, but your wife. Not at all the thing.’

  Lucien’s grip tightened on her wrist. He laughed. ‘Why not? I’ve nothing else left. She is my possession, even more so than any man’s doxy. So, who will cover?’

  ‘You are mad.’ Lord Wroth spoke. Belle’s head jerked up. She had not known he was there. For an instant his eyes met hers, but there was none of the warmth and laughter that had lurked there since she had arrived at this hellish house party.

  She looked away, humiliated and ashamed beyond belief. ‘Lucien, please do not do this,’ she said softly.

  He didn’t glance at her, his fingers only dug into her arm more, his gaze fixed on Wroth. ‘So, what do you wish to wager for a week with my wife?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Wroth asked.

  Her stomach turned even more sickeningly. He couldn’t possibly be considering Lucien’s offer.

  ‘Five hundred pounds,’ Lucien said.

  ‘One thousand,’ Lord Banbury said. His gaze went to her face and fear shot through her. He was thin and had a pallor that seemed unnatural and the whispers she had heard of his sexual proclivities had sickened her.

  ‘Two thousand,’ Wroth said. His voice was so cold she hardly recognised it.

  ‘Very well. Two thousand.’ Lucien laughed again. He released her so abruptly, she nearly stumbled. With a numb horror she watched him take his seat.

  Her eyes never wavered from the game but she hardly knew what took place. Her mind and body no longer seemed connected and when the last of the cards were played, it hardly registered. Not until Lucien stood. ‘She is yours, Wroth.’

  Shock coursed through her. ‘No,’ she whispered.


  Wroth rose and came towards her. ‘Come with me, Belle.’

  She backed away. ‘No. I cannot.’

  ‘You must come with me. You cannot stay here.’

  She stared at him. ‘I will not do this.’

  Lucien was at her side. ‘You have no choice, Belle.’ He glanced at Wroth. ‘Leave us for a moment.’ He took her arm and dragged her from the room to the hallway. His eyes glinted. ‘Do not worry, my dear. It will not be a permanent arrangement. Just a week.’ He cupped her chin, his fingers hard against her flesh. She kept perfectly still. ‘Although I’ve no idea why you find the idea so repugnant. I have seen how he looks at you, and how you look at him. I only trust you will show more willingness in his bed than you do in mine, or I doubt he will feel you are worth two thousand pounds. On the other hand, he may enjoy tutoring you. I will own, I’ve not much patience for blushing virgins. I had thought at your age you might prove a more adept student, but I was wrong. At least you’ve no fear of his getting you with child.’

  His cruelty still managed to pierce her like a sword. She resisted the urge to beg for she knew it would only inflame him more.

  He dropped his hand away. ‘Go upstairs and pack.’

  She watched him walk away, then forced herself up the stairs and to her room. Once inside she shut the door and sat down on the bed, a cold numbness seeping through her. How could Justin betray her in such a way? She had thought that, of all the people at this nightmarish house party, he had been the one person she could call a friend. Older than her by a mere four months, at two and twenty, he possessed a boyish charm with his slightly rakish smile. She had been wary when she found him frequently at her side and thought he had chosen her for a flirtation.

  Gradually it dawned upon her that he was at her side because he meant to protect her from the others. She was shocked when one of the other women told her he had mowed down Lord Amberly for insulting her. And although she suspected he had developed a tendre for her, the advances she was certain he would make had not come. Instead he had teased her and talked to her, and told her of his own family: his strict but just father, and the generous, warm woman who was his mother and who was not very well. She had envied him, for her own parents had died of diphtheria when she was twelve. As loving as her grandmother, Lady Townsend, had been, she still missed her parents and the family life they had shared.

  And for the first time since entering the prison that was her marriage, she had started to feel a little of her own self again.

  She had thought they were friends. But he was no different from her husband. In fact, he was worse. She had trusted him. She had never trusted Lucien.

  She forced herself to rise and found the portmanteau. She started to pack, hardly caring what she put into it. She hesitated over the jewels Lucien had given her. She hated most of them. They were heavy and ornate and reminded her she was nothing more than a prisoner. She picked up one of the necklaces, a circlet of rubies and diamonds that felt like a collar around her neck. She stuffed it into her reticule. She could sell it if she needed money. With more than a little surprise she realised she did not intend to return to Lucien.

  Nor would she allow Justin to touch her. She would die first.

  She left the rest of her jewellery except for the pearls her grandmother had given her for her first Season. Her fingers brushed over the smooth strand and she fought back the tears that sprang to her eyes. ‘Oh, Grandmama,’ she whispered. ‘You were right about him.’ Lady Townsend had considered Lucien cold and calculating. But after Lady Townsend’s death, when Belle was just nineteen, he had been so charming and solicitous to Belle that she thought Grandmama had been wrong.

  She sat back down and put on her stockings and a pair of half-boots. The knock on the door startled her. She looked up, expecting to see Lucien, which made no sense because he never knocked. But it was Justin. Stunned, she could only stare at him.

  He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘Are you ready?’ There was no boyish smile on his face. Instead, his dark eyes were hard and cold, his expression impossible to read. He looked almost a stranger to her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said coolly. She stood and draped her travelling cloak over one arm and then picked up her portmanteau.

  He looked at her. For a moment she sensed he did not know quite what to do, but the impression quickly vanished. He stepped towards her. ‘I will take that. We are leaving now.’

  ‘I can carry it myself.’ She started to walk by him.

  He blocked her way. His brow crashed down. ‘Give it to me, Belle.’

  ‘I prefer to carry it.’ She forced herself to meet his gaze.

  ‘This is not the time to argue. You can do that as much as you please in my coach.’

  ‘Can I? You did not buy my tongue as well as my body?’

  He flinched. ‘The portmanteau.’ His hand closed around her wrist and he easily removed it from her grasp. His touch sent a shiver through her.

  Justin took her hand, his fingers strong and warm around hers. She realised she had not put on gloves, and for the first time her bare flesh contacted his. She had a sudden vision of those hands on her and she felt almost shaky.

  He did not seem to notice her reaction as he led her down the dimly lit hall. To her astonishment, he did not head for the main but the back staircase.

  ‘Why are we going down here?’

  ‘Do you want the rest of the company to see you are leaving with me?’ He did not look down at her.

  ‘If you must know, it really does not matter.’

  His mouth tightened but he said nothing. He kept her hand tightly in his as he led her down the staircase to the small hall below. He paused and glanced at her.

  ‘Damn it, Belle, don’t look like that. I will not hurt you,’ he said roughly. He touched her face, his hand gentle.

  She flinched. She thought then that she hated him. ‘You already have.’

  He looked as if she had slapped him. His hand dropped from her face, his eyes cold and hooded. ‘My carriage is outside.’

  She went with him, careful not to touch him. The cold night air whipped around her and she drew her cloak tighter around her. She would rather die than let him touch her. And she would die a thousand deaths before she returned to Lucien.

  He helped her into the carriage. ‘I will ride,’ he said. His voice was expressionless before he turned away and then the door was shut.

  As the coach started to move, the thought crossed her mind she should jump. But where would she go? She could not return to Greystone and Lucien. But surely they would need to stop somewhere and then she could escape.

  But if she did manage to escape, what would she do next? Lord Ralston was her only relation, but he was Lucien’s stepfather and what explanation could she possibly give them? And Maria adored her only son and could never see any fault in him. She had never been happier than on the day Belle had wed Lucien. She had clasped Belle to her breast with tears in her eyes. ‘Now you are truly my daughter!’

  Belle had pushed away her doubts. She had gone to live with Lucien’s stepfather, the Earl of Ralston, who had been a distant cousin of Lady Townsend’s as well as her closest neighbour. Lucien’s mother, Maria, had done everything she could to encourage a match and, after a while, Belle had started to believe herself in love with Lucien. Maria had been so kind to Belle, treating her as a second daughter, and their own daughter, Chloe, six years younger than Belle, had been the sister Belle had always wanted. When Lucien had offered her marriage a year after Lady Townsend’s death, it seemed ungrateful to refuse. So she had married him, despite the fact he sometimes scared her with his temper and that he frequently seemed to drink to excess. But then, she knew so little of fashionable gentlemen that perhaps being frequently in one’s cups was normal. And his temper had never been turned directly on her. That is, until after they were wed, and she failed to produce an heir.

  By the time the carriage halted, she was no closer to a solution. She saw they
were in an inn yard and that faint fingers of light were creeping across the sky. The coach doors opened and Justin waited for her. He helped her down and then released her. ‘We will stop here and rest.’ He made no move to touch her as they walked across the silent yard and into the inn. The proprietor came out and Justin bespoke two rooms. If the proprietor doubted that they were brother and sister, he did not reveal it. He showed them to a private parlour where they were to wait until their rooms were ready. He shut the door behind him.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’ she asked. She was beginning to feel an odd calmness.

  ‘I have a lodge in Scotland. You will be safe there.’ He looked down at her.

  ‘Will I?’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Yes.’ He took a step towards hers. ‘I love you, Belle,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘And so you buy me for two thousand pounds. I fear, my lord, that is not enough to induce me to share your bed. I will never let you touch me.’ She was angry and scared and confused. Her eyes searched his face. Lucien had said those words to her when he was courting her, but she soon learned they meant nothing. But he had never looked at her with the sort of despairing longing she saw on Justin’s face.

  ‘Is that why you think I wagered for you? So I might force you to my bed? I love you,’ he said again.

  Something painful and raw twisted inside of her at his words. ‘No, do not say that to me! I do not want your love. I cannot bear it!’ The door opened and she turned, a terrible shock coursing through her. Lucien stood there, a pistol in his hand. His gaze went from her face to Justin’s. ‘Very touching, but alas, I fear I must put an end to your impassioned declaration.’ He motioned with his pistol. ‘Come here, Belle. I must applaud you on your performance, but it is time for the farce to end.’

  She stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Lucien smiled, a cold cruel smile that sent a sliver of fear through her. ‘You are coming home with me, just as we planned.’ He looked at Justin. ‘As for you, I fear I must call you out for abducting my wife. She is a splendid actress, do you not think? She played the role of innocent, betrayed wife to perfection and, as we had planned, you walked neatly into her trap.’