Once a Mistress Read online

Neither have the hearts to stay,

  nor wit to stay away.

  Samuel Butler, 1612—1680

  Drew took an involuntary step toward her before he could stop himself. She was every bit as lovely as he remembered and the mere sight of her, after all these years, was enough to twist his gut into knots and send his senses reeling. Realizing that she still had the power to inflict pain, Drew stepped back far enough to gain some distance and, he hoped, some perspective.

  Wren lifted her face and met his gaze. “Hello, Drew.”

  Hello, Drew. Whatever perspective he’d hoped to gain by distancing himself from her was shattered. Those two simple words, spoken in her rich, husky voice, sent a rush of conflicting emotions coursing through him. Once, long ago, he’d dreamed of meeting her again. He’d carried the memory of her face and the sound of her voice with him as he slogged through the mud and gore in Belgium. He’d dreamed of seeing her standing before him, dreamed of having her open her arms to him and murmur his name in the voice that had always reminded him of warm, expensive brandy. He had lain awake on his cot, staring up at the ceiling of his tent, memorizing each feature of her exquisite face, trying to blot out the agonized cries of the wounded and the dying with mental images of her.

  And now Drew realized his memories had been faulty. They hadn’t begun to do Kathryn justice. Kathryn. For him she had always been Kathryn. Never Wren. Drew despised the pet name her father had given her and had never understood how a man renowned for his observation could compare his only child to a dull, common wren instead of seeing her for the beauty she was. God help him, but she was even lovelier than he remembered. He had forgotten that a man could get lost in her extraordinary gray-green eyes. Forgotten that he had almost gotten lost in them—once. He would have to remember not to repeat that painful mistake.

  Drew tightened his fist around his horse’s rein and shoved his memories aside. “You’re the last person I expected to find at Swanslea. Tell me, Miss Markinson, to what do I owe the honor?”

  “Stafford,” Wren informed him.

  “What?”

  “My name is Stafford. I married.”

  “Did you indeed?” A muscle began to tick along his jaw as Drew lifted one elegant eyebrow in query.

  “When?”

  Wren met his gaze without flinching. “Six years ago.”

  Drew whistled in mocking admiration. “He must be quite a fellow to have gotten you to appear in church at the appointed place and time in order to exchange your vows. Apparently you thought enough of him not to embarrass him in front of his family and friends and the whole of London society. I don’t suppose you kept him waiting all morning.”

  “Our wedding wasn’t like that,” she began. “It wasn’t like—”

  “Ours?” he cut in. “Then, tell me, Kathryn, how was it?”

  Wren frowned. “Small. Private.” She caught herself before she uttered the word intimate. She searched Drew’s face, looking for the tiniest bit of understanding. “We thought it best to keep it quiet and private. After all, I’d just…”

  “Left one bridegroom standing at the altar?”

  “Drew, I…”

  “So, where’s the fellow who got Kathryn Markinson to the altar? Where is this paragon of a husband?” He glanced around. “I must congratulate the man.”

  His sarcasm cut like a knife. She had expected him to be hurt and angry, but she hadn’t expected him to be bitter. The Andrew Ramsey she had known and loved was incapable of bitterness. Wren lifted her chin a notch and ruthlessly blinked away the tears that filled her eyes. “He died. Over four years ago.”

  “Leaving you the grieving widow.”

  The contemptuous look in his eyes and the cynicism of his words were almost more than Wren could bear. She would have turned tail and run from the look on his face and the sneer in his voice, but the oak tree at her back prevented a cowardly retreat. The oak tree and the fact that he had called her Kathryn.

  He had called her Kathryn. Just as he had the first time she‘d met him. For him, she had always been Kathryn—Kathryn the Enchantress—never Wren. Wrens were dull and plain and common, he’d said, but Kathryn was an enchantress because she’d bewitched his heart and his head until all he could think about was her.

  But no enchantment lasted forever and hers had apparently worn off shortly after she’d failed to appear at their wedding. Wren understood his anger, but that didn’t keep it from hurting. It didn’t keep her from wanting to escape. But she was cornered, just as Margo had been, and there was nothing to do for the moment except stay and fight back. Bracing herself for another attack, Wren pressed her shoulders against the bark of the oak tree and tightened her grip on her knapsack. Margo grunted in protest and Wren immediately loosened her hold, patting the canvas, soothing the restless fox while seeking comfort and solace for herself in the reassuring rhythm of Margo’s steady heartbeat.

  “Yes,” she answered, “I was a grieving widow.”

  “For how long?” he demanded.

  “What?” Blood pounded in her ears and Wren had to fight to keep her knees from buckling.

  “How long did you grieve, Kathryn?” Drew snorted in contempt. “You couldn’t have known your husband very long before you married him. You were engaged to me. And I seem to recall that you spent nearly every waking moment of the months of that engagement in my company. So forgive me if I seem a little skeptical but how long did you grieve? I want to know.” He leaned closer to her. “How long, Kathryn? How many days or weeks or months did you grieve for your husband before you threw off the yoke of widowhood and climbed into my father’s bed?”

  The sound startled them both. Wren looked down at her hand as if she’d never seen it before. She didn’t remember raising her arm or slapping him, but her palm stung and his left cheek bore the mark of her hand—a handprint that was just beginning to turn a bright shade of red. “How could you? How could you think—” She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the flow of words.

  Drew pressed his palm against his cheek. “What else should I think?” he countered. “You’re living in his house. On the estate he gained control of when he married my mother. We’ve always considered Swanslea to be our family home. And the fact that my father installed you in a house that belonged to my mother is very significant. It means that you held a much higher status than his other mistresses.”

  “It means that George was a generous man who offered a close family friend a place to live,” Wren informed him.

  “You ceased to be a close family friend when you left me standing at the altar.”

  Wren didn’t know if she could penetrate his implacable expression or tap the reservoir of compassion she knew he held within him. She wasn’t even sure she deserved to after slapping his face for the insult he’d given to her and to his father, but she felt compelled to try. “Perhaps I didn’t become a close family friend until I left you standing at the altar,” she replied, cryptically. “At any rate, I had no place to go and no one to turn to for help after my husband died.”

  “What a pity.” Drew clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Especially since you discarded someone who would have been much more than a ‘close family friend.’ Someone who would have seen to your every need in life.” He stared down at her. “What happened to your father? Where was he? Why didn’t he offer you a home?”

  Wren sighed. “He did. My father was living in the dowager cottage pursuing his nature studies. George was his benefactor.”

  “What happened to his post at Queen’s College?”

  “Papa left his post to come here because there was no place for me to live at Queen’s. George offered us both a home at Swanslea. When Papa died, George asked me to stay on and finish Papa’s work. In effect, he became my guardian and my benefactor.”

  Drew arched another eyebrow at that. “So you lived with him.”

  Wren sighed. “George occupied a suite of rooms in the main house when he visited, but he never really lived here. He came fo
r the Christmas season and he left before Lent. You had to have known that he didn’t stay anywhere for any length of time after your mother died,” she said. “And as I said before, I live in the dowager cottage.”

  “That’s a minor distinction when you consider my father’s reputation and the fact that you’re within shouting distance of the main house.”

  “A fat lot of good that does me!” Wren glared at him. “I’m within shouting distance of the main house and the entire Trevingshire hunt rides onto the grounds after my fox and winds up treeing me.” She shrugged. “Did you see any of the staff? Did you see anyone rush to my aid?”

  “I rushed to your aid.”

  He looked so wounded, and so much like the Andrew she had known before, that Wren’s heart began to race. Her breathing grew shallow and she stumbled over her words. “I—I know you did. And I thank you. I thank you for defending Margo and for saving her life. There’s no way I can repay you for that, but—”

  “There are several ways you can repay me,” he interrupted. “And the first one is to answer my question.”

  “I can’t answer your question,” Wren told him. “I can’t offer you further explanation for why George felt compelled to offer me a home here.”

  Drew’s implacable expression reappeared and the light that had warmed his eyes moments before vanished. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t.” She met his gaze, silently asking him to understand. “But it’s something he wanted to do.”

  “I’m certain of that.” He raked his gaze over her body.

  Hot color flushed her face. Wren forced herself to remain impassive as she endured yet another of his insulting insinuations. “I have morning chores to attend to and Margo has reached the end of her endurance.”

  She leaned forward and opened the flap of her knapsack. A small red fox wearing a blue leather collar poked her head through the canvas opening, then leaped gracefully out of the bag and trotted down the white gravel path toward the dowager cottage.

  Wren squared her shoulders and looked up at Drew. “If you don’t mind, I’ll follow Margo’s example and remove myself from your august presence.”

  Drew stepped aside to allow her to pass. “I don’t mind at all,” he said. “In truth, we appear to be in perfect accord.” He smiled an ugly smile. “Because I came to Swanslea for the express purpose of seeing that you permanently remove yourself from the estate—before my father’s funeral.”

  Wren stopped in her tracks, whirling around to face him so suddenly that her black muslin skirts wrapped around her legs, exposing her ankles and the delicate red flowers painted on the silk stockings encasing them. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

  “You heard me correctly.” Drew smiled once again. “I’m here to evict you.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Oh, but I can.”

  “George would never…”

  “My father is gone,” Drew reminded her. “I’m the marquess of Templeston now and Swanslea is my home. I see no reason for it to come equipped with a mistress not of my choosing.”

  Tears welled in Kathryn’s big gray eyes once again, although she made a big show of trying to blink them away. She was unsuccessful. Hot liquid spilled over her bottom lashes and left identical tracks across her cheeks. Drew watched as they trailed down her face and dripped off her chin. He hardened his heart against the sight. He had known that she would eventually resort to tears. What woman didn’t? Tears were the female’s eternal weapon against the male. Unfortunately for Kathryn, the sight of her tears no longer affected him.

  “You chose me once,” she said softly.

  “That was a long time ago,” he reminded her. “And I chose you to be my wife, not my mistress.” He paused. “But you chose someone else. So I suggest, madam, that you begin packing. My father’s body is on its way home from Ireland and I want you off the premises before he lies in state.”

  “No.” She stood her ground.

  “You’re in no position to defy me, Kathryn.”

  “I can and I will defy you in this, Drew. You may be the marquess of Templeston and you may have more money and power than I do. But my obligation to your father didn’t end with his death, and nothing on earth could induce me to miss George Ramsey’s funeral. You don’t have that right. You may be George’s eldest son, but I have a responsibility to make certain that…” Wren stopped, taken aback by the look of stunned disbelief on Drew’s face. He seemed unable to comprehend the fact that she would and could defy him. She took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye and drove the point home. “You have no authority over me.”

  She didn’t give him the opportunity to reply, but simply turned to follow Margo down to the dowager cottage.

 

  Chapter Four