Page 52 of Only a Mistress Will Do

“Wait.”

She skidded to a halt in front of him, her eyes narrowed.

Tris opened his valise and grabbed a coin from the pouch of traveling money. He laid it on the table. “Thank you for fetching the water, Meg.”

She glanced from him to the coin, a gold sovereign. In one liquid movement, she scooped the coin up, curtsied, and sped out the door.

“Oh, Christ.” Tris spied the decanter at last and helped himself to a healthy glass full. Agonies raged in his groin. At least he could take care of that later if need be. The more burning question was what if he couldn’t put Violet out of his mind? And worse, what would he to do if he couldn’t bring himself to take Dora to his bed?

* * * *

Next morning dawned cold and crisp, the sun glinting off the new fallen snow. With only forty miles left to Devizes he certainly should arrive in time for tea. The night before, as he’d tossed and turned thinking of Violet, he’d decided his time in the carriage might be best spent by concocting a plan of courtship for Dora. If he could find some shared interest, some mutual pastime, perhaps his affection for her would grow enough so he would want to attend to his husbandly duties. There was time. They would not be wed for almost three months, although on second thought he should urge Downing to move the date up. Once married, he would have to cease his obsession with Violet Carlton for there would be no way to break the marriage bond.

The carriage started and Tris settled down to listing outings, activities, and topics of conversation with which to draw out his bride-to-be. If the girl would be his wife, he’d best try to find a way for them to scrape along amiably.

Five hours later Tris gladly relinquished his list, with its measly four items, as the carriage swept up the long driveway to the massive stone building—half Tudor manor, half medieval fortress that was Harper’s Grange. The original structure, the castle that formed the rear portion of the house, had been standing since the Conquest. The Tudor section had been added after a fire had destroyed the Great Hall two centuries before. That he was marrying into one of the oldest English families hadn’t impressed Tris until now.

The doors opened as he walked toward them.

“Lord Trevor?” The ancient butler, eighty years old if he was a day, ushered him into a long foyer hung with medieval battleaxes. “Welcome, my lord. The family has been expecting you.” The stooped, little man neatly peeled the heavy cloak from Tris’s shoulders as he stared at the full suits of armor lining the corridor leading toward the main portion of the house.

“Lord Downing is quite the collector of antiquities.” Tris gestured to the walls as he removed his gloves and hat and handed them to the butler.

“Not so much a collection as family history, my lord,” the man replied, carefully handing the outerwear to another servant, then headed down the corridor at a sedate, almost snail-like pace. “These are all family heirlooms passed down from the earliest Viscount Downing who came over with William the Conqueror as a squire to Sir Jacques de Main.” They continued into the Great Hall, also decorated with all manner of weaponry. Swords, daggers, maces, helmets, sets of chainmail hung as if a reminder—or a warning—of the martial ancestry of the house.

Tris shivered. The room was chilly even without the hostile decorations.

“Lord Downing gave instructions for you to be brought to his study immediately.” The wizened servant crossed the Hall and continued down another corridor, his heels tapping on the slate-paved floor. When they reached a dark oak door, bound with black metal strips, he halted. “I will see your things and your man settled.” He bowed and opened the door.

Although less war-like, Downing’s study nonetheless presented a severe decor. Walls papered a pale gray should have lightened the room considerably, had not the deep maroon carpet and the dark polished wood molding cast a somber pall over it. The gloom seeped into Tris’s bones, weighing him down as soon as he entered.

“We expected you yesterday, Trevor.” Lord Downing looked up from a letter he was writing, a frown on his deeply lined face.

“Snow held me up.” Tris bristled, then plopped down in the chair opposite the man. He damn well didn’t have to account for his time to his future father-in-law. “I lodged at The Angel in Woolhampton.

“Holman runs a decent establishment.” Downing gave Tris a nod, whether to commend his choice or the publican remained unclear, then he returned to his document. The scratching of the pen warred with the loud, steady ticking of the longcase clock to his right.

If the man wasn’t going to tell him why he’d been summoned before he could even wash and change, he could at least offer him a drink. Tris eyed the massive sideboard, where several decanters displayed tempting libations and licked his lips.

“Solmes thinks he can outlast me.” Lord Downing placed his pen in the inkpot, shook pounce onto the sheet, gently swirled the letter then poured the sand back into the pounce pot. He raised the paper toward Tris. “I’ve had a bill in my pocket for well-nigh four years, just because Solmes wanted it passed. I suspect it will come up for a vote only if I die before him.” He folded the piece of foolscap and held a stick of black sealing wax in the candle’s flame.

The hiss as the fat drops of wax sizzled into the flame reminded Tris of the sound of searing flesh and he shivered again. God, he needed a drink.

“Now, Trevor,” Lord Downing said as he dripped the molten wax onto the letter and plunged his signet ring into the puddle. “We have several matters to settle regarding your marriage to Dora.” A narrow face and pinched nose made the viscount resemble a hawk. He turned furtive eyes that missed nothing on Tris. “There is an adequate property only a mile away from the Grange. I’ve made inquiries of old Leinster and he will be willing to sell it at a fair price.”

“Indeed? Has it just come up for sale?” Did Downing need guidance on buying the estate? Had he been brought here to give business advice?

“It’s not for sale.” The pale, watery blue eyes gazed at him with thinly veiled contempt. “Leinster hasn’t parted with an inch of land in twenty years. But I have sufficient inducement that assures me he’ll sell it to you.”

“Sell it to me?” Tris bolted upright in his chair. “I’ve no notion of buying an estate out here.” His gut tightened. He sensed a trap closing around him.

“I doubt Dora will wish to leave her home or the society she’s grown up in. I trust you will be willing to accommodate her wishes.” The keen gaze sliced into Tristan’s heart.

“Of course I will consult her, but it is fairly customary for a man’s wife to leave her home and cleave to her husband, is it not?” He was not about to be coerced into burying himself in the country because his wife’s father wanted him under his thumb.

“She can cleave to you just as well down here as elsewhere. However,” Downing scratched his chin, “if you prefer not to purchase an estate quite yet, we can make arrangements to lodge you here at the Grange. Simon and his wife have been happy here for the past eight years.”

Eight years. Tris’s stomach lurched. Christ, but he needed that drink now. He’d be damned if he’d give up his freedom and live with this tyrant. “I believe that won’t be necessary, my lord. I shall inquire of Dora at dinner as to her wishes in the matter.” He shot to his feet, eager to quit his lordship in record time. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I will refresh myself before the dinner gong.” He bowed and made himself saunter out the door. Damned if he’d run like a scared rabbit, but he’d never seen this side of Downing before. And he didn’t like it one bit. What the hell had he gotten himself into?