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The Rake's Defiant Mistress
Swiftly Ruth tore herself from the overpowering pull of his smouldering grey eyes.
The gentle banter between them had transformed into something far more deadly serious. She turned her head, frowned in confusion. Clayton was flirting outrageously with her, making her think unsuitable thoughts, making her feel emotions she didn’t want to feel…
Foolishly she’d encouraged the attention of a notorious rake in the belief she could match his sophisticated skill in a trifling game. For an interminable moment she refused to meet his eyes whilst a riot of thoughts whirled in her head. She must cede him his victory in their verbal duel but not let him know how greatly he’d unsettled her.
She might be unworldly and wearing a tired-looking dress, but she’d not crumple beneath the sensual challenge he’d thrown down…
Author Note
The path of true love never runs smooth, so the old saying goes, and I have written a duet of novels with those wise words in mind. In the first book, THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN, it was certainly a fitting adage! The heroine, Sarah Marchant, had suffered a traumatic childhood. When her future was cruelly bound to that of Gavin Stone—something neither of them wanted—it seemed matters must only get worse…or would they?
This second story, THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS, features Ruth Hayden as the heroine. Widowed when very young, she has also endured a great deal of heartache in her early years. Then Sir Clayton Powell arrives. He’s a man she wants to refuse, but a scandal results in their engagement. Can a marriage without love survive?
May you enjoy them both to the full.
Mary Brendan was born in North London, but now lives in rural Suffolk. She has always had a fascination with bygone days, and enjoys the research involved in writing historical fiction. When not at her word processor, she can be found trying to bring order to a large overgrown garden, or browsing local fairs and junk shops for that elusive bargain.
Recent novels by this author:
WEDDING NIGHT REVENGE*
THE UNKNOWN WIFE*
A SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE*
THE RAKE AND THE REBEL*
A PRACTICAL MISTRESS†
THE WANTON BRIDE†
THE VIRTUOUS COURTESAN**
*The Meredith Sisters †The Hunter Brothers **linked to THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS
THE RAKE’S DEFIANT MISTRESS
Mary Brendan
Chapter One
‘I think I must ask you to leave, sir.’
The lady received no response to her firm request. The gentleman she had attempted to eject from her small sitting room continued to pace across the rug, stamping a deeper trench into its tired pile.
‘Doctor Bryant!’ Ruth Hayden’s suffocated plea held a hint of irritation. ‘I beg I will not have to again ask you to go.’
The fellow halted, exasperatedly planting his hands on to his hips. ‘I cannot believe you will not hear me out, Mrs Hayden.’ A grimace stressed his bewilderment. ‘Why will you not at least let me fully explain to you the benefits—?’
‘I need no full explanation, sir,’ Ruth Hayden interrupted him briskly. ‘I have the gist of your proposal and it is enough for me to want to spare you…spare us both…the embarrassment of any further mention of it. I am conscious of the honour you do me, but I cannot marry you. Now I must bid you good day.’ Ruth walked swiftly to the sitting-room door and pointedly opened it.
As he realised he was being summarily dismissed, the look of surprise quit Dr Ian Bryant’s features to be replaced by one of anger.
In the rural town of Willowdene he was an eminent member of society and not used to receiving such a set down. The woman delivering the snub was barely tolerated in company hereabouts and that made her attitude to his proposal the more unexpected. As his wife she would once more be welcomed into the fold.
He was a ruggedly good-looking man in his middle thirties with nothing exceptional or objectionable in his demeanour. He was moderately broad of shoulder and quite tall. Now he drew himself even higher in his shoes before stalking towards the exit.
‘Had you not once given me reason to hope that you would welcome my attentions, madam, I would not be here at all.’ His lips curled in satisfaction as he noticed how that barb unsettled her.
High spots of colour burned on Ruth’s slanting cheekbones as she recalled the incident to which he referred. But she tilted her head to a proud angle and squarely met his eyes. ‘I think on that occasion too, sir, you presumed too much,’ she rejoined coolly. ‘I was in need of a little comfort when my father died suddenly. I again thank you for giving it to me. Now there is no more to be said.’ She opened the door a mite wider, but still he seemed reluctant to go. Eyes that were unwavering settled on her face as Dr Bryant relentlessly studied the object of his desire.
Ruth Hayden was beautiful rather than fashionably pretty. She was not blessed with delicate features and her complexion was not fair enough for what was considered nice in a genteel lady. Her thick dark brown hair had resisted sleek confinement in the pleat at her nape and glossy locks wisped untidily against her cheeks. Beneath defined brows were large chocolate-coloured eyes that were far too direct and steady for a modest female of gentle birth. The womanly trait he normally found alluring, flirtatiousness, was absent from her character. Today she might have blushed and lowered her eyelashes before him, but that was due to her being disconcerted, not playful. Yet in mocking contrast to her strait-laced attitude was the curvaceous body he had once—far too briefly—felt moulding to his. His eyes were drawn to it now: full high breasts and rounded hips that were separated by a divinely tiny waist he ached to girdle with his hands.
Her unequivocal rejection had astonished him as well as dented his pride. A woman in her unenviable position ought to have jumped at the chance to improve her status and prospects. But she had thwarted not only his desire to bed her, but to have her mother his infant son. Ian was abruptly jolted from his brooding thoughts by a polite reminder that he was outstaying his welcome.
‘I have much to do, sir; I must insist you leave and again bid you good day.’
Without another word Ian strode out. Within a moment Ruth closed her eyes in relief as she heard the bolts being slid home. Her maid appeared on the threshold to the sitting room. ‘Shall I put on the kettle, Mrs Hayden?’ the girl asked in concern.
Ruth gave Cissie a small smile and a grateful nod. So Cissie knew she was in need of a little comfort! She did not believe Cissie to be an intentional eavesdropper. Her maid had sensed rather than heard the delicate nature of the conversation that had taken place moments ago between her and Dr Bryant. Cissie would have deduced from the doctor’s grim expression that she’d declined his proposal. Now the girl was curious to know her reasons for turning down an offer of marriage from an eligible gentleman.
One only needed to glance about the sitting room to realise that Mrs Hayden lived frugally. The fresh herby atmosphere that wafted throughout the spotless cottage could not improve furniture that was shabby or furnishings that had seen far better days. If one were to venture into the kitchen and investigate the larders, similar proof of want would be found. The obvious conclusion to be drawn was that this widow’s lot in life would improve dramatically were she to marry a rich widower.
And Dr Bryant was such a fellow—so everyone hereabouts thought. He had a fine home and income and had increased his wealth on marriage. Therefore it was reasoned that his worthy profession was a philanthropic vocation rather than necessary toil.
As Cissie went off to prepare the tea Ruth sank into a chair. She turned her head to frown over the bright budding gardens and wondered why she had, with so little thought given to the certain benefits she was rejecting, turned down Dr Bryant. She might have asked him for a little time to mull over becoming his wife. It was an accepted response by a lady startled by a marriage proposal.
When she’d been a gauche eighteen-year-old, Paul Hayden had taken her by surprise and asked her to marry him. In her tender innocence she had guessed it might be deemed vulgar, after so short an acquaintance, to seem too keen too soon, so had given him a blurted prevarication. A private smile curved her mouth at the sweet memory of it. But by the time he had reached the door and turned to take his leave, her overwhelming happiness had prompted her to fly to him and insist that she’d like nothing better than to be his wife. She had loved him too much to make him unnecessarily suffer her indecision.
Doctor Bryant did not stir any such passionate longing in her. But she had thought him to be her friend until the day he had ruined it all by asking her to become his mistress. Now he had lost his wife in childbed, he had improved his offer to her.
Was she simply a silly fool to yearn to fall in love with a man before she’d consider the advantages to be had in matrimony?
‘You’re becoming tiresomely repetitive, my dear,’ the gentleman told the pouting brunette who was lounging, naked, amid rumpled silk sheets.
Undeterred by her lover’s softly spoken reprimand, Lady Loretta Vane smoothed the sulky expression from her pretty face and rolled on to her belly in a flash of lissom white limbs. Satisfied with her seductive pose, she raised long dusky lashes to reveal limpid blue eyes. Triumphantly she noticed his flinty gaze drop to her lush breasts alluringly presented on an artfully plumped pillow.
Sir Clayton Powell stopped buttoning his shirt and sauntered back towards the four-poster where his mistress excitedly awaited his approach. As soon as he came within reach Loretta stretched out elegant fingers to curve on his thigh, her hard oval nails pressing indents in the material covering solid muscle.
‘Come back to bed,’ she invited huskily. ‘Perhaps I might change your mind and show you what you will soon be missing if you don’t make an honest woman of me.’
Clayton leaned towards her, planted a hand on the mattress either side of her slender figure. Sinuously she flipped on to her back and coiled her arms about his neck, dragging him close.
‘Think what beautiful children we would have,’ she whispered urgently against his mouth. ‘A little girl with blonde hair like you and a boy…your heir…dark like me.’
Clayton smiled against her lips. ‘And what does your fiancé think to bigamy and bastards?’
Loretta threw back her head and chuckled, deliberately tempting his lips to an alluring column of milky skin. She wriggled delightedly as a moist caress moved on her smooth white throat. ‘He would be most put out…but it does not signify. You know I would drop Pomfrey tomorrow and take you in his stead.’
‘Yes…I know you would,’ Clayton said and lifted his head to look at her with slate-grey eyes. He touched his mouth to hers in an oddly passionless salute.
Just a short while ago the bed had been the scene of torrid lovemaking. Now his response to Loretta Vane’s seductive teasing had cooled considerably. His change of attitude was not simply caused by his irritation at her constant marriage proposals. He’d no quarrel with the Honourable Ralph Pomfrey and had no intention of becoming embroiled in one because Loretta had now pinned her ambitions to net a wealthy husband on him.
It had recently come to light, when Pomfrey unwisely approached Claude Potts—a known blabbermouth—for a loan, that he might not be quite as flush as was generally thought. In fact, it was rumoured that Loretta’s bank balance might be healthier than was Pomfrey’s following a disastrous run of luck he’d had backing nags.
Thus, it had become more obvious why this pleasant fellow of impeccable lineage would propose marriage to a woman who, although a lady by name, was a courtesan by nature.
Loretta had been left a tidy sum by her late husband, Lord John Vane. She had already frittered away a good portion of it. Doubtless she was now fretting that, far from improving her prospects by marrying the Earl of Elkington’s youngest son, she might put in jeopardy what remained of her little nest egg. It was surely no coincidence that her enthusiasm for the match had waned with Pomfrey’s luck.
Worried by her lover’s lack of response, Loretta tugged at Clayton’s shirt front and slid her tongue on his lips to tempt him to kiss her properly.
‘Pomfrey is your fiancé,’ Clayton reminded her lightly, holding her by the wrists away from him. ‘You will make a good couple. He is the right husband for you.’ He released her as he said that and, collecting his jacket from the velvet chaise longue, pushed his arms into the sleeves.
‘You are the right husband for me!’ Loretta fiercely objected. Realising he was about to go before giving a satisfactory answer, she sprang upright and swung two shapely legs off the bed. Her honed features were no longer softened by sensuality, but set in determined lines that set aslant her full mouth and dark brows.
‘I’m not the right husband for any woman…trust me on that,’ Clayton returned with a wry smile as he negligently stuffed his cravat into a pocket. ‘Do you want to go to the opera tomorrow evening?’ he asked idly, his hand on the doorknob.
‘Marry me!’ Loretta demanded. ‘It’s you I want. It’s always been you I want. We make a good couple. I swear if you do not, Clayton…if you do not…’ she repeated, playing for time to rally enough courage to issue the ultimatum.
‘If I do not?’ Clayton prompted. He leaned back against the door to watch her, while shooting two pristine shirt cuffs out of his jacket. A steady dark gaze was levelled on her flushing face. ‘Come, tell me what you plan to do to punish me.’
‘I will finish it between us,’ she stated in a brittle tone and tilted her chin to an obstinate angle. ‘I will go ahead and marry Ralph Pomfrey as soon as maybe and once I am his wife I will not cuckold him. I will sleep with only my husband.’
A spontaneous laugh broke in Clayton’s throat. ‘I’m impressed. You’re going to be a faithful spouse. That’s most unusual for the ton and most certainly novel for you, my dear. I’m sure your late departed husband would be miffed to know you’ve reformed rather too late for him to gain any benefit. I hope Pomfrey appreciates your sacrifice.’
Ralph Pomfrey was aware—as was the whole of the ton—that he’d proposed marriage to the woman who had been Clayton Powell’s mistress for over six months. The knowledge that his betrothed was continuing to sleep with another man seemed not to trouble Pomfrey. Naturally, it was assumed that once the nuptials were imminent the liaison would end, at least until Loretta had done her duty and provided her husband with a legitimate son and heir.
‘You won’t find it all so amusing when I turn you away,’ Loretta said with a choke of annoyance. She had used her ace and had it immediately trumped. Now she wished she had saved it for another time, but could not withdraw it. ‘You won’t find another woman to please you as well as I do.’
In Clayton’s view, that petulant afterthought was her ace and it kept him loitering by the door while he gave both it and her his attention. Without doubt Loretta Vane was an enthusiastic and uninhibited bed partner.
A slow appraisal roamed over the naked young woman provocatively posing on the edge of the bed. Her figure was undeniably lush and perfectly proportioned. But it wasn’t just Loretta’s physical charms that made men keen to win her favours. She’d gained a reputation as a wanton with an appetite she’d been previously unashamed to sate in adulterous affairs during her first marriage. If she’d meant what she said about staying true to Pomfrey once they were wed, it would indeed be an odd union. Polite society was, for the most part, composed of people untroubled by discreet promiscuity within marriage, once the nursery was full.
Clayton tilted Loretta a wry smile that hinted at his capitulation. He approached her, noticing sultry triumph glittering in her eyes as she rose gracefully from the bed to sway towards him.
‘How do you know you please me very well?’ he asked and pressed a kiss to the pulse bobbing beneath the porcelain skin of her throat. ‘I’ve never told you so.’
‘You don’t need to say. I know I do,’ she said huskily. An ardent gleam was darkening her blue eyes as she peeped up at him. ‘Shall I make you say it?’
‘Do you think you can?’
‘I know I can,’ she promised and flicked her small tongue to curl on his ear.
‘Well…in that case I suppose it would be rude to decline the challenge,’ Clayton said before his lips hardened on hers, parting her mouth wide so he could immediately plunge inside. He gasped a laugh as her nimble fingers immediately opened the buttons covering the magnificent bulge straining the material at his groin. They slipped inside to slide with skilful rhythm until he growled at her to cease. She did so and instead lithely dropped to her knees in front of him.
With blood pounding through his veins, Clayton curved long fingers over the dark head rocking efficiently in front of his hips. With a groaning oath he tensed and drew her up. Swinging Loretta in to his arms, he carried her back to bed.
At six in the morning Clayton again shrugged in to his coat and approached the door of Loretta’s boudoir. As she softly called his name he turned to smile at the dishevelled sight of her. Her half-open eyes were glazed in torpor.
‘I know I pleased you,’ she purred. ‘Deny it if you can…’
‘You pleased me. Without doubt you make an excellent paramour.’
Sensual languor was still drugging her mind, but Loretta frowned at the amusement in his tone. ‘I’ll make a far better wife than mistress. I meant what I said, Clayton,’ she whispered throatily.
He shot her a grin. ‘So did I,’ he said and went out, quietly shutting the door.
A nebulous March morning was moistening the cobbles as Clayton emerged into the street. He turned in the direction of Belgravia Place, a leafy square hemmed by elegant town houses, the largest of which was his home.
John Vane had left his young widow her own apartment conveniently situated in the heart of town. Thus it was just a short time later, and with a weak dawn light at his back, that Clayton was taking the stone steps to his mansion two at a time.
On entering the hallway he was surprised to see Hughes, his butler, striding towards him as though anticipating his arrival. The elderly servant had been in the army in his heyday and, being sprightly for his years, still strutted about as though on parade.
‘An urgent post arrived, Sir Clayton,’ he told his master and held out the tray on which reposed a parchment. If he deemed it odd to see his master arrive home at daybreak with his cravat trailing from a pocket and the remainder of his clothes in a state likely to give his valet an attack, he gave no outward sign.
Clayton took the letter while issuing an order. ‘Arrange for hot water for a bath, please, and coffee and toast.’
‘At once, sir,’ Hughes said with a crisp nod and marched off.
Clayton took a proper look at the writing on the note he held. A grin split his face. He recognised the hand as that of his good friend Viscount Tremayne. He guessed that, as the post was urgent, Gavin was already on his way to Mayfair from his estate in Surrey. Clayton dropped into his chair in his study and read the very welcome news that Gavin Stone was due in town today.
Chapter Two
‘Oh! You have not brought him for me to cuddle!’
‘You may cuddle me instead!’ Viscountess Tremayne teasingly replied and proceeded to give Ruth a warm hug. ‘I have missed you,’ she said fiercely.
‘And I have missed you,’ Ruth said simply, tightening her arms about her best friend. ‘I am longing to hear more wonderful news about Surrey. But first tell me—where is that darling baby boy?’
‘He has been snuffling a little bit and I thought it best to leave him in the warm with his nurse as the weather has turned so bitter cold.’ Sarah gave Ruth an expressive look. ‘James is teething and I fret that he might take a chill.’ A soft maternal smile preceded, ‘He is a darling little chap, the image of his papa, and at times I feel I will die for love of him.’
Ruth linked arms with Sarah and led the way to the sitting room. Once her visitor had shed her hat and gloves, they sat in comfortable fireside chairs. Logs were crackling valiantly in the grate, keeping at bay the draughts. Outside was weak spring sunlight, but the March winds were strong enough to infiltrate the casements and stir the curtains.
Ruth poured tea from the prepared tray that sat on a table close to the hearth. Once they had sipped at the warming brew their conversation was resumed with a fluency that mocked the long months and miles that had separated them. To an observer they might have been dear sisters, so affectionate and natural were they as they chatted and warmed their palms on the china cups.
‘How long will you stay at Willowdene Manor?’
‘Until Michaelmas…if I have my way,’ Sarah said with a grin.
Ruth cocked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘And I imagine you have a tendency to get your own way.’ She sighed in faux sympathy. ‘Poor Gavin!’
‘Poor Gavin, indeed!’ Sarah mocked, but her expression softened as she named her beloved husband. ‘He likes it very well when I get my own way, I assure you he does,’ she added saucily.
‘Hussy!’ Ruth chided and clucked her tongue.
‘Indeed I am,’ Sarah agreed with an impish look from beneath her lashes. ‘And ever was…as you know…’
An amicable quiet settled on the room for a moment while they dwelled on the events Sarah had alluded to and how, subsequently, her life had improved so wonderfully.
Just a year ago Lady Tremayne had been Sarah Marchant, a kept woman, shunned by the locals as a brazen harlot. Following her lover’s untimely death, she had been living frugally in the rural town of Willowdene when she met and fell in love with Gavin Stone, new master of Willowdene Manor. A few months after their wedding in the chapel at the Manor, Sarah had moved with her husband to his magnificent estate in Surrey to take up her new life as Viscountess Tremayne.
Now Sarah was a fine lady, with an adorable baby son. Once the two women had been united in living quietly, ostracised by the townsfolk. Now a chasm had opened between their positions. Sarah’s status as the wife of a distinguished peer of the realm meant her company was highly sought by everyone, especially the hypocritical. But far from resenting her friend’s astonishing good fortune, Ruth was glad that Sarah had been so blessed.
‘You’re very happy,’ Ruth stated with quiet contentment. ‘I knew you would be. Gavin is a fine gentleman and all that gossip about his roguish ways was piffle.’
‘Not quite…’ Sarah demurred. ‘Besides, roguish ways have their benefits,’ she said archly. ‘Gavin says he now has too many responsibilities to rake around town. He leaves that to his friend, Sir Clayton Powell, who, by all accounts, still does it very well.’
