His Scandalous Mistress: The Master's Mistress / Count Toussaint's Pregnant Mistress / Castellano's Mistress of Revenge

Stella Britten. Only child of millionaire industrialist James Britten. Which meant that Elizabeth was James Britten’s granddaughter—although he’d died almost thirty years ago. Within a year of his death he had been succeeded as Chairman of Britten Industries by his son-in-law, Leonard Brown, a playboy and serial adulterer. From all accounts a total louse to the wife who had adored him. She had begun to drink as a way of shutting out the humiliating reality of her marriage, finally killing herself instantly ten years ago, when she had driven her car into a brick wall, blind drunk. Obviously the reason Elizabeth herself didn’t drink alcohol. The pallor of Elizabeth’s face and the pained darkness in the depths of her eyes was enough to confirm the truth to him.

Rogan drew in a ragged breath. ‘I’m sorry, Beth—’

‘What do you have to be sorry about?’ she came back tartly. ‘You aren’t responsible for my father being the selfish rat that he is any more than I am.’

Rogan shook his head. ‘I should never have pushed the subject.’

‘Why shouldn’t you?’ Elizabeth said, as she wrenched her fingers from his to stand up and move restlessly about the kitchen. ‘You thought your parents’ marriage was bad, Rogan? Well, you should have tried being caught in the middle of Stella and Leonard!’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘The worst of it is that when I was a child I absolutely adored him—’ Her voice broke emotionally.

‘Beth—’

‘No, let me, Rogan,’ she insisted. ‘Maybe if I talk about him I will finally be able to put all this behind me. It’s easy to see how my mother fell for him. When I was a child my father seemed so big and strong. So incredibly handsome. A golden Adonis.’ Her expression softened slightly. ‘He was always laughing. Forever buying me outrageously expensive presents for no reason whatsoever. The latest toys. A pony. A diamond bracelet on one occasion, because I had said I liked the rainbow lights inside it.’ She shook her head bleakly. ‘I was too young at the time to realise that those gifts were probably given as a way of salving Leonard’s conscience because he was such a lousy husband. He had never loved my mother. Had only made her pregnant and married her because he wanted to get his hands on the company and the money she had inherited from her own father.’

There was something else nagging at the back of Rogan’s memory. Something important. Something…

Then he had it. The last piece of damning information.

Stella Britten might have been besotted with her husband, but the condition of her father’s will had prevented her from actually handing Britten Industries over to him, meaning that on her death her only daughter had inherited the company instead of Leonard Brown…

Elizabeth Brown. Now Dr Elizabeth Brown. Lecturer in History at a London university… and owner of Britten Industries…

Elizabeth gave a hard, embittered smile. She knew the precise moment when Rogan realised exactly who she was: his eyes widened, brows rising, that dark gaze becoming speculative.

‘Yes, I’m that Elizabeth Brown,’ she confirmed flatly. ‘Are you happy now that you know everything there is to know?’ she added challengingly.

Rogan didn’t look happy. Instead he looked grimly forbidding, eyes hard and glittering, his mouth a thin and angry line above a clenched jaw. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this sooner?’ he demanded.

Her eyes widened. ‘Why should I?’ She frowned her confusion. ‘None of that has any relevance to my reason for being at Sullivan House.’

‘No relevance?’ Rogan stood up impatiently. ‘You’re an heiress. A millionairess several times over—’

‘Actually, I’m not,’ Elizabeth cut in evenly. ‘I gave a lot of the money away to charity, and floated most of the shares in Britten Industries on the open market ten years ago.’

‘And no doubt made a fortune doing it!’ Rogan scowled across the kitchen at her.

‘Well… yes,’ she confirmed uncomfortably. ‘But none of that changes who I am now.’

‘Don’t be naïve, Elizabeth,’ Rogan growled. ‘You’re the granddaughter of James Britten—and the daughter of Stella Britten and Leonard Brown.’

‘I’m myself!’ she bit out angrily, her hands clenched at her sides.

Rogan had no idea why he was so angry at Elizabeth’s disclosure about who her family were. He only knew that he was. ‘You’re only fooling yourself if you truly believe that! Damn it, Elizabeth, why are you wasting your time teaching History and cataloguing other people’s libraries when you—’

‘When instead I could be living the life of a rich socialite, like my mother did?’ Elizabeth was as angry as Rogan now, her eyes sparkling like sapphires as she glared at him, two bright spots of angry colour on her cheeks. ‘Attending numerous parties. Film premieres. Charity dinners.’ She gave a disgusted shake of her head. ‘I never wanted that. Never wanted to end up being used and abused the way my mother was.’

‘She just married the wrong man.’

‘And you don’t think I would have been just as hotly pursued by every fortune-hunter in England if I’d become part of that elite crowd?’ Elizabeth gave him a pitying look. ‘I wanted to do something worthwhile with my life, Rogan. And teaching gives me that satisfaction.’

Rogan accepted that, but it could never change who she really was…

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You carry on living in fantasyland, if that’s what you want to do. It still doesn’t change the fact that you’re James Britten’s granddaughter, and worth more dollars than I’ll ever see in my lifetime—’ Rogan broke off, breathing hard in his agitation.

Was that really what was bothering him? The fact that Elizabeth was a wealthy heiress? That knowing exactly who and what she was put her beyond his reach?

He had never wanted her to be within his reach!

He was a free agent. Answerable to no woman. And he intended remaining that way.

‘Oh, to hell with this!’ He threw up his hands in utter exasperation. ‘I have work to do.’ He turned and strode towards the door.

‘So do I,’ Elizabeth reminded him softly.

Rogan turned to give her a cold and narrow-eyed stare. ‘I guess. Until you get tired of it. Then I expect you’ll revert to type.’

‘What type is that?’ Elizabeth interrupted swiftly. ‘I was eighteen when my mother died, Rogan—the same age you were when your own mother died. You disappeared to America and joined the army as a result. Instead of living the life of luxury you no doubt imagine, I chose to go to university, to take my degree and then get my doctorate.’

‘Where no doubt you were the only student living in a penthouse apartment and being driven about by your own personal chauffeur!’

‘Do I live in a penthouse apartment now?’ she challenged. ‘Do you see a chauffeur driving me around?’

‘You probably decided to leave him in London.’

‘Or maybe I just never had a chauffeur to begin with?’ Her chin was raised scornfully. ‘I never would have believed it, Rogan, but you’re an inverted snob!’

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