His Lady Mistress. Elizabeth Rolls

her relations were wealthy.

      Not until Lady Faringdon came to the fore this past spring in launching the fair Celia had he begun to wonder.

      His fingers tightened on the wine glass and he took a large swallow, feeling the brandy burn its way down. He had thought that the child was better off not being reminded of that ghastly burial, that he should leave her to recover in the care of her family. He hadn’t even worried when they didn’t bring her up to London for a Season. After all, launching a girl was an expensive business and Verity, as far as he knew, was destitute. All her father’s property had been sequestered. They might have provided for her much less expensively.

      But closer acquaintance with Lady Faringdon had all his instincts on point. This was not a woman to whom he would have consigned a dog with a thorn in its paw, let alone the shattered, grieving orphan of a suicide.

      He piled up his pillows and, sitting back, linked his arms behind his head to stare up into the shadowed canopy of his bed. Too late. Just as he had been too late for the man who had saved his life at the ultimate cost of his own.

      William Scott had deflected the sabre that should have killed or maimed him. It had been William Scott whose wound had festered and turned gangrenous. It had been William Scott whose arm had been amputated in a stinking field hospital after Waterloo. And William Scott who had eventually sunk into despair and destroyed himself.

      Bitterly he took another swallow of brandy. He should have visited soon after Verity came to live here. Or written to her. Then she might have known that she had one friend who cared for her and remembered her father with gratitude rather than shame. It might have made the Faringdons look after her.

      He shuddered, forcing the ghosts away. He could do nothing for them now. They were both at peace. Tomorrow night he would be back in London. Hopefully his twin, Richard, would have returned to town and he could wash the bitterness of failure from his heart. Better to turn his mind to the living and keep on drinking to banish tonight’s ghosts. A hangover in the morning was a fair price for that.

      About halfway down the bottle an image of Selina flashed into his mind. She had refused him. Twice. There was nothing more he could do for her. He clenched his fists. No doubt if she had to contend with young Faringdon’s attentions whenever the distempered cub chose to grace his ancestral seat, then she had good reason to fear what a man might do to her.

      Lord, but she’d be sweet though. Those great dark eyes and dusky curls. Her slender figure would be all delicate curves when she filled out a trifle. She had spirit, too. He grinned, remembering the yell of pain from Faringdon, just before Selina had tumbled out of the stairwell—and the marks on his face. Faringdon had endured any number of witty remarks about wildcats the next morning. And she had defended that maidservant.

      All of which would go hard against her when he left. Max lifted the glass to his lips and swore again when he found it empty. He reached for the bottle and carefully poured another tot. And another.

      Selina had refused his offer. There was not much he could do for the poor girl, unless… Unless he could persuade his Aunt Almeria, Lady Arnsworth, that she needed a companion. That Miss Selina Dering would fit the bill admirably. He could go up to her room now and suggest it to Selina. Give her his direction in town and some money for the fare. Almeria would have her if he offered to frank, say, her box at the opera.

      Contemplating the level in the brandy bottle, he hesitated. Perhaps he ought to leave it until morning. Business matters were best undertaken with a clear head. And he had a horrible feeling that he had reached the limits of his control on his previous visit to her bedchamber. It had been damn near impossible to release her then. Now…his whole body hardened, just thinking about the sweetness of her response, the way her body had melted in his arms. If he went now, he’d probably find himself attempting to seduce her into accepting his original offer.

      She refused you.

      He was still battling with his conscience when he heard a soft tapping on his door. Frowning, he fished his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and stared at it in disbelief. Who the devil would come visiting past midnight? Mentally he ran over the list of guests, wondering which of the bolder married ladies might have decided to live dangerously.