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  The Marquis and the Mistress

  Copyright © 2014 by Dominique Eastwick

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-703-5

  Cover art by Cora Graphics

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  By

  Dominique Eastwick

  ~Dedication~

  Dedicated to all the readers who take the journey with me in every book I write and every book they read.

  Special thanks to Val and Kate for pulling the very best from me and to Dawn, Tam, Emmeline, Dwayne, and Patty for always loving me

  As always thank you to Nadine who always pushes me to stop procrastinating.

  Chapter One

  “I’m out.” Lord Simon James Winston, 7th Marquis of Breckinridge threw his cards down and shoved his chair from the table. He could not beat Foxhaven. The damned duke was on one of his winning streaks.

  Simon and Wolfe Thane, Duke of Foxhaven, had known each other since before they’d been in long pants, yet some things never changed. When boredom struck Wolfe, he never lost. Whether at cards like this evening, a foolish dare in college, or fisticuffs, which could happen if Lord Railey didn’t shut his trap soon, nothing bad befell his grace.

  Unfortunately, the other men of their party weren’t quite as smart picking up the clues. The indications were laid before them like a map. First, Wolfe’s lack of interest in the near brawls at Parliament earlier in the week, which he’d walked out of when asked to interfere. Followed by being nowhere to be seen at his mother’s annual ball. Simon finally found him in the library, alone, reading a book about planting in the Colonies. But the true sign lay at the gym; no one would go against him. After men left the ring black and blue, at least they’d gotten that message.

  Although the men didn’t appear to understand his I could not care if I win or lose attitude this night, a sure sign they were about to lose every shilling they had on them.

  Lord Andrew Masterson, Earl of Windenshire, studied his cards before turning his attention to Simon as if debating what to do. Surely, he had something in his hand to keep him in another round. But if the earl wanted to throw in some blunt, who was Simon to care? Of all the men in their group, the earl had held his title the longest. In fact, at a mere week of age, he’d become the ninth earl of Windenshire, as his father died shortly after Andrew’s birth. As the eighth earl had been close to ninety, it had shocked everyone that he had made it as long as he had, and that he’d procured an heir to boot. But, according to rumor, Andrew was the spitting image of the previous earl in his younger years, leaving no one to question paternity. “I’m out, too, damn it.”

  That left Viscount Jonathon Railey, whose father ruled his lands, servants, and his family with an iron fist. It was rumored, half in jest, he would never die because he was unwilling to give up any of his power to anyone. All the while, he’d been so concerned his title would pass to his brother’s family, he kept breeding until he had his heir and nine spares. The man was nothing if not thorough in making sure his line would carry on. For most men, two sons would have been enough. But not for the Earl of Stockton, who had harped on everything from the Black Plague’s return, to the possibility of another war with the Colonies, this time with an invasion of England. Between war and disease, his boys were sure to all die gruesome deaths. Unfortunately, ensuring such security in the line led to a shortage of money to spread to all the siblings. Jon had money, but the younger the son, the smaller the allowance. Simon suspected Jonathan had been taking care of his younger siblings while the older ones tried hard to make a living the only way the aristocracy could. So, he had more reason than most to throw in his cards unless he held the perfect hand. But like always, the man goaded Wolfe into playing higher and higher. This had been the pair’s modus operandi since their days in Eton.

  “Oh, the puppy is playing hard tonight.” Wagging his eyebrows, Jonathan picked up his cigar and puffed.

  “Jon, keep your head,” Simon warned.

  Wolfe hated being called a pup. Even the future duke wasn’t immune to the bullying handed out to most youngsters on campus. Give someone a name like Wolfe and it added fodder to the fire for jealous second and third sons who had no certain future.

  Wolfe grinned, showing his white teeth. “Don’t warn him now. This is the most fun I have had all night. Hell, all week.”

  Ah, bollocks. Simon downed the remaining brandy, alerting the servant who appeared ready to fall asleep on his feet that his glass was empty. “Refill all the glasses, William, and then take yourself to bed. We can manage without you for the night.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The hands kept going, the bids higher and higher. Andrew rose long enough to bring the brandy to the table. When Wolfe pushed all his coins into the center of the table, Simon choked on his drink. Jonathon waited a second before pulling out a letter still closed with a rich royal red seal. Unfortunately, between the angle and lighting, Simon couldn’t make out the insignia.

  “What, pray tell, is that?” Wolfe demanded.

  “An exclusive evening with a woman chosen specifically for you by Madame Eve.”

  “Who?” Wolfe asked in typical bored, droll manner.

  But Simon heard something like pique in his voice. He doubted it had to do with the item as much as the reason Jonathon might have purchased it.

  “Madame Eve. She arranges the perfect mates for people for an evening. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of her, Your Grace,” Andrew said, adding fuel to the growing fire already annoying Wolfe.

  He glared at Andrew. “I have never needed to hire someone to get
laid, unlike others in this room.”

  “Yes, well some of us weren’t blessed being a duke, either,” Jonathon muttered.

  “Throw your date in the kitty then, and show your hand.”

  Jonathan smiled, tossing down four of a kind. Reaching in to take the winning pile, he paused when Wolfe placed each card in his own hand, one by one, face up on the table. “A royal flush.”

  Andrew roared with laughter. “And that is why, when Simon throws his cards in, so do I.”

  “It appears your perfect date is going to spend the night of her dreams with me—you know—the duke.” But Wolfe didn’t reach out to grab the pot, in fact, stayed put, staring at the envelope as if it might bite him.

  Simon sat at the round table long after the last cigar was snuffed out and the last of his friends stepped into their carriages. The four of them had been meeting for a weekly card game for the last seven seasons, providing they were all in town. Over the last two seasons, it had been his habit to leave immediately after his friends. No matter what the hour of his arrival at the townhouse he’d bought for their liaison, his lover waited for him. He ached for a woman’s touch, but not any woman would do.

  He tapped the cigar cutter on the table. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on anything but the soft curves of the widow Chandra Mallory, his former lover of the last two years. She’d finished things weeks ago and refused to speak with him. He only knew she hadn’t been at any social event in weeks and when he had his driver ride by her place, the knocker was no longer on the door, a proper indication she wasn’t at home. Which left him unsure where she would go, as the lands of her late husband had been entailed to his nephew, Marcus Mallory, who had promptly thrown Chandra out on her bottom.

  But the Mallory London townhome she and her late husband had lived in hadn’t been entailed. That and a small allowance kept her, if not in extravagance, at least in comfort. It took every amount of willpower not to shove his fist down the nephew’s throat each time Simon saw him in Parliament. The half-wit had somehow managed to get elected to his uncle’s seat in the House of Commons. Forcing the simpleton into Simon’s proximity.

  Hearing Mallory talk about the swiftness with which he’d cleaned his house once it had been determined the widow wasn’t carrying an heir had taxed Simon’s already-thin patience. But unless he wanted to raise eyebrows and cause tongues to wag, Simon had to play it close to the cuff. Yet every time a conversation had ended with her wistful, sad voice about the house that had been her home for a decade, he’d wanted to land his knuckles, with great force, on the jerk’s nose. Chandra had once told Simon about the humiliation of having to prove she wasn’t with child, and when the heir had announced she was no longer welcome in his home, he’d given her that day to get out.

  Simply thinking about her made Simon hard, forcing him to adjust in his seat. This has to end. But no other woman seemed to do, though he’d danced with other women at various balls since, walked with them in the gardens at those balls, hell, even kissed a few. Not one of them brought his cock to attention.

  Perhaps contacting Madame Evangeline might prove just the thing. If she found a woman to arouse him for even one night, he could move on with his life. And as long as no one but he, his date, and the elusive Madame Eve knew about it, no one would be the wiser. Time to try something new. Anything to get the images of Chandra out of his dreams and purge her from his heart would be a welcome addition. Decision made, he threw the cigar cutter onto the table.

  ***

  Chandra walked around the table one more time. The beautifully laid dining table had been set with the finest bone china. Elegant silver and crystal sparkled in the candlelight and held every delicacy she loved, from oranges to chocolate sweets. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she should have eaten the food Cook had put in front of her that afternoon. Instead, she’d sat at her desk, debating sending the letter she had written to Madame Eve, declaring she could not make her date that evening.

  But in the end, her had decision changed again. While strolling through the park, she had caught a glimpse of her ex-lover, Lord Breckinridge. As always, he’d dressed in the highest fashion: well-tailored clothing that even from across the park showed his muscular physique. Memories of him making love to her had forced her to sit on the nearest bench for fear her legs would go out beneath her. From the safety of seat, she had watched him. It was doubtful he had seen her, but if he had, he’d done an admirable imitation ignoring her. Yet, he had stopped and chatted with every marriage-mart mama and their slew of young daughters. The eligible marquis would make a fine husband to any young miss.

  Chandra knew only too well how fine a catch he was. Well-read, well-versed in the arts and in bed, he made a woman believe herself a Greek goddess. He’d worshipped Chandra’s body and played to her deepest emotions and darkest fantasies. She placed a supporting hand against her corseted belly as if she could hold back the emotions thinking of him caused. Simon was in the market for a wife; the time had come for him to create an heir; and as surely as Chandra knew that, she also knew she would never be his marchioness.

  No matter how much she wanted to be.

  Chandra had sold some jewels Simon had given her as a parting gift, the memory of receiving them too painful. So, it only seemed fair to use the proceeds of that sale to allow herself one night of pleasure to forget him. When an unmarked coach had pulled in front of her home at precisely eight that evening, she had entered, head held high, and ridden to a townhouse procured by Madame Evangeline for her date. But no one else knew where Chandra had gone tonight. None of her inner circle, at any rate. Not her staff, her friends, and most certainly not her sister, who had married a pastor.

  Now, in this room, she fought to keep the jitters at bay. Her common sense fought an uphill battle with the urge to run and with all her bravado, she longed to be anywhere else but here. She could do this. No, this had to happen. She would have a single night with a stranger and when morning came, she could walk away and move on. She had convinced herself of that. But now, in the large quiet building on the outskirts of London, she wasn’t so sure.

  A soft knock preceded the maid entering with another plate of food. “Ma’am, your date has arrived. If you should need anything further, pull this cord, and I will come up.” She set aside the ornate curtain to display a hunter-green cord. “The bell will ring only in my room. For any reason, call for me.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Chandra’s hands shook, as did her voice. She clasped them before her in an effort to control her nerves.

  The maid paused in her duties. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Have you worked here long?”

  “Yes, ma’am, going on two years now.”

  Chandra bit her lip. “Have there been a lot of these—dates?”

  “Not a lot, ma’am, but they are steady in coming to us. Let me assure you no woman has yet touched that cord.” The maid smiled. “Unless you ring, I will see you in the morning to help you dress.”

  “Thank you…?”

  “Milly.”

  “Thank you, Milly.”

  The maid turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs at the same time Chandra did. “I will go out the bedchamber door once he is inside. No person here will see you both, for your safety and reputation.”

  Chandra nodded. Two distinct male voices chatted on the other side of the door, hushed, so she couldn’t discern what was said. She turned away, keeping her mystery gentleman behind her until she could garner the courage to face her night.

  The door creaked open and closed on a soft click. She couldn’t hear anything over the beating of her heart. Hoping for strength to stay on her feet, she gripped the top of the chair closest to her with gloved fingers until the blood ceased to flow through them. With her other hand, she pressed her stomach to calm the butterflies churning within. Taking a steadying breath, she closed her eyes and pivoted toward the newcomer.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” The angry voice was full
of male self-righteousness.

  Looking up at the gentlemen, Chandra hid her shock, but only just. Anger she could deal with. It gave her time to get the situation under control. “I imagine, Simon, darling, for the same thing you are.”

  “Madame Eve was wrong. Perfect date, my ass,” he muttered.

  He paced the small dining room like a caged animal, cursing the air blue. He paused to remove his waistcoat, throwing it on a Queen Anne chair in the corner, only to pick it up again and slam it down, over and over. Once the poor coat had taken quite a beating, Simon returned to his pacing.

  “Are you quite finished or do you plan to beat your waistcoat next?”

  He glared at her. “Be happy I am venting my spleen on fabric and not shaking you to within an inch of your life.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Pardon me?”

  “Do you have any idea how reckless this adventure of yours is? You had no idea where you were going and I would bet you didn’t tell a single soul, so no one is expecting you any time soon. Not to mention it could have been any rake, rogue, or scoundrel waiting for you.”

  “Instead it was only one rake, rogue, and scoundrel.”

  “Scoundrel! I never once treated you with anything but respect.”

  His fury dared her to argue. She could have brought up the insulting gift of gaudy jewelry he’d sent her, but then she would have to explain what she’d done with it and stopped herself, if only because she feared the furniture might feel his wrath next.

  “God, I should return you home now,” he said.

  “We ended things weeks ago. I am not your responsibility.” As soon as she spoke the words, she knew they had been the wrong ones. Simon appeared to have had the wind taken out of his sails. “Simon, I didn’t—”