Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple
will return later with a tisane for the pain, but you should rest now. If you need anything, summon Yannis and he can send for me if there is a need.’
‘And pull you from your husband’s arms? Tempting but not very chivalrous, my dear. I shall make do with this Yannis.’
The lingering falsity of her marriage stuck in her throat. It wasn’t like her to lie. Not that she had actually said she was married, but she had certainly not corrected him and that was bad enough, wasn’t it? All she had to do was tell him—I’m not married; the veils were the King’s idea. Then he would laugh and tell her to take them off, that she stood in no danger from him.
And that would be a lie, too. Even if he meant it. He might poke fun at her, but somehow she knew the moment he knew she was unmarried even that taunting freedom in her presence would cease. She might not know him, but she knew that. Still, the next time he said anything about her married state she promised she would tell the truth. However uncomfortable.
She glanced back—he looked weary, but his smile lingered as he watched her, part warmth and part mockery. She was so tempted to stay so she left.
* * *
If she had an ounce of sense she would have stayed away from that point forward, but she didn’t. The first week of his illness was unsettling, but the second exhausted all her reserves of self-control. She found all forms of excuses to visit the Englishman, though any servant could have delivered the tisanes she prepared and she was gaining no favours with the doctor by insisting on applying her salves to the wound. She drank in every moment in his company like the Illiakan plains drank in rainwater after the long dry summer. He never demanded she remove the veils again, and thankfully he never again referred to her marriage, so she could at least continue to shove away her guilt at perpetuating the lie and enjoy the pleasures of his company, from the unsettling effect of touching him as she nursed him to the more innocent pleasure of reading to him. She loved lingering over the agony columns just so he would tease her and then she could berate him for his insensitivity and watch the laughter light up his austere face.
‘Enough. That one was by far the most pathetic,’ he stated after she found a particularly tearful advertisement. ‘What is wrong with people? One would think with all of human history at our fingertips we would have realised this love nonsense is a waste of energy. Imagine how much could be achieved if only we applied all that energy to something productive.’
‘I think love can be a great force for good, perhaps the greatest. I do know that love changed my life. My parents didn’t really know how to love me, they were too busy with their concerns, but when I came to live with the Princess when I was ten and she four, I discovered what it was to love and be loved and my life changed utterly. I can’t imagine who I might be today if I hadn’t been so lucky.’
‘I’m glad for you, but that kind of love is different.’
‘How? Love is just love. It is caring for another person, sometimes more than you do for yourself. It is wanting that person to be happy, feeling their pain, wanting to understand them and wanting them to understand you. How is it different?’
‘Because what you are describing is not what people mistake for love between men and women, but affection between siblings or a mother’s love for her child. At least I presume it is. My own parents were sadly deficient on that front, though to give my father credit he meant well—he was just so sanctimonious. But I think I can understand a little of what you described—when I was ten my father remarried a lovely woman who did her best to make up for both my parents’ deficiencies.’
‘Did she succeed?’
He smiled and warmth spilled through her. Love. Perhaps this was an answer, too. It was different.
‘Up to a point. From that point she did something even better, she gave birth to my sisters. I was also ten when this happened and it changed my life, so I think I can understand what you mean. What was wrong with your parents?’
‘Perhaps there was nothing wrong with them. Perhaps the fault was in me.’
‘Good God, no. Trust me on that. What were they like?’
‘My father was a doctor and my mother was very ill and couldn’t tend to me. So I was sent to stay with my uncle and aunt against their will until my mother died and my father came to work at the castle. Coming here saved me. Are your sisters like you?’
His mouth quirked at her change of subject and for a moment she thought he would persist, but then the mocking smile returned.
‘That sounds suspicious. What is like me?’
‘Are they also convinced they are cursed or are they more sensible?’
‘Oh, much more sensible. And since my mother’s side is the bearer of the curse, they don’t have to carry that particular burden. They aren’t like me in the least; they both take after their mother, thank goodness.’
‘Do they share your belief that you are cursed?’
He hesitated.
‘For the moment they are too young and sheltered to think I am anything but their big brother. Hopefully they won’t despise me too much when the scales fall from their eyes. I admit I resolved to despise them when they were born, but I held out for about three minutes from the moment I set eyes on them. I would certainly do anything for them. On most matters I am distinctly on the sinful side of my joint family tree, but my sisters and my two best friends still manage to bring to the surface whatever of my finer principles remain intact.’
She sighed.
‘I’m envious. I always wished for an older brother. My cousins were brutes so they don’t count and the King is more like an uncle.’
His eyes narrowed.
‘I’d volunteer for the post, but that wouldn’t be quite honest since brotherly feelings aren’t what you evoke in me. Which brings me back to the distinction between the love you described for the Princess and what you might think exists between men and women. Those two are very different in both quantity and quality, believe me.’
Under the veils, the now familiar heat gathered, like steam in a tent. She wanted to rip everything off and bare herself, lies, dreams and everything. She prayed he wouldn’t say the words that would force her to honour her promise to tell the truth. She didn’t want this to end yet, not yet.
The sting of her need made her voice hard. ‘You may be as cynical as you wish, but you don’t know everything.’
‘Hardly, but I have a little more experience on that front than you and your young love.’ His eyes had become stormy grey again, a transformation which always marked the point she felt she was trespassing on something personal.
‘How can you have more experience in something you don’t believe exists?’ she countered and his mouth curved into a reluctant smile.
‘In its fallacy I do. Certainly in the varied shades of relations between men and women. On the strength of that advantage may I give you some advice?’
‘I don’t think I will appreciate it, will I?’
He laughed and the storm grey turned warm and inviting again, sinking her further.
‘Good point. I have had reams of advice flung at me by my father and appreciated none of it. Still, you can do what I do and ignore it. For what it is worth I suggest you never depend on your husband to fulfil all, or even most, of your needs. That is a recipe for disaster. Men are rather useless fellows and tend to buckle under pressure, especially when that pressure is applied by women. Especially by someone like you who is far too strong for their own good and as argumentative as one of those philosophers who lived in a cave or a barrel or wherever. Learn to row your own boat. There, if only you listen to my advice I’d consider my debt paid in full.’
She took a deep breath. She had made a promise after all.
‘I am not