Mistress by Midnight Read online

  And then there would be the most almighty scandal and Harriet Knight would be Duchess of Farne and his life would be ruined a second time over.

  To have one unfaithful wife could be construed as a misfortune. To have two would be worse than careless. He did not want a wife with fashionable morals. He did not want a wife at all.

  Suddenly Garrick was very awake and very sober. His body might desire Harriet—it could be very indiscriminate at times—but his mind most certainly did not. He had had enough of mechanistic, emotionless couplings and he was not going to be trapped into marriage via another one.

  “Harriet, no.” He took her arm and pushed her away from him with more force than finesse. She gave a little bounce and a squeak as she tumbled from the bed onto the floor.

  “You do me too much honor,” Garrick said smoothly, leaping out after her and scooping up her negligee. “I understand your need for comfort after the shocking death of your guardian. I am privileged beyond measure that you thought to give me your virginity—” God forgive him for two lies in one short sentence “—but I cannot take such a sacrifice. You are distraught.”

  He wrapped the gaping beauty roughly in the diaphanous material and gave her a shove toward the door. But Harriet was stubborn.

  “I shall tell Mrs. Roach,” she said, glaring. “I shall tell your mama. I shall tell everyone that you seduced me.”

  Garrick shook his head. “I don’t think you will, my dear.” There was steel in his tone now.

  She stood staring at him for a moment. Garrick wondered what she could see in his eyes. Was it the coldness of a man who had long ago ceased caring?

  For a moment Harriet looked frightened.

  “Damn you, Farne,” she said.

  Garrick shrugged. “If you wish.”

  Harriet whirled around and slammed out of the door. Silence settled again.

  It was then that Garrick heard the sneeze.

  UNDER THE LARGE tester bed, Lady Merryn Fenner lay with her face pressed against the dusty floorboards. She had been trapped for a half hour. In a short but varied career working for the private investigator Tom Bradshaw she had never been in a situation quite like this one. She had never been caught before.

  Merryn had been reading when the Duke of Farne had entered the bedroom and had had a bare few seconds to take cover. She had hoped to escape when he fell asleep. Then the woman had come in. Merryn had heard the husky seductive tones, seen the robe fall to the floor, felt the bedsprings give and had known she was in for a thorough education in a matter in which she had previously been in almost total ignorance.

  She had rolled over, pressing her face against the floor, eyes screwed tightly closed. She had shoved her fingers in her ears and prayed that Garrick Farne’s ardor would be both quick and exhausting, that the lovers would wear themselves out swiftly and fall into a sex-induced stupor. The sounds and the movements she could not quite block out had made her feel very hot and bothered. She could feel her body radiating a warmth that was part embarrassment but also something else infinitely more disconcerting. Her clothes felt tight and restraining and she wanted to squirm. It was most odd.

  Then she had inhaled a cobweb and the harder she tried to hold back a sneeze the more it tickled her before it burst out with explosive force.

  Oh, dear. There was no escape now. That would have disturbed even the most ardent lovers.

  Sure enough, a second later, someone reached down, grabbed her arm and dragged her from under the bed. She was hauled roughly to her feet. Eyes watering, another sneeze threatening, she drew herself up to her full five-foot height.

  How to explain? No, forget the explanations, how to escape?

  “My bedroom seems an unconscionably popular venue tonight,” the man before her drawled.

  Garrick Farne, best friend to her brother Stephen. Her brother’s murderer…

  Merryn shivered. Once—pitiful to remember now—she had had a schoolgirl crush on Garrick Farne. He had been like a god to her, a creature who inhabited a different world. While Merryn and her sisters had lived a circumscribed life, educated at home, their existence bounded by the village of Fenridge and their parents’ immediate acquaintances, Stephen and his friends, including Garrick, had studied at Oxford, gambled their patrimony away in London, lived, according to the gossip, for women and drink and vice. Oh, how she had lapped up that scandal. It had all sounded frightfully exciting to a thirteen-year-old girl who had never traveled farther than Bath in her life.

  Garrick had never noticed her, of course. Why should he? Merryn had two beautiful elder sisters who drew all the eyes, all the attention and all the compliments. Besides, Garrick had been betrothed from the cradle to Kitty Scott, the daughter of his father’s political friend and ally; it was simply a matter of when Kitty and Garrick wed, not if they wed. Kitty was a beauty, too, the toast of the town. Which was no doubt why Stephen had fallen in love with her, too…

  A shock ran through Merryn now, like lightning, like recognition, setting her shaking as though she had an ague. Garrick Farne. His name had become a byword for evil in her family, a murderer, a man who had ruined her life and those of her father and her sisters. While he had been abroad, in exile, it had been just about possible for her to put him from her mind, to ignore, if not forget, the events of that hot summer so many years ago. Then, fifteen months ago, Garrick had come back, back to a society that instead of trying him for murder had welcomed him like a hero; back to be lauded as the most handsome, wealthy and eligible nobleman in the ton.

  In contrast it seemed to Merryn that no one remembered her brother Stephen at all. He was gone, irrelevant, forgotten. They had not one single memento of him left, for every picture, every possession, had been swallowed up to pay off the debts when their father died. The Earldom of Fenner was extinct, the family lands lost while Garrick Farne was wealthy, titled and, most importantly, alive. Garrick’s return to England had sparked something within Merryn, awoken all those unbearable memories from the time that Stephen had died, and suddenly the past was real and painful to her once again, as raw and ragged as when it had first happened.

  Merryn rubbed one hand across her streaming eyes and looked around for Garrick’s mistress, the woman with the husky voice, imaginative ideas and overpowering perfume. But it seemed that they were alone.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “She has gone!”

  Garrick raised one dark brow. “Did you not hear me throw her out?”

  “I had my fingers in my ears,” Merryn said. “I did not want to hear anything, thank you. Being squashed by the bouncing of the bed was quite bad enough.”

  “I’m sorry,” Garrick said politely. “Had I known that you were there I would, of course, have ejected her all the sooner.” His gaze swept over her, lingering on the cobwebs.

  “It is very dirty under your bed,” Merryn said defensively.

  He bowed ironically. “Again, I apologize. Next time you plan to take refuge there I shall ensure the room is swept clean.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Merryn said.

  Why are we having this conversation? she thought. This was quite wrong. This was not how she had imagined an encounter with the Duke of Farne would be.

  She looked at him. Actually she had not imagined any encounter, at least not here and now, which was why she was so frightfully unprepared. She had thought Garrick would be safely out of the way in Ireland for at least a further week. He had buried his father less than seven days ago, after all. It was perfectly reasonable to assume that the house would remain empty.

  Garrick was standing between her and the door. He looked enormous. In part that was because she was quite small. It was also because he was over six foot and he had a powerful physique—she could see that quite clearly since he was half naked. His chest was broad and bare, and his trousers were molded to muscular thighs.

  At least he had his trousers on. Thank God.

  Merryn felt quite faint with relief as she realized it. Li
ght-headed, she closed her eyes for a second. After the scene with his mistress she had expected him to be completely naked…

  “Are you quite well?” His voice cut through her mental image of what a naked Garrick Farne might look like and her gaze flew up to meet his own sardonic one.

  “Perfectly, I thank you,” she said.

  He had dark brown eyes under straight black brows, high cheekbones and a very hard line to his jaw. It was an austere face, Merryn thought, cold and remote, enough to make one shiver. The rest of him was russet and gold—smooth golden skin, tousled auburn hair, an intriguing scattering of more wiry dark red hair across his chest, and down toward the band at the top of his trousers. Merryn found she was staring. She had never seen a man in a state of undress before. It was fascinating. She felt the urge to touch so strongly that she was already reaching out a hand toward him before she realized it. She turned scarlet and hoped the dust on her face would conceal her embarrassment. In the same instant she remembered that she hated him.

  A shudder racked her.

  “Well? I await the explanation of your presence here.” Farne’s voice was as sharp as a lash and Merryn jumped. She really had to get out of here before matters got any worse. Because of course she could not tell him her purpose in searching his house. She could hardly say, “I discovered three weeks ago that you lied to everyone about my brother’s death. It was bad enough that you killed him…I hated you for that. But now I know you covered up the truth as well and I want justice. I want you to hang…”

  No, indeed. It would not do to alert Garrick Farne to her purpose.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I did not realize that you required an explanation. You had not said.”

  Garrick’s mouth curled up at the corner into a beguiling smile. Chill ripples ran across her skin. Revulsion, she thought. That is the effect he has on me now. Hatred. Disgust…

  “My good woman, any right-thinking person would demand to know your business.” He paused. “Or should I call you a girl rather than a woman? You do not look very old—” Before she had chance to escape him, he had raised a hand and brushed the cobwebby dust from her cheeks. His touch was gentle. She shivered again, stepping back.

  “I am five and twenty,” she said with dignity. Why am I offering this information? Why am I even speaking to him? “I am not a girl.”

  “Woman, then.” That disquieting smile in his eyes deepened. So did the curl of heat in her stomach, the one that she wanted to attribute to hatred.

  Concentrate. You have to get out of here.

  “I suppose,” she said hastily, “you think it odd in me to be in your room.”

  “I do.” He had not taken his eyes from her face once during their encounter. “I am fascinated to hear your explanation.”

  “Well, I…” No useful lie sprang to mind. Merryn was not very good at dissembling. She never normally needed to bother. No one ever noticed her because she took pains to appear small, plain and insignificant. No one ever really saw her.

  “I thought the house was empty,” she said. “I needed somewhere to sleep.”

  It was partially true. She had been sleeping in Farne House for several nights while she made a leisurely search of the premises, hunting for something, anything, which might throw fresh light on the circumstances of her brother’s death. At first it had happened by accident. She had been exhausted and had dropped off to sleep in an armchair in the library, waking hours later both amazed and amused that she had not been discovered. She had known that a skeleton staff of servants lived in the house but they had not troubled her. No one had even realized that she was there. Farne House was huge and had been neglected for months, ever since the late Duke had been taken ill on his Irish estates back at the start of the year. And so the idea had come to her that she could stay at Farne House while she hunted for the evidence to incriminate Garrick Farne. In an odd way sleeping in Garrick’s house had made her feel closer to him. It had fed her hatred and hardened her determination to find out the truth.

  Farne’s brows had snapped down at her words. “You broke in here because you are destitute?” He rapped out. “Homeless?”

  “Yes.” Merryn thought that she might get away with the story. London was full of tumbled down and abandoned houses. It was common knowledge on the streets that if you had no roof over your head you would be able to find shelter under the cover of the Fleet Market or in the abandoned workhouse in Dyot Street. But there were those beggars who were more daring and who squatted in the houses of the nobility. Plenty of these mansions were barely used, closed when the family was out of London, neglected and empty.

  It seemed, however, that Garrick was not convinced. He took a step closer to her. His hand was on her shoulder. She flinched, but he was only fingering the fine wool of her gown, testing it. Unfortunately the dust was insufficiently thick to conceal its quality.

  “A good try.” He sounded grimly amused. “But this is not the attire of someone who is down on their luck.”

  Devil take it, he was sharp.

  “I stole it.” Now she had started with the deception it seemed she had a more vivid imagination than even she had thought. “From a washing line.”

  He was nodding thoughtfully. “What a fine liar you are. Most imaginative.”

  Damnation. He had not been taken in even for a second. But he had at least moved away from the door. “Who are you?” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “I cannot tell you that,” Merryn said, reverting to her true character after her brief and unsuccessful foray into deception.

  “You mean that you do not want to tell me.” He had his head on one side, still watching her. Those brown eyes were very perceptive. She felt a little dizzy. Discovery felt a little closer.

  Concentrate. Three steps to the door…

  “That’s right,” she said. “I do not want to talk to you at all.”

  “Yet you are not in a position to refuse.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  He laughed. “You want to debate?”

  “No,” Merryn said. “I want to leave.”

  He shook his head. “I should hand you over to Bow Street for housebreaking.”

  “And then you would still get no explanation whatsoever.”

  His eyes gleamed. “A fair point.” He shrugged those broad shoulders. “Then there is nothing for it than that I keep you here until you tell me the truth.”

  Merryn glanced around. He was going to keep her imprisoned in his bedroom? The big tester bed, so wide, so inviting, seemed to mock her. She remembered the cool smoothness of the sheets and the yielding softness of the mattress. For one scalding moment she had a vision of Garrick’s naked body bearing hers down into that silken embrace, of his hands against her bare skin, of his caresses… She looked from the bed to Garrick. He raised his brows a fraction of an inch and Merryn felt her body suffuse with heat.

  “You could read your book,” he said gently, “to pass the time.” He held out her copy of Mansfield Park to her.

  “Thank you,” Merryn said. She put out a hand to take it. He held on to it. She gave it a little tug. Garrick allowed her gesture to bring him a step closer to her. Their fingers were practically touching now on the deep red cover, hers slender and pale, his tanned and strong. She remembered his touch against her cheek and closed her eyes on a long shiver.

  He took the final step. They were very close now. He was frowning, his gaze fierce beneath the dark brows. And then he leaned closer and sniffed her, delicately, as though she were a flower.

  “Bluebells,” he muttered. He shook his head, sniffed again; looked up again, incredulous. His gaze had narrowed to an intense black stare.

  “Have you been sleeping in my bed?” he demanded.

  “I…” Suddenly Merryn’s mouth was dry and her wits seemed to have gone a-begging. “Yes, I have…” She licked her lips and tasted dust. His gaze had gone to her mouth and fastened there, his eyes darkening with an intensity that had her stomach
knotting.

  “An extraordinary intimacy,” he murmured.

  Merryn had never been kissed but she knew with an instinct deep as time itself that in another moment Garrick Farne would kiss her, cobwebs and all. The fierce heat she could see in his eyes trapped and held her. Her heart hammered.

  He closed the remaining distance between them and his lips brushed hers. Soft, so soft, and barely a touch at all and yet the caress seemed to awaken something fierce and burning inside her. Her head spun. She could smell his masculine scent and for some reason it made her knees tremble. Her whole body was alight with a sensation she had never experienced. Her lips parted on a little gasp of shock.

  Garrick stood back, a look of stunned surprise on his face. Merryn seized the moment. She grabbed Mansfield Park from out of his hand and hit him squarely with it on the side of his head. Garrick gave an oath. The spine of the book was fragile and the pages came loose, showering him in paper like confetti, blinding him for a moment. It was all that Merryn needed. She whisked through the door and out into the passage. The key was in the outside of the lock. She turned it.

  And then she ran.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “POINTER,” GARRICK SAID, sitting at his father’s desk the following morning, “do you think it would be possible to break into Farne House? Is it vulnerable to intruders?”

  “Your grace?” The butler sounded faintly anxious.

  “I only ask, you understand,” Garrick said, “because I found a strange female in my room last night.”

  “Lady Harriet—” the butler began.

  “Ah, yes,” Garrick said. He had packed Harriet and her chaperone off to stay with his mother in the country. Since the Dowager Duchess’s household would be in deep mourning for the foreseeable future, this seemed punishment enough for the promiscuous minx.