My Fair Mistress (22 page)

“And now if you would all follow me, we will visit the portrait gallery.”

With that statement ringing on the air, Mrs. Thompson, Viscount Middleton’s plump, apple-cheeked housekeeper, led the way out of the ornate gold ballroom and down a long second-floor hallway.

Julianna exchanged smiles with Maris, then strolled forward with the rest of their small group, mostly ladies, who had decided to stay and tour Middlebrooke Park. The other house-party guests had left with Lord Middleton shortly after breakfast to survey the extensive grounds of the estate by way of horseback.

Plainly, the viscount had been hoping Maris would make herself one of his party—he’d even picked out a gentle mare for her to ride. But she had declined, pleading weariness after her long journey the day before. Smiling politely, Maris had told him she would see him during nuncheon at midday. Having no choice but to accede to her wishes, he had bowed and moved away.

Although Maris appeared lighthearted and smiling, as if she were having a delightful visit, Julianna knew her sister’s nerves were on edge. Busy with his duties as host, Middleton had made no attempt to speak privately with Maris—so far. Yet with nearly two days of the visit ahead, plenty of time remained for him to make Maris an offer should that be his wish.

“…The portraits you see displayed here date back to the reign of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth,” Mrs. Thompson explained as their group walked into the long portrait gallery, shoes rapping softly against the polished oak floorboards.

“For his brave and loyal service to the crown,” the housekeeper continued, “Her Majesty bestowed this land and the title upon the first Viscount Middleton, Lord Gregory St. George. As I mentioned previously, Lord Gregory is responsible for building the central portion of Middlebrooke Park. Here is his portrait, and alongside it the likenesses of his wife and their three sons. The entire St. George family is represented in this hall, forty-two paintings in total.”

As they moved slowly along the gallery, Julianna watched history unfold before her eyes, generation by generation, as fashion and hairstyles changed in intriguing, and sometimes amusing, ways. Van Dykes and ruffled collars gave way to towering pompadours, panniered skirts, frock coats, and beribboned high heels—shoes even the men wore—before finally evolving into the more modern styles of the past few decades.

The housekeeper drew the group to a halt. “And this is my master’s father, the late David St. George. What a kind man he was, and generous to a fault. I remember him quite fondly from my youth, for he used to give all of us children peppermint sticks whenever he’d return from one of his many trips away.”

Several people chuckled at the enthusiasm in Mrs. Thompson’s voice for her childhood remembrance. Julianna smiled and gazed upward at the painting.

Her heart leapt in a crazy beat, blood thundering suddenly in her ears as she stared into the face of her lover.

Dark hair. Cool river-green eyes. Strong, square chin and cheeks with long, enchantingly male dimples.

Rafe’s cheeks.

Rafe’s eyes.

Rafe’s face!

The room whirled strangely around her, blood rushing through her veins with the speed of a raging river, while saliva dried uncomfortably against her tongue.

Barely aware, she gave a strangled whimper.

Maris turned, her look curious. “Jules, is anything the matter?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” she squeaked, doing her best to ignore the buzzing in her brain.

In confused disbelief, she gazed at the painting again, stunned to her toes by the unmistakable resemblance between the man in the portrait and Rafe Pendragon.

The gentleman in the painting wore an old-fashioned, elegantly embroidered knee-length coat and lace-cuffed shirt. Silk knee breeches, stockings, and wide-buckle shoes completed his ensemble, his long, unpowdered raven hair pulled back and tied with a black silk ribbon.

Looking at him was like looking at Rafe had he been born decades earlier.

Yet as she peered closer, she could make out a few subtle differences. A slightly narrower shape of the mouth. A thicker, less refined sweep of the brows. And an unmistakable gleam of aristocratic arrogance that had never shone in Rafe’s brilliant gaze.

How can it be?
she wondered. How can Rafe Pendragon—financier—and Lord David St. George—nobleman—be virtual mirror images of each other?

Only one way that I can think of,
Julianna realized.

The group broke up to explore the gallery. Encouraging Maris to wander through the room on her own, Julianna waited until the housekeeper stood alone. Catching the woman’s eyes, she strolled forward.

“Excuse me,” Julianna said in a quiet voice. “Do I understand correctly that this is a portrait of Lord Middleton’s father?”

Mrs. Thompson nodded, her pudgy hands clasped at her waist. “Yes, indeed. ’Twas painted a few years after Lord David came into the title, when Lord Burton was still a tiny lad.”

Rafe must belong to this family,
she thought. A cousin, she rationalized, shying away from any other conclusion.

“And Lord David,” Julianna encouraged. “Did he have any brothers or sisters, by chance?”

“No, he was an only child.”

“What about other children, then?” She hesitated, then blurted out what was on her mind. “Did Lord David have any other sons?”

A peculiar, faintly alarmed expression crossed over the housekeeper’s face, then vanished just as quickly as it appeared. “No, my lady. Only Lord Burton and his sisters, Miss Phyllis and Miss Vanessa. Now, I think we should be moving along. The hour grows late, and there is so much more to be seen.”

She strode away, beckoning everyone to gather into a group again. Heels clicking, the older woman led the way from the room.

Julianna lagged behind, turning her head to catch another glimpse of the portrait. Her heart thumped again as she stared, confronted by the all-too-familiar features of her lover.

And yet not her lover, not Rafe Pendragon, but another man.

David St. George,
his father.

The rest of the weekend passed by in a strange, slow haze. Julianna could think of little else but the portrait and all of its startling implications.

If it was true and Rafe was the illegitimate son of David St. George, that meant Viscount Middleton was his brother.

Half brother, she amended.

How extraordinary.

She’d realized Rafe’s father was a nobleman, but she had never thought she might actually be acquainted with his family. Certainly, Rafe had never given her a clue about the connection, or so much as hinted he had siblings, even half siblings.

Although why would he have, she reasoned, given that the topic of Viscount Middleton had never come up between them? Nor had she ever asked him directly if he had brothers or sisters. Foolish of her not to have thought about the possibility. When Rafe had told her he was his mother’s only child, she should not have assumed that situation applied to his father as well.

If
the late Viscount Middleton was indeed Rafe’s father. But he must be, she thought. What other reason could explain the marked resemblance between the two men?

Questions fluttered around inside her mind like little moths circling a flame, so many she could scarcely contain them all. Tossing and turning, she barely slept that night, wondering when she might next see Rafe and what she would say to him.

On Sunday, her thoughts were pulled in a different direction entirely when Middleton proposed to Maris.

As she and Maris had discussed, her sister did not refuse the viscount outright but instead begged his indulgence by asking him for a few more days to consider her answer. Once they were back in London, where there would be no interested observers to overhear, Maris would kindly but firmly tell him she could not agree to be his wife.

As she later related to Julianna, Maris had been surprised how well the viscount had handled her request for delay, outwardly affable despite any feelings of disappointment or frustration he may have been suffering. And his pleasantness continued the remainder of the day and into the evening as he resumed his duties as host, treating Maris with as much gracious attention as ever.

After a delicious dinner, whose highlight was roast squab with brandied currant sauce and an utterly decadent cheese soufflé, all the guests repaired to the music room.

The beautiful, but unfortunately penniless, Miss Dalrymple stood up to sing, accompanied on the pianoforte by an eager gentleman. While the lilting music filled the room, Julianna let her mind and her gaze wander around the room.

Everyone was watching the performance, she noticed. Everyone, that is, but herself and Viscount Middleton.

Clearly believing himself to be unobserved, he stared at Maris, an expression in his gaze that Julianna had never before seen. Unmistakable temper shone from his eyes, together with a petulant glint that reminded Julianna of a spoiled child who’d been denied a favorite toy.

Her fingers trembled faintly against the handle of her teacup, rattling the china in its saucer. Leaning forward, she set the cup onto the safety of a nearby side table. When she glanced upward again, her gaze collided with Middleton’s.

She nearly gasped as he smiled, nothing but genial pleasure showing in his bright blue eyes. It was as though his earlier expression had never existed. But she knew she had no more imagined his look of rage than she had imagined Rafe’s resemblance to the painting hanging in the Middlebrooke gallery.

Both were very real, and very disconcerting.

Focusing her gaze upon Miss Dalrymple, she pretended to listen.

Thank heaven Maris and I are returning to London tomorrow,
she thought.
I only hope Rafe has returned. We have much to discuss, including whatever he knows about his brother.

It’s good to be back in Town,
Rafe thought as he crossed his study and dropped down into his large desk chair, the leather squeaking faintly as he settled his weight. Loosening his cravat, he reached up to unfasten the top two buttons on his waistcoat while he flipped through the stack of correspondence that had collected during his absence.

At least the crisis at his estate was resolved, repairs under way on all of his tenants’ cottages and outbuildings. As for his own home, the storm debris and dirt had been cleared from the library and wooden boards nailed over the broken windows while new glass panes were shipped north for installation.

The most tragic loss had been to his book collection—nearly a hundred volumes damaged, almost fifty of those so waterlogged they’d been deemed unsalvageable and tossed onto the rubbish heap. He would have to make a visit to Hatchard’s bookstore to see about replacing them. He only hoped he could.

But first, there were far more important and pleasurable visits to make, he mused with a smile, his body tightening at the idea of having Julianna back in his arms. How wonderful it would be to feel her lips on his, to know once more the delight of her lush, pliant body moving eagerly beneath his own.

But it wasn’t just the sex he’d missed; he’d missed Julianna as well. The gentle, vibrant, intelligent woman whose beauty and grace could bring a room to life by the simple act of her walking into it.

Since his departure, not a day had passed that he hadn’t thought of her. So frequently, in fact, he probably ought to have been concerned by his need for her. And yet he had no regrets, savoring every moment in her company and glad for it.

What I wouldn’t give,
he thought,
to call for my mount and ride over to her townhouse right now.

Of course he could not, since he’d given his word that they would meet only in secret, and only at the house in Queens Square.

With a sigh, he shifted in his chair. He’d waited the past two weeks, so he supposed he could wait another day or two, however much he chafed at the delay. Besides, she had probably accompanied her young sister to a ball tonight and was even now dancing with some arrogant lord. He could only hope that man and all of Julianna’s other partners were homely with deadly dull personalities, and nothing to tempt her. Especially that Summersfield chap. She’d sworn to stay away from the earl, and he trusted her. It was Summersfield he didn’t trust!