The Once-a-Mistress Wife

Mary swallowed hard, biting back a retort that wouldn’t be ladylike. Wouldn’t fit the image that Grandfather wanted her to portray.

“We made our peace, Grandfather and I.”

“You may have fooled Uncle David, but we aren’t convinced you’ve changed. I will be keeping an eye on you,” Channing said.

He was almost ten years older than she was, and from her earliest memories he’d always been a pompous ass. She had no fondness for Channing, but Lorette, who was only two years older than Mary, had been a close friend when they were younger. They’d roamed all over Grandfather’s mansion playing games and getting into trouble. It had all ended when Lorette had turned ten and declared herself too old for childish pursuits.

“I’ll leave you two to your private grieving.”

The anteroom was almost empty except for a few of her friends. Their long history and regular luncheons had garnered them the name the Debs Club.

Everyone in their group seemed to be getting engaged or married; something Mary had no desire to do herself. She’d been deeply in love with a man once, and when he’d left her to marry the “right” kind of woman, she’d promised herself she’d never live with that kind of pain again.

Yet another example of how her wild lifestyle—which wasn’t really that wild—had resulted in her being alone. The problem was that for most of her life Mary had never wanted to follow the rules. Almost in contradiction to the plain name—and possibly plain aspirations—her parents had given her at birth, Mary had come out of the womb a rebel.

But not any longer. She’d paid a high price for her rebelliousness, and her deathbed promise to Grandfather David meant she’d toe the line from now on.

Mary started toward her friends. They all wore black for mourning, and Mary appreciated having them here. Maybe she wasn’t completely alone. She did have her friends, and they’d proven to be a solid support to her in a way that she’d never experienced before.

The outer door opened before she reached her friends, and she turned to greet the newcomer. The blood rushed to her head and she heard the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears as she recognized the one man she’d never thought to see again.

Kane Brentwood—English lord and her ex-lover.

“Kane?”

“Mary,” he said. Just her name in that deep voice of his never failed to send shivers coursing through her body.

She couldn’t face him now. Not today, when she was struggling to keep her composure carefully in place. Not when she was so close to losing it.

At the sight of him, she was overwhelmed with the weight of the secrets between them. Secrets that, if revealed, would cost her everything—Grandfather’s inheritance, Kane’s respect and her own hard-won peace.

She tried to regain her composure, but she saw stars dancing in front of her eyes as he approached her. And then everything went black.

Kane Brentwood caught Mary just before she hit the floor. He was aware of the murmuring of voices behind him, but he didn’t pay attention to anyone save the woman in his arms. His woman. She hadn’t been taking very good care of herself. She’d lost weight and her skin was pale. He wondered if she’d mended bridges with her grandfather and what that had cost her.

He cupped her face. “Mary.”

Her eyes blinked open, and he stared into that familiar Caribbean-blue color, reminding him of the month they’d spent at his vacation home in the British Virgin Islands. “Mary-Belle, are you okay?”

“Kane?”

“Yes, darling.”

As she looked up at him, confusion knitted her brow. “I’m not your darling anymore.”

A spear of anger went through him and he had to tamp down on his instinctive response, which was to take her in his arms and prove that she was still his. To prove that Mary would react to him the way she had from the first moment they met. But she was a married woman now, and he knew the way she felt about married people and affairs.

“We can discuss that later,” he said.

A spark lit her eyes, the kind that in the past had always led to a spirited argument and then eventually to the bedroom. “Will your wife take part in the discussion?”

“I’m divorced. And your husband?”

She flushed and shook her head. “No husband.”

No husband. She was free. He felt a surge of possessive determination. Now that he had her back in his arms, he wasn’t going to let her go again. He’d done his bit for family and lineage, and that had cost him—more than he ever wanted this woman to know. They were both available again, and he was suddenly determined not to screw up the way he had before. He would not lose her again.

“Mary? Are you okay?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see four women walking toward him with a group of men a few steps behind. He tightened his hold on Mary.

“I’m fine, Emma. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He wondered how much of that was due to her child. He didn’t know much about the little blighters, but every book he’d read had said that they were time-consuming.

There were dark circles under her eyes, and he wished for a moment he still had the right to carry her out of this room, to find a private place. But he didn’t. He lowered her to the ground, deliberately torturing himself by allowing her body to rub against his.

There were too many people around to have the discussion they needed to have. And he wanted—no, needed—to simply hold this woman who looked too fragile.

She took a step away from him, but he held onto her wrist.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Claiming what is mine,” he said, stating the truth of why he was in Eastwick, especially now that he knew there was no husband. When he’d first read the announcement of David Duvall’s death in the Wall Street Journal, he’d barely taken note of the fact—until he’d seen Mary’s name listed as next of kin.

He’d been quietly searching for her for over a year now. His men hadn’t been able to find any trace of her at the Paris apartment building where he’d last known her to live.

“I’m not yours anymore,” she said again, tugging hard and pulling her hand away from him.

“Come with me,” he said.

“Why?”

“I want to speak to you,” he said, ignoring her friends.

“We are speaking, Mr. Brentwood.”

“Alone,” he said, using his hold on her waist to draw her closer to him. She had always had the ability to make him forget all rules of good breeding and react like a man. He felt the urge to do something horribly crass, such as toss her over his shoulder and carry her out of this room.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He should never have put her on her feet. He should have kept her in his arms…where she belonged. “Don’t push me, Mary-Belle. I’m not in the mood for it.”

She stiffened at the nickname and gave him a hard glare. He lowered his head, brushing his lips against hers. A surge of arousal shot through his body as her mouth opened under his—the same way it always had. He slipped his tongue between her lips, hungry for her taste. It had been too damned long since he’d sated himself on Mary.

Someone cleared their throat, and Mary pulled away from him. Kane kept his hand on her waist and gave the man who was glaring at them a withering stare.

“Who is this?” the man asked. He had thinning hair and a pinched expression on his face. He looked at Mary with ill-disguised loathing, and Kane pulled her more fully against his side, under his shoulder. Offering her his protection.