Once a Mistress

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

  Why dost thou thus,

  Through windows and through curtains call on us?

  Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?

  —John Donne, c. 1572—1631

  The sun was peeking over the horizon, spreading tendrils of pink across the purple sky, when Wren awoke from a brief nap just after dawn. She rolled over in bed and came face to face with the man sharing her pillow. Drew. She smiled as he opened his eyes and reached for her.

  “Good morning.” She ducked her head, blushing with the knowledge that although her heart kept secrets from him, her body held none. “Time to get up.”

  “I’m already up,” he said, reaching for her hand and guiding it to him. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up and notice.”

  “Drew, it’s morning…” Wren pulled her hand away.

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “And this is an early morning greeting. A friendly reminder of the best way to start the day.”

  Wren giggled in spite of herself. “Is it possible for us to do this again after doing it twice last night?”

  “Are you too sore?” he asked.

  She blushed again. “No.”

  “Then, my love”—Drew took her hand and brought it back to him, wrapping her fingers around his shaft and covering her hand with his own—“it’s not only possible, it’s inevitable.”

  When they rode the second time, sunlight was pouring in the cottage windows and Wren’s menagerie was clamoring for attention. Margo barked her frustration and scratched at the kitchen door.

  Wren sighed. She shoved her hair out of her eyes, lifted her head from its resting place on Drew’s shoulder, and looked down at him. “I latched her door last night because I didn’t want her to bring mice inside and loose them in the kitchen while I was bathing.”

  “She does that?” He opened one eye and scanned the bed.

  “Of course she does,” Wren said. “She’s a fox.”

  “I thought she was a pet.” He toyed with one of Kathryn’s long blond curls.

  “She may be a pet, but she’s still a fox and foxes hunt mice.” Wren flipped back the covers. “I have to let her out.”

  “You stay put. I’ll go.” Drew gave her a sweet lingering kiss then rolled out of bed and strode from the bedroom to the kitchen naked.

  Wren watched him, admiring the view of his firm buttocks and his long muscled thighs.

  “Well,” she asked when he returned to the bedroom moments later, “any regrets?”

  He knew what she was asking, but he couldn’t help but tease her a little. “One,” he admitted. “No, two.”

  “Oh?” She tried to sound nonchalant and failed miserably.

  “That we can’t stay in bed all day today and that I didn’t catch a glimpse of your private artwork last night. You’d already removed your stockings before I got here.”

  Wren favored him with a brilliant smile and turned back the covers, inviting him to join her in the warmth of the bed. “I shan’t need stockings if we stay in bed all day.”

  Drew chucked her under her chin. “I can think of a dozen reasons to wear stockings to bed—all of them carnal. How can it be that a notorious mistress like you knows none of them? My father was terribly remiss in your education.” He bent and gathered his scattered clothing.

  Wren blinked. Drew had just joked about her having been his father’s mistress. And the joke was without rancor.

  She couldn’t bring herself to lie to him, so she settled on telling most of the truth. “George wasn’t around me as often as you might think, and, when he was, I was either enceinte or taking care of a baby. My every waking moment was consumed with caring for my baby. Romance was the least of my concerns.”

  Drew pulled on his shirt and stockings, then stood up and stepped into his trousers. “I hope romance will play a much greater role in our relationship,” he said. “But I’m sorry that I won’t be able to see you with child. I would have liked that.”

  Wren frowned. “You can still save yourself from a childless fate.”

  “No.” He framed her face with his hands. “I can’t. I would rather have you than children.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Besides, we already have a son—who’ll be expecting his riding lesson shortly.”

  Wren scrambled out of bed and began searching for her clothes. “What time is it?” She glanced at the sunlight pouring in the bedroom, trying to gauge the hour. “Will there be time for you and me to take our private ride before our lessons begin?”

  Drew laughed. “I would think you’d had enough riding for one morning.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and began pulling on his boots.

  Wren opened the door to the armoire and took out her burgundy riding dress. She pulled fresh undergarments from the Queen Anne chest and added a pair of newly painted stockings. “I meant horseback riding.”

  “I know what you meant, my love, but I’m afraid we’ll have to forgo our ride on Abelard this morning. If I don’t hurry, Kit will come looking for me. I’ll barely have time to change clothes and grab a bite to eat as it is.” He retrieved his cravat linen from beneath the bed. It was hopelessly wrinkled, but Drew tied it around his collar anyway. It wouldn’t do to be seen leaving the cottage less than fully clothed.

  My love. He’d said it again. Drew had called her his love. Wren held his words to her heart. His love. Even if he didn’t declare it, he used the endearment. Surely that meant he cared. “What about my lesson?” Wren asked.

  “You’ve had all the riding lessons you’re going to get this morning,” he said.

  “What about this afternoon?” Now that she’d begun to learn how to ride Felicity, Wren was eager to improve.

  Drew shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m expecting Martin to arrive this afternoon with the bodies of my father and his companion.”

  “Oh, Drew, I’m so sorry.” Wren swallowed a sob. “I didn’t realize…”

  “Martin’s message was waiting for me when we returned from the village yesterday afternoon. I would have mentioned it at dinner last night, but you didn’t come to the house.” He shrugged and grinned a frankly boyish grin. “And I was too distracted to mention it later in the evening. Martin will want to go over the details of Father’s will with us before the guests arrive for the funeral. And I must make certain all me preparations have been made for the funeral feast and for the guests.”

  “Ally and I will see to it.”

  “I’ll have Mrs. Tanglewood prepare my mother’s chamber for you.”

  “Drew, you can’t.”

  “Yes, I can,” he told her firmly. “Because we’re going to be married by special license as soon as the archbishop arrives. I’ll ask Martin to stand up for me and I’m sure Ally would be honored to stand beside you.” He leaned against the doorjamb and watched as Kathryn returned the burgundy riding habit to the armoire and withdrew a black dress. “Have you any other color to wear for the wedding?”

  Wren shook her head. “I couldn’t wear it even if I did. I’m in mourning for your father,” she reminded him. She walked over to the washstand and began her morning ablutions. She rinsed her face and reached for the towel. “If we get married, I’ll have to do so wearing black.”

  Drew handed it to her. “We’re getting married, my lady marchioness, never doubt it.”

  Wren pulled a clean chemise over her head and followed it with her black dress. She reached behind to button it and discovered Drew had other ideas. He brushed her hands away, then planted a kiss on the back of her neck before he buttoned her dress. “I thought you were in a hurry to leave.”

  “I’ll leave,” he drawled, “just as soon as you get to the good part.”

  “The good part?” she parroted.

  He reached over and lifted one of her stockings from the bed. “I’m waiting for these.”

  Wren hiked up her skirts, then lifted her leg and began to smooth the first stocking over it. “In that case”—she cast a glance in his direction—“enjoy the
show.”

  “Hedgehogs.” He laughed when he saw that she’d painted an army of little hedgehogs marching on a path of white blossoms from her ankle to her garter.

  “I knew you’d like them.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven