recognize that it was her only option. "I'm sure your new bride will be happy to have Kettering's mistress as a permanent guest."
"Perhaps not, but we'll figure something out. I appreciate your loyalty to him. I'll always help you."
"I know." Out in the trees, she saw Charles strolling toward them, a confident grin on his face, and her rage surged. "You can't let him get away with this—for Miss Gray's sake as much as your own."
"I won't."
"How will you prevent it?"
"I'll talk to her mother. Don't worry."
"You should probably chat with her at once."
"I'll make it a point."
She continued on into the mansion, momentarily disoriented as she left the bright sunshine and entered the dim corridor. She dawdled, waiting for her vision to adjust, her temper to calm.
She'd been twenty years old and much too vulnerable when she'd cast her lot with Charles. Her fiancé had been killed in an accident, and her parents had both died within months of each other. She'd been on her own and frightened about the future.
In those days, Charles had been so much like Jordan, handsome and virile and so very masculine. He'd always possessed the heart of a charlatan, but in the beginning, she hadn't understood what he was like. She'd been bowled over, seduced by his promises, and she'd willingly allied herself with him. There'd been no coercion.
Because she'd loved him, she'd remained with him at twenty-five, at thirty. She'd been with him through several marriages, the other woman who hoped to eventually take center stage, but what was her excuse now when it was so obvious that her dreams would never come true?
As he chased after Penelope Gray, and prepared to humiliate Anne, once again, after swearing he wouldn't, why did she stay? What was the reason?
She had no idea.
Her world was collapsing, falling away brick by brick, and the notion made her feel wild and reckless.
She started down the hall, when she literally bumped into a man who'd been approaching from the other direction.
"Pardon me," he murmured as he steadied her.
He was a striking fellow, tall and dark, with brown hair and eyes. He was her own age, or a few years younger, and he was well built, his sturdy frame exhibiting a robust physique.
"The fault is mine," Anne insisted. "I apologize."
"Not necessary." He smiled. "I'm Robert Mason, Mrs. Gray's neighbor."
"Oh, hello, Mr. Mason."
"You must be Mrs. Smythe."
"Yes."
"I've heard a great deal about you." "How terrifying!"
"All of it good," he quickly added, which she knew was a lie.
It was scandalous in the extreme for Anne to have barged in at Gray's Manor, but it was a mark of Charles's notoriety that he'd been allowed to bring Anne into a gentlewoman's home and pass her off as a friend of the family.
Mr. Mason hadn't released her arm, and normally, she'd have been upset that he hadn't. With her being Charles's mistress, she was regularly the target of unsolicited attention, but in her current mood, she didn't mind.
It had been an eternity since a handsome man had noticed her, and if he wanted to tarry for the next hour—for the next day!—she was eager to oblige. In fact, in light of her restless emotional condition, she might agree to do anything he requested.
He frowned, studying her. "Have we met previously?"
"I'm sure we haven't."
"You're so familiar."
"I was thinking the very same."
She didn't know if he was speaking the truth, but on her end, the comment was false. There was nothing about him that she recognized, but she was content to linger and gaze into his exquisite brown eyes.
He noted that he was holding her arm, and he dropped it and moved away.
"It was very nice to bump into you," he said, amused.
"And you, as well."
She gave him a hot look that was impossible to misinterpret, and she was stunned by her audacity. She never behaved wantonly, never cheated on Charles or even flirted. Not once in all the time they'd been together. Yet suddenly, she'd practically propositioned a
"Perhaps not, but we'll figure something out. I appreciate your loyalty to him. I'll always help you."
"I know." Out in the trees, she saw Charles strolling toward them, a confident grin on his face, and her rage surged. "You can't let him get away with this—for Miss Gray's sake as much as your own."
"I won't."
"How will you prevent it?"
"I'll talk to her mother. Don't worry."
"You should probably chat with her at once."
"I'll make it a point."
She continued on into the mansion, momentarily disoriented as she left the bright sunshine and entered the dim corridor. She dawdled, waiting for her vision to adjust, her temper to calm.
She'd been twenty years old and much too vulnerable when she'd cast her lot with Charles. Her fiancé had been killed in an accident, and her parents had both died within months of each other. She'd been on her own and frightened about the future.
In those days, Charles had been so much like Jordan, handsome and virile and so very masculine. He'd always possessed the heart of a charlatan, but in the beginning, she hadn't understood what he was like. She'd been bowled over, seduced by his promises, and she'd willingly allied herself with him. There'd been no coercion.
Because she'd loved him, she'd remained with him at twenty-five, at thirty. She'd been with him through several marriages, the other woman who hoped to eventually take center stage, but what was her excuse now when it was so obvious that her dreams would never come true?
As he chased after Penelope Gray, and prepared to humiliate Anne, once again, after swearing he wouldn't, why did she stay? What was the reason?
She had no idea.
Her world was collapsing, falling away brick by brick, and the notion made her feel wild and reckless.
She started down the hall, when she literally bumped into a man who'd been approaching from the other direction.
"Pardon me," he murmured as he steadied her.
He was a striking fellow, tall and dark, with brown hair and eyes. He was her own age, or a few years younger, and he was well built, his sturdy frame exhibiting a robust physique.
"The fault is mine," Anne insisted. "I apologize."
"Not necessary." He smiled. "I'm Robert Mason, Mrs. Gray's neighbor."
"Oh, hello, Mr. Mason."
"You must be Mrs. Smythe."
"Yes."
"I've heard a great deal about you." "How terrifying!"
"All of it good," he quickly added, which she knew was a lie.
It was scandalous in the extreme for Anne to have barged in at Gray's Manor, but it was a mark of Charles's notoriety that he'd been allowed to bring Anne into a gentlewoman's home and pass her off as a friend of the family.
Mr. Mason hadn't released her arm, and normally, she'd have been upset that he hadn't. With her being Charles's mistress, she was regularly the target of unsolicited attention, but in her current mood, she didn't mind.
It had been an eternity since a handsome man had noticed her, and if he wanted to tarry for the next hour—for the next day!—she was eager to oblige. In fact, in light of her restless emotional condition, she might agree to do anything he requested.
He frowned, studying her. "Have we met previously?"
"I'm sure we haven't."
"You're so familiar."
"I was thinking the very same."
She didn't know if he was speaking the truth, but on her end, the comment was false. There was nothing about him that she recognized, but she was content to linger and gaze into his exquisite brown eyes.
He noted that he was holding her arm, and he dropped it and moved away.
"It was very nice to bump into you," he said, amused.
"And you, as well."
She gave him a hot look that was impossible to misinterpret, and she was stunned by her audacity. She never behaved wantonly, never cheated on Charles or even flirted. Not once in all the time they'd been together. Yet suddenly, she'd practically propositioned a
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