Free The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle

perhaps, with a hammer and chisel. How very odd it seemed.
    And how very much she needed that brandy.
    Left with no better alternative and now cold to the bone, Isabella did as he had commanded and went inside the house. Both the parlor and the brandy were easily found, and with a hand that shook, Isabella sloshed out too much, tossed half of it back, and considered her prospects as the harsh, unfamiliar spirit burned through her chest.
    Through her watering eyes, she watched as the earl helped Dillon heft down her trunk. She wanted to go to the door and order them to put it back. To say that she was going—and leaving Lord Hepplewood and his wicked, ice-blue gaze behind.
    But Hepplewood was not wrong in what he said, was he?
    What did it matter to her whose bed she warmed?
    If she meant to do it as a means to an end—for security for herself and the children—why not bed a man who, at the very least, was physical perfection? She had seen that much, at least, out in the stable yard.
    Moreover, what other choice was left to her? To return to London and Lady Petershaw? Yes, she might make an escape now and pass the night at one of the shabby inns back in Chesham. But what would the next gentleman be like? Better? Worse? Cruel ?
    That was the very trouble when one sold oneself, she thought, her mouth twisting. One lost much of the say in the transaction.
    Lord Hepplewood wanted her in his bed—to do his bidding, he said. The very notion made her tremble again. But was that not the very thing Lady Petershaw had warned would be expected of her? That she must discern a man’s most intimate desires and fulfill them?
    There was a darkness and a force within Hepplewood that frightened her, but he was, after all, employing a mistress to slake his needs. Perhaps all such men held such a darkness within themselves?
    Isabella did not know. Richard had been the gentlest of creatures, her father much the same.
    Everett was a rapist and a despoiler of children.
    And that was the sum total of her experience with men. Surely there was something in between?
    Her canvas portmanteau now sat in the carriage drive, and to her surprise, Hepplewood had slid her trunk onto his shoulder. Dillon tugged at his hat brim, then climbed back onto the box.
    Isabella stood transfixed. She did not walk out, climb in, and order Dillon to drive on. And she knew, even then, that it was a choice she would regret. But she did nothing because she had run out of options—and a bad one, she feared, was as good as it might get.
    The bad option in question had now snared the handle of the portmanteau and was carrying both up the steps as if he were the footman rather than lord of the manor. Somehow he shouldered his way through the door. He seemed not to see her standing in the depths of the parlor and instead thundered past and up the stairs.
    Suddenly, it struck her as odd. Were there no servants?
    No, there were not.
    The knowledge came to her on a rush of certainty, and with it an understanding of the house’s odd air of abandonment. She was utterly alone here, she realized.
    She was alone with the Earl of Hepplewood.
    And Dillon was driving away.
    Isabella threw back the rest of the brandy.
    The house had back stairs, too, from the sound of it. Over the course of the next half hour, Isabella heard his heavy tread going up and down repeatedly somewhere in the depths of the house. Her hand shaking a little, she pulled the pin from her velvet hat with its saucy black feather and set both aside.
    By the time the earl returned to the parlor, she’d almost finished another generous brandy—the second of her life, truth be told—and was feeling rather too warm.
    “Did you order my coachman to leave?” she asked, still staring out the window.
    He closed the distance between them, his expression darkening. “No, I did him the great insult of offering him accommodation,” said the earl, “but he had the oddest notion of putting up in the village.”
    “Oh.”