Read an Excerpt
The Mistake
A Sisters of Scandal Novel
By Lily Maxton, Nina Bruhns Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2015 Lily Maxton
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-256-6
CHAPTER 1
Fifteen years later
As Julia Forsythe heard the door downstairs open and shut, she lifted a glass in one trembling hand. She took a deep, calming breath, and inadvertently breathed in the pungent scent of the purgative.
She stiffened her spine.
She could do this. She would do this.
Her biggest fear wasn't actually taking the noxious concoction—her friend had assured her it was perfectly safe, though it might smell awful. Her biggest fear was that it wouldn't work, and she would have to submit to her lover's callous touch again before she was ready. And that if she did submit, she would do something extremely foolish in her desperation—like strike him as hard as she could.
Him.
Henry Eldridge, the Marquess of Riverton.
Her biggest mistake.
The third stair creaked as it always did.
Her hand shook as she raised the glass higher. "You are stronger than this," she muttered angrily to herself. She forced her fingers to tighten, forced the rim of the glass to her lips, and consumed the liquid in one wretched gulp.
"Julia?" Riverton's familiar voice called.
She stumbled out from the dressing room and into the bedchamber, her hands pressed to her abdomen. She didn't have to fake this. Her stomach positively churned and her head spun.
"I think I'm ill," she said weakly.
She sat on the corner of the bed, and Riverton looked down at her, as immaculate as he always was, from his blond hair to his gleaming black shoes. He was beautiful in the way a Roman sculpture or glittering snow on a sunny winter's day was beautiful —coldly and ruthlessly perfect. "It's convincing, I'll give you that."
"Convincing!" she croaked. It felt as if her stomach was trying to escape her body.
"I'll light a few more candles," he said, sounding vaguely amused. "Mayhap by the time I'm done, you'll have recovered."
Highly unlikely, she thought.
She watched him wander around the room with a spill, lighting so many beeswax candles the entire bedchamber pulsed and glowed. To Julia, it seemed wasteful. But then, Riverton had never known what it was like to view candles as a precious commodity that had to be conserved. Julia and her father had always used rushlights to illuminate the dark of their cramped rented rooms. The lights smelled, but they were much cheaper than candles.
Riverton finished and set the spill on the marble mantelpiece. He moved toward her. "There. Do you feel any better?"
If anything, the room had started spinning more rapidly. She shook her head, her lips pressed tight.
"Julia," he said, drawing out her name. "You are acting childish. It's not as though we haven't shared a bed before."
"I'm ill," she repeated.
He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her implacably. "What of the contract? Should I tear it up because you won't fulfill your side of it? I thought you wanted the best for our child."
Fury swept through her. Riverton only saw her pregnancy in terms of how it could benefit him. He didn't give a fig about the child.
"I do want the best for my child." She glared at him. She wanted to do more than glare. She wanted to rail at him, yell at him, scream at him for doing this to her until her throat was raw. All she wanted was the best for her child. She'd been terrified by her unexpected pregnancy, terrified to think there was a tiny life harbored inside of her, and that she alone in the all world was responsible for it.
In truth, terror at that knowledge still twisted her heart in knots every day. But she wouldn't allow herself to succumb to it. That tiny, precious life was dependent on her. And she'd lived through fear before.
She had to be good for her child. She had to be better than she was.
"Then have you forgotten our terms?" Riverton asked.
Oh, she remembered the terms of the contract too well. Everything his wealth and position could provide, but only if she stayed ... available to him.
Riverton, the miserable cad, had no qualms about using their unborn child to control her. And he would keep using it until he'd bled her dry. He wanted to lock her in a gilded cage and make use of her body until he said he was done with her. And perhaps he would never be done with her. Perhaps he would keep her caged forever, just to prove he could.
Her wishes didn't matter at all. Not to him. They never had.
"I haven't forgotten our terms," she said. As she spoke, the purgative truly kicked in. She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched forward.
Riverton stepped closer.
Then her stomach heaved mightily, and she cast up her accounts all over the lush carpet, barely missing his perfect shoes.
The carriage ride to Blakewood Hall was a bumpy three-hour long ordeal, but despite her roiling stomach, Julia had never been so happy to pass from the buildings of the cities to the green pastures of the country. She'd never been so happy to see hedgerows or the fluffy sheep that dotted the spaces in between. She didn't even like sheep —she thought their eyes looked evil, and they made the most horrendous noises —but she loved each and every sheep she saw on that journey.
One month.
One glorious month.
That was how long Riverton had reluctantly agreed to let her stay at his country estate, so she could recover from her "illness" before going back to warming his bed. Julia wasn't naive enough to think he was actually worried about her—he just didn't want her spewing all over him or his precious furnishings when he bedded her. Regardless, a month at Blakewood Hall, away from all her troubles, sounded like heaven on earth.
And hopefully when Riverton did come to claim her, his ardor—or what passed for ardor in his mind—would have cooled somewhat. A small hope, certainly, but the only one left to latch onto at this point. She would take what she could get.
The stately home of Blakewood Hall appeared before her. It was built in the Greek style—gray stone and large pillars lining the front, windows that were tall and symmetrical. The grounds were full of carefully manicured oak trees, roses, and evergreen bushes. A creek twined along one side of the house, complete with a footbridge, and a Grecian folly reposed on a hill rising toward the back of the estate, made to look like antiquated ruins. The grass around the folly was speckled with wildflowers in myriad colors—blue, white, purple, pink.
It was the grandest estate she had ever seen.
At the house, a footman answered the door with perfect impassiveness, and a maid showed her across an entrance hall with a high arched ceiling, up the extravagant staircase to her bedchamber. A four-post bed stood at the center of the spacious room. Pale pink walls were accented by the deeper blush of the bedclothes and window dressings.
The first thing she did was carefully put away the small rosewood chest she always kept with her. The chest contained mementos from her childhood—the only things she'd decided to keep when she'd fled her old life fifteen years before.
She opened the lid to glance at the contents—a lock of her mother's dark hair, a small garment her mother had stitched for the son she'd never been able to hold, a book her father had given her, and pressed inside that book, a small blue wildflower. Somehow, irrationally, the flower was the hardest thing to look at.
She closed the lid, ignoring the little pang in her chest, and tucked the box into a corner of the wardrobe, out of sight.
After changing clothes and patting some cold water on her face to refresh herself after the journey, Julia decided to investigate the grounds. She walked along the creek, enjoying the sound of trickling water, and was rather delighted when she noticed slender fish darting about, shimmering like quicksilver.
Delighted by fish. The country air must already be going to her head.
She ventured in the direction of the Grecian folly on the hill. She'd just reached the ruins when she heard a male voice drifting down from the other side. She halted.
"The tree over there needs to be trimmed," the voice commanded.
Julia detected the hint of an accent. It was Irish. Subtle, but unmistakable. The sound of it brought memories rushing to her mind, so many and so powerful she had to reach out and prop herself against one of the pillars of the folly.
"It's blocking out the sunlight to the flowers. Leave the other side alone."
"Yes, sir."
"Water the flowerbeds at the front of the house first. It should be done each day until the rains come."
A strange tingling had suffused every inch of Julia's skin. The man's voice was eerily familiar.
"Yes, sir."
After a brief hesitation, the first voice spoke again. "How's your father, John?"
It was the faint Irish accent. It had to be. No other explanation was logical. And yet, the tingling persisted.
"Much better, sir. Fortunately."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Me, as well," John said with a slight, grateful laugh.
She heard a rustle to her left and ducked to the right, crouching down beside the folly. If anyone saw her they would think she was a bedlamite. Still, she remained crouched as she watched a young man of no more than twenty emerge from behind the folly and walk toward the main hall.
That must be John, going to water the flowerbeds.
But where was the other man? The Irishman.
After another moment, she stood cautiously and looked around. There was no sign of him. She moved forward into the folly, which was really quite wonderful. A stone bench rested in the middle, framed with an ornate Grecian vase design. The large pillars that circled the folly had artful little cracks in them, giving them the impression of being ancient.
She would have admired the structure more if every nerve in her body wasn't screaming. She moved toward the back of the folly, freezing in place when she heard a sound.
After a thunderous heartbeat of indecision, she cautiously poked her head out between two pillars.
A man was crouched in the shade of the tree, examining one of the wildflowers. His back was to her. All she saw was broad shoulders and a head covered by a wide-brimmed hat. She couldn't even tell what color his hair was.
Damnation! She needed to know what he looked like. She needed to be certain the man wasn't someone she knew. Why it was so vital, she couldn't say. Just a gut feeling that she must find out his identity and put to rest the idea that he might be a shadow from her past.
He was Irish. What did that matter? A lot of people were Irish. Thousands of people were Irish. It meant nothing.
But she had to know for sure.
There were smaller stone benches between some of the pillars, positioned so one could sit and look out at the grounds. She propped herself on one of the benches, wrapping one arm around the pillar next to her. Now she could lean forward to get a better view of the man, but if he happened to glance in her direction, she could pull herself back quickly.
She leaned out into open air, her arm tight around the pillar. She caught a glimpse of his hair underneath the hat, but in the shadow of the tree, she couldn't determine anything other than it was dark and not blond or red. She groaned. Aloud. His head turned.
For a second she froze in place, like a creature in amber. That profile. The nose, the lips, the jaw.
Good Lord, it was him! Older, different, stronger, but the same man.
Something violent and aching twisted in her chest.
And then their eyes met.
She gasped and tumbled off the bench and onto the ground with a pained oomph.
She was staring dazedly at the bright blue sky when his shadow fell over her. Her eyes closed for a brief second. It was very, very important that she didn't touch him. The last time they'd touched was still written on her skin, burned into her memory.
She scrambled to her feet before he could reach down to help her. Her hand flew to her hair. Her hair! As though she was checking to make sure all the pins were in place, right in front of him. Embarrassed, she lowered her hand.
"Adam," she whispered. Then clenched her jaw. She was Julia Forsythe, former mistress of some of the most powerful men in the country. No one made her whisper like some weak-willed ninny.
Except, apparently, Adam Radcliff.
He was staring down at her with unfathomable brown eyes.
Did he ... did he not recognize her? The possibility made her feel very, very small. She'd recognized him the instant she laid eyes on him. No, before that even. She'd known the sound of his voice.
"Hello," she said, rather breathlessly.
Enough of this, she told herself sternly. Enough. Through an impressive feat of willpower, she forced her spine to straighten, forced her gaze to hold his, and nodded once. Coolly.
That was better.
But why wasn't he saying anything? Did he truly have no idea who she was? It hurt, in a deep down and hidden place she'd locked away long ago.
"It is you, isn't it, Mr. Radcliff?" she asked politely, while her insides trembled.
A bald lie. There was no mistaking him. He hadn't changed much in fifteen-odd years. Adam Radcliff was a large man, as he'd been a large boy—tall and broad-shouldered with a hard, square jaw, long nose, and a mouth that was a little on the thin side. He'd inherited his Irish mother's black hair and dark eyes.
He wasn't quite handsome. If you glanced at him once, your eyes would pass him over. But if you did happen to glance at him twice and let your eyes linger, that hint of Irish wildness from his mother's ancestors might come through, and might be a little intriguing.
He was simply a man.
But he was very much a man.
Her pulse quickened as she studied him. She tried to tell herself her galloping heartbeat was from the shock of seeing him again, and certainly meant nothing deeper than that.
But her semblance of polite regard slipped for an instant and her voice came out sharp. "Do you not remember me?"
"I remember you," he said shortly, gruffly.
It did not sound like a compliment or a fond reminiscence. She cleared her throat, then mentally cursed herself at that sign of nervousness. She tilted her chin up and spoke calmly. It took more effort than she would even admit to herself. "You work for Lord Riverton?"
"I'm head gardener," he said.
She nodded, trying not to show her surprise. It might still be domestic labor, but the head gardener of an estate as grand as Blakewood Hall wasn't a position to be scoffed at. "You've done well for yourself."
"Aye," he said.
"It's positively idyllic here."
"Thank you," he said.
"Do you have a gaggle of children underfoot to complete the fairy tale?" She made her tone slightly sarcastic, so he wouldn't think she was interested in his personal life. She didn't want to be interested.
But oh, how interested she was! Her skin prickled as she waited for the answer.
"No children."
"Surely a wife, then?"
"No wife."
Her body relaxed. Treacherous, blasted thing.
He crossed his arms over his chest. They strained against the fabric of his coat, a coarse, dark linen for working outdoors. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a voice as dark as the linen.
"Riverton invited me."
"Don't they usually keep women like you in London?" The question was asked neutrally but still gave her an unpleasant shock.
Women like her? She tamped down a sudden rush of anger. Were courtesans not real women? Instead, some sort of evil mystical beast, the sort of which parents told their children about to keep them in line?
"I wanted a change of scenery," she said. It was close enough to the truth without going into all the sordid details. She smiled politely. "Do you enjoy your work?"
"Aye," he said, without taking his gaze from her. "Do you enjoy yours?"
She looked down at her shoes, took a slow, calming breath, and then forced herself to meet his emotionless stare. "I don't consider it work," she replied with her best seductive smile.
Regret filled her almost instantly when a shadowed look crossed his face. But the expression was gone quickly, to be replaced by that impenetrable mask.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Mistake by Lily Maxton, Nina Bruhns. Copyright © 2015 Lily Maxton. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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