His Lady Mistress

Elizabeth Rolls39Max she had found in her father’s journal reassured her thatthe man who had planted bluebells on a suicide’s grave,guarded her sleep and left her a decent breakfast, was not afigment of her imagination. In the past five years he had beenher only friend, his very existence her only comfort as shecried herself to sleep. And now he was here, in the house,supposedly courting her cousin.Shivering, she replaced the journal and snuffed the candle.She had never thought that he might be of such high degree.She wished she could forget.An hour later she still lay in the dark, wishing Lord Blakehursthad never come to the house. Then she could at leasthave held on to her vision of Max. Max who, at least in herdreams, might be able to care for the disgraced daughter ofa suicide.Now the image she had held all these years was overlaidwith the disturbing reality. An aristocrat who would nevergive her a second thought. Bitterly she remembered asking ifshe would ever see him again.Better not, little one. I can offer you nothing.No. Earl Blakehurst could offer nothing to Verity Scott.And, if she possessed the least vestige of common sense, shewould stay out of his way.Extricating himself from Lady Faringdon’s effusions, Maxmade his way to the billiard room where he found the gentlemen,except Godfrey. He only hoped he had convincedLady Faringdon that his meeting with the unfortunate Selinahad been entirely his fault. Somehow he doubted it.The girl’s eyes haunted him. Dark, shadowy grey. Trusting.They struck a strange chord in him. Another girl had lookedat him like that. He’d failed to help Verity Scott. He wasdamned if he’d fail to help this girl. A few quietly voicedthreats might do the trick.