Heather Graham by Bride of the Wind

never consider granting her even the title of his “mistress,” that he would call her nothing but a whore until the day he died. That didn’t matter. When he prospered, he saw to it that Beth prospered. She liked rich things. He didn’t mind giving them to her. She knew that he thought continually of Anne, and she would have happily done anything to aid him in his pursuit of the lady. She knew that she would always be amply rewarded.
    “’Tis a wretched life!” he told her wearily, lying back beside her.
    “Because you can’t have the Lady Anne?” Beth inquired.
    He grimaced, resting his head against her breast, noting with some dissatisfaction that her middle was broadening even more. He pinched her and she cried out. Then he rolled up to lie on his back, his fingers laced behind his head, his eyes not seeing as he stared toward the window.
    “I have always wanted Anne,” he said, and it was true. There was something about her blond beauty. She was like a beacon of purity—even if the entire court was well aware she slept with DeForte. Damn DeForte. And his friendship with the king. And his reputation as a soldier, and as a shipbuilder, and all damn else.
    But Anne …
    He adored her. He worshiped the very ground she walked on. More than anything in his whole life, he wanted Anne. If there had ever been anything decent about him, anything that could actually steer him true, it was Anne!
    Anne was someone he could never quite reach, no matter what his station and the title he had inherited. There was something about her …
    And then there was Rose!
    Ah, yes! Rose had it, too. His elegant, headstrong, wayward little American cousin. She was always cool, she walked so straight, she spoke with such a tone to her words. It was in her eyes, her gestures, her dress. He didn’t know what it was exactly. It was something that could never really be reached, not quite touched.
    Oh, yes! he thought. He was terribly dissatisfied! There was the majestic, elegant Lady Anne, whom he had wanted his whole life, and now there was Rose, the talk of the court, the American beauty. And he was so damned close to them …
    And yet he was lying here with Beth!
    “They’re all out hunting today,” he said, rising from the bed and striding naked to the window, looking out as if he could see the people he spoke about. “It must have been a very exclusive party. The king, DeForte, the Lady Anne, my cousin Rose, and just a few others!”
    “And you were not among them. And so you are unhappy.”
    He hesitated. “Nothing would disturb me. If I just had Anne.”
    There was a knocking on the door. Jamison could hear his father’s ancient servant, Crawly, clearing his throat.
    “God’s blood, what is it?” Jamison thundered.
    Old Crawly didn’t answer. He heard a peal of deep laughter, and then the voice of his best friend, Anne’s brother, Jerome.
    “Give the old man a chance, Lord Bryant. ’Tis me. Jerome. And I don’t give a damn what perversion you’re up to at the moment, I’ve come up with a splendid idea!”
    Beth started to hop up. “Oh, lie down!” Jamison told her irritably. It certainly wasn’t as if she hadn’t been seen in bed by many a man before. He reached to the foot of the bed for his own breeches and crawled into them, strode across the room, and threw the door open.
    Jerome grinned broadly at him and stepped into the room. His looks had always struck Jamison as odd. In a way, he resembled Anne. His eyes were very blue, his hair blond. He was slim, his features fine. But his smile was utterly different, cool and bitter where Anne’s was warm.
    “My dear Beth!” he taunted, bowing deeply toward the bed. Beth scowled at him. Jamison frowned.
    “Sorry to interrupt,” Jerome said.
    “Well, you should be.”
    Jerome was undaunted. He ambled over to the table where Jamison kept his best whiskey, poured himself a glass, and sat down, propping his feet up on a priceless inlaid table.
    “I have the idea of