Mistress in the Making by Lynne Silver Page A

to see Alyce Brown,” Lucas said. He acted as though visiting brothels an hour before noon was a daily occurrence for him.
    Charlotte gripped Lucas’ forearm and smiled Madame Bella’s best at the burly footmen, but the guard stood impervious to her charms. He was surrounded by professionals regularly.
    “I’ll go see if Miss Brown wishes to see you,” he said. He started to shut the door to have them wait outside, but Lucas put his body in the way.
    “If you don’t mind, my lady wishes to come in from the cold.”
    “Fine, but stay in the parlor and don’t touch nothing.”
    Lucas nodded majestically as if following an order from the king and the threesome ventured inside.
    Charlotte eyed the décor, noting its differences from Madame Bella’s. When she’d first arrived at Madame’s school, she’d felt relief at how similar it was to any normal upper-class home. This brothel was everything she’d feared Madame’s would be like.
    Heavy perfume and something identifiably musky filled the air though no inhabitants were present. The furniture stood at odd heights and angles with extra cushions and benches in strange places.
    She walked over to one and began to sit, but realized she’d have to straddle the bench to sit on it and she might slide off it from the angle of the bench. She glanced at Lucas who had a smile plastered on his face and at Bellamy whose back was to her, busy studying a garden scene on the wall.
    “Shall I demonstrate the beauty of that piece of furniture?” Lucas asked, his voice all solicitousness.
    Understanding flashed through her and she quickly sprang up.
    “Good choice,” he said. “It works much better when you lie on your stomach.”
    “We’ll have to return for a personal demonstration one evening,” she said in a husky voice she barely recognized. What had come over her? From the moment Lucas signed paperwork for rights to her body, she’d become someone unrecognizable from reliable, always-proper Charlotte. Her sisters often teased her about her lack of feminine wiles or desire to flirt with the village young men.
    Miles from home in wicked London, she’d shed her conventionality as if playing a role on stage. She rather liked it. The key was to ensure Lucas liked it too. She took a step toward him, desiring to smooth her hands down his broad chest or inhale his earthy scent, but a woman’s voice stayed her movements.
    “Who’s here?” A curvaceous woman strolled into the room clad in a icy-blue silk robe. Bruised splotches marred her face, but her beauty still shone through.
    Lucas bowed deeply, and the woman’s posture softened somewhat. However, she leapt back with a little shriek when he stood and showed his face. Bellamy caught her at the doorway, preventing her escape.
    “I left orders. You’re not to come here,” she said with real panic in her voice.
    Charlotte quickly understood and stepped in front of Lucas. “He’s not Westhunt.”
    At first her words were ignored and Bellamy held the woman gently, but firmly, speaking softly in her ear.
    “He’s not the earl. This is his twin, Mr. Morgan. His twin,” Charlotte repeated over and over, hoping her words would sink in soon. Her stomach burned at seeing such distress in another human. What had Westhunt done to inspire such fear?
    Between Bellamy’s whispers and Charlotte’s vehement exclamations, the woman calmed down enough to speak.
    “His twin? He told me you were dead,” she said.
    Lucas walked slowly to the lowest chair in the room and sank down before answering, obviously hoping his lowered height would make him less of a perceived threat.
    “He thought wrong. I am clearly alive.”
    “Why are you here?” she asked in a trembling voice.
    “I’d like you to tell me about my brother,” Lucas said.
    Alyce stepped into the room, clinging to Bellamy’s hand as if it were a lifeline. Charlotte smiled encouragingly at her and went to sit next to Lucas to demonstrate he was a man to be trusted