The Flawed Mistress (The Summerville Journals) by Margaret Brazear Page B

I could feel his
eyes on me for a few minutes before he took my hand and raised it to his lips.
       
“Thank you,” he said softly.  “And please, please forgive me.  You
have done me a great service this day and with your help I may be able to break
away from her.  We will both be happier, I think.”
        “My help?   What does that mean exactly, My Lord?”
       
My mind was full of images, memories of my late husband, of the King and of my
tenth birthday.  My stomach heaved at the recollections.
       
“It means that I have become fond of you.”
       
I tore my hand from his grasp.
       
“No!”  I cried, shaking my head.  “I will never be your mistress, My
Lord, never!”
       
He looked even sadder all at once.
       
“Rachel,” he said soothingly, “that was not what I had in mind.  I
understand, or think I do, that something was done to you, something horrendous
that you would hide your beauty away as you do. How could I not notice how you
flinched when I took your hand that first time, how you stiffen when anyone
admires you? That is why I thought you might be able to talk to my wife.
 I would never ask anything of you, never.”
       
“What then?  Nobody wants me for a wife, thank God, not since I am
barren.  And anyway you are already married.”
       
The concern that crossed his face at that was almost tangible, but he asked no
questions.  He put his arm around me and as we sat down together, he held
me close to him and pressed my head against his shoulder.  For the first
time in my life, I felt loved and valued.  It was a very intoxicating
emotion.
       
The following day he was back again, this time with a gift.
       
“I want you to come for a ride with me, in the park,” he said at once. 
“It is a lovely day and in return for helping me, I wish to get you out in the
fresh air.”
       
“No,” I said immediately.  “I will not be paraded around the park like
some ornament on your arm or anyone else’s.”
       
“I thought you would say something like that,” he replied.  “That is why I
brought you this.”
       
Under his arm he had a rolled up piece of cloth and now he shook it out to
reveal a hooded cloak of black velvet.
       
“No one will even notice you in this, and if they do they will think you are a
widow and pay no attention.”  He stopped talking while he placed the cloak
around my shoulders and lifted the hood over my hair and headdress.  The
cloak was voluminous, designed to cover my skirts and my entire body up to my
neck.  I could not help but laugh.  “Most people, especially
women," he went on, "would be anxious to cover themselves if they
were ugly or had some sort of deformity, not because they are too beautiful.”
       
“Most men would be wanting something from me, not
befriending me and helping me to hide.”
       
“Oh, Rachel,” he said quietly, shaking his head, “ do not think me immune to your attractions.  A man would have to be blind not
to stir at the sight of you.  But you are entitled to do whatever you want
and what you want is of more importance to me than what I might want.  One
day, I hope you might trust me enough to tell me what horrors you have
suffered, but that too will be your decision.”
     
    ***
     
       
So began for me a time of knowing what friendship actually was.  I was
distrustful of the Earl at first, wondering all the time when he would make
some sort of move to change the nature of our relationship, but it never
happened.  While he spent time with me, either riding in his carriage or
playing cards at my house, I know that he had more than one woman who was happy
to give him what he needed.  He did not spend all his time with me.
       
He had not been home to Summerville Hall in Suffolk for a year or more.  He had
promised his wife that he would not go near her and he had not done so, but he
needed to be there in order to run his estate. 
       
“I