His Mistress by Morning Read Free Page A

island. As such, Lady Walbrook had dutifully and proudly displayed it without batting a lash at the impropriety of such a treasure.
    From the narrow glint in Finella’s eyes, Charlotte had no doubt of her cousin’s opinion as to the earl’s treasure, and just exactly where it belonged.
    “Charlotte, now!” the lady managed to choke out.
    After shooting an apologetic glance at her friend, Charlotte allowed herself to be led down the steps.
    “Good afternoon, Miss Wilmont,” Sebastian said as he strode past them, sidestepping an elderly street vendor tottering down the street with a basket clutched in her wrinkled hands.
    “Flowers, milord?” she asked him. “For the young lady?”
    “Um, no thank you, madam,” he said, holding up his own offering. “These should be quite adequate.”
    “If you think so,” she said saucily, pushing her way past Finella and Charlotte and muttering under her breath. “Orange blossoms, bah!”
    “Farewell, Lord Trent,” Charlotte whispered after him, feeling as if this was the last time she would ever see him. That wasn’t true; she’d probably see him again tomorrow, for she was forever coming over to see Hermione, but from now on she would have no more hope, no more dreams, no more wishes left when it came to Sebastian Marlowe, Viscount Trent.
    “Good riddance,” Cousin Finella muttered. “What you see in that family I will never understand.”
    Charlotte didn’t bother to reply. There was no use arguing with Cousin Finella—the lady had a very hard and narrow line of what was proper and what was correct, and any deviation, even the slightest hint of impropriety, was enough to propel even the loftiest of families from Cousin Finella’s good graces.
    Not that anyone in the ton gave a whit as to what Finella Uppington-Higgins thought of them, but Finella continued to believe that she was the lone voice of decorum in London, and she went about her duties with the diligence of a Tower guard.
    By this time in the afternoon, Berkeley Square was filled with carriages—happy couples, dashing rakes, andcarefree Corinthians making their way to the park for the afternoon promenade.
    When an opening in traffic appeared, Finella was about to tug Charlotte across the street, that is until a devilishly fast curricle came racing through the throng.
    Finella hauled Charlotte back, and when she spied the driver, she said, “Avert your eyes, child. It’s that Fornett woman.”
    Charlotte did as she was bid, only because it afforded her another glance at Sebastian, who was nearly to the corner.
    Some of the drivers shouted at Mrs. Fornett, decrying her madcap pace, but there were also whistles and catcalls from the more dashing men nearby.
    For Mrs. Corinna Fornett was one of London’s most notorious courtesans, and her arrival, whether on the streets in her smart carriage and its infamous matched set of blacks or at her private box at the Opera House, always caused a stir.
    And so it seemed, she also stirred Lord Trent. Charlotte watched in shock as the very proper and straitlaced viscount, the only Marlowe who never gave Society a moment of gossip, actually tipped his hat at this scandalous woman.
    Admonition or no, Charlotte turned and looked back at Mrs. Fornett, if only to see what it was that had caught the viscount’s attention with such an uncharacteristic display.
    The lady wore a red dress—a gown one certainly didn’t expect to see on the afternoon parade, but there she was like a vibrant peony set amongst a field of forget-me-nots. Atop her head sat a smart hat with jaunty plumes and a wide black ribbon that fluttered down her back.
    While it would be easy to say that any woman who dressed in such an outlandish fashion in the middle of the afternoon would stop traffic, Charlotte spied right there and then why it was that Corinna Fornett held London’s men in her thrall.
    She sat in the driver’s perch with her nose tipped up and her eyes alight at the mischief she was