The Secret Mistress Read Online Free

But of course, he was a perfect gentleman. His words and actions had proved that. It would have been improper for him to speak, for they had not been formally introduced and ought not even to have been in a room alone together. She ought not to be here at all.
    She did not know who he was. She did not even know whether he was traveling toward London or away from it. It was altogether possible that she would never see him again.
    By the time she had noticed the other man striding toward the taproom door earlier, it had been too late to withdraw to her room. So she had stayed where she was, hoping not to be noticed. There was no reason why she
should
be. None of the stagecoach passengers had noticed her, after all, and she was standing with her back to the room, minding her own business.
    When he had spoken—oh, how her heart had leapt with alarm and indignation!—she had pretended not to hear and hoped he would go away. And then another voice had spoken up, and she had realized that there was more than one man in the taproom, that the other man must have been there even before the new arrival.
    How dreadfully mortifying!
    But his words …
    I doubt you know the lady. Calling her sweetheart, then, would be inappropriately impertinent
.
    So pleasantly, courteously spoken in low, cultured accents.
    He had been championing her cause.
    Angeline had changed position, cupping her face in her hands in an attempt to keep it hidden from the two gentlemen—she sincerely hoped there
were
only two. And she had gazed intently at the gateway arch leading out to the street, for the first time willing Tresham
not
to come just yet. He would probably punch the teeth of both gentlemen straight down their throats, which would be a simple overreaction in the one case and a gross miscarriage of justice in the other. He would then blister her all over, without using anything more lethal than his tongue. His tongue, when he waxed eloquent, could be
very
lethal.
    And then the newcomer had become even more impertinent, and the other one had defended her again. And the newcomer—so
typically
male—had wanted to make a
fight
of it.
    Angeline had been unable either to disappear or to make herself invisible. Nor could she pretend any longer that what was happening in the room behind her had nothing to do with her. Besides, she had not
wanted
to ignore the contretemps. Indignation had long ago replaced fright—she did not frighten easily or for long. And besides again, she had wanted to
see
these two men.
    And so she had turned. There
were
only two, one at each end of the counter, like bookends. Not identical bookends, though. And before either had spoken a word more, she had identified which was which. It was really quite easy.
    The one slouched back with casual elegance against the counter, supported on his forearms, his riding boots crossed nonchalantly at the ankles, was the impertinent one. Every line of his tall, athletic body, every garment he wore, spoke of a man who was confident and arrogant and fearless and contemptuous of all who were beneath him in consequence—a number that would of course include all women. His face, beneath a shock of dark red hair, was handsomeenough if one discounted the fact that he affected world-weariness by keeping his eyelids half drooped over his eyes.
    He was a type she recognized instantly. Her father had been such a man. Tresham was such a man. So was Ferdinand, her other brother. So were all their friends whom she had met. They were often lovable and essentially harmless despite all the silliness. Angeline could never take such men too seriously. She was quite impervious to their charms. She would never even
dream
of marrying one of them.
    The second man was entirely different, even though he was almost as tall as the other and was well and solidly built. He was dressed neatly and fashionably but without any flair or ostentation or any suggestion of dandyism. His brown hair was cut short and neatly styled.