The Mistress And The Merchant

Temptation in the Italian’s arms...

The new mistress of her late uncle’s estate, Aphra Betterton, longs to hide away and forget the man who betrayed her. So when handsome Santo Datini arrives—to make amends for his brother’s duplicity—he’s the last person Aphra wants to host!

Italian merchant Santo is on a secret mission that no beautiful, proud maiden will disrupt. But with their temptingly close quarters generating scandal, can Santo win Aphra’s trust—and her heart into the bargain?

Thoughts of resistance were swept away on the tide of Santo’s kisses.

While it lasted, Aphra was almost convinced that his hunger was genuine—that this great handsome creature had been waiting for an excuse to take her in his arms and make her forget what she had lost, what had never been hers. Santo Datini was a mature male who knew well how to make a woman like her, fighting her confused emotions, confront the desires which in these last few days had been twisting her heart into knots. After this she knew that any more talk about being broken-hearted would—to her shame—be seen as a sham.

Santo’s kisses softened, and the pressure of his arms allowed her to move within their embrace. ‘You see?’ he whispered. ‘That broken heart of yours is bruised, that’s all. And your pride. There’s nothing here that cannot be mended.’

Author Note

The Mistress and the Merchant is the third in a trilogy, the first of which was Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded, the story of Etta’s parentage and the lust of Henry VIII.

The second, called Taming the Tempestuous Tudor, is about how Etta came to love and marry Lord Somerville—Nic—in the first year of the reign of Elizabeth I.

Aphra appears in both these stories, first as a young child, then as a young gentlewoman who accompanies Etta to the royal court.

The Mistress and the Merchant

Juliet Landon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JULIET LANDON has a keen interest in art and history—both of which she used to teach. She particularly enjoys researching the early medieval, Tudor and Regency periods, and the problems encountered by women in a man’s world. Born in North Yorkshire, she now lives in a Hampshire village close to her family. Her first books, which were on embroidery and design, were published under her own name of Jan Messent.

Books by Juliet Landon

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

The Widow’s Bargain

The Bought Bride

His Duty, Her Destiny

The Warlord’s Mistress

A Scandalous Mistress

Dishonour and Desire

The Rake’s Unconventional Mistress

Marrying the Mistress

Slave Princess

Mistress Masquerade

Captive of the Viking

At the Tudor Court

Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded

Taming the Tempestuous Tudor

The Mistress and the Merchant

Collaboration with the National Trust

Scandalous Innocent

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For my family—

Andrew, Danny, Aoife and Maeve, with love.

And for my friends, Bryan and Beryl,

for loyalty and love through good times and bad.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Sandrock Priory, Wiltshire—1560

Almost hidden by a creamy-white canopy of apple blossom, Aphra turned to take another look at the solid stone walls of Sandrock Priory as if to remind herself, yet again, that it belonged to her. Against a cloudless sky, she saw how the ivy clambered up towards the red roof tiles where patches of yellow lichen and pale fern fronds made a vivid palette of new spring colour after so many weeks of greyness, the same greyness that had surrounded her heart with tragedy. Now, at last, she was beginning to see ahead to a new and peaceful life at the converted priory in which, until two months ago, Dr Ben Spenney, her beloved uncle, had lived and worked as one of Europe’s leading apothecaries. That he had left the priory to her in his will was still a source of amazement and some concern, too, for the place was enormous and, had he not also left her his considerable fortune to go with it, she would never have been able to afford its upkeep.

Her sandalled feet shifted in the long damp grass, turning her towards the orchard where honeybees droned busily into the blossom before heading back to the hives. Everywhere she looked, new growth was unfurling through the warm soil, washing the neat garden plots with a richness that seemed to echo Aphra’s new status as a property-owning woman, the new mistress of Sandrock. Only thirty years ago, the priory would have responded to the sound of bells and Augustinian canons at prayer, its gardens given over to the growing of vegetables and fruit for the refectory tables. Since its enforced closure in 1536, the buildings had been stripped of all association with religion and converted into rooms for domestic use by Aphra’s grandfather, Sir Walter D’Arvall, whose illegitimate son, Dr Ben Spenney, had inherited it. Aphra had never called him ‘uncle’. Their friendship had always been closer than the usual uncle-to-niece—more like dear allies whose degree of kinship had allowed a certain familiarity. Although never discussed, their special bond was enjoyed by both of them and understood by their families.

During his years of ownership, Dr Ben had housed young medical students specialising in the use of herbs, a branch of medicine that in the last decade had become more highly respectable and reliable than ever. He had shared with them his wide knowledge of plants and their properties, and had helped them to complete their degrees. The University of Padua in Italy had sent him one of their best students to study here, though he could not have anticipated that young Master Leon of Padua would fall deeply in love with his beautiful niece, Mistress Aphra Betterton of nearby Reedacre Manor. Now, in just over a year, fate had stepped in to deprive Aphra of both Master Leon, whom she had loved, and Dr Ben, whom she had also loved, but differently.

Yet while fate had taken away with one hand, it had given something back with the other, demanding at the same time that she should move on into another phase of her life that would set her mind and body to work instead of wallowing in grief. It was a huge task for her to take on single-handed, albeit with a number of workers living on the estate and who knew more than she did about how Dr Ben had managed things. She would have little time left over at the end of each day to indulge in memories, even if they were too recent to have healed completely.

Swishing her old grey-blue skirts through the dew-laden grass, she looked across to where one end of the physic garden joined the orchard, where already men were tying, hoeing, digging and weeding, their brown backs bent to the earth. A splash of bright colour amongst the greenery made her frown and look harder, then smile as she recognised the distant figure of her father wearing his favourite suit of deep red velvet. As an assistant at the Royal Wardrobe in London, Sir George Betterton had access to all the latest fashions in colour and style, always dressing up for an occasion, even for visiting his daughter on a May morning. Behind him, however, stopping to look at the patches of new growth every now and then, was another man Aphra didn’t know. Nor, if she were quite truthful, did she want to, having come here to be alone without the need to make polite conversation to anyone except her family. This was an intrusion and her father ought to have known better.

Trying to suppress her irritation, she glanced down at the hem of her skirt, soaked with dew, grass stalks stuck between her toes, and her old white apron pocket bulging with warm eggs laid away by an independent hen. Aphra’s thick pale blonde hair lay loose upon her shoulders, shining like silk in the sunlight, sliding back down on to her face whenever she brushed it away. Her lips showed a dusting of white flour from the bread roll the baker had given her as she’d passed the kitchen. It was not the image she would have chosen to present to a stranger.

She had time to study him before she emerged from the low-hanging blossom, wondering why her father had needed to bring him here without warning. He was tall and powerfully built with long well-muscled legs encased in a dull gold hose that matched his paned breeches of a deeper tone, like his short doublet. Judging from his tanned skin, she thought he might be a man who travelled, his dark hair lying thickly upon his frilled collar at the back, kept in place by a brown-velvet cap. As he and her father drew nearer, she had an uneasy feeling that he knew of this place, for he looked around him as he walked, at the small arched windows, the massive walls, the regulated order of the estate, the wattle fences, the eel traps in the stream running alongside the building. She thought she saw him nodding, as if to confirm what he expected to see.

‘Good morning to you, my love,’ her father called. ‘Were you hiding?’

‘Not from you, Father. Good day to you.’ She lingered in his embrace, smiling into his velvet doublet, wishing with all her heart that he’d come alone, or with her mother.

He took her hands, suddenly serious, apologetic, but unable to say so. ‘We have a guest,’ he said, rather unnecessarily, ‘and I ask that you receive him, love.’

Darting a glance over her father’s shoulder, she noted two very dark brown eyes regarding her with open admiration and again she felt that he was confirming what he already knew. ‘Father,’ she said, squeezing his hand, ‘this is not the time.’

‘I know, love. I know. But I think in this case, it might be best.’

She sighed, unable to hide her resentment, but unwilling to be more discourteous than that. ‘Then introduce your friend, if you must.’

Sir George’s concern was plain to see as he let go of one of Aphra’s hands. ‘This is Signor Datini,’ he said, ‘from Padua. Elder brother of...of Master Leon, my dear.’

The sharp pull away from his hand and her step backwards hardly surprised him, the wound to her heart being still so raw. ‘Father,’ she whispered, holding a hand flat to her chest, ‘how could you bring him here? Here, of all places, where I...’ Glaring at their guest, her beautiful grey dark-rimmed eyes sparking with anger, she could not trust herself to finish the sentence without discourtesy.

Showing a remarkable degree of understanding, Signor Datini stayed at a respectful distance, speaking to her in a deep voice quite unlike his brother’s light musical tenor. ‘Mistress Betterton,’ he said, ‘I hope that in time you will forgive my intrusion, even in the company of your father, but there are reasons why I had to see you in person.’ He doffed his cap, revealing a head of thick wavy hair.

‘Who sent you?’ Aphra asked sharply. ‘Did he?’

‘You refer to my brother. No indeed, mistress. My father sent me.’

Sir George had rarely heard this harsh tone from his daughter except when scolding a servant. ‘Aphra,’ he said, ‘there are things to be discussed.’

‘I’m sure you think so, Father, but I am well past caring. The time for explanations passed some time ago. Signor Datini’s journey has been wasted if all he wanted was to discuss his brother’s treachery. I am well rid of him. You may tell him so, from me.’

‘Please,’ said the elder brother, ‘please try to understand. We do not condone my brother’s deception. Our family is concerned for you.’

‘Very touching,’ Aphra retorted, ‘but I do not need their concern. Your brother and I were not betrothed, signor, so I have absolutely no claim to make and, even if I had, I would not. Your brother’s sudden change of mind is insulting enough without haggling over who said what to whom. So if you have come here to find out whether I intend to sue, you can assure your family that I am well rid of a man as fickle as that.’

A lesser man than Signor Santo Datini would have reeled from that salvo, but he was a hard-dealing merchant and the fury behind Mistress Betterton’s eyes was something worth seeing even though it was directed partly at him. He had, for one thing, come here to find out more about her and the effect his brother’s stupidity had had upon her future intentions, but it would not do to tell her so. Licking her wounds, the lady was clearly in no mood for platitudes. ‘I can understand how you feel,’ he said, committing that very same error, deserving her quick retort.

‘I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘No one can.’ Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, brushed angrily away with the back of one hand. ‘There is no more to be said on this subject, Father.’

‘Not out here in the orchard, perhaps,’ Sir George agreed, ‘but I think we might offer Signor Datini some refreshment before we return. Shall we?’ Extending a hand, he indicated where their courtesies lay.

Assenting in silence, she led the way to the prior’s house that had been converted into a more comfortable collection of parlours, bedrooms, kitchens and service rooms where, in the last few weeks, Aphra had begun to place her personal stamp on the previously masculine interiors. Through cool stone-flagged passages she led the two men into a sunny parlour overlooking a beautifully manicured square plot that had once been the cloister garden. A servant poured wine for them, discreetly leaving them as soon as they were seated on cushioned benches. The white plastered walls reflected light from the greyish-green glass in the windows and on the windowsill stood a pewter jug filled with bluebells. A woman’s touch in a place built for men.

Aphra sat next to her father opposite Signor Datini, uncaring that her face was streaked with tears or her hair was sticking to her cheeks. For months, ever since Leon’s distressing letter, she had told herself that it would have been easier for her to bear if he’d been dead; the memory of his sweet deceitful words, his arms, his kisses flooded over her like a terrible ache and it seemed that, as the hostess, she would be obliged to speak of him to his brother whether she wished it or not.

‘He spoke of his family,’ she said. ‘You are Santo, I take it?’

‘I am indeed Santo, mistress. Leon told us about you, too.’

‘Really? Then why the sudden change of mind, I wonder? Did he get cold feet at the thought of marrying an English woman? If that was on his mind, signor, you may return to Padua with the good news that there is no betrothal nor any claim for the Datini family to concern itself with.’

‘Aphra! Stop! This will not do, my dear,’ her father said. ‘You cannot hold Signor Datini responsible for any of this. He was sent by his father.’

‘To check up on me? On our family? Well, tell your parents I can manage well enough without their help. As you see, I am well set up with my family nearby. What more could I want?’

Bitterness and anger from his daughter were too new for Sir George to be used to them, she being usually so quietly in control of herself and every situation. ‘Little mother hen’ he and Aphra’s mother called her, knowing how she would take to motherhood with enthusiasm one day, though not like this. The idea of having a family one day, they thought sadly, might have been one of the reasons she had been too hasty in accepting the first offer of marriage that had come her way, falling in love too easily with a young student who had not finished his training. Master Leon had not wanted a betrothal ceremony before he returned home last September to tell his parents, which ought to have rung warning bells in their minds, and did not, because he’d had Dr Ben’s approval.

‘Mistress Betterton,’ Santo said. ‘I am happy to see that you want for nothing, but I came to offer you our family’s protection, should you need it. I had no idea what to expect, though I knew about Sir George’s royal employment, of course. As for yourself, I am both surprised and relieved to see you living where my brother received tuition with Dr Spenney. Leon told me about Sandrock Priory. He was happy here but, as a student, he had no right to offer you something he didn’t have. That was wrong of him.’

His gentle tone did nothing to ease Aphra’s distress. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we spoke of marriage, but we made no vows, formal or otherwise. That exonerates the Datini family from all obligations, doesn’t it? Or is it me who is to blame? Is that what you think? That I seduced him?’

‘Aphra! Enough of this!’ her father said, sternly. ‘You are letting your tongue run away with you. Say nothing you might regret later.’

‘Father, I regret everything. Everything. Every word. Every deed. Every wasted emotion. And I regret that you have brought Signor Datini here to remind me of what I would rather forget. Why on earth did you think it could help?’ Pushing herself away from the table, she walked over to the huge stone fireplace where the surround was covered with the arms of previous priors, a mass of symbols understood even by any illegitimate incumbents. Dr Ben himself had been illegitimate and his brother Paul, too, with whom Ben had been staying when he died. Both sons had been generously included in their father’s will.

‘My family, mistress, wanted you to know of our support and sympathy,’ said Santo. ‘And Sir George and Lady Betterton, too. Leon is deeply ashamed of himself.’ His voice was rich with the lyrical tones of his own language.

‘Ashamed with another woman, you mean?’ she said, whirling round to face him, deliberately thinking the worst, tormenting herself. ‘Is that what you meant by offering me something he didn’t have? The freedom to marry?’

His slow blink turned his eyes away from her towards the light and she could not tell whether he was refusing to rise to her bait, or whether he wished to spare her more pain. She chose the more painful option, simply because she had become used, after Leon’s short letter, to thinking the worst of him. He had given her no reasons, nothing positive to cling to, only an abject apology in a rambling tortuous English that suggested he had not found it easy to write.

She held her face with a hand on each side as if to prevent it crumpling. Her father took her into his arms and held her, her long loose hair falling down his doublet like a veil. His eyes met those of their guest over the top of her head, accepting that Santo’s slight nod of the head meant that Aphra had guessed correctly and that it was time for them to leave.

* * *

Sir George’s country home, Reedacre Manor, was barely an hour’s horse ride away in the same county, and indeed it was fortunate that he and his wife were still there instead of at their London home near the Royal Wardrobe. Had not Signor Datini arrived there unexpectedly last evening, they would by now have been packing up for their move, for Aphra was settling into Sandrock now and physically in much better shape than a month ago. Peace of mind was what she required and Signor Datini’s arrival would not help matters.

The Italian rode easily on the big hunter from Sir George’s stable and both husband and wife had remarked on his graceful bearing and his exceeding good looks that made his brother seem more like a young lad than a fully matured man. He was, they decided, altogether more robust, and probably more reliable, too, after the way things had turned out. His deep voice and Italian inflections seemed to lend a certain gravity to his speech that differed completely from his younger brother’s slick boyish charm.

‘Your daughter is a very beautiful woman, Sir George,’ he said as they turned a bend of the leafy track. ‘I can see why my brother fell in love with her.’

‘She is, signor. She’s very lovable, too. You have not seen her at her best today. She’s usually the gentlest and sweetest creature. I’m afraid you saw the virago. I hope you’ll forgive her the incivility.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive, sir. She’s been through a lot recently. I did not know until you told me last night that your daughter was the new owner of Sandrock. How will she manage it on her own?’

‘It’s early days, signor, and we’re waiting to see. She’s good at managing things, but she’s young and we’re concerned that she has not yet acquired the authority that her uncle had at Sandrock. He knew the place well. He was brought up there. Aphra will have a lot to learn about managing an estate as large as that.’

‘Isn’t it going to be an expensive place to maintain?’

‘Oh, I expect so. But Dr Ben left her his fortune, too. She won’t have a problem with funds.’

‘Indeed? They were close, I understand?’

‘How close, you mean?’ Sir George was well used to hearing unspoken questions.

‘Well...yes, sir. To be left all that in his will suggests...’

‘Something deeper than usual? No, you’re wrong, signor. Dr Ben was my wife’s half-brother. So is Paul, in London. Paul was left a splendid house by the river when Ben was left Sandrock. There’s never been any rivalry between them, but maybe Aphra was given Sandrock because he knew she’d need a place of her own one day. She and Ben were close friends with a shared interest in medicinal plants. He knew she would look after the gardens.’ The soft thud of horses’ hooves on the track changed to an occasional clink as the shoes hit a stone. ‘You keep away from those stones, my lad,’ Sir George told his gelding, watching the soft ears rotate in acknowledgement.

‘Mistress Betterton has suffered,’ said Santo. ‘I hoped my presence might have helped.’

‘Yes, it’s not been an easy time for her. Normally, my lady wife and I would go to see her again tomorrow, but perhaps you should go instead.’

‘You think she’d be pleased to see me, sir?’

‘Now that, signor, is not a question even I can answer and I’ve known her for twenty-three years. Give it a try, eh?’

‘Certainly, sir. I’d be happy to give it a try.’

Images of Mistress Aphra Betterton continued to percolate through the mind of Signor Datini as he rode in silence beside Sir George. Now he understood why his host had told him little of where and how she lived, obviously intending that he should be surprised by her new circumstances. Nor had he told him of his daughter’s beauty, although Leon had. Santo had thought at the time that his brother’s description was the usual exaggeration of a lover. Now he knew that it was not so and that no glowing description could have done justice to the damaged woman he’d met that morning, even wearing her oldest clothes, her hair undressed, and her lovely skin blotched with weeping.