Lord Stanton's Last Mistress

She saved his life...

Now he can’t resist her!

In this Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies story, Lord Stanton’s stay on the island of Illiakos is shrouded in memories of fever and his mysterious nurse. Years later, an Illiakan royal visit to Stanton Hall reveals the princess’s chaperone, Christina James, is the woman who saved his life! Alexander is a master of control, but Christina makes him long to unleash the sinful side he’s buried...and unlock her passionate nature, too!

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Book 1—Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Book 2—Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Book 3—Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

“The second book in the Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies trilogy will thrill Regency fans.”

—RT Book Reviews on Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

“Temple has a delightful gift with words that is sure to have readers smiling as the story of blossoming love and Gothic mystery unfolds.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance…at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Also by Lara Temple

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

The Reluctant Viscount

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07378-3

LORD STANTON’S LAST MISTRESS

© 2018 Ilana Treston

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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To Omer and Maya,

I am so lucky you are part of my home and my heart.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Island kingdom of Illiakos, the Mediterranean —1817

‘Fools! Shooting into the fog like that. Two more minutes and they would have seen the Maltese colours! And if they must actually shoot someone, why not a Maltese? Why an Englishman? Now that Napoleon is finished the English navy rules the sea, which means it would be very inconvenient for me if he died.’

‘I am sorry for that, your Majesty,’ Christina said as she continued sorting through the herbs she and little Princess Ariadne had collected from the Palace Gardens.

‘Is he going to die, Papa?’ Ari asked, her hand sneaking into Christina’s.

From the first night the King had sent Christina to the royal nursery, the four-year-old Princess had struggled into her bed and curled into her heat, her soft plump cheek resting on Christina’s palm. That moment Christina had fallen in love, as thirsty for affection as the little girl had been. Each time Ari still reached for her hand, Christina’s heart would squeeze at this remnant of their shared childhood. She stroked Ari’s curls and handed her another bundle of herbs to sort.

‘I don’t know.’ The King gave a huff of frustration. ‘I don’t trust that fool of a doctor. He says the bullet is out, but he doesn’t think the man will survive the fever. The poltroon sent for a priest. I want you to see to him, Athena.’

‘See to him?’

‘Yes. You always helped your father with patients. Use those herbs the women come to you for. I don’t like this. I’ve seen the man—everything about him says wealth and privilege and yet he carries nothing on him but gold, not even a letter. The Maltese captain says he paid above the asking price to be taken from Venice and that he saw him in the company of one of the Khedive’s top men in Alexandria. Someone like that, the English will come looking for. If he must die I would rather he does so elsewhere, so make him well enough to travel, Athena.’

The note of worry in the King’s voice distracted Christina from the enormity of the task and the knowledge she was wholly inadequate. She would do anything in her power for the King and Ari. She owed them more than her gratitude; she owed them her loyalty and her love.

‘You know I will do anything I can to help, your Majesty.’

‘I know that. You can be as stubborn as the Cliffs of Illiakos when you set your mind to something. So go and set it to getting this Englishman on his feet. Off with you now.’

‘Can I go and swoon over him, too, Papa?’ Ariadne said hopefully.

‘What in the name of Zeus do you mean by swoon, Ari?’ Usually people quaked when confronted head-on with the King’s anger, but twelve-year-old Ari clearly knew as well as Christina that her father’s bark was worse than his bite.

‘I heard the maids say he is as handsome as a god and they take peeks and swoon over him. So may I?’

‘No, you may not. There will be no swooning. But you have a good point. When your father died, Athena, I swore on Zeus’s head I would protect you just as I would my own daughter and that applies as much to your modesty as to your life. You will don veils while you attend to him and I will have Yannis stand guard. We know nothing of him, after all.’

‘But, King Darius, tending to a patient in veils is not very—’

‘And take some of my English newspapers to read to him.’

‘If he is unconscious, reading to him is hardly likely to—’

‘Must you argue with me over everything, Athena?’ the King interrupted, throwing his hands to the sky. ‘Perhaps hearing his mother tongue will remind him of his duties and revive him. Now go and see what is to be done, do you hear me?’

‘Half the castle can hear you, your Majesty,’ Christina replied as she brushed the remains of the herbs from her hands. ‘I will return soon, Ari.’

‘And tell me if he is really beautiful?’

Christina smiled at the King’s growl as she pushed back the tumble of dark curls from Ari’s forehead.

‘It isn’t a man’s beauty that matters, Ari, but his heart,’ she said, a little pedantically, and added for good measure as she went towards the door, ‘Not to mention his good nature and even temper.’

She didn’t wait to hear the King’s response to her mild impudence, but went directly to the prisoner’s room. She had no real expectation of being able to oblige the King by reviving the Englishman. She might share the King’s disdain for the doctor who took her father’s place, but she didn’t presume she could do better.

‘Hello, Yannis, the King sent me to see if there is anything that can be done for the Englishman.’

Yannis, one of the King’s most trusted guards, raised his brows.

‘Kyrie Sofianopoulos says he won’t survive the fever.’

‘Then I am not likely to do any harm, am I?’

‘Not much good, either. But if the King told you then of course he knows best.’

Christina smiled at the blind acceptance of the King’s infallibility and entered the room, preparing for the worst. As she approached the sickbed her mind did something it had never done before—it split in two. Sensible Christina assessed the hectic colour in the Englishman’s cheeks and all along the left side of his bare chest. The wound was just below the ribcage and was covered with a linen bandage stained orange and brown with dried blood. But even as she set to work removing bandages and cleaning the wound, a part of her that was utterly foreign raised its head and offered an opinion.

The maids were right. He might be dying, but he was the handsomest man she had ever seen.

She had sometimes watched the fishermen in the port stripped to the waist and though they, too, might possess impressive musculature, this man was on a different scale. Tall and lean, but with shoulders and arms that looked fit to topple a temple, and a whole landscape of hard planes and slopes, marred here and there by scars, several of which looked suspiciously like old knife wounds, including two rather deep gashes to his forearm. Aside from these imperfections he looked like a northern version of Apollo, with silky, light brown hair, like a field of wheat seen from afar. Even in his fever there was a tightness of action in his expression—his features were chiselled into spare lines, with no excess of flesh on the strong angles of his cheekbones and chin and the carved lines of his lips. His mouth was bracketed by two deep lines that put the final touch on a face that was more that of a statue of what Apollo might look like on a rather aggravating day of dragging the sun across the sky than an actual person.

But it wasn’t his looks that held her immobile. For a moment, as she stood over him, his eyes opened and latched on to hers. They were an ominous deep grey, shot with silver like clouds poised the moment before succumbing to a storm. His voice was rough thunder, a warning ending on a plea.

‘The snow...it’s freezing... Morrow shouldn’t have left her. Too late.’

He was looking through her, but she grasped his hand to answer that plea.

‘It’s not too late.’

‘Too late,’ he repeated, and this time his eyes did fix on hers and she smiled reassuringly because even if he was dying, he shouldn’t do so without hope.

‘No, it isn’t too late, I promise. Trust me.’

His gaze became clearer for a moment, moving over her, his pupils contracting until she could see the sharp edge of silver about them. But then his lids sank again and his restlessness returned, his hand pulling at the bandage, and she dragged her attention away from his face and focused on her duty.

A look at the ragged and inflamed state of the wound and the sickly tint of his skin under the heat of his fever told her the doctor was not unjustified in his gloom. It would take more than a newspaper to revive this man.

‘He’s in bad shape, isn’t he?’ Yannis asked conversationally over her shoulder. ‘Told you. I told the King to put him on the next boat to Athens. Let him die there. We don’t need trouble with the English.’

She unlocked her jaw. There was no point in being angry at Yannis.

‘And what did King Darius say?’

‘Nothing I can repeat to you, little nurse.’ Yannis grinned. ‘My punishment is to stand guard and help you see he doesn’t die. So. What do we do first?’

‘First you send for a large pot of water while I fetch my father’s bag and those foolish veils.’ There was no point in hoping the King would forget his stipulation.

‘Veils?’

‘The King said I must wear veils while I see to the Englishman.’

‘Good idea,’ Yannis approved. ‘Can’t trust a man without a name. Who knows what he’s running from?’

She didn’t answer. Not because it was foolish to see ghosts where there were none, but because there was something in the Englishman’s eyes and voice that gave too much credence to Yannis’s half-joking words. It didn’t matter—all that mattered was that a man might be dying and perhaps she could save him and thereby repay some of the debt she owed to her adoptive family.

* * *

Thus began of one of the strangest weeks of Christina’s life. She came several times a day to tend to the Englishman while Yannis helped ensure he drank the broths she prepared. She even, though she felt rather foolish, did the King’s bidding and read the English newspapers to him every day. Within two days what she had thought would be an irksome task took on an almost superstitious weight. It was imperative he survive, not just for the King, but because it just was. She fought for his life with the same fervour as she would for Ari or the King had they been ill, which made no sense at all.

The veils were a nuisance, but soon she found they had a peculiar freeing effect. Like a toddler who is convinced they can’t be seen when covering their eyes, Christina found herself free to truly watch the Englishman without worrying about being pierced again by his icy gaze. In the darkness imposed by the cloth, she didn’t have to avert her eyes from his face or magnificent physique, despite the shame of finding herself doing covertly what the female servants did overtly every time they brought provisions or tidied the room.

‘Isn’t he as handsome as Apollo? And look at those shoulders...’ they would sigh in Greek as Christina tried hard to ignore their raptures and her own internal upheaval.

After a week, his pulse steadied and she noticed his expression change when she read the newspapers, his sharply carved mouth shifting as if in internal conversation with the topic. Politics would be accompanied by a frown and news of London society with a faint curl of his thin upper lip. But his face became most expressive when she indulged in her own fascination—the advertisements in the agony columns. She had never read these before, but when she exhausted the more respectable pages of the two newspapers she became completely enthralled in reading them. There was something so touching and perplexing about them—little snippets of drama and romance that would remain unexplained for ever. Without even noticing it she began discussing them with her unconscious patient.

‘Here, listen to this,’ she informed him. ‘This is a very passionate fellow. ‘“To M-A”—which I presume is Maria, or could it be Margarita? That would add an exotic touch. Anyway, he writes: “Do I deserve this?” In capital letters, too. I wonder if that costs more? Then he continues: “Is it generous? Is it equitable? If I hear not from you by Wednesday hence I will strike thy graven memory from my heart and endeavour to efface thy sweet smile from my soul. Orlando.” This was three weeks ago, so Wednesday has come and gone and I shall never know if Orlando has been blessed by his Maria or whether she has chosen someone rather more sensible. I think living life in capital letters might be a little tiring. Oh, no—here, this one is even worse! “To P. If you could conceive of the sorrow and despair into which I am plunged, you would not raise your head. With you I could suffer every privation. Alone I am all misery. A hint of kindness could obliterate all pain. S.B.” Goodness. Well, I think it is very brave to put such pain on paper, but I cannot imagine ever writing something so...’

‘Maudlin.’

The paper scrunched between her hands. The word was faint but decisive and for a moment she searched the room for its source until she realised it came from the Englishman. He was awake, not the brief surfacing of the past few days, but truly awake and inspecting her. Lucid, his eyes were even more dramatic—as sharp and steely as a sword.

‘Where the devil am I?’ he asked as she remained tongue-tied, her pulse as fast as his had been at the height of his fever.

‘Illiakos.’

‘Illi... Hell. I remember. The storm. They shot at us.’

‘They thought you were pirates.’ She tried to be conciliating, thinking of the King.

‘We were flying Maltese colours. Clear as day.’

‘Yes, well, it wasn’t. A clear day, that is.’

He groaned as he tried to shift on the bed.

‘I remember. The blasted fog. We rode up on the shoals. Why are you reading the agony columns? Out loud, too, for pity’s sake.’

‘King Darius requested that I read the English newspapers to you. He thought it would help you recover.’

‘That mawkish pap is more likely to send me into a decline. I had no idea people wrote such drivel.’

‘It is not drivel to them. Anyone willing to bare his or her soul like that deserves some sympathy, whether you approve or not.’

His mouth relaxed slightly in what might have been the beginning of a smile. It was the first time she had seen that expression on his face and her pulse, which had begun to calm, went into another gallop.

‘You didn’t sound very approving yourself just now, so I don’t think you can claim the moral high ground.’

Christina flushed, wondering how on earth they had reached the middle of an argument when she should really be summoning the doctor or doing something sensible, but the taunting glimmer of amusement in his eyes kept her in her seat and she groped for something to say.

‘For your information, I have already read you the political pages from end to end. Twice. And those are equally as depressing. More so.’

He frowned.

‘I remember now—you were reading something about the Tsar and the Sultan. But that news was well over a month old.’

‘The mail takes a while to reach us. The pirates have made trade difficult so the ships travel in convoys. Hopefully next week we will receive new newspapers from Athens.’

‘We... Who are you and why are you wearing a tent? You sound like you’re underwater.’

‘It is a bridal veil,’ she replied, with as much dignity as possible. ‘Brides on Illiakos wear them in public for the first month of marriage. It symbolises the period during which the married couple is dedicated wholly to one another.’

‘Good God, more sentimental drivel. I don’t envy you or your groom your wedding night.’ His laugh ended in a gasp of pain as he tried to sit up and she dropped the newspaper.

‘Please lie down, the doctor removed the bullet, but you lost a great deal of blood.’

She sat on the side of the bed and pressed him back gently as she had during the throes of his fever. Except it was different now. His skin was no longer burning, but hers was. The moment her palms flattened on his shoulders she froze. She tried to reason that he was merely a sick man she was tending, but that wasn’t what it felt like. Her fingers were trying to curve over the velvet surface that covered the rock-hard ridges of his shoulders. Sitting like that, if she just leaned towards him a little, raised her head... Took off her veils...

She removed her hands, but couldn’t gather any more resolution to rise. So she sat there with her hands clutched in her lap, waiting.

He froze, too, and there was a confused frown in his ice-grey eyes now, as if he was struggling to remember a word.

‘You were here before, weren’t you? I remember...’

He reached for the veils and she surged to her feet, which was a mistake because she tripped on the awkward yards of cloth and stumbled backwards.

‘Careful!’ His arm shot out to right her and with a groan of pain he turned chalk white and fell back.

‘Don’t move.’ Christina’s concern overcame her confusion and she gently pressed back the bandages, sighing with relief at the unbroken scab beneath. ‘That was foolish.’

‘I wasn’t the one leaping like a scalded cat,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘You made your point; I won’t touch the veils. That blasted doctor may have extracted the bullet, but I think he left a sheave of knives inside me instead.’

Despite her discomfort, her mouth curved upwards at his quintessential Englishness.

‘Not a sheave, just one. It is considered good luck.’

‘You are jesting, right?’ His eyes widened and she smiled at the apprehension in his voice.

‘Of course I am. He is merely terrified of the King which makes him a little clumsy. Please lean back while I apply some salve, it will soothe the inflammation and the pain.’

‘I don’t need any more ministering. That fool of a doctor did enough damage already by the look of it, and I’m damned if I will let you smear some noxious folk remedies on an open wound. What I need is to get off this island.’

‘It is merely some boiled herbs, including witch hazel and vinegar which are excellent for preventing putridity in wounds. I promise there are no bat wings and ears of newts. If you wish to recover swiftly, I suggest you let me apply the salve.’

His mouth held firm for a moment at her scold, and then with a curse worthy of a sailor he leaned back and closed his eyes.

His skin was hot and velvety beneath her fingers as she spread the salve. She worked slowly, smoothing it as gently as possible over the reddened area around the wound, her fingers just a butterfly’s flutter on the wound itself. He didn’t wince, but she could feel the tension in his muscles and see it in the way his hands fisted by his sides. She had an almost overwhelming urge to bend down and press a kiss to his bare chest, to ease that control, to reassure, explore... She knew she should draw back, but her fingers kept up their soothing strokes, until she exhausted her excuse and had no choice but to stop.