For his part, Mars couldn’t stand the sight of his mother. He had refused to talk to Eleanor since the duel. Because of her, he had a low opinion of the fairer sex. He slept with them, had kept more than his share, but he never trusted them. Not one.
Except, standing behind the privacy screen of his well-appointed bedroom on an estate claimed to be one of the finest in the country, Mars realized a hard truth. He was lonely.
And he hated it. He detested feeling the way he did.
The terrible racket that had first woken him now sounded as if it was making its way up the stairs. Mars didn’t worry. He had servants to worry for him. His butler Gibson would handle the matter.
What he needed to do was end his maudlin musings. God, he bored himself.
Mars leaned over the washbasin and poured what water remained in the pitcher over his head. The splash of cold helped. He straightened, letting his hair fly back, droplets of water splashing the screen behind him. He needed to start the morning right with tea and Port, a remedy Nelson always prepared when Mars was a bit under the weather. Then he would regain his equilibrium.
In fact, he was surprised his valet hadn’t already made an appearance. Nelson was usually right in the room the second he heard Mars stir. And Mars had done more than stir. He’d splashed water, he’d polished his teeth—
“Stay back. Don’t you dare touch me,” a woman’s voice commanded from the hallway. Apparently the commotion had reached this floor.
Gibson answered, “You mustn’t disturb the earl.”
She laughed at that statement, a short, bitter sound. “I can and I will.”
Her bitterness was familiar.
Curious, Mars dried his face and hands on a fresh linen towel and buttoned his breeches as he came out from behind the screen—just as something, like a fist or a body, hit his bedroom door. The handle twisted. The woman shouted, “Don’t touch me.”
Yes, he did know that voice.
Before he could puzzle it all out, the door flew open and Deb Millner, his last mistress, all but fell into the room. She righted herself after a few steps. Deb had always had good balance, even with her arms carrying a bundle of what looked to be blankets. She pushed back her fashionable chapeau, a plume-covered cocked hat that Mars had probably paid a small fortune for, and growled at his manservants to “Stay back” with the fierceness of an Amazon.
She needn’t have gone to the trouble. At the sight of their master standing in nothing save his breeches, the servants froze in almost a comical tableau. His valet was amongst them. No wonder Nelson hadn’t appeared with tea and Port.
“My lord, we shall remove her,” Gibson announced, sounding as if he was mortified an intruder had reached the inner sanctum, so to speak. He would have sent the servants forward save for Mars stopping him.
“Don’t bother. She is fine.”
“Are you certain, my lord?” the butler pressed.
“I am.” And he was. He wasn’t thrilled to see Deb, however she certainly was an antidote to boredom.
Gibson’s expression said he didn’t think it a wise idea, except he was too well trained to argue. After exchanging glances with Nelson, they and the footman all backed out into the hall.
“And close the door,” Deb ordered.
Gibson’s brows shot up in outrage. “My lord, is this safe—”
“Close it,” Mars said. They had no choice save do as he ordered.
Deb gave a triumphant crow before letting her brown eyes settle on Mars. Her lip curled in derision. He found that interesting. When they had parted, she’d been all emotion and heaving bosom. I love you. I won’t let you leave . . . and other drama.
Now she acted as if the sight of him curdled her stomach.
Deb was a tall brunette who was all legs, exactly the sort of woman Mars favored and, in truth, his first qualification for any mistress he kept. Her magnificent figure was dressed for travel. She had dashing tastes and Mars had always enjoyed seeing what she would get herself up in. She didn’t disappoint today. She was wearing a plum-colored striped dress with dark blue trim and a very low bodice under a military-styled jacket. Deb had always enjoyed displaying her assets. She even let her bundle slip a notch to give him a look because she knew he was looking. To not look would have disappointed her.
She moved toward him with the swagger of a pirate. “Lawd, Mars, you are barely decent.”
He was not insulted. Women were spiteful creatures. “First, these are my private chambers. Second, you have seen more of me than this.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Don’t be unpleasant, Deb. Say what you’ve come to say. I have an uninteresting day ahead of me.”
The fire went out of her. She pinned him with a sincere-looking gaze. “I loved you so much.”
“No,” he corrected, “you loved my money. You always had trouble telling the difference.” When they’d parted—a year and some months ago—he’d given her a town house, a coach and pair, and two thousand in funds. He was a generous protector.
Her expression changed as if she was seeing him for the first time, and was disappointed. “You were always honest with me, Mars. I will grant you that. What is it you always say? That you are incapable of lying?”
Mars nodded. That was true.
Her chin lifted. “I have a new protector.”
“Good.”
“He finds me enchanting.”
“I’m certain he is right.”
“You don’t rule my life any longer, Mars.”
“I never pretended to, Deb.”
“But you broke my heart.”
There was the manipulation. Women wielded it like a long, thin blade, cutting away at what they didn’t like.
Back when they’d parted, she’d camped on his doorstep, tried to barge into his club, and had tearfully followed him all over the city, flooding his life with love notes and, later, threats. Once, she broke into his London house and he’d found her in his bed. He’d had to physically carry her out of the room with her trying to kiss him and wrap her arms around him. Gibson had not been concerned without reason.
She didn’t appear in danger of throwing a scene today. In fact, her manner was one of superiority, and he could let her have her final say if it meant she’d leave him alone.
“My new gentleman worships me,” she informed him.
He nodded.
“And I am not your concern any longer, Mars.” She began moving toward the bed. He moved away from it. “I can take care of myself. As for this, it’s yours and your responsibility. You will be able to care for it better than I.” She dropped her bundle of blankets into the middle of his bed.
A sound escaped from the bundle. Or was it his imagination?
“What is this?” he asked.
“Something you left with me,” she replied moving to the door. “I’m returning it. After all, a mistress shouldn’t have encumbrances. Her name is Menadora.”
“Her? Menadora?” The bundle began to move.
“Yes, it means ‘gift of the moon.’ Menadora is the name of a saint who was martyred along with her sisters Metrodora and Nymphodora. I adore the lyricism of it.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” He was still caught on the word her.