Page 11 of The Virtues of Christmas
“Wet his—? Really?” She purely delighted in this tidbit, and who wouldn’t? Merton was a handsome, wealthy, horse’s arse who fancied himself an arbiter of fashion.
With a glance over at Lucille, Miss Whitlow leaned closer. “He’s also afraid of mice. Screams like a banshee at the sight of one and has been known to climb a bedpost if he thinks one is under the—oh dear.”
She sat up as straight as she could in a moving coach. “I should not have said that. Not to you, but his mistress told me that herself, and I have no reason… I should not have said such a thing. I do apologize. You must never repeat it, or a woman I consider a friend could lose her livelihood.”
Mary Mother of Sorrows, what an impossible life. “I will tell no one, but Henrietta,you have retired, and any who hold the occasional humorous reminiscence against you are fools. What sort of man calls himself a woman’s protector, then shins up the bedpost at the sight of a wee mouse?”
“He had other shortcomings, so to speak. Gracious,”—she put a gloved hand to her lips as if she’d hiccupped in church—“that didn’t come out right.”
“One suspected this about Merton,” Michael said. “I hope your friend was well compensated for the trials she endured in his company.”
“She recounts an amusing tale about him,” Miss Whitlow said, her posture relaxing, “but one doesn’t joke about disclosing a man’s foibles. His friends might make sport of him, his family might ridicule him in public, but a mistress must be loyal, no matter the brevity of the contract.”
Not a relationship, a contract.
“So you’d never publish your memoirs?” The question was far from casual.
“Of course not. A naughty auntie might eventually fade from society’s view, but not if she memorializes her fall from grace for all the world to read.”
“Doubtless, half the House of Lords would be relieved at your conclusion.”
Perhaps if Michael conveyed her assurances to Beltram, the viscount might release Michael from the obligation to plunder her luggage in search of a single, stupid book.
“Not half the Lords,” she said quietly. “A grand total of six men. We are in the middle of some serious weather.”
Six? Only six men in a decade of debauchery? Heathgate had occasionally had six partners in the course of twenty-four hours. Michael considered himself a good, formerly Catholic boy, and even he had enjoyed some notably adventurous house parties.
“I detest serious weather,” he said. “The going will be difficult, and the coach will soon acquire a chill. We’d best break out the lap robes now.”
Miss Whitlow arranged a soft wool blanket over her maid, then allowed Michael to tuck a blanket over their knees. The progress of the coach slowed, and before Michael could think up another conversational gambit, Miss Whitlow had become a warm weight against his side.
His scintillating company had put the lady to sleep. Within five minutes, her head was on his shoulder, and Michael was more or less alone with his conscience in the middle of a gathering snowstorm.
