Excerpt of Mistress By Midnight by Maggie Robinson

Prologue

Dorset 1808

Despite it being high summer, Con was so pale he looked ill.
But he had come to her at the ring of stones, and that was
the important thing.

In a few days time, he would belong to some other woman. He
would stand in front of the altar at All Saints and pledge
his troth to Marianna Berryman, that sleek stranger who
looked very like a cream-fed cat.

Laurette understood this intellectually. It was something he
had to do for the sake of his estate and all the people who
depended on him. There were two villages in his purview
which had suffered year after year from neglect. The
prosperity of the local populace rested upon the shoulders
of a nineteen year old boy. When others his age were out
carousing, he was promising his future away.

What she planned for the twilight was foolish. It would mean
nothing in the wider world, but it meant everything to her.
She smoothed the fabric of her beaded blue dress—the dress
she had worn for her hopeless come-out—and almost enjoyed
the shock on Con’s face when he saw her. She had lowered the
neckline—if her chest were the heavens, infinite
constellations of stars were twinkling brightly.

But Con loved her freckles.

“I am considerably underdressed, I see.” He wore a homespun
shirt and breeches, clean but worn. New clothes were filling
his closets, but she was glad he didn’t come to her wearing
Berryman largesse.

“This is a special occasion.”

Con laughed a bit bleakly. “Yes, it’s Wednesday evening.
Bring out the fireworks.”

“I didn’t think of those. But I do have a bottle of
champagne I pinched from my father’s cellar.”

“I’m not thirsty, Laurie.” He collapsed onto the ground, but
made no motion for her to join him. She could feel his
retreat as though it were a living thing. Carefully she
spread her skirts and sat beside him.

“You’ll ruin that dress.”

She shrugged. “I’ll never wear it again. But I wanted to
wear it for you tonight. So you would remember.”

“I’ll never forget you, Laurie, and that’s the problem.”

She grabbed a hand. “It’s to be my wedding dress, Con. I’m
going to marry you tonight.”

He pulled away. “Don’t be daft. I’ve signed all the papers.
Berryman will send me to jail if I renege now.”

“You’ll marry on Saturday, just as they planned. But your
heart will always belong to me.”

“You know it will, but what good is even saying it? This is
over, Laurie. We are over.”

His words were brutal. He looked angry, his thick black
brows drawn into a frown.

“Please give me tonight, Con. I want us to stand in this
magical place under God’s sky. To speak what’s in my heart.
To be your wife of the heart, if not in a church register.”

She searched his face for a reaction. At first there was
none. Then residual anger turned to incredulity, and,
eventually, a faint smile.

“A pagan wedding for my pagan girl. It’s not much to cling to.”

“It’s all I’ll ever have,” she said simply.

He kissed her then, too gently. She stole control and pushed
him on his back, eating him up as if she were starving. If
she didn’t stop she would make love to him before she said
the words she had labored over so long. She broke the kiss,
leaping to her feet.

“We shall continue all that in a moment, my Lord Conover.
First I want you to stand up with me before the altar stone.”

He shook his head. “You really are serious.”

“I am.”

“All right.” Con got to his feet, brushing off his
threadbare pants. “I wish—”

Laurette placed a finger on his lips. “No regrets. We have
tonight, as the sun is sinking and the shadows loom. Now,
hold my hands.”

“Yes, madam.” He brought them to his lips.

“That’s soon to be Lady Conover to you. Oh, don’t look so
stricken. I know this is all pretense. But when winter
comes, the thought of this summer evening will keep me warm.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It will have to be. Now then.” She squeezed his hands. “I,
Laurette Isabella Vincent, do take thee, Desmond—”

“Thee?”

“Quiet. Your turn will come. Do take thee, Desmond Anthony
Ryland, seventh Marquess of Conover, to be the husband of my
heart and keeper of my soul and body for all eternity.
Though circumstances may part us, nothing will ever break
the bonds of our friendship and love.”

The next part was tricky. She certainly was not going to
promise to obey. Not Con or anyone.

“I do solemnly promise to be mindful of thy wishes in all
things, even if I do not always agree. I will love
you—thee—and support thee until I cease to draw breath. I
pledge this to thee before the altar of the Ancients, in the
sight of God our Father, whose ways may be a mystery at
present.”

There had been more, but her throat was becoming thick as
Con looked down on her, his black eyes somber. “Amen.”

He kissed the tear from her cheek. “I, Desmond Anthony
Ryland, seventh Marquess of Conover, take thee Laurette
Isabella Vincent as my wedded wife of the heart. I shall be
true to thee until death. I love you so much, Laurie, my
heart is breaking.”

They held each other as the sun dipped behind the megalith,
casting its last light on the sparkles of Laurette’s dress.
The champagne was forgotten, but the consummation of their
union was not.