My Fake Mistress

Lord Julian Ashford, Baron Moncrief, detests London. Detests society. Since his wife died over a decade ago, he has had little thought for anything other than his own grief. Filling his life with work and duty, he exists as a shell of his former self. And while he can think of nothing worse than entertaining a hoard of freeloading guests, the weekend house party is his daughter’s celebration, and while happiness eludes him, he would do anything for her.

Blythe Flintwood knows a thing or two about the hard knocks life can throw at a girl. Orphaned, alone, and reliant on her skills as an art conservator to pay her way, she appreciates the small things. A beautiful painting. A special friendship. A weekend house party at a country estate to celebrate her best friend’s birthday. She takes nothing for granted.

If only the grubby old lords in attendance would stop propositioning her at every opportunity.

If only they would listen to her when she tells them she’s not interested.

But they are powerful men, accustomed to getting what they want, especially when it comes to women like herself.

So, to keep them at a distance, she tells a lie. Just a little lie.

She tells them she is mistress to her best friend’s father.

And when she tells Julian what she has done, he, unbelievably, agrees to

play along.

My Fake Mistress was previously released as part of the Love for Maui anthology.

My Fake Mistress is a steamy novella set in the late Victorian era. Its main tropes are best friend’s father, age gap, blue stocking and widower baron. With a guaranteed HEA, My Fake Mistress has HOT consensual scenes. It includes strong language and sexy times.

This novel also contains themes of parental death, spouse loss, grief and misogyny that some audiences may find confronting.

March, 1882
Blythe swung into the small alcove, hugged her arms across her chest, and flattened her back against the wall. The flocked wallpaper hushed against her velvet gown as she slid to the floor. Her skirts billowed, and their slightly worn hems fluttered as air escaped from their volume. She crunched into a ball, sitting unevenly on the bustle padding, ignoring the awkward compression of her petticoats.
What had she done?
Forcing a slow breath, Blythe held it until her lungs protested, then released with a slow exhalation. Strings, tinkling glasses, laughter and merriment echoed in the distance as the first night of the house party swung into life. She grasped the corner of the alcove to steady her balance, then peeped out into the hallway. The soft light from the sconces cast timid yellow spots of light, but apart from the glowering portraits that stared haughtily across at one another, she was alone. Relief flooded her, and she slumped back against the wall, pressing her head against its hardness as she pinched her eyes tight.
Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? How many times did she have to say no?
Carlson’s insistent offer rang in her ears. Little wonder, given how loud he had been. Likely soused, it was a miracle the entire room hadn’t heard. His wife, thankfully, had taken herself off to cards and had not been present to witness his bleary eyed fascination with her breasts.
‘I’ll look after you. Both of you,’ he had said, before dragging his gaze to hers. ‘I’m a good protector. Just ask Florence.’ Then he hiccoughed, and in a rush, added, ‘No, don’t ask Florence. She might not like that.’ He grasped her hand. ‘Meet me on the balcony.’ His whiskey-soaked breath roiled her stomach. ‘In twenty minutes. I’ll show you how good it might be.’
A shiver ran through her, like her body was expulsing his touch. But still, she could not shake the fear that she had made the wrong choice.
It was a good offer, especially for a young woman like herself. With no family to support her, and no dowry to tempt even the humblest of men, she’d already prepared herself for a life alone, reliant on no-one. Carlson had said he would provide accommodations, an allowance, even a servant. But then, he laid down his conditions.
You will not work. What type of man allows his mistress to work?
And what had she done? She had spun a lie, and then, she had run.
‘Blythe? Is something wrong? Has someone upset you?’
She kept her eyes pinched shut, as if not looking might make her situation less real. Of all people, why him? Why now? ‘I am well, your lordship. Just taking some air.’
‘How many times do I have to say, call me Julian. You are Yvette’s dearest friend. I want you to feel comfortable here.’
Blythe prised her eyes open just in time to watch Julian Ashford, Baron Moncrief, lower himself to the floor beside her. Immaculately dressed in a grey pin stripe suit with a black cravat, he looked every inch the lord of the manor. After all, he was the host of a house party weekend to celebrate his daughter’s twenty-first birthday. Why wouldn’t he appear as absolute perfection? His dark hair, flecked with grey, had been ruffled, and Blythe had to dig her nails into her palm to resist an urge to neaten it. Only his eyes spoke of an uneasiness within him. The most vivid cobalt blue, their slight downcast corners hinted at the anguish Yvette said he still carried for her mother, even after more than a decade. Not that she’d needed it pointed out to her. Blythe understood it because she saw it in her own reflection every day.
He made a hesitant reach for her, then clenched his hand into a fist and pulled back. ‘Why are you hiding?’
Blythe flicked her fingernails against one another, before quietening her agitation in her lap. ‘I am avoiding Lord Carlson. He keeps propositioning me.’
‘Son of a—’ He put his palm on his knee and made to push himself to standing, but Blythe caught him by the wrist and pulled him down.
‘Please don’t confront him, it will only make things worse. I’m accustomed to it, really. He isn’t the first toff to try and tempt me.’
Almost every restoration she had helped her uncle with had involved some kind of suggestion of extra services, and Blythe had become adept at treading the fine line between professionalism and rejection. She moved through a man’s world, and side-stepping men like Carlson while maintaining her position and their dignity was the tightrope she balanced in order to have her work.
Julian tilted his head in question. She still had hold of his wrist, and ever so delicately, he flicked his grasp to instead stroke her palm. The gentle comfort loosened the worried knot in her chest, and finding patience in his expression, she steeled herself to continue.
‘Carlson wants me to be his lover,’ she confessed. ‘And I am a fool to reject him. He says he’ll look after me, put me up in a house. It’s a good offer, especially for someone like me. But he wants too much. He says I will not be able to work.’
‘Carlson is a cad, and you are right to refuse him. Are you sure you don’t want me to wallop him?’ He pinched her fingers with a light playfulness as his lips curled into a half smile. ‘I would enjoy it.’
‘No, heavens, no,’ she said, allowing herself to laugh a little. She hadn’t expected the extent of his outrage. She’d only been here three days, but so quickly she’d fallen into comfort with Yvette’s father. ‘But I do have a confession to make. To try and deter him, I said that I was your…’ She took a breath, and it stuck in her chest. ‘That I was your mistress.’