The Prince's Mistress

CHAPTER ONE

Gavin Thorne was handsome, with finely cut features, golden blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes. He was tall and broad like his Viking ancestors, a born rake and was known to have several mistresses. He was rumored to have an untold number of bastards strewn throughout the kingdom, born mostly to servants and dairymaids. However, the occasional lord found himself playing father to his offspring as well. He had been taught to pleasure women at the young age of fourteen and had endeavored to make their pleasure his own ever since.

Despite his obvious charms, he had married a plain woman whose enormous dowry had filled his coffers and whom he promptly impregnated. She died less than a year later while bearing his only legitimate son, Arthur. It was rumored that he had barely taken note of his wife's death. He had returned to London and his mistresses a few days after her burial. He invested her dowry wisely and multiplied his fortune several times over until he became one of the wealthiest men in England. He was also rumored to be the most ruthless as well. He had little time for charity unless it suited his purpose.

He met his niece when she was a girl of fifteen at Kent Manor, his half brother Charles' estate. He had not been home for many years, having left for college and until now, had never returned. His memories of his brother's cruelty kept him from ever wanting to step foot on his family's estate. However, rumors had reached his ears that his brother was considering a new wife after only obtaining a bastard daughter from his previous marriage.

Charles' wife Marianne died of a fever following an unsuccessful attempt to leave his brother. She had caught him in bed with a couple of footmen and her hold on sanity, which had been tenuous since her unfortunate marriage, finally broke. She had taken off across the moors on horseback and was found the next morning lying on the ground; her horse less than ten feet away. Her fever raged for two days before it took her, leaving her daughter without a mother and her husband to his handsome lovers.

Charles was readying his estate for the arrival of his new bride, when Gavin arrived. Charles was a brute and cared for no woman, not even the girl he pretended was his daughter. Gavin didn't care that Charles was a homosexual, he cared that he beat his wife and terrorized her to the point of madness. He felt obliged to stop Charles from hurting yet another innocent woman and it was certain he would.

Gavin might not be an authority on morality, but his family's bloodline was also at stake. He would not stand by as his brother passed off another man's bastard as the heir to Kent Manor, simply because he was unable to have sex with a woman.

He had just left his brother's library after a heated discussion with Charles. In the end, Gavin had threatened to tell the world what Charles really was if he went through with his marriage. Charles had bitterly agreed to give up the idea of marrying again and Gavin was able to return to London, pleased that another woman would not be found half dead on the moors.

He had every intention of leaving Kent Manor that very afternoon, but he took the garden route to the stables that day. As he stepped through the roses he saw the girl that would change him forever. She was swinging beneath a tall maple tree, her long golden hair streaming in the wind.

She had been on the cusp of womanhood at the time and lovely in the way that only fresh young women can be. Her creamy skin, golden hair, glass green eyes and air of eager innocence entranced Gavin. His heart squeezed in his chest and thumped madly as he watched her swing high into the air only to come back down, her long curls hitting the ground each time.

He moved toward her without thought, without intention and without caution. He felt a pull in his stomach and chest to be near her. That feeling would never leave him and would color every day of his life from that moment on.

Her sweet look of curiosity at the man staring at her in the garden and her warm greeting snuffed any concerns that he might have held. He pulled her from the swing, introduced himself as her father's brother and kissed her cheek. Honor was stupefied by his warmth when her father was as cold as the Arctic. She knew she had an uncle, but she had never met him. His picture was in the gallery, but he had been a child when it was painted and the pretty boy he had been didn't compare to the tall, golden man before her. Still, she was unable to keep herself from smiling back at him and was hopelessly drawn to him.