Mistress By Mistake (10 page)

“Never mind then. It’s none of my business, really.” She had drawn herself up in a little ball, her arms wrapped around her ghastly gray skirts. He would have to do something about her clothes eventually. If she stayed.

He returned to the bed, removed one hand from her knee and massaged her knuckles. “I’ve told you my tragedy. Now tell me yours.”

She pulled away. “It’s hardly a tragedy. I was engaged once, or thought I was. And then I wasn’t.”

“What happened?”

“Deborah, in a way. She ran off with Harfield. Robert was disgusted. I think at first he hoped Deb would marry George and add to our consequence, and when that did not happen he suddenly discovered his morals and became very priggish. And then my father made a truly bad investment that affected my dowry. My fiancé decided not to align himself with the disgraceful Fallon family.”

“After he had taken your virtue.”

Charlotte flushed. “Yes.”

“Any number of times.”

Her blush deepened. “Yes.”

“The bastard.”

“I could not agree more, but Mr. and Mrs. Chase were in fact married.”

“Robert
Chase
?”

Charlotte shrank away into the headboard. “Do you know him?”

Bay’s fists bunched up. If Rob were standing in front of him now, he would not be standing long. “Dorset is not so large. We’ve run into each other a time or two.” He cupped her cheek. “I wonder how I could have missed the Fallon sisters.”

“We lived in a tiny village. Bexington. George’s father was the largest landowner, and an absentee landlord most of the time. There was very little in the way of social life. And my parents’ precarious financial position didn’t allow trips to Dorchester, let alone London at the end, when I might have made my debut. Anyway, I’ve not lived in Bexington for a decade.” He sensed her uneasiness talking about her home. She switched the topic. “How long have you been back in England?”

“I resigned my commission after Waterloo. Took the long way home by way of Italy.”

“Where you bought your naked ladies.”

Bay grinned. “You don’t approve of my taste in art?”

“I suppose it is easier to indulge in carnal pleasures surrounded by nudity rather than the martyrdom of saints.”

He looked around the room. “Or angels. I confess when Angel—when the statues first made their appearance, they had a depressing effect upon my ardor.”

“I doubt anything could depress you long, sir. In my limited experience, you seem randy as a goat.”

“A goat? A goat!” Bay put a hand over his heart. “I don’t know when I’ve been so insulted.”

“I believe it’s a classical reference to the god Pan, who was admired for his masculine attributes,” Charlotte said, her pursed mouth prim. He wanted to kiss her and make her un-pucker.

Bay leaned in toward her. “Do you admire
my
masculine attributes, Charlie?”

She blinked her eyes at his closeness, then gave him a clear blue gaze. “I believe I do. And that’s all the questions I’m willing to answer today.”

He traced her lush mouth with a fingertip. “That was a very good answer, Charlie. I may even forgive you for calling me a goat. If I remember my mythology correctly, Pan fucked every one of the maenads. Orgies left and right.”

“They were madwomen. Drunk,” whispered Charlotte, her lip trembling against his finger.

“Whereas you are so very sane and sober. Even more of a challenge, I expect. Let me drive you a little bit mad, Charlie.” He kissed the corner of her mouth as she turned it up in a rueful smile. They could help each other forget the past for a while.

Her hands brushed through the bristle of his short crop, circling gently. “What have you done with your horns?”

“Gone the way of my cloven hooves. Help me with my boots and you’ll see.”

T
his was such a mistake. Bay was not only in lust with Deborah, but was still in love with his wife. Anne. Possibly Charlotte had supplanted Deborah, simply because she was present in his bed while Deb was who knows where. Charlotte was handy. Available. And absolutely aching for the friction of his fingers on her body. From the way his mouth was coaxing hers, Charlotte had every reason to believe he was as fully engaged in this exploration as she was. His lips and tongue were in concert, advancing and withdrawing with tender ferocity. Charlotte felt as if she was being eaten up, bite by bite. Soon she would disappear.

And then Bay could go back to his wife.

Bay’s wife didn’t need a friend. She needed
this
; every woman did. This skillful assault on all her senses. The taste of coffee on Bay’s tongue, his ragged inhalations, the hardness of his cock. The scent of lime and sweat on his skin. Watching as his dark eyes shut in blissful release. Any woman who had given herself to Bay would want to do so again and again. Charlotte was a prime example. No matter how successfully she argued with herself, as soon as he stepped across the threshold, she lost her wits and found her wantonness.

Anne had been married to Bay, had experienced his lovemaking innumerable times. How she must have suffered when she went back to her undead husband. How Charlotte would suffer when she went back to her old life.

Bay had guided himself in her, gliding in and out with a twist that drove her mad. He was Pan, her cloven-hoofed devil, playing her body’s music to a crescendo. Her nails dug into his back as she spiraled up off the bed, legs stretched taut. He collapsed on her, then rolled her to her side, still connected in the most elemental way. She quaked against him, her skin slick and burning. He kissed the perspiration from her hairline and the tears from the corner of her eyes.

“You aren’t unhappy with me?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No.” She would not tell him what she felt. She scarcely knew herself. Half the time she wanted to throttle him and the rest—well, they had just done the rest.

“I don’t want to, but I may have to go away for a few days.”

Her heartbeat slowed. “To find Deborah?”

“Yes. The man I hired has a lead. I don’t want to leave it to chance.”

Charlotte pulled back. “You’ve hired an investigator?”

“Several days ago. The sooner I get my necklace back, the sooner you can go back to Little Sickup. I know this has been wrong, Charlie. Keeping you here. I didn’t mean for it to go this far.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was angry at first. You’d agree I had some cause?”

Now he was asking her to condone what he had done to her. She could not. Worse than tying her up, he had turned her to mush with one touch, deconstructing all the barriers she’d thrown up since Robert. She was an idiot. She could remain his captive forever,
wanted
to stay on Jane Street as long as he’d let her. But it seemed she’d been handed her congé. Charlotte covered herself with the sheet.

“I’ll go with you. If you have difficulty with Deborah—”

He put a finger to her lips. “No. I’m sure she’ll see reason. Or Bannister will. It will be different being in France without any worry that my throat will be slit. I don’t suppose Deborah is handy with a knife?”

“I daresay Deborah’s weapon of choice is her body,” Charlotte said quietly. As was Bay’s. He’d tied her in knots using no rope at all.

He kissed her nose as if she were his niece. “I’m off then. I’ll write. If you don’t mind staying here another few days, I can escort you safely home when I get back.”

Charlotte couldn’t watch him get into his clothes. She stared instead at the angels on the ceiling, playing lutes and floating on clouds, their wings tipped in silver and gold. Heaven above looked very happy, but somehow Charlotte found herself in hell.

Bay marched with purpose in his step. He had a thousand things to do. Pack. Arrange for his passage. Look up Vouvray on a map. It was for the best. He hadn’t really made his mind up to go until he saw her tears. They could not go on this way. If he left, he could kill three birds with one stone. Charlie could get her life back, he’d find the rubies, and escape from Anne’s clutches all with one dash across the Channel. He didn’t believe for one minute that Anne would hang about Whitley House less than a mile away waiting for him to call on her. She was probably bullying Frazier right now to let her in the front door. And he wouldn’t put it past her to try the tradesmen’s entrance. Monsieur David had a Frenchman’s appreciation for a beautiful woman, toothache or no.

He stopped dead on the sidewalk. He was no coward. His years in the army had proved that, along with the jumble of medals he kept in his cuff link box. He didn’t need to run after Mr. Mulgrew’s associate—he might pass him en route and never know the necklace was in the man’s pocket. He was a total stranger. He certainly didn’t want to see the familiar face of Deborah again, although he would like to thank her for leaving Charlie in her place.

Two months ago he had made up his mind to resist Anne even if she was free.
Especially
since she was free. It was time to cut all ties with her. He would not bind himself to her with a child. There was a raw spot within knowing that their love was responsible for her miserable marriage, but he couldn’t change the past. Or relive it.

He’d go home, have dinner. Another sandwich if necessary. And go back to Jane Street to surprise Charlie, sleep-warm and slumberous. He’d have to arouse her slowly so she didn’t clout him with a stone cherub. She seemed remarkably predisposed to violence.

A dowager wielding an unnecessary umbrella gave him a glacial stare as she passed, maid and footman in tow. Bay snapped out of his reverie. Gentlemen just didn’t stand around thinking on street corners. Most gentlemen of his acquaintance avoided thinking at all costs no matter where they were. But there was an insistent little voice in Bay’s head that urged him to start thinking, stop coasting, pay attention. If only that voice had spoken a little louder, he might have noticed the man following him.

He said he would write. Charlotte got out of bed, legs cramping from her acrobatic endeavors. She slipped into her robe and picked up the dress that Bay had flung with such abandon. Thankfully he had been too intent in ravishing her to search her pockets. She pulled out the little stack of letters. At least she would have something with which to compare his words to her. When he had written to Deborah, he had not yet taken her to bed. Yet his desire was all too clear. How would he express himself to Charlotte, whose body he now knew better than she did herself? He had made it his mission to explore every nook and cranny, and she had been a willing accomplice in his amatory expedition. She felt mapped, surveyed, each inch measured to scale.

She realized now the furtive fumbling with Robert was no proper introduction to the sex act. For one thing, she had never seen all of him, just the odd thigh, a flash of white buttock, a smattering of dark chest hair when he took the time to remove his cravat. Their encounters were by their very nature hurried and clumsy, laden with guilt on her part and excess enthusiasm on his. Deb had been starry-eyed describing what George did to her, but Robert was no George. And he certainly did not hold a candle to Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.

Charlotte had felt her emotions waver at twenty. Deb had happily disposed of her virginity and was living like a princess in London, certain that George’s father would come around eventually. Her misspelled letters were filled with exclamation points and descriptions that made Charlotte blush to her toenails. She didn’t understand half of what she read. She and Robert had an understanding from the time they were children, and their relationship in no way resembled what Deb had with Viscount Harfield. A chaste kiss here, a brush against her hip there. It was all very tame, and Charlotte decided she wanted more.

Robert trained in his father’s solicitor’s office, doing whatever work his father chose not to do, while she tatted tablecloths for her hope chest. He asked her to be patient about their marriage, but was impatient himself when it came to anticipating the wedding night. His kisses were soft and thrilling, his desire so flattering. She felt
something
in his arms that needed investigation. Part of her hoped that once she gave him her virtue, he’d toss away his objections and marry her at once. She knew she could economize; living with her parents had given her that dubious advantage. But after months of groping each other in carriages and caves, Robert broke it off. A country solicitor, he said, not meeting her eyes, could not afford the scandal of her sister or the poverty of her parents. Should she discover she was with child, she was not to look to him for support, for he would deny their association. Charlotte had stood with her mouth open, very likely looking like a dying carp.

So that was very much that. Charlotte’s mama had taken to her bed with a case of brandy for a week, and she hadn’t even known the worst of it. Three weeks later, Charlotte’s parents went for their moonlit sail. She sometimes wondered if their accident had been deliberate—that their troubles had simply overwhelmed them—but she never let herself dwell on that particular possibility. When the Earl of Trent made his offer on the house, Charlotte snatched it and reinvented herself far from Bexington and Robert and scandal

Her cottage in Little Hyssop was tiny and slapdash, but it was all hers. She doubted Bay could have stood straight under its low sloped ceilings. People in the village called her
Mrs
. Fallon, the unfortunate fictional Mr. Fallon having drowned along with her parents. Thus widowed and orphaned, she engendered some sympathy and enjoyed a degree of freedom. All in all, it had been a nice little life, if a bit boring, until Bay decided to hold her hostage on Jane Street.

Charlotte climbed back up on the bed and flopped down on her stomach. Reading Deb’s letters was just like scratching an itch. One knew one shouldn’t, but one did it anyway. This time she would
not
cry or feel sorry for herself, for she would be getting a letter of her own soon. She skimmed through a few until she read Bay’s terse note announcing his grandmother’s death. There were no sensual overtures in this one. Charlotte wondered if Deb had even bothered to send a note of condolence. She picked up the next letter.

Charlotte swallowed. She didn’t believe Bay meant to get Deborah with child. One didn’t impregnate one’s mistress if one could help it. But she suddenly realized they had taken no precautions the past few days. Bay had already shown
her
exactly how alive he was, and what if there was a child growing inside her? She tried to count back to her last courses, but never paid much attention to the calendar. There had been no need since Robert. She’d made a lucky escape there.

Her mama always said not to borrow trouble. There was no point in worrying herself when there was absolutely nothing she could do but wait. And anyway, she was old, well past her prime as a woman. She had the silver hairs slithering like snakes on her head to prove it.

She returned Bay’s letters to the empty drawer and sat at her dressing table with a hand mirror. Gritting her teeth, she began yanking out every one of the coarse gray hairs that had plagued her for the past ten years. If only it were so simple to uproot her fears. And her desires.