Mistress By Mistake (21 page)

“So I have been told. Come sit on my lap, Charlie. I’d like to provoke you right this minute.”

Charlotte felt her blush wash over her. She supposed she must do as he asked. He was paying her more than enough. She slipped from her chair to his. His hand reached under her gown. Besides her caps, he had failed to pack any drawers. He was an absolute fiend.

“Ah,” he sighed happily, finding her shamefully accessible. He set to strumming the center of her womanhood. She leaned back onto his shoulder, her eyes closed. There was nothing but his hands and her body. He held her still with one hand. With the other he made her loose, free. Unraveled. She was soon as wet as the windowpane, weeping onto his fingers. Wanting much more.

Half of her wondered if Mrs. Kelly would return for the tea cart; the other half was quivering under his concerted stroking. She was on the cusp of danger and delight. He held her in an iron grip as if he was afraid she’d run off. Impossible. She’d be mad to forgo this sensual abandonment. That would happen all too soon, and she’d be back in her little cottage, lonely and rich. Unhappy. Untouched.

Charlotte knew happiness was an illusion, but she’d settle for touch. She needed Bay’s touch. Everywhere. Right now. She began by kissing the raspberry essence from his mouth. His lips were firm, his tongue wicked. It twinned with his fingers to subdue her worries and lull her into bliss. Just when she thought things could not be more perfect, he edged her over the cliff, catching her as she fell apart in his arms.

Her eyes were still closed as he shifted her and fumbled with his falls, keeping her reality in check. His shaft was adamantine against her bare buttocks. His broad hands raised her hips. She steadied herself on the arms of the chair as he gripped himself and filled her from behind. She sheathed him easily, feeling every glorious pulsing inch of him inside her. They both stilled, Bay’s breath hitching in blissful agony.

And then she took control. She pushed herself up on the arms of the chair. Came down hard. He was buried deeper than ever, touching her in places previously forbidden. Exquisite sensation washed over them both, like the driving rain outdoors.

Touching. So basic. So elemental. So cleansing for the soul, so affirming that one was not truly alone in the universe. Charlotte felt each prickle of coppery hair on her skin, each imprint of his fingertips, each ragged breath against the back of her neck.

She nearly swooned with the glory of it, but she knew better. She was a very bad swooner, although this time she thought Bay might keep her safe in his arms. They were around her now, helping her to rise and fall, repeating the rhythm again and again until she thought she’d
die
of his touch, both inside and out. As he lost himself, his hand sought her center again. She joined him a jolt of breathless union, as fierce as the waves outside slapped against the rocks.

His hand splayed on her belly in ownership. Too sated to move, she leaned back against his heaving chest. His lips were at her neck, her ear, whispering words she couldn’t make sense of. She couldn’t make sense of anything. The man drove her completely mad. They had taken no precautions—again. Charlotte was playing a dangerous game, one she suspected she might have already lost.

She couldn’t tell him. Wouldn’t tell him that more than likely a few weeks ago—perhaps that very first night—they had made a new life. It was too soon to tell, but she was almost certain. Her courses had not come. Even if she had been off balance what with the kidnapping and gunplay, her body should have righted itself by now.

She could not think of any child as a mistake, for she had longed for motherhood even as she pushed away the few suitors she’d had over the years. Of course it meant she’d have to sell her cottage and move again, go to a new part of the country, this time as a widow bearing her late husband’s child. She’d had years of experience playacting, although she did not look forward to trading her gray dresses for black ones again. It couldn’t be helped.

There would be sufficient funds, and Lord knows she had sufficient love within her to raise a baby. She knew if she asked him, Bay would do right by his son or daughter, but the thought of tethering herself to him as a dependent for the next twenty years pierced her soul. He needed to marry some sweet young thing and have a normal life. She couldn’t stand by in the shadows and watch that. She needed to disappear.

Perhaps it was all wishful thinking. His finger was at her cheek, wiping up a tear she hadn’t planned to shed.

“I’m sorry I was such a beast, Charlie. Was I too rough?”

“Oh, no. It was perfect.” She sniffled a bit, then found her tart tongue. “Perfect, as always, although your head will swell to the size of a hot-air balloon if I must keep complimenting you.”

Bay chuckled. “A man cannot ever have too much praise over his sexual prowess, my love. Tell me more.”

“I shall not!” She struggled to get up from his lap, but his arms were like iron bands across her chest, and his cock twitched with renewed interest inside her. “Do let me up. Mrs. Kelly could come back at any moment,” she begged.

“I doubt it. But if she did, she would just see you sitting on my lap. Shocking, to be sure, but your front is completely undisturbed, more’s the pity. I didn’t have time to attend to your superb breasts in all the rush. I think,” he said, his lips skimming her throat, causing her to shiver, “I should remedy that.”

His hands made quick work of her buttons. He freed one breast easily from her bodice and then he bent to tease and suckle. She was tender, and the sensation was both torture and ecstasy. Suddenly his lips left their torment and he pushed her from his lap.

“What—why?”

He put a fingertip to her lip. “I want to watch you, Charlie. See your lovely face.” He led her to a pillow-covered sofa. If he hadn’t supported her across the carpet, her knees would have buckled beneath her. She was boneless and drunk with lust. Bay stripped her dress and underthings from her and laid her down on the velvet. She watched as he tossed his own clothing to the floor. There would be no disguising what was going on now should anyone come upon them, but Charlotte was too swept away to protest. She fell headlong into his dark gaze as he brought her ever closer to the storm.

What in God’s name was the matter with him? True, his servants were well aware and accepted the fact that he was a lusty man. They didn’t blink or flinch as he installed mistresses in the Jane Street house or flirted shamelessly and bedded racy widows in his townhouse. His French chef even had a standard romantic supper menu that never changed although Bay’s female guests did. But it was rare that he’d be naked in daylight, rutting on parlor furniture, apparently incapable of controlling himself where Charlie was concerned. In the space of an hour he’d proudly brought her to orgasm too many times to count. She lay flushed and warm beneath him now, her white skin marbled with rose, her heavy dark hair falling from her pins to reach the carpet. He curled a strand around his fingers and brought it to his nose. He was reminded of orange peel. Lemons. As far as he knew she had no expensive scent, just some cakes of soap she’d tucked into a satchel for the trip. Soap she’d made herself with her own work-reddened hands.

At least she’d have a month free from care and worry. If this blasted weather ever let up, there would be walks on the beach. Picnics. Sailing. His little boat was tucked into the cove beneath the cliffs. It had been an age since he’d used it. Frazier had said it was still seaworthy. Frazier had said several things. But Bay wanted to let nothing disturb the peace of Charlie breathing beneath him.

Her eyes were closed, her lashes fluttering. They were tipped with tears again, but she didn’t seem unhappy. Far from it. She seemed to cry more out of joyful release than any sorrow. Getting her here had been worth the slog through the mud and the tedium in the shut-up carriage, although Bay had sought to keep things lively by his constant attention to her physical comfort. Perhaps comfort wasn’t the appropriate word. Satisfaction might be more accurate. He had discovered Charlie to be flexible and enthusiastic, even in the squabs of his coach. She was altogether an exceptional mistress, and worth the astronomical amount he had promised her.

He felt a twinge of guilt at his bribery. No sensible woman, no matter how vaunted her virtue, could turn away such a sum easily. But for a time Bay believed Charlie would do just that and give him his marching orders. There was no room for him and his proposal in her orderly, slightly shabby Little Stickup world. She had her pride, and her temper, too. But somehow over tea that Monday afternoon he had worn down her resistance and won a reprieve. He took advantage of her post-sex lethargy that night, packing most of her clothing in a valise—sad, sterile dresses which should be burned as he had done with her nasty caps. He wished he could furnish her with new gowns as he had done with Deborah, but rationalized he would have her out of her clothes as often as possible anyway. A month was not a very long time to endure the boring colors and styles of her “Widow Fallon” wardrobe.

A month might not be long enough, however, to get his need for her out of his system. He brushed his lips on her eyelids, tasting her tears. He watched as her teeth sank into her own plump bottom lip, as if she were preventing herself from speaking.

“Are you all right, Charlie?”

She fitted herself more snugly into his arms. “Quite.” Her warm hand was over his heart, as if to inspect the effect she had upon him still. His blood surged in response. The velvet of the sofa back and the velvet of Charlie’s perfect body cradled him, but he supposed they should make themselves presentable at some point. He hadn’t even bothered to ask Mrs. Kelly to lock the parlor door, although he did not expect her to enter without knocking first. The tea was long cold, the crusts of the sandwiches curling up. The sky outside was darkening with thunderheads, rain spattered on the windows, and the wind-driven ocean roared. This was no ordinary mild June afternoon. It mirrored the war he was having within himself.

He kissed her quickly on her nose. There was a freckle there he hadn’t noticed before, and a few more strands of silver shooting through her midnight hair. He pictured her in twenty years, one of her ghastly caps concealing pearl-white curls. She would age well, he thought, the cushion of her womanly body softening any wrinkle that would dare to appear. He wondered where she’d be in two decades, and with whom. Surely she was meant to be a wife and mother; her housewifery was apparent in her neat little cottage.

And where would he be? Likely right here. London would soon lose its allure—it was doing so already. There were several improvement projects at Bayard Court that he had been putting off, not wishing to disturb his grandmother. He knew he could sell the Jane Street property at a tidy profit. A mile of gentlemen were lined up waiting to purchase one of the dozen houses if it came on the market. And if his grumpy little Charlie was not there waiting for him upstairs, it was too annoying and arduous by half to have to replace her.

He didn’t think he could push his luck and coax her back to Jane Street on any terms. She really was a vexingly upright citizen after all, despite her undeniably sinful body. He hoped she wouldn’t ask to attend church while she was here—her presence would attract unwelcome attention. He was known not to have any female cousins. A man of his class did not have female “friends” who visited unchaperoned. Even if he passed her off as the widow of an army comrade, there would be talk. Charlie would not be safe. The fewer people who knew he was back, the better.

“You look dreadfully serious all of a sudden.”

Her eyes were bright, but the tears had dried up. He smiled at her, pushing his concerns away. “It’s this blasted weather. How am I to take you for a moonlit sail when we’re likely to be blown all the way to France?”

“One can do nothing about the weather. I’m sure we’ll find other amusements.” She wiggled into him playfully. This was the Charlie he loved.

He kissed her again, savoring the taste of her. He could kiss her for hours, but the chiming hall clock had other ideas.

“I think, my dear, that we should help each other get dressed and help each other get undressed to change for dinner. If I know Mrs. Kelly, she’s been slaving away in the kitchen with something tempting for us.”

She sighed in relaxation in his arms. “I am beyond temptation. For food, at any rate.”

“Minx. You hardly ate anything at tea. Don’t be foolish and go on some sort of slimming regimen. I like your womanly curves.” He brushed a hand across her belly for emphasis. She was round in all the right places. He’d never been one to admire a bony or waiflike female.

She slapped his hand away. “No tickling. Not again.”

“Spoilsport.” With a groan, he raised them both up to a sitting position on the divan. Her nipples pebbled against his chest. “Cold?”

“It’s supposed to be summer. How can I be?” She reached for a stocking on the carpet. “You’ve thrown my pins everywhere. Just how am I to do my hair up so I can pass the servants without them smirking?”

“All this sex has made me stupid. I completely forgot. We’ll go up the secret stairs. There will be no need to even dress.”

Charlie blinked. “There are secret stairs? Next you’ll tell me there’s a ghost.”

“Nothing so predictable. But there is a passage leading from this room to one of the bedrooms upstairs. Not yours or mine, but I doubt we’ll bump into anyone.” He got off the sofa and scooped up the bundle of their clothes.

“I will
not
go upstairs naked.”

“All right.” He tossed her shift to her. “Put this on, Miss Prim. Now, if I can find the right panel…”

“Please,
please
put your trousers on at least.”

“You’re right. There might be spiders.” He enjoyed her shudder as he stepped into his pants and boots. She sat back down and put her slippers on sans stockings. “This house is very old, you know, and it wasn’t always in my family. My grandfather bought it when he made his fortune and changed its name.”

“That’s unlucky, isn’t it?”