Mistress By Mistake (23 page)

He disengaged gently. “Later, my love. Let me stir up the fire. I shouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

“You
are
serious about a life study. Why can’t you draw me with my dress on?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, that dress is definitely not worthy of immortalization.”

“I have nothing better. I need nothing better.”

“’Tis a shame your sister stole all the clothes, but at least we have this.” He took the ruby necklace out of his pocket and dangled it before her. She snatched it away.

“I hid it! How did you find it?”

“Sweetheart, nothing and no one escape me. I found you in Little Hurryup, didn’t I?”

“You went through my things.” There was a mulish set to her mouth. He wondered what else she had hidden from him.

“Just a pile of handkerchiefs and a stocking or two. I shall not trespass again, I promise. All your secrets are safe. Hold still.” He began unhooking, unlacing, unpinning. Her cheeks flushed, her nipples puckered dark pink. Taking the rubies and diamonds from her slack hand, he fastened it around her throat. The center stone pointed its way to the pleasure of her. He stepped back. “Perfect.”

“Hardly.”

“Oh, don’t fight with me now. You won’t win.” He rearranged the furniture, dragging the chaise to the bank of windows. He selected a comfortable chair for himself, then tore down a curtain.

“What on earth?”

“Some judicious draping.”

“I’ll sneeze my head off.”

“Nonsense. I know for a fact all the curtains were taken down and cleaned this spring. I was here.”

“Oh.” She looked very uncertain without her own dowdy gray curtain covering her. “What do you want me to do?”

“Turn into pudding, all smooth and boneless. I’m going to have my hands all over you. Try not to flinch. Sit on the sofa, please.”

He pushed her back deftly, his hands stroking satin. He was being wicked, he knew. He palmed a breast, flicked a nipple, watched the gooseflesh prickle across her limbs. He lifted a leg, stroked a foot, laid a bit of curtain across her hip.

“You can see everything! You haven’t draped me at all,” she complained.

“The next time. Now try to be quiet while I work.” He pulled the charcoal from his pocket and set to sketch.

“That will not be difficult. I have nothing to say. You did lock the door, didn’t you?”

“Um.”

“Bay! Suppose one of the maids comes in to dust or something! Your staff is worldly-wise, but Kitty and Mary are practically children. Please lock the door this instant.”

Bay’s fingers were flying across the paper, the charcoal an extension of his vision. He was baffled as to how the creative process worked, only knew how restful it felt to be drawing again. Well, it would be restful of his subject didn’t have such a scowl and wasn’t making an effort to get up.

“Lie still. I’ll lock up in a minute.” He added a sweet curve of ankle, a toenail. The foot in question hit the floor. “All right, all right!”

He made a loud to-do at the door to assuage her, then was back to his seat. She was in position again, though there was a palpable tension to her body. “Relax.”

“Much easier said than done. I feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.”

“Oh, certainly you’re not a bug. Perhaps a flower, though. A white rose.”

“Well past its first bloom.”

“In lush, full bloom, with plenty of days yet in the sun. Don’t fish for compliments, Charlie. It doesn’t become you.”

“I was not fishing!” She made a cranky face at him.

Fine. He would show her just what she looked like. The drawing was quick and crude, but he was just warming up.

“My nose itches.”

“It must be the spider from the curtain.”

In a flash, she was off the chaise screaming, jumping up and down and wiping her face with both hands. He bit back his laughter as he appreciated her bouncing breasts and silky, swinging tendrils of hair as she shook her head free of imaginary insects.

“Don’t just sit there! Get it off me!”

Tossing the pad to the floor, he enveloped her in his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. “There, all better.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You fiend. There was no spider, was there?”

“I told you the curtains were cleaned,” he said mildly. “I would never subject you to danger willingly. Now, shall we try again? You should have all the bugs out of your system.” He grinned down at her.

“You really are impossible. How would you like it if you lay naked and I was staring at you?” She settled herself back down on the divan, clutching a pillow over her breasts. He wrestled it away from her and put her back into position.

“I would count myself lucky. You have an incredible amount of power over me, you know. I don’t quite understand it myself.”

She snorted and made one of her faces. “Here. You must stop looking so condescending.” He picked up the drawing and showed it to her. “Lovely everywhere, except for your expression. It’s as if you swallowed a lemon.”

Charlie squinted at it. “Oh. Oh dear. I’m sorry I spoiled the picture. But I feel so—so very
awkward
.”

“Pretend I’m not here.” He sat back down in the chair and flipped to a clean page. “Imagine you’re in the sultan’s harem. The sun is blazing out of doors, but you’re in a dark, cool zenana. You have every luxury at your fingertips, because you are the sultan’s favorite, you know. He’s given you those jewels to prove it.”

Charlotte fingered the necklace. “Was I sold into slavery?”

“Oh, no. You are a princess of the first consequence. Your father the king received several goats for you, I believe.” He ducked the pillow she flung at him. “It’s true you have a terrible temper, but today you are happy. Ecstatic. Don’t grimace so. I want to see a natural smile.”

Charlie showed more teeth. “Why am I happy?”

“Because the sultan has granted your fondest wish. Yes, yes, that’s the face I love. That little secret smile. Tell me, what did you ask for?”

“My freedom, of course. And the freedom of my sisters in the souk.”

Bay shook his head. “Impossible. The sultan is very fond of you, but he would never let you leave. Besides, where would you go?”

“I would capture a camel and ride off into the desert.”

“Tsk. You would only be discovered by nomadic tribes-men. They would make your mangy camel smell like a flower garden by comparison. And their teeth?” Bay shuddered. “No, no. There’s no escape, I’m afraid. Just lean back on the pillows and indulge your senses.”

“I will not be some sultan’s plaything.”

“You’re looking cross again. Remember, he prefers you to all the others. He sees to it personally that your dates are sweeter, your veils like gossamer, your jewels brighter. And the sultan is a fit, attractive man. A warrior.”

“Brawn is all very well and good, but does he have a brain?”

“Of course. The poetry he’s written praising your attributes has all the other wives green with envy and Byron himself suicidal, knowing he can never hope to measure up.” Bay was enjoying this game, watching emotions flicker across Charlie’s face. The cold rain outside drummed incessantly, but they were far away in a fictional sensual haven, warm, exotic, erotic. Charlie’s lids dropped. Her hand was splayed across her mons veneris, but this act of modesty only made her more appealing. He could easily picture her as the sultan’s favored wife. He could easily picture her as
his
wife.

Lord, where were these thoughts coming from? He needed to dash out in the rain and wash some sense into himself. He concentrated on the drawing, adding a few improvements to the morning room setting. “There. Open your eyes.”

Charlotte struggled up from her reclining position. She had begun to take Bay’s words seriously, lulled by the heat of the fire and thoughts of endless opulence in some imaginary desert palace. When she had challenged his idleness earlier, she never expected to discover this hidden talent of his. She may not have appreciated Jane Street’s insidious cupid ceiling, but Bay could definitely draw.

She examined the paper. A decadent concubine lay upon the sofa, which had sprung up poles and tents of figured silk. A dish of sweetmeats lay upon a low ornate table, and she looked like she had indulged in several plates beforehand. Her body was ripe and bursting like a fig.

“I’m so fat!” she cried.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are perfect. Womanly.”

Bay sounded offended, and Charlotte hurried, “I’m not criticizing your work. It’s beautiful. Beyond beautiful. I just—I just didn’t know I looked quite like this.”

She didn’t only look fat. She looked
sinful
. Her eyes were not quite open, and she had a cat-that-swallowed-a-canary smile. So smugly satisfied, as though she had just been plowed very thoroughly by the sultan, who was obviously a magnificent lover. Possibly the best lover in all of Dorset. Or rather, in the Ottoman Empire. “It—it’s lovely. Very flattering.”

Bay took it from her. “You don’t like it.”

“I do! It’s marvelous, really. The detail is exceptional. It’s just—this woman looks so
wicked.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. Charlotte blathered on. “I’m dull. Boring. Not a bit wicked. And surely my breasts are not quite so large.”

Bay gazed down at the portrait and then at her chest. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I was fairly accurate. But shall I try again?”

Charlotte knew she was blushing to the roots of her hair. She wished she could plead a headache to end this art experiment. Or hunger. But after the enormous breakfast she’d eaten, Bay would never believe it. She’s risen from their bed, starving for a change. She soon would be even fatter than she was if she didn’t push away from Mrs. Kelly’s table.

“I want some drapery this time.” She knew she sounded petulant, but couldn’t help it. It was
not
natural to lie about naked in the middle of the day, a man smirking as he immortalized you.

“All right. Get yourself settled.”

Charlotte padded barefoot to the sofa. She wrapped the curtain around her like a shroud and lay down.

“No and no and no.” Bay tugged and pulled until her breasts sprang free and half her belly was exposed. He propped her cheek up on a curled fist, tucked some pillows under her elbow, and fiddled with her hair. “Better. As you didn’t care for the sultan story, you choose. Tell me who you are now.”

“I’m Charlotte,” she said, gritting her teeth. Her knuckles bit into her jaw.

“What, that dull, boring woman?”

“Don’t be so vexing. I can’t talk if my hand is to stay still.” She stared out through the gray rain at the gray sky and the gray sea.

“Very well. You’ll have to trust me on the next fantasy.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the fleet movement of Bay’s hand as he propped the sketchbook on his knees.

“You are—you are a woman waiting for your man to return home from the sea. He’s been gone a very long time. So long you’re not certain he’ll ever come back. There are some mornings when you awaken that you’re too lonely to get out of bed.”

Charlotte knew all too well what that felt like. The week before Bay turned up in church had been difficult.

“You’ve kept all his letters and read them when you’re blue-deviled.” She turned sharply to look at him, but Bay was absorbed in his work and didn’t notice.

“Is he a sea captain?”

“A pirate, actually. Quite an infamous one.”

“With a woman in every port, I imagine,” Charlotte said dryly.

“Oh, no. he’s quite devoted to you—a puritanical pirate, if you will. That ruby necklace—it was part of some buried treasure on a tropical island. He couldn’t wait to sail home and give it to you.”

“Where is he now? Drinking rum in the shade?”

“He’s lost in a storm. The mast is broken and the sails torn asunder. He may never get back home.”

“Oh, you are horrid! That’s a terrible story!” She sat up and covered herself with the curtain. Bay joined her on the couch.

“Exactly. Perhaps you’ll approve of this version of you.”

This Charlotte no longer looked sated, but unbearably sad, searching out a window for her missing pirate’s ship. There was much less of her on display, yet she was still embarrassingly lush.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s a sin you ever gave up your art. You are disgustingly talented.”

“Why, thank you, I think. I’m not sure about the disgusting part.” He ran smudged fingers through his hair. “Damn, but I need my hair trimmed. I wonder if I can get Frazier away from—is it Kitty or Mary?”

“Kitty. I could cut your hair.” Although shearing off those incipient curls would be a shame.

“Aha! A Delilah in my house! Not a chance. I take my manhood seriously. I don’t want to tempt you with sharp scissors.”

“I would never hurt you—now,” Charlotte said. She had learned her lesson the hard way. She would remember her poor mama’s advice and count to ten before she lost her temper again.

“That’s delightful to hear. Perhaps you should dress before luncheon. Here, let me help you.”

He unwound the curtain from her body as if he were unwrapping a present, then looked toward the pile of clothes that Charlotte had neatly folded. “No,” he said quietly. “Perhaps not quite yet.”

He tipped her backward on the couch again, this time arranging her not for posterity but for pleasure. As was his wont, his mouth and fingers brought her to completion before he entered her with a patience she could only wonder at. She’d lost all control some time ago in the arms of her sultan-pirate. She now combined the desperate longing of the wistful wife with the sexual artistry of the houri, pressing herself against his hot, hard body, her legs locked around him, stretching and constricting her muscles until his seed spilled deep within her. There was nothing in the world but the two of them, their breaths ragged, their skin damp and fragrant. Charlotte blessed the cursed weather for keeping them indoors. She would never enjoy a rainstorm like this so well again.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bay whispered.

“Silly.” She ruffled his hair. “You cannot have the first idea.”

“You are very happy you came back to Dorset.”

“True, I am, but that was not foremost in my thoughts.”