Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 18

Charlotte spent a sleepless night, counting the raindrops as they fell on her roof. The man was impossible, the devil himself, to taunt her with such an enormous amount of money. She would be set for life, never wondering whether she should sell one of Deb’s castoffs, never tatting another inch of lace if she didn’t want to. The banknotes she had in the ginger jar could fall into the fire and she needn’t deign to singe her fingers to rescue them.

A summer by the sea as well as a fortune-she realized she missed her childhood home, hearing the slap of waves against the rocks, feeling the sharp wind against her face, seeing the gilded ribbon of moonlight on the water on a calm night. When her parents had drowned, she’d turned her back to the ocean, hating what she once had loved. But a decade had passed. She would love a beach holiday-she’d even contemplate going for a sail should the opportunity present itself.

But if she had felt guilty taking money from Mr. Frazier, however could she reconcile herself to Bay’s offer? She would be a true prostitute, bought and at his every beck and call. No one could possibly refuse any demand he made after he had paid such a wicked sum. She would be completely at his mercy. The situation was absurd.

Let him cool his heels at the village inn. He’d soon grow bored waiting to hear from her. He’d simply have to find another woman to captivate. She would not succumb to his allure. Not again.

Grumpy, Charlotte tumbled out of bed and straightened the covers. She always made the bed first thing. She had her routine, and she stuck by it. Today was Monday, which meant she would clean her clean kitchen, then walk to the village shops. It had turned out to be a fine day for a change. She could finally get at her overgrown garden this afternoon, work up a sweat, and work out the irritability she still felt for Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. She wrapped her hair in a clean kerchief, tied an apron on over an old brown calico work dress, and entered her kitchen.

She stopped still. There on the table was Bay’s mug, the tea still in it. She had been so distracted when he left yesterday, she’d gone straight into her parlor and wound lace on her bobbins, weaving and twisting and pinning the thread to her pillow until her hands cramped and it was too dark to see. She’d gone to bed without supper, her toast and the jam sandwich the only thing she ate all day yesterday. She was famished.

Sweeping the mug off the table, she opened the back door and tossed it into the garden, where it bounced along the lawn. It wasn’t fit to be used anymore. She sometimes kept spare coins or pins in it. Perhaps Bay had swallowed one.

She stoked the stove, adding a shovelful of coals, boiled her water, scrambled her egg. When she finished breakfast she tidied the kitchen and set to scrubbing the stubborn long gray stain on her wall. If she had six thousand pounds, she could buy a new stove that wouldn’t smoke. If she had six thousand pounds, she could hire Mrs. Finch from the village to scrub walls and sweep floors while she read one of Caroline’s naughty novels in her back garden.

No, she was not going to do it.

She made herself presentable for her walk to the shops, gathered her basket by the front door, and went outside. Her plum trees were bursting full with green fruit. In a few weeks it would be time to make jam. If she were at Bayard Court, all those delicious plums would drop to the ground for the birds and the worms, and then what would she have for her bread come winter? She’d miss the raspberries and blackberries too. She’d been in the middle of making strawberry preserves when Deb’s letter had come, so at least there was that, although she’d promised a dozen jars to Mrs. Kemble for the church fair in August.

But if she had six thousand pounds, she could buy jars of jam at any church fair.

Charlotte mentally slapped herself. She had her pride. She had her dignity. She had her modesty, what there was of it. It was one thing to be an accidental and then blackmailed mistress, quite another to acquiesce to the position in broad daylight.

So preoccupied with her born-again virtue, she nearly walked right by Mr. Trumbull’s bentwood gate before she noticed the old gentleman hailing her. He was crouched over his stick, a smile splitting his wrinkled face. Mr. Trumbull’s pride and joy was his garden, although he’d had to cut back its size severely the past few years since his wife had died. His roses in particular were to be admired. Because he was quite lame, Charlotte often shopped for him as well when she went for provisions. She had an eye for a bargain, which suited them both in their straitened circumstances.

“Hi there, Mrs. Fallon!”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Trumbull. I’m on my way to the shops. May I get you anything while I’m there?”

“No need, no need. I have an acquaintance of yours here who has already been and back. Turned up on my doorstep bright and early this morning. Good fellow. Wouldn’t take a penny for his trouble but wants some China rose cuttings in exchange. Told him he was getting a bad bargain-why, he bought me so much I don’t believe I’ll live long enough to eat it all.”

Charlotte’s heart thudded. “An acquaintance?”

“Aye. Said the vicar introduced you in church yesterday. Sir Michael Bayard. Military man, but now he’s a man of leisure, going about the country looking at gardens. He’s planting a memorial to his old granny. Fond of roses, she was. Don’t quite know what brought him to our neck of the woods, but I’m happy to help.” Mr. Trumbull grinned in pride, revealing several yellow teeth. “He’s out back, clearing out all the brush that got away from me. Can’t do what I used to, and that’s a fact.”

What on earth? Why was Bay working at her neighbor’s, if not to spy on her?

“I would hardly call Sir Michael an acquaintance, Mr. Trumbull. He wanted to see my garden after church yesterday, but the rain prevented it. He admired the flowers I did for the altar.”

“I’m sure they were lovely as always. Didn’t get to see them myself, you know. Too wet. Makes my old bones ache. Vicar Kemble came round last night after evensong, so I reckon I’m still in good standing with the Lord. I’ll tell Sir Michael you’ll receive him after you get back from your errands. He’s got a powerful interest in your garden. Keeps peeking over the wall. Seems to like your Cuisse de Nymphs.” The old man chuckled at the name. Thigh of nymph roses did sound naughty. Whatever one called them, they were a beautiful, lush, blush rose.

Charlotte couldn’t very well forbid a garden tour today. The sky above was a brilliant blue. And even if she lingered in the five tiny shops in Little Hyssop, there was no way she could postpone the inevitable without attracting suspicion. One could only stare at thread so long, or debate the virtue of one lamb chop versus one pork chop. The thought of eating a chop of any kind made her nervous stomach nauseous. “Please tell Sir Michael I have time to see him at four o’clock. I suppose I can spare him a cup of tea.”

The old man nodded. “That’ll give the boy a chance to clean himself up. He’s a handsome one, Mrs. Fallon. I suppose you noticed that yesterday,” he said, his rheumy eyes twinkling. For an ancient, nearly blind man, Mr. Trumbull was entirely too astute.

“I had not noticed,” Charlotte said, nose in the air. “The only man I ever noticed was Mr. Fallon, God rest his soul.” Her imaginary dead husband had taken on rather mythic proportions in the ten years he’d been invented. Charlotte sometimes wondered if she’d gone a bit overboard. No man could ever measure up, but that had been the point. She’d been successful turning away the handful of unsatisfactory suitors who’d shown any interest in a pretty young widow. She was not about to get mixed up with another Robert, for all men were Robert at heart-ambitious and fickle, always looking over the next garden wall.

She bid Mr. Trumbull good-bye and walked into the center of the village. If Bay were coming at four o’clock, she’d better have tea for him, this time hot. There was no time to bake biscuits, so she purchased a half dozen at the baker’s, as well as a fresh loaf of bread. She’d lay out the good dishes, and over a proper table she’d have a civilized conversation, refusing politely to join him and wishing him well in the future. With any luck, he’d pack his bags and rose cuttings and leave Little Hyssop early tomorrow morning and she would never, ever see him again.

Charlotte spent the remainder of the afternoon readying herself and her house for the unwelcome visitor. Perhaps she was foolishly vain, but she put on her best navy blue dress trimmed with her own lace and tied a new cap over her curls. The tea table was set in the parlor with her mother’s transfer-ware, starched napkins covering neatly cut sandwich triangles and cookie rounds. The kettle was simmering on the hob in her little fireplace. The house was still a bit damp and cold after the week of rain. To steady her nerves, she picked up her bobbins and clicked away until she heard the knock at the door, precisely as her mantel clock sounded the first of four chimes.

Bay stooped a bit as she let him into the narrow hallway. He was so very much taller than she was, a fact that had made her feel safe in his arms. But safe she was not-her heart would be at risk if she agreed to his plan.

He bent to kiss her cheek and she darted away. “Mr. Trumbull might be spying in the bushes,” she said lightly. “Thank you for being so kind to him.”

“He’s a nice old gent. Here. This is for you.” Bay handed her a lumpy parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

Charlotte frowned. “You needn’t give me presents. I’m not going to accept your invitation, and nothing you can give me will induce me to change my mind.” She tore off the paper only to find the same cracked white mug she’d tossed out the kitchen door. Stuffed inside it was a red velvet drawstring bag.

“I rescued the cup from your back garden. There it was, like a snowball in the grass. I agree it is far too unsafe for ordinary use, but it served as a vessel for my other gift.”

Charlotte put the mug down on the hall table, opened the pouch, and gasped.

“This time, I won’t want it returned,” Bay said, his voice as dark and smooth as chocolate sauce. “You deserve it after all the trouble it’s caused you. I meant to give it to you yesterday, but the circumstances did not seem propitious. You were so very angry you might have strangled me with it.”

Charlotte felt witless. The rubies and diamonds lay heavy in her hand. If she had been dazzled yesterday by the necklace, today she was spellbound. He couldn’t really mean to give it to her after all the fuss he had made about Deb, could he?

Her lips felt numb. “But it was your grandmother’s.”

“Yes, and she wasn’t all that fond of it, to be frank. She never wore it. Its history is not one of undying love, I’m afraid. My grandfather was a bit of a rascal. He made his fortune in the Orient, breaking all sorts of rules. One of them was his marriage vows. The necklace was a gift given out of guilt. I suppose I’m simply continuing the tradition. I truly regret all the indignities I’ve subjected you to. But I can’t regret meeting you, Charlie. You’ve gotten under my skin.”

“Like a rash?”

“Ah. A tongue as sharp as an adder’s. That’s what I like about you. Is your offer still on for tea? I’ve worked up a powerful thirst hacking and pruning away.”

Bay brushed by her and made himself comfortable in a faded chintz-covered chair. She had no choice but to follow him into the parlor, the rubies weighing down her every step. She dropped the necklace in his lap. “I can’t possibly accept this. You know I can’t.”

“Why not? You’ve earned it, Charlie. Every stone.”

Suddenly dizzy, she carefully poured the steaming water into the teapot and set the kettle on a trivet before the little fire. She sat at the tea table, busying herself with strainers and rattling cups, wishing she was in her homey kitchen where Bay hadn’t quite loomed so. It wasn’t as if he was trying to intimidate her-he was sitting back, relaxed, a composed dark presence against the flowery slipcover. His hair seemed a little longer and less kempt. She thought she spied a coppery curl sprouting at his temple. His square jaw was shadowed with the beginnings of his beard, and for an instant she wanted to reach across the table and touch the stubble for herself.

“Bay,” she said in impatience, mostly with herself, “I have told you time and time again I am a virtuous woman. Or I have tried to be. I made a mistake when I was a girl and I have been paying for it every day since. I don’t need jewels or money for the life I live now. Mr. Frazier was more than generous when I left London. I cannot become a rich man’s plaything, even if you are that rich man.”

Bay took a sip of tea. “Then you do like me a little bit.”

Charlotte felt the heat in her cheeks. “What I feel or do not feel is not at issue.”

“Charlie, feelings are everything. Life is short, you know. If you didn’t know it before you met me, you must be convinced of it now. A woman like you shouldn’t go through the rest of your life buttoned up and covered up. It’s a-it’s a sin.”

“I am not my sister!”

Bay put his cup down and leaned forward. He looked suspiciously earnest, his dark eyes flashing. “No, you are not. You are better. Full of life and real passion, not someone who plays a role. Deborah is all glittering surface. You glow from within, Charlie. I was a fool not to see the difference earlier.” He paused, letting his compliment sink in. He really was a master of persuasion. If one weren’t mesmerized by his good looks alone, his voice could lull one into complete submission.

“If you are so determined to bury yourself in Little Wallop for the rest of your life,” he continued, “how can it harm you to spend three months in the country with me? Think of it as a last fling. A final farewell to the woman we both know you are. I’ll spoil you as you deserve to be spoiled. You won’t have a care. Then come back and do your good works with my money. Wear my necklace beneath your spinster’s night rail, where no one will ever see it.”

Charlotte shivered. She felt like a snake in a basket, twisting to the snake charmer’s hypnotic music. She should have some riposte-something sharp and off-putting so he would swallow up his tea and go away for good. Instead of biting him, she bit into a sandwich, struggling to keep her throat from closing.

“I’ve spoken to my banker. Whether or not you agree to come to Dorset, I’ve arranged to have a substantial sum transferred to you. You’ve succeeded in making me feel penitent-and I’m a man who rarely regrets anything, Charlie. But I wronged you and want to salve my guilty conscience.”

So, he offered a fortune either way. She had been wronged, from the moment she woke with his lips suckling at her nipple. She’d been stripped of her freedom, although it had been a more than pleasant imprisonment. Terrified by his crazy wife, too. To be bound in his arms again would not be a hardship.

She’d had so little love in her life, not that Robert had truly loved her. Not that Bay did either. Both men had loved her body though. She was still young enough to feel desire, despite years of enforced purity. Could she survive her next thirty years without wishing for one more night with Bay?

She could have one more night. One more afternoon, anyway. She could allow him to make love to her right now, and focus on every kiss, caress, stroke. Store them up in her memory bank for the frigid winters ahead, like the pound notes in her ginger jar. Say good-bye to him once and for all.

Give him some small value for the money he seemed determined to bestow upon her. Give herself the gift of one last fling, as he put it. To feel him over her and in her, his hands and tongue and teeth imprinting themselves and anointing her.

She stood up and he quickly rose, concern on his brow.

She licked her lips. “I cannot give you three months, Bay. But I will give you three hours. Now. It’s all I dare.” She reached out to him, her hand trembling.

He pressed a kiss to her hand. “What if I can convince you to spare me a little more time? A month, say?”

“You can try.” Charlotte felt the corners of her mouth turn up. She must be mad, as mad as Anne Whitley, but he was so effortlessly tempting.

“I shall rise to your challenge. In fact, I’m rising now.” He pressed her palm to his breeches. She had done that to him without an ounce of flirtation. How very odd. “See? I’ve been hard for you since I walked through the door. Go close the curtains in your bedchamber. We wouldn’t want to shock Mr. Trumbull.”

Charlotte was shocked herself. But she threw her caution out the window and pulled the curtains in her mind shut and led Bay into her bedroom.

He untied her stupid cap. It was criminal to cover such hair. Glossy, rippling waves escaped down her back as he carefully removed each pin. She stood still, her eyes downcast as if she was afraid to meet his. Her lashes seemed unnaturally dark on her pale cheeks.

She was afraid of him! Afraid of herself, too, of what they had together. He would have to warm her up gently if he would have any hope of convincing her to parlay three hours into thirty days. He looked forward to sparring with her for a month, both in and out of bed. He could be persuasive, verbally and physically. She would fall from her pedestal into his arms.

But in truth, it was she who had persuaded him to follow her here without any effort at all.

Her room was small, simple, virginal, the bed snowy with white linen, every corner tucked. He would soon alter that. His bed at Bayard Court was a massive Elizabethan affair, a tester bed with fringed brocade bed hangings that could accommodate a small family. He could see himself and Charlie tented within, the shadows abetting their happy sin. Today he’d have to control his impulses to roll around with her wildly or they’d wind up on the rag-rugged floor. He unbuttoned her plain navy dress and wished she’d at least reach for his cravat, but she was still as death. Like a Christian martyr waiting on a china plate for the lion to come for supper. This would never do. She was as solemn as a nun. Had she forgotten already that it was her idea to bring him to bed in the afternoon? He had merely come to tea, expecting another set-down.

He stuck one finger under her armpit and wiggled. She flinched, bit her lip but said nothing. He applied more pressure, this time with both hands, and she let out a little scream. Her dress dropped to the floor. She toppled backward on the bed as his fingers continued their tickling mischief. She was laughing and writhing now, helpless. Her face was rosy with some anger, and-yes-enjoyment.

“Stop this at once!” she cried before shrieking. She batted at him ineffectually, her breasts rising and falling beneath her chemise and corset. Her lips opened in further protest. He had to stop their mutual torment, so he kissed her, as he had wanted to do from the first moment he nearly decapitated himself entering her cottage.

She tasted of cress and butter. Sweet tea. So sweet. Soft. He cupped her face with one hand as he untied her laces with the other to free a plump breast. It was perfect in his hand, the creamy weight temptation itself. He’d missed the scent of oranges, missed the velvet of her skin. Missed everything about her, even her bad temper and hideous caps. He thought about confessing, but he’d already pled his case. It was time to use other methods.

His tongue was useful, circling around a darkening nipple. He feasted, deliberately savoring each second buried in her lush bosom, indulging himself, and, he hoped, her as well. He knew success when he heard her sigh and felt her fingers slide through his hair. The taste of her filled his mouth, more delicious than all the store-bought biscuits in the world. He felt her melt as he suckled, her legs part. He tugged up the hem of her chemise and headed homeward, skimming her smooth skin with his fingertips. Her white thighs, the sensitive spot behind her knees, her beautiful belly-they would be tended to later. All he wanted right now was to touch her hot core. Get inside her and never leave. Make her beg for him to stay tonight, and then go away with him forever tomorrow. He dipped a finger into her dark curls, slipped between her nether lips. She was already silky, slick, welcoming.

But he could wait, though not for long. He set to abrading the inch of swollen flesh at the apex, for her pleasure and his. He would benefit from every touch, every tensing, every letting go. She shuddered under him as he worked her clitoris to rigid attention, much like his own cock, which was near to bursting in his breeches.

He drew her nipple between his teeth as he circled harder and felt her world shift. She cried out, her nails nearly piercing his shoulder. He chose to withstand the sting and soldiered on, nipping, soothing, and smoothing her as she came apart. Charlotte let loose a string of somewhat colorful descriptions of all the things he had already planned to do.

He heard her orders, and he was an obedient sort of fellow. So much for gentling her into submission. She was as wild and needy as he was. He had to have her, had to feel her tight and wet around him now. This very minute.

Apparently she felt the same way. There was no time for finesse. There wasn’t time to remove his jacket or even her shift. Between the two of them, two pairs of hands desperate, the placket of his breeches became undone and he sheathed himself within her in one very firm stroke. She spasmed around him, all warm honey, her hips lifting and driving him further inside. He was so lost he forgot to kiss her, just shut his eyes and plunged deeper, the exquisite friction almost too perfect to bear. She rose up against him and lured him down with a nip at his throat.

The heat between them danced across his skin. He opened his eyes thinking to see his jacket in flames, but saw instead his lover, her hair a tangle, her ivory skin flushed, her mouth open in joyous surprise. His tongue swept in and she returned the parry, as though she was starving, tasting him for the first time and could not get enough. He could kiss her forever, drink in her sweetness. Their coupling was so right, so thoughtless, really. He needn’t worry about position or mindless patter-she opened to him willingly and matched him each time he thrust. Then she rippled all around him, riding the crest of her orgasms, making quick cries between kisses. It had been like this from the first night, when she thought she was dreaming. Perhaps it was he who was dreaming now, for surely this was too ideal to be real.

But reality did intrude on this come-to-life fantasy, so he withdrew and spent on her belly. He lay pressed close, their heartbeats skipping between them. Her white breast spilled over in his hand, its nipple peaked and pink. The weight of his clothes was suddenly onerous-he should be with her, flesh to flesh. He’d taken her like an impatient brute, but judging from her lazy smile, she didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry I was so precipitous. I didn’t even remove my boots.”

She touched his scarred cheek. “We still have most of three hours.” Her voice was playful and sultry, even if she had reminded him how very fast he had taken her. How very fast she had brought him to completion. But it had been as good for her. Next time he would make it even better. He rolled away and tugged at his neck cloth, which had disentangled enough for her to mark him with a lovebite. She sat up and drew her shift over her head.

Her body was even more desirable than he remembered. She glistened with a sheen of perspiration from their lovemaking, and her scent, far from disturbing him, made him want to taste her all over, lick up each drop of moisture. He watched as she used the garment to wipe away the sweat and semen. If they had been on Jane Street, they could have bathed together, which reminded him he was overdressed for the occasion. He removed his wrinkled clothing, returned to the mattress and to his absolute astonishment, watched his cock recover some of its audacity.

He sensed her regaining her propriety, moving away from him both physically and mentally. Her face had lost some of its sly softness, as if she was awakening from a reverie. He meant for her to go back, for them both to go back where the world was as small as the bed they shared, and life was as simple as a good fuck. He would force her from her prudery, and with luck, would be on his way to Dorset with her in the morning. He tipped her back against the pillows and trailed his tongue from the hollow at her throat to her delicious hot slit. She would not say no. She could not say no. She was his, every inch of her, at least for a little while.