Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 20

For a moment, Charlotte feared Bay would stay with her while she bathed, and then she would never get entirely clean. Or for that matter, dressed again. They would wind up supping in her room, or his, their appetites hungry for each other rather than Mrs. Kelly’s cooking. He had helped orchestrate the little procession of maids who trundled up the stairs with hot water and fluffy towels, going so far as to carry an enormous sloshing, steaming pail himself, but then left them to their duties. Irene introduced the two maids, sisters Mary and Kitty Toothaker, and explained they came for the day only, going back to their village home each night.

Charlotte looked out her window. The sky was slate gray, the rain coming down in sheets.

“That won’t do tonight, girls. Surely in a house this size there’s room for you to sleep here.”

“Our mam would worry, miss,” said Kitty, the darker of the two. She was short, slight, and didn’t even look strong enough to carry the pitcher of hot water she set down before the hearth. A good gust of wind might knock her right down. She might turn a thin ankle and roll into a ditch.

“I don’t think she’d want you to walk all that way alone in the rain and dark.”

“Mr. Frazier keeps us both company, Miss Fallon, and he’s got a big lantern.” Mary caught her sister’s eye and giggled. Kitty blushed under the ruffled brim of her mobcap.

“Mr. Frazier?” Charlotte thought the explosive ex-soldier was the last man she would think of to go a-wooing. But Kitty was young, fresh-faced, and considerably shorter than the short Angus Frazier.

“Hush, Mary!” There’s nothing going on, Miss Fallon! All Ang-All Mr. Frazier does is walk us home. He’s been a perfect gentleman this week while we’ve been getting the house ready for you.”

Charlotte bit back her smile. “I am acquainted with Mr. Frazier a little. He is very brave and loyal. Perhaps if you spend the night, you can get to know him better. Irene, please let Mrs. Kelly know my wishes.” If it was true they were all there to serve her, she might as well take advantage of it.

“But our mam-”

Mary elbowed Kitty in the ribs. “She’ll be asleep anyway and never miss us. She drinks, you know.”

Kitty rolled her eyes at her sister’s indiscretion but kept her lips shut tight.

Charlotte knew what it was like to have a mother who drank. A father, too. “That settles it. Irene, go downstairs with the girls and consult with Mrs. Kelly. As soon as you all have had your supper, you’re free to do as you see fit. I won’t need you until tomorrow, Irene.”

“Not even to help you dress for dinner?”

Charlotte laughed. “Irene, dear, you’ve unpacked my clothes. I’m not getting into a court gown.”

“You should have brought that red dress.”

“Sir Michael packed for me and must have overlooked it.” Charlotte had barely been able to see through her tears when she threw her belongings into her case at Jane Street the day she escaped from Anne Whitley. The object was to get out of town as quickly as possible. To go back to her cottage. To get on with her life, such as it was. But she had taken the impractical dress and Bay’s letters. She was a romantic idiot.

When the girls left her, she sank into the tub and scrubbed herself vigorously with her special soap. The secret stairwell could have been worse, she supposed. Charlotte was not all that fond of dusty, shut-up spaces, but Bay had shouldered the cobwebs away as he dragged her up the steps. He was never going to induce her to enter the tunnel to the beach, however. Bayard Court had once been home to smugglers, its cellars full of contraband. That had appealed to Bay’s grandfather, who was a big risk taker himself. He had bought the house for his child bride, then disappeared to make more money.

Charlotte thought Grace Bayard must have been lonely. She raised one son, then one grandson in this isolating splendor. The house could accommodate a dozen children easily with all its twisting and turning corridors. Charlotte could see why Bay had chosen a London life after he came back from the war-rippling waves and waving grasses had little conversation. It was far more amusing to surround himself with courtesans than watch his aging grandmother tend her rose garden, although she knew he had loved her deeply.

Charlotte washed and towel dried her hair, coiling the linen around her head. She was grateful for the brisk blaze in the fireplace. It would not surprise her one bit to see a snowflake out her window, even if it was June. She wondered if it were raining still in Little Hyssop, or if they had brought the bad weather with them. As the water was cooling, she rose from the tub and dried off in front of the fire. She shrugged into her robe again and combed the tangles in her hair with her fingers.

Her body was warm and relaxed now, its memory of Bay imprinted on every plane and fold. She hoped she could find the switch to turn off her feelings when the month was up. It would be the challenge of her life.

“Bah.” Bay stood before the window in the morning room, watching the rain thunder down. Charlotte sat at a table, her hands flying with bobbins and thread. He had observed her, nearly growing dizzy at her dexterity. Her pattern was pinned to a little pillow. He would go cross-eyed trying to figure it all out. He’d never had the opportunity to think about lace, or many female occupations before, if it came to it. His grandmother’s interests were limited to gardening and gossip. Tramping through the mud carrying a heavy kit to kill the enemy had been his priority for a decade. The wenching and gambling afterward were his peacetime reward.

“How did you come to make lace?” he asked, bending over her shoulder. He deliberately blew his breath on her neck.

Her clever hands paused, then resumed their effort. “There was a neighbor in Bexington. Deb and I would visit her when our parents were otherwise occupied.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes somber. “They drank, you know. First as a lark, as everyone does. It was all merry fun-house parties and other entertainments. Trips to town while we stayed behind. They had scores of friends. My papa could charm the bark off a tree. My mama was the ultimate lady, always with admonishments to us girls about our deportment, but somewhere along the way her tea became spiked with brandy, and there was champagne at breakfast. Pictures started disappearing off the walls. Mr. Peachtree became a fixture in our life. Deb ran wild. And so, in the end, did I.”

“Charlie.” His voice was rough. “You were betrothed. Robert took advantage of you, the cur.”

“Perhaps I took advantage of him.” The bobbins clacked relentlessly. “I wanted to escape, you know. Deb had. I thought if I gave Robert my body, he’d marry me sooner. I was wrong.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder and her hands finally stilled. No matter what she said, Charlie had been Robert’s victim. It was a pity that a woman’s purity was more important than a man’s, but it was society’s highest dictate. He was beginning to feel the injustice of it. Ten years ago, Charlie’s black hair was not lit by silver. She had everything to hope for. She had acted in good faith, out of misplaced love, and look where it had gotten her-a solitary life working herself into premature old age. She deserved more. Much more.

Her shoulder shrugged beneath his palm. “It’s old news anyway,” she said lightly. “I’m well over it.” The bobbins wove back and forth in her hand again at their furious pace.

Bay wondered how many years it had taken for her to leave her guilt behind. The fact that she felt any was absurd-he had never regretted any sexual congress he’d ever undertaken, except perhaps with that Spanish camp follower who had raked his back like a frenzied panther. It had taken Frazier weeks of potions and ointments to get the swelling down, all the while mumbling that female fingernails would kill him sooner than a bayonet. Frazier never had much good to say about the fairer sex. But if what Charlie had said was true, he was now in the petticoat line courting one of the housemaids. It quite boggled the mind.

“You’re right. No point in dwelling on the past. Now, how would you like to plan our future?”

The bobbins slipped through Charlie’s hands. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Our day. Obviously we can’t go out in this muck. And I’ll be damned if I sit here all day watching you make yards of lace, fascinating as it is.”

“It’s my livelihood, Bay.” She snipped a string that had gone astray.

“It needn’t be. Surely the stipend I’ve arranged for you will comfortably provide for you and all the charities you favor and all the stray cats you could ever choose to adopt. You can be a lady of leisure.”

Her lower lip jutted out. He’d seen that stubborn look many times before and couldn’t like it.

“It does not suit me to be idle.”

“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”

“I’m not meant to be a wastrel like you.”

Bay laid a hand over his heart. “A wastrel? I am mortally wounded.”

“Sorry if the truth hurts. What do you do besides ensure your pleasure?”

She was looking at him as his old governess used to, all beetle-browed and pursed-lipped.

“I manage my investments! And I collect art.”

Charlie snorted. “Art that is by its very nature suited to the advancement of your pleasure.”

How did she know he’d gazed at his paintings a time or two, his cock firmly in hand? He felt his color mount. “You are forgetting I spent a decade serving His Majesty in conditions I can assure you were not at all pleasurable.”

“Do not rest upon your laurels. What have you done lately?”

“I-I-” What had he done lately? Certainly he sent money to veterans’ charities. He tithed although he rarely attended church. He was kind to small children and animals when they crossed his path. It didn’t amount to much, not enough to brag on. “What do you think I should be doing?” he asked, turning the tables.

“What did you want to do when you were a boy? Besides be a smuggler.”

He had wanted to be an artist. His cartoons at school had been dead-on until an upperclassman objected to his depiction as a bully and only proved it by beating a young Bay to a pulp behind the dining hall. After that Bay put away his brushes and charcoal and stuck to declining Latin verbs. Anne had posed for him when they married, but he had destroyed the pencil sketches years ago. Until Angelique insisted on the ceiling fresco, he’d spent years admiring art instead of creating it. A wicked thought crossed his mind.

“I’ll show you. Stay right there.”

He took the stairs two at a time to his room. In his dressing room was a battered trunk he’d had at boarding school. Within were some dried-up watercolors, several yellowing sketch pads, and some dull sticks of charcoal. He took out his knife and sharpened the points, nicking himself in the process. Not an auspicious beginning for the rejuvenation of his artistic career.

He made a quick detour into Charlie’s room and was downstairs in minutes, the pads tucked under his arm. “Disrobe, my dear.”

Charlotte looked up at him, startled. He flattered himself to think she looked interested in an après-breakfast interlude, as was he, but first things first.

“H-here in the morning room?” she faltered.

“The light, what there is of it through all this bloody rain, is excellent.”

“Surely you know what I look like by now.”

“Indeed I do, every lovely inch. Your body is exquisite. And I wish to immortalize it.”

Charlotte seemed to notice the paper for the first time. “You want to draw me?” She made it sound as if he planned to roast her and feed her to wild animals.

“I cannot think of a more deserving subject. You give all my Italian ladies a run for their money.”

“You’re an artist.” There was an unpleasant degree of doubt in her voice.

“You remember the ceiling on Jane Street. All the angels and clouds and whatnot.”

“You painted it?”

Her openmouthed shock was comical. He didn’t think it was because she thought he was the next Michelangelo, either. “The subject matter was not my first choice, and the execution a bit rusty, I admit. But we have all the time in the world. Twenty-nine days, anyhow. I’m prepared to practice until I get your likeness right. I’ll even put wings on you, if you like.”

“I’m certainly no angel.” She abandoned her lace making and stood up. “Let me see your notebooks.”

Bay shrugged. “I haven’t touched them in years. Trust my grandmother to have squirreled everything away. She thought I had some promise.” He handed her the oldest collection of drawings. She smiled when she saw the first, a pencil sketch of his old spaniel Homer. Perhaps he should consider getting a dog again. Dogs were diverting, and if he were to rattle around in this enormous house, he’d welcome some good company.

She picked through the pages carefully. “She was right. Why did you stop drawing?”

“I suppose I outgrew it. When I was in the army, every now and again someone might ask me to sketch their horse or their portrait in a letter home, but there was little time for frivolity.”

“Let me see the rest.”

He gave her the second notebook. The pages were mostly empty, but it was clear that a large chunk had been torn away.

“What happened to the drawings?”

Bay swallowed the lump in his throat. He had hoped she wouldn’t notice. “I’m afraid they were honeymoon drawings. Once the honeymoon and my marriage were over, it didn’t seem right to keep them.”

“Oh, Bay.” She placed her hand on his sleeve. “I am sorry for you. How horrible it all must have been.”

“It seemed so at the time. But now I begin to think I made a lucky escape.” He looked down on her. Her hair was arranged too neatly on her head. Soon he would fix that.

“Lady Whitley might not have become unhinged if she had been Lady Bayard all these years.”

“You are a warmhearted girl, Charlie.” He bent to brush his lips against hers.

“Hardly a girl,” she murmured. She responded to the kiss, deepening it artlessly. At this rate he might as well throw his drawing paper in the fire and bed her on the chaise. She aroused every bit of his lust, for all she was a short, shrewish thing.

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.”

He pulled her even closer. “Tell me then.”

Charlotte felt an irrepressible urge to laugh. “Don’t be insulted, Bay, but I was thinking about the weather. I am a dull, boring Englishwoman, after all.”