Mistress by Marriage

by Maggie Robinson

  But what if there was no penile perfection to savor? Caroline had gained at least a stone this year, worrying over Lizzie, writing six books, untangling her girls from unwise entanglements, stewing in Surrey with her sister and her family. It was probable that Edward would not find her at all attractive, or even kiss her on the cheek.

  Hell and damnation. She was crying over milk that hadn’t even had a chance to spill yet. And anyway, she wanted a divorce. It wouldn’t do to keep sleeping with a man who despised her and broke her heart every June 14.

  “I’m up, I’m up,” Caroline muttered. “Tell Mrs. Hazlett I’ll be downstairs in an hour. Poached eggs, please. Toast, but no butter or jam.”

  Lizzie lifted a blond eyebrow. Her face was as fair as ever; Pope had at least spared her that.

  “Oh, very well. Jam. And butter. But no bacon. And kippers are out of the question. I mean it.”

  Lizzie curtsied, grinning just a bit at her victory. “Very well, my lady. I’ll bring up your washing water in a trice.”

  “Don’t hurry. You know I’m working on my special project.” Caroline stretched and reached for an old but exquisite Chinese robe embroidered with giant red poppies. Edward had hated it. It did not match her plain white muslin night rail, but she considered it her writing uniform. For the next forty-five minutes she sat at her desk and poured ink on the pages of the notebook she currently called Pride and Artifice. No doubt her publisher would want to change the title, but she thought it very clever, if a bit derivative. The hero, a widower with three children and an enormous sense of self-consequence, was soon to meet a shallow red-headed vixen who would change his life forever in one turn around a ballroom.

  When she was done, she washed the ink off her fingers and face and went downstairs to eat. The rest of the morning was spent revising The Harlot’s Husband, as her publisher wanted her to be more explicit. Caroline wasn’t sure she could use all the naughty words he suggested, but she’d try.

  After a light luncheon that she was too nervous to eat, she spent approximately four hours in a bathtub, scrubbing every nook and cranny, calling on Lizzie for more hot water and lotions to turn her into temptation incarnate. Her husband, that vexing man with an enormous sense of self-consequence, was coming for dinner.

  Chapter 2

  Camilla gazed up at the rigging, where the terrifyingly tall pirate blocked the scorching sun. “Drop to your death,” she whispered. “May the winds blow and your brains be battered across the deck.”

  —The Captain’s Concubine

  At first it had been for the sex and the anger, but for the last two years, Edward had arrived early enough for dinner. Caroline, for all her hoydenish ways, was a creature of habit. She always dined at eight if she was at home. Judging from the blaze of lights at Seven Jane Street as daylight was hours from waning, she was home. Candles were costly, but since Caroline had become a writing sensation, she spent her money without economization. Her money, not his. As he had told Douglass and Pope, she was nearly self-sufficient. Edward imagined it suited her pride to be as independent from him as possible, not having to beg for pin money. As far as he knew, she didn’t gamble or entertain lavishly, unless one counted her weekly teas with the other residents on the street.

  He had meant to punish her by setting her up on Jane Street—but how like Caroline to turn the punishment into pleasure, consorting with courtesans like some sort of fairy godmother. He should have known she would find a way to thwart him. She always did.

  He passed muster with the two night security guards at the mouth of the little cul-de-sac, hired by the eleven men and one woman who owned the dozen houses to keep out gawkers and undesirables. Not that Caroline owned her house outright, but it was she who tended to the particulars of Jane Street residency. She was the queen of her little lane, and her female subjects adored her. Some of the gentlemen, as evinced by Pope and Douglass, were probably less enthusiastic.

  There had been some trouble recently, and the guard duty had been doubled at the elaborate iron gate. Edward had stood in irritation as the two men poured over a list, finally satisfying themselves that Edward Christie was an approved, if rare, visitor.

  Before his fist hit the door, Caroline’s butler Hazlett opened it. Her staff was small, suitable for the little jewel box of a house: Hazlett, his wife who was the cook/housekeeper, an orphaned kitchen boy, and the poor maid whom Pope had beaten so savagely. Edward knew it only because he bribed Hazlett an enormous amount to keep him informed of Caroline’s activities. His dustup with Pope that afternoon worried him, and he would be sure to warn Hazlett when he took his leave.

  “Good evening, Lord Christie. You’re expected.” Hazlett took Edward’s gloves and placed them carefully on the waxed credenza in the tiled hall. Edward hadn’t worn a hat in years, no matter the weather, and the butler looked at his bare head with some disapproval. For a man who was employed on the most sinful street in London, Hazlett was an amusingly high stickler.

  Edward glanced into the empty drawing room and dining room beyond. The table was as bare as his head.

  “Lady Christie asked that dinner be served in the upstairs parlor. She is waiting for you there.”

  Good. Closer to her bedroom. Edward had been hard as marble since he left his town house and walked the few long blocks to Jane Street. He hadn’t had a woman since his last visit to Caroline. Ridiculous, but true. He had to set an example for his boys, so he’d not broken his marriage vows. Yet. He’d been tempted once or twice, but something had always come up. Or gone down. His hand and his imagination had served him adequately for the past five years, but he did feel he was wasting what few good years he had left to him. Perhaps that issue would be settled tonight.

  He might not ever marry again, but at least if he was free he could find some comfort in the arms of a willing widow if he could ever not see Caroline behind his eyelids, her riot of red hair teasing his nipples as she moved over him, her lush hips rising up on his cock as she cried out—

  He lost his balance on the stairs and nearly took a tumble. Aye, he could break his neck fantasizing about that little witch. If only he’d stayed home with his account books and not gone to Lady Huntington’s ball six years ago, he wouldn’t have a year-long case of blue balls. How he was to sit through dinner he had no idea.

  Caroline sat on a plum velvet sofa. She’d redecorated the room since he was last there, and seemed to be dressed to match it. She wore the amethyst set he had given her, and a pale filmy lilac-gray gown that barely covered her nipples. Her hair was half up and half down, as though she couldn’t quite decide whether to look like a queen or a school girl. His mouth dried and his cock betrayed him with a ferocious twitch. She was exquisite. She was perfect. She was Caroline.

  “You’re looking well,” he said blandly.

  “As are you, Edward. Do sit. May I get you some champagne?”

  Her voice was low, all honey and sex. One could come to crisis simply listening to her read newspaper advertisements in The London List: Wanted, one man to muck out stalls. Serious inquiries only. Semen would be everywhere.

  “Yes, thank you. That would be pleasant.”

  He watched her float off the sofa; there was no other word for it. She moved to a table topped with a silver ice bucket and flutes, expertly popped the cork, and poured two fizzy glasses. Leaning over him, her breasts nearly spilling out of the gauzy bodice, she pressed a glass into his sweaty hand. “To us.”

  He wanted to bury his face between the fragrant crease of pearl-white bosom. Instead, he raised his glass, and looked at her. “To us. Tonight.”

  Caroline smiled without showing her teeth. “Ever a caveat. How have you been keeping, Edward? How are the children?”

  “Ned’s at university, drinking and wenching and presumably learning something, although I can’t see what. Since he’s been home, he’s shown no aptitude for anything but courting trouble. Jack’s off to join him at Cambridge in the fall and is bound to be just as bad. Little Alice
is—well, she’s not little. She’s thirteen and nearly as tall as Jack. I confess I don’t know what’s to be done with her.” Hell and damnation. What had come over him? He had not planned on blurting out his problems, one after the other with barely a pause for breath, and was appalled at himself for doing so. Caroline’s lips were pursed in concern, and he knew he was about to get a lecture on child rearing from the most inexpert expert imaginable.

  “Poor thing! I hope you don’t criticize—Allie can’t help it that she takes after you. I’m sure she’ll grow into her looks and be a stunner. She’s at such an awkward age, and to be singled out—”

  Edward set his glass down in annoyance, mostly at himself for opening up this can of worms. It wasn’t as if his wife could be of any practical help to him. “Give me some credit, Caro. Beth and I praise her at every turn. She has dancing lessons. Riding lessons. Music. Art. She’s execrable at everything but we’d never say.”

  “But she knows anyway. Do—do you think she’d be happier away at school?”

  “She won’t go.” Why on earth were they having this conversation? It was not at all to the point. “I’m not here to discuss my children with you, Caroline.”

  “I know,” she said quietly, the spark of sympathy gone out of her silver eyes. “You’re here to fuck me. Shall we have dinner first or get right to it?”

  “Don’t be so vulgar. Those filthy books you write have gone to your head.” Hell and damnation. She put his back up and made him sound like a perfect prig—which, at the heart of it, he was.

  “Yes, that must be it. I’ll ring for dinner then. It’s your favorite, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. You’ll have to endure some oysters and a lobster soufflé first. Mrs. Hazlett insisted.”

  She glided over to the bellpull and Edward yearned to yank it off the wall. He wanted nothing to feast upon save her firm white flesh, spilling over her wispy dress and into his mouth. He would unpin all her hair and wrap it tight around his hands, the better to control her. He shut his eyes for a moment to savor the fantasy.

  When he opened them, she was back on the sofa, playing with the catch of the amethyst bracelet. Her wedding rings twinkled in the candlelight. He’d stopped wearing his ring five years ago. He didn’t even know where it was.

  “How is Beth, or are we not to discuss her either?”

  “She’s well. Busy.”

  “And your work in Parliament?”

  “Dead boring. Thank God we’re nearly ready to recess.”

  “Will you spend the summer in town?”

  “Good Lord, no. I’ll be at Christie Park with the children. London will be hot as hell.” The superficial conversation was quite easy. Short sentences. Subject, verb. No confessional complaints over his family. No need to imagine Caroline beneath him, writhing in ecstasy. Soon she would be. He put his champagne glass down. Clearheaded. He had to be clearheaded. “I understand your brother-in-law has settled into his new holding in Surrey.”

  “Yes. I visited them recently, but you know that. Hazlett gave his report, did he not? By the way, you pay him far too much to do so. He tells me everything, too.” She cast him a sly smile.

  Hell and damnation. He was not a spy. But he had a right to know what she was up to. She was still his wife.

  Caroline took another sip of champagne, licking a wayward drop from her lips. To his disappointment, her tongue disappeared from view so she could continue to speak. “Jared and Mary seem quite content. She’s increasing again.”

  She had said it lightly, but it must hurt. Caroline was barren, but that had been a blessing after all.

  The perfidious Hazlett interrupted the scintillating conversation, inquiring if they were ready for dinner. Edward, who wanted to “get on with it” more than life itself, nodded. Both Hazletts were back within moments, carrying silver trays and chafing dishes to the sideboard. Edward and Caroline were silent until the servants left, shutting the door behind them.

  “Shall we?”

  Caroline didn’t wait for him to lead her to the small dining table at the end of the room. It was set with a dazzling array of silver and crystal, all new. “Very nice,” he said. First quality, and expensive, too. Her writing business must indeed be lucrative.

  “Yes. Please help yourself.”

  “After you.”

  Edward was fairly sure the food was delicious, but he tasted nothing but regret. His wife picked at her plate, occasionally asking an innocuous question. He watched her tilt her head and slip an oyster down her throat, and had a vision of her on her knees. A vision he was determined to bring to reality shortly. After an appropriate amount of time, they rose in mutual understanding, leaving dessert for later.

  “I want you, Caroline,” he said, his voice rough. “Damn my soul.”

  “Damn it to Hell,” she agreed, throwing open the door to her bedroom.

  For such a cold man, Edward was a marvel in bed. Of course, she had very little to compare him to, but it seemed from the observations of her neighbors, not all men were as equipped or as efficient as Edward. And by efficient, Caroline did not mean speedy. Edward was agonizingly, teasingly, thoroughly slow, but guaranteed to bring her to orgasm every single time. Not just one puny little frisson, but wave upon wave of cliff climbing, precipitous descent, and shrieking.

  Caroline knew her responsiveness frightened him; no doubt his first wife, the paragon Alice, had just lain there and said, “Thank you,” if she said anything at all. Caroline’s language was substantially more colorful and less constrained. She lay in the wreck of her bed, dripping everywhere from delicious depravity.

  Edward stared up at the ceiling, his mouth puckered. “There’s a mirror up there.”

  “Yes, it came with the house. Have you never noticed it before?”

  “I have not. We never made it to the bed last year as I recall.”

  “But it was there the two years previous. I assure you I did not install it.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “I? Why nothing. Scare myself silly when I wake up in the morning.” She grinned, meeting his eyes in the mirror. His dark hair was a bit mussed, but she looked like she’d been caught in a tempest at sea, washed overboard, and with her last gasping breath barely crawled to shore in time.

  “It’s indecent.”

  She shrugged. “So am I. If you don’t care for it, I can have it removed.”

  Edward sat up. “Don’t bother. My preferences will not count in the future. There will be no need for Yorkshire pudding. I—we—cannot do this thing, whatever it is, anymore.”

  Despite the flattering candlelight, he had seen she was heavier. Older. She fought to keep the fear out of her voice. “I didn’t please you?”

  “This has nothing to do with pleasing. If you must know, you make me burn, Caroline. I cannot find myself around you. I disappear in some puff of sulfur and become the Devil himself. It must stop.”

  She put a reassuring hand on his forearm. “You’re just a mortal man, Edward, with carnal needs like any other. If you indulged yourself more frequently—”

  “Indulge! This is more than indulgence. This is disease! Sickness!”

  Caroline forced a laugh. “How melodramatic! What a Puritan you are. It’s just sexual congress, Edward. Everyone does it.”

  But she knew it was more, too. For a buttoned-up man like Edward, the loss of self-control was like a loss of honor. He hated her for striking his flinty heart and igniting flames of passion that he couldn’t control. Just as she hated him . . . when she wasn’t loving him.

  “I’m going to talk to Will. He can advise me on how best I can bring suit for divorce. Neither of us can continue this charade. If you hadn’t—” He paused. Caroline wanted him to say it. Needed him to say it so she could finally say her own piece. But he didn’t. “No, I’ll not blame you. We simply don’t suit and never have.”

  He had turned away from her, his face in profile, his voice wooden. In the mirror above she saw the muscle in his chiseled cheek
flick. It was costing him to be so dispassionate. Caroline wished he’d explode, be anyone but this calm, reasonable stranger, but she knew better. Edward was always calm and reasonable, even when his world was imploding.

  He should yell at her. Shake her. Call her names for her incredible indiscretions.

  Caroline untwisted the sheet to cover her suddenly embarrassing nudity. “Your family name will be—will be ruined.” Why did she care? She’d planned to discuss divorce herself this evening, but Edward had preempted her and hurt her before she had the chance to hurt him.

  He bent to reach for his pants. Caroline could see each bump of his spine on his long narrow back and wanted to touch them.

  “I’m a laughingstock already. It will be up to Ned to retrieve my dignity if he can, but I’m not counting on it.” He shook out the length of his trousers but didn’t put them on.

  “The children—”

  “It’s a bit too late for you to think about them now, Caroline. I don’t know how my daughter will ever find a decent husband after what we’ve put the family through.”

  Oh, he was cruel. “I can stop writing the books.” At first they’d been a lark, a shot over Edward’s bow to wake him up, to make him as unhappy as he had made her. The money had been incidental. The Christie name was not on the covers, but somehow word had leaked out that she was the authoress. She had been almost glad.

  “This is not about the books. Although you should watch out for Pope and Douglass. Mention that to Hazlett. They both came to see me today and are threatening legal action.”

  “Pope! He’s nothing but a disgusting pervert. He’s lucky he’s not in prison. Garrett won’t back down. We’re completely within our rights.”