Mistress by Marriage

by Maggie Robinson

  “Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!”

  The rumbling wagon came closer, its lantern swinging on a pole. Caroline saw the dark outline of its driver and a looming piebald workhorse.

  “Whoa there, Ajax. And what have we got here?”

  “Good morning, sir!” Caroline said brightly. “I’m on my way to Ashford. Could you possibly give me a lift? I’d be happy to pay you.”

  The man raised the lantern, casting Caroline in an unwelcome pool of light. “By all that’s holy, you’re Lady Christie, you are. Haven’t seen you in these parts in years, but I’d never forget you or that red hair of yours. Does Lord Christie know you’re out in the dark and rain?”

  Of all the rotten luck.

  Caroline widened her smile. “Do I know you, sir?”

  “Wouldn’t think so. Ham Mitchell. I’m a tenant of one of your neighbors, Lord Bradlaw. I can’t take you back home to Christie Park, you know. It’s market day. And I’m late already.”

  His name was unfamiliar. She’d made an effort with Edward’s tenants, but had never felt sure of herself as lady of the manor. She was not Alice and never would be. Caroline had probably made a great many mistakes with them, just as she had with everyone else.

  “Oh, that’s quite all right. It’s our home in London I’m going to.”

  “On foot? Without a maid?”

  She could imagine his suspicious face even if she couldn’t quite see it. “It’s a very long story, Mr. Mitchell. I promise you I’ll make it worth your while if you take me up in your cart.” The horse whickered and Caroline rubbed his ugly nose. She trusted its owner was just a simple farmer, and not a murderer. It would be most inconvenient to have walked all this way to wind up dead. She sneezed.

  She hoped it just was a reaction to the horse. Lung fever would be no picnic. Girls were always falling ill and delirious in her books so the heroes could nurse them through and discover the deep and abiding love that had hitherto been absent in their flinty hearts. Caroline had no wish to be nursed. Or dead. She just wanted to get to Ashford without incident.

  “I don’t know as I should. Lord Christie is no one I’d like to cross, and that’s a fact.”

  Bother Edward and his reputation. “I won’t take up too much room. You won’t even know I’m in the cart. I don’t want to delay you, Mr. Mitchell. It’s raining, and you must be anxious to get your produce to market. What have you got back there under the tarp?”

  “The best turnips you ever tasted. Courgettes and runner beans. Potatoes, leeks, and beetroot. Don’t change the subject. Are you running away from your man?”

  Caroline stuck her chin out. “Lord Christie and I are separated, Mr. Mitchell. Surely the gossips have told you that.”

  “Don’t listen to gossip much since my wife passed. What are you doing on this road then?”

  It might be difficult to bribe a widower with jewels, but maybe he had a daughter—and a purse with change in it she could swap for her semiprecious finery. “I’m so sorry about your wife, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll tell you everything if you give me a ride.” Cold rain dripped from the brim of her hat down her neck. “Please, Mr. Mitchell. Please.”

  “I shouldn’t. But I will.” He hopped off the bench and gave a brief bow. Caroline quelled her desire to throw her arms around him and kiss him. “Can’t stuff you under the canvas. You’ll crush the vegetables. You’ll have to ride up top with me.”

  “I shall be delighted, Mr. Mitchell.”

  After a mile or two, her delight and desire to kiss him had vanished. Caroline was convinced Mr. Mitchell had not bathed for quite some time and envied his wife her death. But as the rain pelted down, she told a much-abridged version of her story, grateful she had experience prevaricating and writing romances. Every sentence or two, she brought her gloved wrist to her nose, inhaling the wet leather so she would not have to inhale Mr. Mitchell. She made no mention of drugging and kidnapping, but painted Edward as the villain of the piece.

  Mr. Mitchell seemed squarely in Edward’s corner, however. “So, you’re telling me he gave you one more chance, and you’ve run away.”

  “Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear. We had a marriage of convenience, but it wasn’t convenient for anyone, least of all my husband. We never got along, not for one minute.” Except in bed, but she was not going to shock the poor man. She’d already told too much. “It’s much better we go our separate ways, as we’ve been doing these past five years. I’ve quite a terrible temper, you know. If you were married to me, you’d think I was a perfect shrew.” She sniffed her gray sleeve, hoping for a trace of jasmine.

  “A man likes a woman with some spirit,” Mr. Mitchell countered. “I miss fighting with my Abby, and that’s the truth.”

  “Have you thought of marrying again?”

  He snorted. “Who would have me?”

  “Your holding is prosperous, is it not? I imagine you’re a very hard worker.”

  “Aye, that I am.”

  “Well,” Caroline said, “you can provide financial security, which is very important.”

  “I don’t want to be married for my money.”

  Caroline thought a very great deal of money would have to be involved to overcome his rank odor. “Tell me about your house. Is there a bathing chamber?”

  “Abby used a copper tub in the kitchen.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice as he remembered, but she had to bring him back to the present. “Do you use it, sir?”

  “If you’re telling me I offend your nose, I know it,” he said gruffly. “I’ve been too busy with the harvest to worry about washing. I was hoping this rain will take some of the dirt away.”

  She patted his arm. “You’ll never catch another woman unless you take better care of yourself, Mr. Mitchell. Women are superficial creatures. A bit of soap and a good scrubbing, and they’ll be putty in your hands. You’ll see.”

  He was silent. Caroline hoped he wouldn’t dump her on the side of the road for her unsolicited advice. It was one of the oddest conversations she’d ever had, and considering her unusual neighbors, that was saying a great deal. “I’m sorry if you think me too bold. I told you I was a shrew.”

  “I reckon you mean well. I’ll think about what you said.”

  The rest of the journey was very quiet, save for the rain spattering the canvas and the horse plodding through puddles. Caroline imagined she looked as wretched as Mr. Mitchell smelled. As the sky lightened, the rain did not let up. Caroline was chilled to the bone. Soaked and miserable.

  She cheered up when they passed a white-painted signpost. Not much farther. “Mr. Mitchell, I don’t suppose you know of a jeweler or pawnshop that is open at this hour of the morning?”

  His fuzzy gray eyebrows knit. “Don’t tell me you don’t have any money.”

  She smiled. “All right then, I won’t.”

  “Lord have mercy. You’re cork brained. Lord Christie is well rid of you, I’d say.”

  “That is what I’ve been telling you these past five miles.”

  “What are you planning to sell?”

  “I have a few trinkets.”

  He pulled in the reins. “Whoa, Ajax. Let’s see them.”

  Oh, dear. If he tried to rob her, she supposed she could bolt from the cart and make a mad dash into the woods. How lowering to think her confidence in him had been misplaced. Her face must have betrayed her alarm, for he growled at her.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Lady Christie. I’m not going to take advantage of your stupidity. If I’m to go a-wooing again, I’ll need something to sweeten the pot. After I take my bath, of course.” He patted the purse tied to his belt. “I can trade you your fare for a bauble or two.”

  “I do beg your pardon. The last few days have been very stressful.”

  “Aye,” he said sarcastically. “Your husband sets you up in a fine home and wants to read you a list. Sounds brutal.”

  “You men all stick together.” She took off her gloves, unpinned her pocket and pulle
d out the lumpy handkerchief.

  Mr. Mitchell’s eyes widened. “You really are a ninnyhammer. What if I weren’t me but some rogue? I could steal you blind.”

  “I’m a good judge of character,” Caroline lied.

  “Hmpf.” His thick fingers picked up Edward’s pearl ring.

  “Oh, no, not that one.” She slipped it on her own finger. “Maybe this?”

  He picked up a cameo ring and held it up to his eye. “Too plain.”

  “You really can’t go wrong with an Italian cameo, Mr. Mitchell. Look, here’s a matching pin. They’re not plain at all. Just look at the detail!” In fact, they were not her favorites, and certainly worth the sacrifice if she could get to London.

  “I don’t know.”

  The man drove a hard and expensive bargain. Caroline had to throw in a rose-gold bracelet and a silver chain before he forked over any money. She would have been far better off waiting until a jeweler opened.

  “The next Mrs. Mitchell will be a very lucky woman,” Caroline said graciously, if she had plenty of clothespins for her nose.

  Ashford was bustling with energy, although the day was gray and gloomy. Mr. Mitchell was not offended when his offer of a turnip for the road was refused, and dropped her in the yard of the inn fifteen minutes before the first coach was to leave. Caroline purchased her ticket and a pasty, and earned the opprobrium of the other passengers as they took in her lack of luggage, sodden clothing, ruined shoes and the lingering aromatic aftermath of Mr. Mitchell.

  It was not quite dawn. Caroline waited nervously, expecting Edward to clatter up on the cobblestones on a white steed, until she climbed into the coach and watched the rain drip down the window pane. At each posting house, she sank deeper into the squabs, hoping Edward had not discovered her perfidy.

  The bells of London finally woke her from a doze. The rain had stopped and the world was bathed in sunshine, streets and rooftops sparkling with diamond drops. She was home. Almost. And happy, of course. How could she not be? She was dry and determined to put the past behind her.

  Chapter 22

  The castle’s cold walls surrounded her, each shadow a wretched wraith of remembrance.

  —The Prince’s Promise

  The hack left her at the corner. She was on Jane Street. Again. It was the logical choice. The only choice, really. There was no Dorset cottage to run off to. There would be if Caroline could persuade Edward to buy one for her. If he didn’t throttle her first when he found her, which he would. Eventually. Possibly even later today. She hoped he’d be reasonable. She simply couldn’t have stayed at Bradlaw House while he made another list stating the terms of their separation. If he did come, she would tell him to let Will Maclean earn his keep and do the honors, then close the door in his face. She really couldn’t afford to see Edward ever again.

  Serena still had spare keys and was surprised and delighted to see Caroline, even in her extreme dishevelment. Although her neighbor was getting dressed for an outing with her protector Lord Buckley, she offered Caroline a quick cup of tea. Caroline demurred, anxious to get as settled as she could next door.

  Her footsteps echoed through the half-empty house. She’d only been gone three days, but realized she’d been saying good-bye to the house for weeks. Despite the brilliant September sunshine slanting through the parlor windows, Caroline had an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. She set her hat on the windowsill and eyed the emerald-green sofa. No. She’d be better off upstairs in bed, sleeping the rest of the day and night away. She was too tired to be hungry. Tomorrow she’d shop for provisions, although there was probably something to eat below. She could cook perfectly well for herself. Hell, she might even manage another courtesans’ tea on her own if she borrowed some dishes. She’d have to ask Maclean where Edward had taken all the boxes meant for her nonexistent new home.

  Trudging up the stairs, she took note of the empty squares on the wall where her paintings had hung. She wouldn’t try to get anything back. She hoped she wouldn’t be there long enough to mind the lack of decoration.

  The bed was stripped, just as she’d left it the other morning in order to make things easier for Lizzie and Mrs. Hazlett, curse them both. Not bothering to find sheets or even undress, she stretched out and her problems disappeared nearly at once.

  Suddenly, she was jerked up, a hood pulled down over her face. If she hadn’t been dead asleep, she might have fought back sooner. Turning her hands to fists, she punched through the air. “Not again. Edward, you’ve got to see reason!”

  “Shut up.” He squeezed both her hands together and tied them tight.

  “Fine. I suppose you think I’m chattering like a magpie again. I haven’t begun to chatter.”

  “Shut up, I said!” So he could still hear her, despite the muffling of the fabric on her face. She could barely hear him, but Edward seemed very angry, an unusual show of choler from Cold Christie. She’d known he wouldn’t like it when she ran away from Bradlaw House, but this rough handling was ridiculous. Did he think his absurd domination would make her change her mind? How many times did she have to tell him their marriage was over? Ended? Concluded? Finished? She couldn’t think of any more words to describe it without her dictionary. Furious, she slipped from his grasp and rolled off the bed.

  Silly man. He should have remembered from the last time to tie her feet up first. He grabbed her arm and she played possum long enough for him to draw her closer. Poor Edward. But he deserved it. He was not going to dragoon her twice and get away with it. She kneed him hard, reveling in his mumbled string of curses. He fell backward onto the floor with a thump. From the cracking sound before he landed, he might have hit his head on one of the naked nymphs on the bedpost.

  Caroline tugged at the hood with her bound hands, finally shaking it off. She froze. The man on the floor wasn’t tall or slender or elegant like Edward. The man on the floor wasn’t Edward at all. He was a monster. Lord Randolph Pope. Randy Poop. A rather dead-looking Randy Poop.

  Had she killed him? She was torn between horror and an odd sort of happiness. But then his chest rose, and horror won. She needed to get out of the house before he woke up and all of him rose to come after her. Whatever he planned was surely worse than anything Edward had done.

  Of course Edward would not be so stupid to try to capture her heart again through control. It was she who was stupid, returning to an empty house. Edward had warned her about Pope but she hadn’t paid any attention. Thanking Providence she’d slept in her clothes, she raced down the stairs. It took forever to unset the locks and turn the door knob with both hands tied.

  Caroline cried in frustration as her damp hands slipped on the brass handle. There were no guards at the end of Jane Street to run to yet. They didn’t come on duty until darkness fell. If she got out, she’d go to Serena’s and lock herself in.

  Success! The door pulled open and she tumbled down the steps—straight into Edward. A strange mud-spattered horse was tied beyond him to the tree in front of Number Seven. It looked tired, but its rider did not. Caroline had never seen a more wonderful sight than her husband, full of towering rage, lips set in a thin grim line, road dust and dirt covering him from head to toe.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here? You left me without a word! I had one last morning with you, or did you forget? Did you think I wouldn’t follow?” He reached for her. Caroline darted away but not fast enough. He caught her face in his hands as though he was about to kiss her. And then he did.

  The kiss was not friendly or polite. It was a kiss of possession, of anger, of white hot heat. Caroline sagged in his arms as he lanced her with his tongue, slicing through her defenses, making her witless. She could easily remain witless forever. Each fingertip along her jaw branded his intention to keep her at his mercy. Yes, this was exactly why she had fled. Why she had to stop his delicious assault, even beyond the danger upstairs in her house. She pushed feebly against Edward’s chest.

  “Unh.”


  Impossibly, the kiss deepened. He held her in a straitjacket embrace, crushing her into his travel-stained coat, as though he wanted to absorb her into him. His hands splayed wide across her back. His tongue warred with hers, and she was no match for him. He swept in, conquered, mastered. She could do nothing but shiver. Even the idea of Pope coming up behind her to bash her head in didn’t seem so terrible. At least she would die in Edward’s arms.

  He broke the kiss. “You’re not wearing a cloak.”

  Caroline looked up at him stupidly, her lips still tingling. Why was he talking about what she was wearing? Unless he planned on getting her out of her clothes again. No.

  “Come, you’ll get chilled. Let’s go back inside and we can—talk.”

  “No!”

  “Look, I know I made a mistake—with the abduction. And the list. But I swear to you, Caro—”

  “No, it’s not that!” She raised her wrists. “I may not be wearing a cloak, but I am wearing this rope bracelet. Lord Pope is upstairs in my bedroom. We have to get away before he wakes up. He might be armed.”

  It was Edward’s turn to be slack jawed. “What?”

  “He—he attacked me while I was sleeping.”

  Edward’s lips went white. “Oh, Jesu, Caro. I’ll kill him.”

  “No, no, it’s not what you think. He didn’t touch me that way. B-but he put a hood over my head and tied my hands.” She couldn’t help but smile. “Like you, he forgot about my feet. I kicked him, really, really hard, and he fell.”

  “He was still after you. I was right then.”

  “Yes,” Caroline said in annoyance. “Aren’t you always? But we can’t stand on my front steps kissing and talking. I was going to Serena’s next door when I bumped into you.”

  He shoved her aside and down a step. “A very good idea. I’ll join you once I’ve taken care of Pope.”

  “No, Edward! What if he has a knife or a gun?” She grabbed his arm but he twisted away.