Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  Perhaps it was all wishful thinking. His finger was at her cheek, wiping up a tear she hadn’t planned to shed.

  “I’m sorry I was such a beast, Charlie. Was I too rough?”

  “Oh, no. It was perfect.” She sniffled a bit, then found her tart tongue. “Perfect, as always, although your head will swell to the size of a hot-air balloon if I must keep complimenting you.”

  Bay chuckled. “A man cannot ever have too much praise over his sexual prowess, my love. Tell me more.”

  “I shall not!” She struggled to get up from his lap, but his arms were like iron bands across her chest, and his cock twitched with renewed interest inside her. “Do let me up. Mrs. Kelly could come back at any moment,” she begged.

  “I doubt it. But if she did, she would just see you sitting on my lap. Shocking, to be sure, but your front is completely undisturbed, more’s the pity. I didn’t have time to attend to your superb breasts in all the rush. I think,” he said, his lips skimming her throat, causing her to shiver, “I should remedy that.”

  His hands made quick work of her buttons. He freed one breast easily from her bodice and then he bent to tease and suckle. She was tender, and the sensation was both torture and ecstasy. Suddenly his lips left their torment and he pushed her from his lap.

  “What—why?”

  He put a fingertip to her lip. “I want to watch you, Charlie. See your lovely face.” He led her to a pillow-covered sofa. If he hadn’t supported her across the carpet, her knees would have buckled beneath her. She was boneless and drunk with lust. Bay stripped her dress and underthings from her and laid her down on the velvet. She watched as he tossed his own clothing to the floor. There would be no disguising what was going on now should anyone come upon them, but Charlotte was too swept away to protest. She fell headlong into his dark gaze as he brought her ever closer to the storm.

  What in God’s name was the matter with him? True, his servants were well aware and accepted the fact that he was a lusty man. They didn’t blink or flinch as he installed mistresses in the Jane Street house or flirted shamelessly and bedded racy widows in his townhouse. His French chef even had a standard romantic supper menu that never changed although Bay’s female guests did. But it was rare that he’d be naked in daylight, rutting on parlor furniture, apparently incapable of controlling himself where Charlie was concerned. In the space of an hour he’d proudly brought her to orgasm too many times to count. She lay flushed and warm beneath him now, her white skin marbled with rose, her heavy dark hair falling from her pins to reach the carpet. He curled a strand around his fingers and brought it to his nose. He was reminded of orange peel. Lemons. As far as he knew she had no expensive scent, just some cakes of soap she’d tucked into a satchel for the trip. Soap she’d made herself with her own work-reddened hands.

  At least she’d have a month free from care and worry. If this blasted weather ever let up, there would be walks on the beach. Picnics. Sailing. His little boat was tucked into the cove beneath the cliffs. It had been an age since he’d used it. Frazier had said it was still seaworthy. Frazier had said several things. But Bay wanted to let nothing disturb the peace of Charlie breathing beneath him.

  Her eyes were closed, her lashes fluttering. They were tipped with tears again, but she didn’t seem unhappy. Far from it. She seemed to cry more out of joyful release than any sorrow. Getting her here had been worth the slog through the mud and the tedium in the shut-up carriage, although Bay had sought to keep things lively by his constant attention to her physical comfort. Perhaps comfort wasn’t the appropriate word. Satisfaction might be more accurate. He had discovered Charlie to be flexible and enthusiastic, even in the squabs of his coach. She was altogether an exceptional mistress, and worth the astronomical amount he had promised her.

  He felt a twinge of guilt at his bribery. No sensible woman, no matter how vaunted her virtue, could turn away such a sum easily. But for a time Bay believed Charlie would do just that and give him his marching orders. There was no room for him and his proposal in her orderly, slightly shabby Little Stickup world. She had her pride, and her temper, too. But somehow over tea that Monday afternoon he had worn down her resistance and won a reprieve. He took advantage of her post-sex lethargy that night, packing most of her clothing in a valise—sad, sterile dresses which should be burned as he had done with her nasty caps. He wished he could furnish her with new gowns as he had done with Deborah, but rationalized he would have her out of her clothes as often as possible anyway. A month was not a very long time to endure the boring colors and styles of her “Widow Fallon” wardrobe.

  A month might not be long enough, however, to get his need for her out of his system. He brushed his lips on her eyelids, tasting her tears. He watched as her teeth sank into her own plump bottom lip, as if she were preventing herself from speaking.

  “Are you all right, Charlie?”

  She fitted herself more snugly into his arms. “Quite.” Her warm hand was over his heart, as if to inspect the effect she had upon him still. His blood surged in response. The velvet of the sofa back and the velvet of Charlie’s perfect body cradled him, but he supposed they should make themselves presentable at some point. He hadn’t even bothered to ask Mrs. Kelly to lock the parlor door, although he did not expect her to enter without knocking first. The tea was long cold, the crusts of the sandwiches curling up. The sky outside was darkening with thunderheads, rain spattered on the windows, and the wind-driven ocean roared. This was no ordinary mild June afternoon. It mirrored the war he was having within himself.

  He kissed her quickly on her nose. There was a freckle there he hadn’t noticed before, and a few more strands of silver shooting through her midnight hair. He pictured her in twenty years, one of her ghastly caps concealing pearl-white curls. She would age well, he thought, the cushion of her womanly body softening any wrinkle that would dare to appear. He wondered where she’d be in two decades, and with whom. Surely she was meant to be a wife and mother; her housewifery was apparent in her neat little cottage.

  And where would he be? Likely right here. London would soon lose its allure—it was doing so already. There were several improvement projects at Bayard Court that he had been putting off, not wishing to disturb his grandmother. He knew he could sell the Jane Street property at a tidy profit. A mile of gentlemen were lined up waiting to purchase one of the dozen houses if it came on the market. And if his grumpy little Charlie was not there waiting for him upstairs, it was too annoying and arduous by half to have to replace her.

  He didn’t think he could push his luck and coax her back to Jane Street on any terms. She really was a vexingly upright citizen after all, despite her undeniably sinful body. He hoped she wouldn’t ask to attend church while she was here—her presence would attract unwelcome attention. He was known not to have any female cousins. A man of his class did not have female “friends” who visited unchaperoned. Even if he passed her off as the widow of an army comrade, there would be talk. Charlie would not be safe. The fewer people who knew he was back, the better.

  “You look dreadfully serious all of a sudden.”

  Her eyes were bright, but the tears had dried up. He smiled at her, pushing his concerns away. “It’s this blasted weather. How am I to take you for a moonlit sail when we’re likely to be blown all the way to France?”

  “One can do nothing about the weather. I’m sure we’ll find other amusements.” She wiggled into him playfully. This was the Charlie he loved.

  He kissed her again, savoring the taste of her. He could kiss her for hours, but the chiming hall clock had other ideas.

  “I think, my dear, that we should help each other get dressed and help each other get undressed to change for dinner. If I know Mrs. Kelly, she’s been slaving away in the kitchen with something tempting for us.”

  She sighed in relaxation in his arms. “I am beyond temptation. For food, at any rate.”

  “Minx. You hardly ate anything at tea. Don’t be foolish and go on some sort of
slimming regimen. I like your womanly curves.” He brushed a hand across her belly for emphasis. She was round in all the right places. He’d never been one to admire a bony or waiflike female.

  She slapped his hand away. “No tickling. Not again.”

  “Spoilsport.” With a groan, he raised them both up to a sitting position on the divan. Her nipples pebbled against his chest. “Cold?”

  “It’s supposed to be summer. How can I be?” She reached for a stocking on the carpet. “You’ve thrown my pins everywhere. Just how am I to do my hair up so I can pass the servants without them smirking?”

  “All this sex has made me stupid. I completely forgot. We’ll go up the secret stairs. There will be no need to even dress.”

  Charlie blinked. “There are secret stairs? Next you’ll tell me there’s a ghost.”

  “Nothing so predictable. But there is a passage leading from this room to one of the bedrooms upstairs. Not yours or mine, but I doubt we’ll bump into anyone.” He got off the sofa and scooped up the bundle of their clothes.

  “I will not go upstairs naked.”

  “All right.” He tossed her shift to her. “Put this on, Miss Prim. Now, if I can find the right panel…”

  “Please, please put your trousers on at least.”

  “You’re right. There might be spiders.” He enjoyed her shudder as he stepped into his pants and boots. She sat back down and put her slippers on sans stockings. “This house is very old, you know, and it wasn’t always in my family. My grandfather bought it when he made his fortune and changed its name.”

  “That’s unlucky, isn’t it?”

  “It may well be, but my grandfather didn’t believe in luck but hard work.” He walked to a corner and started rapping. Charlie glided after him, interested.

  “You’re quite serious, aren’t you. Will a door pop open?”

  “If I get lucky. It’s been years since I’ve been exploring here. The house was built by a family that was always in trouble with the church or the law. Hence a bolt-hole. There are stairs and a passage that leads to the beach. My father showed me when I was a boy, but then my grandmother absolutely forbid me to use them once he died. She thought I’d disappear.”

  “And you were obedient.”

  Bay grinned. “When I had to be. I don’t think I’ve used the stairs since my school days. It was always amusing to jump out at my friends in the middle of the night.”

  “I suppose you were wearing a sheet.”

  “On occasion. Ah!” He gave a shove with his shoulder and a narrow strip of aged wood creaked open.

  Charlie peered into the cavity. “It’s dark.”

  “Well, yes. Shall I light a candle, or do you want to parade before the staff in your chemise with your hair down your back? Not that you don’t look very fetching.”

  “H-how long will it take us?”

  “Not long. It’s just a few dozen steps. I’ll hold your hand and keep you safe.” He lit a candle stub from the sputtering flames in the hearth and stuck it back in the candleholder. “You’ll have to hold our clothes, though.”

  Charlotte clutched the assorted clothing to her chest. She was freezing now, the dampness between her legs adding to the chill. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a ray of sunshine. She most certainly did not want to be trapped in a dark cobwebby corridor. But Bay held her fast and pulled her up the well-worn wooden stairs. She screamed only once when something fluttered on her cheek.

  “Hush. People will really believe the house is haunted,” Bay teased. “Here we are.”

  There was an actual door with an actual knob. Bay turned it and led her into a room whose furniture was covered in dust sheets. She sniffed and sneezed.

  “Mice,” she said.

  “No doubt. This wing has been closed off since before I went to war. The mice have probably evolved into rats by now.”

  “Urk.” Charlotte felt invisible teeth nibbling at her ankles. The room was dim, the shutters closed. She scampered to the door and burst out into the hall. “Which way?”

  “Turn right.” She was almost running now, Bay chuckling a few steps behind her. “Right again. Here we are.”

  Charlotte was at her own door. “Would it be too much trouble for the household if I ordered a bath before supper?” She was convinced an army of spiders was weaving an elaborate web in her hair.

  “My dear, we live to serve you. I’ll take care of it. Wrap up in your wretched gray elephant robe and wait patiently.”

  She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him. “Thank you, Bay. I haven’t anything grand to dress in for dinner, you know.”

  “If I had my way, we’d dine naked in bed. You know how fond I am of that particular activity.” He held up a hand to stop her complaint. “But not tonight. Tonight we’ll be proper. But I can’t promise propriety for the rest of our holiday.”

  Charlotte shut the door on his grinning face, grabbed a hairbrush, and tore it furiously through her hair. Every inch of her itched, ached, throbbed. And she supposed she would be subjected to more lovemaking tonight in Bay’s enormous bed.

  She took her robe out of the wardrobe and wrapped her arms around herself. A clap of thunder startled her, but she had already been struck by lightning.

  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 shoul
d 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.