Mistress by Marriage (16 page)
“Lady Christie, so kind of you to see me. I am Mrs. Arthur Bannister.”
The words sounded like magic coming from her lips. Caroline knew a little about Arthur, and he was not magical at all. She extended two fingers. “Do make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Bannister. May I ring for tea?”
“Thank you for the offer, but I won’t inconvenience you. Or my husband, Arthur. He is waiting outside in our carriage. We’ve just come back from our honeymoon, you see.”
Deborah was the picture of delight over her new station. Caroline could not remember ever being so pleased to be married, although she must have been at one time. Edward had saved her from her cousins, and for that alone, he should be enshrined in some heroic pantheon. “My felicitations on your marriage. I understand from your sister that it was rather sudden.”
“Yes, a whirlwind courtship. But I couldn’t say no to my Arthur. Charlotte was minding the house for me, but there is no one next door now, not even any staff. Would you happen to know what’s become of her?”
“I do not. I was hoping you might be able to tell
me
.”
me
.”
“Oh, dear.” Deborah fiddled with a loose coal-black curl. “I imagine she’s gone back to her silly little cottage in the country then.”
Caroline thought Charlotte was far more suited to a silly country cottage than a Jane Street residence. Charlotte Fallon was definitely not mistress material. Deborah, on the other hand, despite her recent marriage was still in full courtesan mode—every gesture, every smile set on a well-worn course to charm. It was no wonder men fell at her feet, but Caroline was impervious. She could see the vulnerable woman beneath the glittering surface and felt a bit sorry for her. It must be so very tiring always being pretty and pleasant.
“If you see Charlotte,” Caroline said, “tell her I have taken inspiration from her. My closet is positively exploding with red dresses and my husband is apoplectic.” Actually, that was not true. Edward seemed rather sanguine every time she entered the room in one of her red dresses. They were not having the desired effect at all.
For the first time Deborah Bannister expressed a natural look—one of confusion—but nodded in agreement, her careful curls bouncing. “Of course. I shall write to her.” There was the slightest pause. “You have not, perhaps, heard any news of Sir Michael Bayard?”
Caroline knew this was not an idle question. Deborah had left her sister in her place as Sir Michael’s mistress when she ran off with Arthur Bannister. Poor Charlotte had not been able to hold out against Bayard’s masculine conceit and had been hopelessly in love the last time Caroline had spoken to her.
“I’m afraid not. He’s not been seen on the street in some time. As you said, the house is closed and the servants gone.”
“Well, I’m sure they both landed on their feet,” Deborah said, rising. “Thank you so much for your time, Lady Christie. I’m most sorry I didn’t make your acquaintance earlier.”
Caroline thought if anyone had landed on their feet, it was Deborah Bannister, nee Fallon. Once one of London’s most sought-after mistresses, she had managed to hook a husband after a string of high-born lovers. Most Jane Street girls would never be so lucky, living out their old age rationing out the gifts of their youth. No wonder they were anxious to acquire one bauble after another to keep themselves warm in a future winter. Once their beauty faded, as it inevitably would, there was nothing left to fall back on but cold, hard cash.
Caroline shook off her dismal thoughts as she saw Deborah Bannister to the door. She knew she couldn’t save every girl in the neighborhood—she could barely save herself. Although her writing had proved more lucrative than she had ever dreamed, she gave much of the compensation away. There was always some poor soul who needed it more than she did. After all, how many red dresses and Sevres dishes did she need? She had redecorated her house recently out of necessity. When Edward had placed her there, it looked very much like the wicked love nest it was supposed to be. The paintings alone were enough to make a whore blush. If Cameron had seen them, he’d probably have swooned. It had taken Caroline a few years, but room by room she had upgraded her surroundings. The only holdover from the previous tenant was the carved bed and the ceiling mirror, and it remained solely because the workmen feared the plaster would fall down upon their heads if they removed it.
Her interview over, Caroline climbed the stairs back to her neat desk. She hadn’t written anything in days, since even before Edward had turned up on her doorstep. Garrett was not going to be pleased with her lack of progress. She dipped her pen in the silver inkpot and held it over the page. A splash of ink fell and spread merrily over the white surface.
“Hell and damnation!” Frustrated, Caroline tossed the pen down. What was she to do with herself? She couldn’t write, couldn’t visit, couldn’t shop, couldn’t even settle her mind long enough to read. Mrs. Hazlett had banned her from the kitchen as well after a long lecture on how unsuitable it was for a baroness to cook. She had absolutely nothing to do except wait until Edward came back from Parliament, when they would circle politely around each other at dinner, then fall into their respective beds in agonizing propriety. Her eye fell on the neatly made-up camp bed and she stifled an urge to take an axe to it.
Weeks ago, Edward had decided she would be his mistress, even if she was already his wife. They had burned up the sheets before that last, sad morning. Caroline couldn’t even remember the details of it, except she had finally told him the truth. Whatever words she had used, they had been too effective. He had stayed away, and now, even though he was back, treated her as if she were a distant relative. He hadn’t made the least effort to make her change her mind about her ill-conceived abstinence policy. How foolish she’d been to set such impossible ground rules before he moved in. Impossible for her, at any rate. Edward seemed to be having no difficulty keeping to himself.
He was divorcing her and probably welcomed the space between her bed and his, miles and miles across the flowered carpet. He was only there out of some misplaced chivalry because she was still technically his chattel.
That would change soon. Even if Edward said Andrew was no longer involved, he’d cook up something with that stuffed shirt Maclean. Caroline would be happy to help. Maybe she could haul the handsome-even-if-his-nose-was-slightly-off-center Cameron into her bed to speed the process along.
Her lips quirked. Now,
that
would be a scandal. And probably impractical. Cameron didn’t seem to have one iota of sin in him, poor devil. The thought of seducing the man, despite the mighty challenge, really had no appeal. There was only one man Caroline wanted to seduce, but she had lost her touch.
that
would be a scandal. And probably impractical. Cameron didn’t seem to have one iota of sin in him, poor devil. The thought of seducing the man, despite the mighty challenge, really had no appeal. There was only one man Caroline wanted to seduce, but she had lost her touch.
Chapter 14
The broken shutter banged against the hinges in the maelstrom. The forces of nature were upon them, and nothing was safe from being swept away.—The Villa of Deceit
C
ameron was waiting with a candle when Edward finally came home. The session in Parliament had gone late, then he’d met Mulgrew in a dingy public house where he was not apt to be recognized. Mulgrew had shaken the guest list out of the Everdeens at some considerable expense to Edward and made the necessary inquiries. The most likely culprits—Pope and Douglass, who were present at the party—had been interviewed and intimidated by Mulgrew and several of his larger agents. As Mulgrew was plenty large himself, Edward was inclined to believe the threat to Caroline was now moot. To make sure, he would deliver his own threat in person tomorrow. If the so-called gentlemen worried for their social standing, a Christie had the power to ruin them with a few well-chosen words far more effectively than all the books Caroline could write put together.
ameron was waiting with a candle when Edward finally came home. The session in Parliament had gone late, then he’d met Mulgrew in a dingy public house where he was not apt to be recognized. Mulgrew had shaken the guest list out of the Everdeens at some considerable expense to Edward and made the necessary inquiries. The most likely culprits—Pope and Douglass, who were present at the party—had been interviewed and intimidated by Mulgrew and several of his larger agents. As Mulgrew was plenty large himself, Edward was inclined to believe the threat to Caroline was now moot. To make sure, he would deliver his own threat in person tomorrow. If the so-called gentlemen worried for their social standing, a Christie had the power to ruin them with a few well-chosen words far more effectively than all the books Caroline could write put together.
He should feel vindication. He should be at peace. But there was no longer any reason to stay on Jane Street, and that made him rather cross.
Cameron helped him shrug out of his jacket in the shadowy hallway. “Good evening, Lord Christie. Lady Christie is already to bed.”
“I should hope so. It’s very late.”
“May I get you anything before you turn in?”
“No, Cameron. I’ve already eaten, and drunk more than my fair share of ale.” Mulgrew had insisted on toasting to their success and had stood a few rounds. Edward expected it would all be covered by the exorbitant bill that would arrive tomorrow morning. “How did Lady Christie pass her day?”
“She stayed in her bedroom in her flowery robe for the most part, muttering over one of her notebooks.” Cameron caught Edward’s cool look and hurried on. “I couldn’t help but see what she wore, sir. She left the door wide open. This afternoon she had a visitor.”
Edward’s heart quickened. “Oh? Who?”
“A Mrs. Bannister. Don’t you worry. I made sure she was who she said she was. It seems the lady used to be a neighbor. They spent a few minutes in the parlor, then she went away.”
Edward watched as Cameron struggled mightily to suppress a yawn. His sleeping conditions were even worse than Edward’s, sharing the box room with the pot boy up at the top of the house. It was a wonder they all didn’t roast alive up there in the sweltering summer heat. “Thank you. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know things will be back to normal tomorrow. I met with Mr. Mulgrew this evening. He’s satisfied no harm will come to Lady Christie.”
“Does that mean we’ll be going home, my lord?”
Edward began to unwind his neckcloth. “I believe it does. Pack up my things tomorrow morning if you would and arrange to get them to Christie House. I have several appointments, but should be back in time for dinner.”
Edward sat on a hall chair as Cameron jacked off his boots, as they had done every night Edward returned so late. There was no point in disturbing Caroline at the late hour. Stocking feet would be quieter. The longer he had stayed with her, the easier it was to absent himself in the evenings. It meant he missed Mrs. Hazlett’s cooking. Missed seeing Caroline across the table. But when he left, he would not miss the rickety camp bed or the fact that Caroline was sleeping half a world away, forbidden to him.
He leaned back in the chair, a depressing weariness overtaking him. Tomorrow night he would undress in his own luxurious suite instead of a foyer, every amenity at his fingertips. He would not be sneaking upstairs like a thief clutching at his rumpled clothing. He’d have his soft feather bed and his spectacles and a good book, a snifter of brandy at his bedside. Somehow the thought did not cheer him as much as it should.
What if he temporarily forgot Caroline’s edict and crawled into her bed tonight? One last fling before he formalized their deed of separation. A divorce was not possible—his integrity would not allow it—but a legal separation agreement was long past due. Will had hounded him about the too-casual way he had set up Caroline on Jane Street for five years. With his marriage a closed book, albeit one with a dog-eared page near the beginning, Edward might find a mistress and get on with the business of being a healthy, normal man.
Trouble was, he thought ruefully as he mounted the stairs behind Cameron’s flickering candle, he didn’t want just any mistress. He wanted Caroline. Still, after everything.
Cameron left him standing in the pitch darkness of the hallway. Edward disrobed before the door, folding the rest of his garments neatly for Cameron to deal with in the morning. He turned the handle. The room was no longer bathed in moonlight but dark as sin. Despite his caution, he banged a knee on the camp bed, which was slanted at an odd angle. One of Caroline’s tricks to set him off balance, like those indecent nightgowns and red dresses and rich foods. She needn’t bother. He was already tilted at a crazed angle, about to fall face-first onto his sword.
He crossed the carpet in silence, pulled by her Siren-like call to his blood like Odysseus. Reaching his hand out in the dark, his palm hit one carved bedpost. Not far then. Would she simply roll over in sleep or wake and argue? Would she welcome him in warm half consciousness? Stifling a curse, he stumbled on the covers that had migrated to the floor and almost fell on top of her. He sat down gingerly, then reached for her.
Nothing. His hand felt air. Pillows. No wife whatsoever.
“Caro?”
No response. Perhaps she was in the little dressing room taking care of her needs. Stretching his weary body on the bed, he willed himself to relax. When she returned, she’d either throw him out, ignore him, or melt. He was hoping for the latter.
He waited. The room was drenched in silence, no movement from next door. Edward sat up. “Caroline?” he said, his voice louder. Bumbling about in the dark, he wrenched open the door to the dressing room.
“Caroline!” A lingering scent of jasmine was all that remained. Feeling his heart kick up in panic, he managed to light an oil lamp on the bedside table. He saw at once the door to the little balcony was wide open, the curtains still in the breezeless summer night.
He vaulted across the room and skidded to a stop. There on the iron railing was a knotted, twisted sheet leading to the garden below, unmistakable evidence that someone had climbed in.
My God.
Had they taken her while he was politely drinking inferior ale with Mulgrew? Where the hell was Cameron during her abduction? How long had she been gone?
My God.
Had they taken her while he was politely drinking inferior ale with Mulgrew? Where the hell was Cameron during her abduction? How long had she been gone?
“Caroline!” His voice was hoarse, desperate. He would kill whoever took her with his bare hands, then kill him again.
The sounds below were faint, but they intruded into his murderous rage. “At last! Good evening, Edward.”
“Caro! Where the devil are you?” It was too dark to see a bloody thing, but he thought he saw a wisp of white on the garden bench.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said with a sigh, so quietly he almost fell off the balcony bending to hear her. “When I can’t, I often come down into the garden. It’s so peaceful. But I couldn’t get past Cameron on the stairs. He hasn’t let me outside in days.”
“So you climbed down on a rope of sheets?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you mad? You could have broken your neck!”
“Nonsense. It’s only two stories. I used to do it all the time at home. Of course, then I had Nicky’s breeches on. Yours were way too long. I did try them on. But I couldn’t get back in. The last sheet gave way when I was coming down. My knots are not what they once were.” There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice.
Edward gritted his teeth. Of course Caroline Parker would be an expert in breeches and breaking the rules. How long had she been out there anyway? Anything might have happened to her, sitting beneath the faint stars. “And you couldn’t come in by way of the back or kitchen doors?”
He imagined he saw her shoulders shrug. “They were locked. If I’d had a hairpin, I might have picked them. I used to be good at that, too. Everyone had gone to bed. Except Cameron. I could see him through the glass pacing up and down the hall, regular as clockwork. I didn’t have the nerve to ask for his help, you see. He was quite explicit in his instructions.
Your
instructions. He would have felt an utter failure to find I’d escaped, and despite the fact he’s been
most
annoying, I didn’t want to upset him. You’re very late, Edward.”
Your
instructions. He would have felt an utter failure to find I’d escaped, and despite the fact he’s been
most
annoying, I didn’t want to upset him. You’re very late, Edward.”
To his everlasting regret. He felt as though he’d been robbed of ten years of his life in the past ten minutes. “Hang on. Don’t move. Not one inch.”
He tripped over the bedclothes again and went into the hallway, where he stepped into his pants in record time. He didn’t bother with anything else. Racing down the stairs, he sprinted through the hallway to the back garden door. After struggling with a hellish combination of locks in the pitch black hallway, installed recently to keep Caroline safe and
completely
unpickable, he pulled open the door and ran smack into Caroline on the grass path.
completely
unpickable, he pulled open the door and ran smack into Caroline on the grass path.
They fell in a tangle of limbs and white nightgown. Edward raised himself to look down upon the shadowed face of his wife. It was not too dark to see her smile. He caught his breath. He had not hurt her. “You moved, didn’t you? I told you to stay on the damned bench.”
“I’ve been sitting there for hours. I didn’t expect you to be quite so energetic leaving the house. You shot out like a ball from a cannon—there wasn’t time to move away.”
“I was worried, you little fool. When I couldn’t find you—”
She shifted under him, the silk of her gown slicing his bare chest. The night was hot, but Edward felt goosebumps rise up the back of his neck. The angry words died in his throat.
“I was just fine. I got so bored, I tried to weed. I probably pulled up half my plants in the dark. Don’t you think we’d better get up?”
Her breath tickled against his throat, her body soft beneath him. He could smell earth. The mélange of flowers. Caroline. Of course he should rise and help her into the house. Brush off the blades of grass and straighten the strap of her nightrail, which had slipped from her shoulder. A pale shoulder, vulnerable. Exposed. His lips covered a few inches of it, but they weren’t enough.
Soon his hands joined the fray, long fingers skimming her alabaster perfection, freeing her breasts from the cloth that shred like a spider’s web. Her nipples pearled in the starlight under his hungry touch. Edward kissed away her one obligatory protest because he sensed—
knew—
she was every bit as engaged as he in their mutual surrender. Her body didn’t lie. She relaxed beneath him and her womanly moisture soon coated his fingers as he sought to pleasure her. Tomorrow—today—would arrive soon enough. Within the halls and walls of Jane Street, they would take leave of each other for a final time. In Caroline’s pocket garden, there were no restraints. No barriers. She was as open to him as one of her lush scarlet and white-streaked roses, fragrant, complicated, exquisite. He turned long enough so she could release his member from its half-buttoned state. There was no time to remove his pants or tear away her nightrail completely—the abrasion of the textures on their skin only heightened their sensitivity to each other. She guided him home, seemingly as frantic as he to complete their coupling. His head flew backward in triumph as he seated himself inside her, the stars sliding above. He closed his eyes and permitted himself to feel . . . the incendiary velvet around his cock . . . the smooth skin and crumpled silk beneath him . . . the damp grass and tangle of russet hair between his fingers. They rocked together in almost agonizing slowness, savoring each thrust. For they each knew this was the end of it. The mutual torment had to stop. Caro was safe and he was—
knew—
she was every bit as engaged as he in their mutual surrender. Her body didn’t lie. She relaxed beneath him and her womanly moisture soon coated his fingers as he sought to pleasure her. Tomorrow—today—would arrive soon enough. Within the halls and walls of Jane Street, they would take leave of each other for a final time. In Caroline’s pocket garden, there were no restraints. No barriers. She was as open to him as one of her lush scarlet and white-streaked roses, fragrant, complicated, exquisite. He turned long enough so she could release his member from its half-buttoned state. There was no time to remove his pants or tear away her nightrail completely—the abrasion of the textures on their skin only heightened their sensitivity to each other. She guided him home, seemingly as frantic as he to complete their coupling. His head flew backward in triumph as he seated himself inside her, the stars sliding above. He closed his eyes and permitted himself to feel . . . the incendiary velvet around his cock . . . the smooth skin and crumpled silk beneath him . . . the damp grass and tangle of russet hair between his fingers. They rocked together in almost agonizing slowness, savoring each thrust. For they each knew this was the end of it. The mutual torment had to stop. Caro was safe and he was—
He was a Christie.
He was an ass.
Those things were not compatible. Dealing with Caroline not only slid the stars from the sky but made him lose control. Caro couldn’t change, nor could he. It was time—
She pulled him down to her mouth, sealing him firmly in her orbit, her kiss more than a rough brush of lips or clash of tongues. He tasted her tears and his own, bitter and sweet. How could he spill inside her, as he was going to do any second, then rise and leave? It was impossible.
But it was impossible to stay. Wasn’t it? They were like chalk and cheese. He craved order and she blossomed in chaos. Their marriage had been the most miserable year of his life, worse than when Alice died. Caroline had lost her luster, too, becoming dimmer by the day until she had been tempted by Andrew Rossiter. He had asked too much of her—wanting her to be somehow
less
. Less Carolinian, more Christie. She seemed happy with her racy books and her racier friends. He’d kept her at bay for five years, save for the annual hellish birthday night. What on earth had possessed him to make her his mistress?
less
. Less Carolinian, more Christie. She seemed happy with her racy books and her racier friends. He’d kept her at bay for five years, save for the annual hellish birthday night. What on earth had possessed him to make her his mistress?
He had been angry. He had been high-handed. In his effort to put Caroline in her place he instead found his, gloved inside her and completely subject to the endless tremors surrounding him. It was no time to think, to be reasonable. With a howl he lost himself in temptation, no deliverance in sight.
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