Mistress By Mistake (2 page)

Perhaps he’d been foolish to ride back to London. Every inch of him hurt, but he was damned if he was going to wait any longer for Deborah. He wondered how she’d amused herself while he was away. He let himself in to the dark house with his own key and climbed the stairs. He could have been blindfolded and still have found Deborah’s bedroom. She had changed her perfume to a delicious harmony of orange and lemons, and her fresh scent filled his head. He stood by the bed, not wanting to startle her awake, dropping his clothing quietly to the floor. This was not how he pictured his first night with his new mistress, but he was stiff as a poker and could not wait to seduce her over champagne and strawberries.

Angelique’s revolting cherubs were still gleaming in the moonlight. Helena had been too superstitious to remove them and had actually acquired several more. Poor Deborah had probably waited for him to return before she made any changes. He fully expected her to make the bedchamber her own, although the rest of the house was exactly to his taste.

Their liaison had not gotten off to a good start. The carters had no sooner delivered Deborah’s trunks before he’d left her in tears in the marble hallway. He had sent letters and flowers weekly, of course, and news of his grandmother’s death. In a foolish fit of lust he had discovered a ruby necklace in his grandmother’s jewel case and sent it to London, with the understanding that Deborah could wear it as long as she was his mistress. He was longing to see it around her white throat—it, and nothing else adorning her luscious body.

Grace Bayard was the rare woman who didn’t care much for ostentatious jewelry, so he had never seen his grandmother wear it. He had buried her with the plain gold band his grandfather had given her eighty years ago, before he made his fortune. Their marriage had not been an especially happy one. His grandmother had been practically a child when she wed, the fashion of the day. Her husband was older and ambitious, spending much of their married life outside England. Their long separation resulted in just one child, Bay’s father.

Grandmama Grace had told him once his grandfather had given her the rubies to atone for some infraction. His grandfather, Bay thought, must have done something spectacularly bad, for the rubies were large and lustrous and very valuable, and the diamonds surrounding them not insignificant either. The collar with its enormous center drop was fit for a princess. Hell, fit for a queen. He hoped it had not been a mistake to gift them to Deborah temporarily. He’d have to tread carefully when he discussed the necklace on the morrow.

He encountered an amusingly virginal night rail, which he made quick work of. She gave a pleased little sigh and wrapped herself around him. Her magnificent hair was in two schoolgirl braids—she certainly had not expected to entertain him this evening, and he was touched at her surprising modesty. And equally touched by her ardent, almost thirsty kisses. She tasted of vanilla and wine and smelled like a Spanish summer. She cupped his balls and brought him to her entrance and he slipped in without any hesitation. She was wet but very tight. Heaven. If she was a schoolgirl, he was as randy as a schoolboy and didn’t last long in her pillowing embrace. He’d spend more time tomorrow morning tending to her needs. He was known as a considerate lover, one of the reasons Deborah had agreed to be his mistress. Even his wife had no complaints while they were married.

Thoroughly spent, he passed a delightful night in his lover’s arms. And when the first rays of sun had the audacity to slip through the shutters, he feasted upon her breast as if it were a banquet of cream and honey. She gave a low groan, but he didn’t think it was in protest. The faint light showed him his mistress was not quite as young as she appeared to be six weeks ago—there were a few silver strands in her unraveling ink-dark braids. No doubt she resorted to artifice and would have corrected this had she known he was coming.

And speaking of coming, he wanted to seat himself within her again. Last night had been heaven, and now that the empty day was spread before him, the devil in him intended to visit heaven again and again. No, he was not sorry he’d paid the exorbitant price to secure Deborah Fallon’s favors. If last night was any indication of what the woman could do when she was half asleep, he would cheerfully beggar himself. He was a lucky man indeed.

He licked her nipple to taut, pale pink perfection, wondering idly if he’d get a child on her someday. He’d been fortunate with his mistresses thus far, but he would do his duty by her if she bore his bastard. He was a gentleman, and that’s what gentleman did. Somehow the thought of an infant suckling Deb Fallon’s very tempting breast was unbelievably erotic. She would resemble a naughty Madonna, her black hair cascading down her ivory shoulders.

By God, she was making him lose his mind. The touch and taste of her was inebriating, clouding his judgment. One didn’t keep a mistress for domesticity. One kept a mistress for sin, the darker the better. And if he knew anything about Deborah Fallon, she would complain loud and long caring for anything that was not her own luscious self. A baby? Proposterous.

As if she heard his thoughts, she stiffened beneath him. And then she screamed.

Ear-piercingly. Perhaps she had not recognized him when she awoke. But honestly, who could she be expecting? She was
his
.

He looked up at her, suspicious. She gave him a look he’d seen only in battle, when the other side was hopelessly outnumbered, pushed beyond recklessness, and there was nothing left to lose. He hoped very much that she was not sleeping with a French bayonet beneath the mattress.

“You! You!” she sputtered.

“Yes, my pet, it is I. I know I gave you no notice, but thank you for your very warm welcome last night. It was worth every minute of the harrowing six weeks we spent apart.” He set back to flicking her nipple again with his tongue.

She hit him on the head with a fist. “Get off me! This instant! You are much mistaken, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah.”

Was this some sort of fantasy? Perhaps she liked her love play rough. To be the reluctant virgin, he the barbarian conqueror. Angelique had liked to play highwayman and victim, as he recalled. He was the victim, and a most willing one. He stood, and he delivered.

“I shall call you anything you like, sweet, but please don’t strike me again. It’s not a bit sporting when I don’t know the rules of your game. But I’m willing to learn.”

“This is not a game, you stupid man! Oh, I do beg your pardon! But you are under a severe misapprehension, sir.”

She was scrambling under him quite provocatively. Her skin was on fire for him, blushing most delightfully. And here he had thought La Fallon cool and a little calculating.

“Hush, my dove.” His lips captured hers and she squeaked. Soon he would make her sigh again. See, she was softening already. Her lips opened and he swept into the warmth. His tongue tangled with hers in a dance as old as time. He was fisting his cock to slide between her smooth thighs when she bit him.

And drew blood. The taste of iron flooded his mouth. Why, the little she-devil! He chuckled deep in his throat and continued kissing her, showing her exactly who was in control, angling his cock into her so as to rub the top of her sex. After a very halfhearted effort to push him away, she grew as warm and hard as he, shuddering satisfactorily under him as he applied more pressure to her clitoris with his cock and thumb. She kissed him as though they would both die tomorrow, her fingers exploring the bumps on his spine, the slash on his cheek, the cleft of his arse. Fingers that flew everywhere, whereas his never strayed from the pleasurable task at hand.

He could be patient. Last night had been a hurried affair but rather perfect nonetheless. He remembered the heat of her wet quim sheathing him, drawing him deep. Tempting as it was to sink within again this very instant, he focused instead on the kiss and the inexorable circling. He was good with his hands, even better with his tongue. But if he was any judge, she was close to coming, and any interruption and relocation would not be to either of their benefits. She was incredibly responsive, pure carnality wrapped in a small, plump package. He was unwrapping her, inch by delicious inch.

He felt her moment of capitulation as she stilled, then burned for him. Heat from her snow-white skin enveloped their bodies in all all-consuming blaze as she held him close. He swallowed up her cry, bore the frantic scoring on his back. Her legs fell apart in blatant invitation. He was not one to miss a cue, and took advantage of her total surrender by gliding home in a single thrust. Her legs laced tight around him, hips rising, heels spurring his every move.

Just as he remembered. Better than he dreamed. All those weeks away had heightened the anticipation, but nothing in Bay’s experience could match the silk friction of being inside Deborah Fallon. No wonder she was the most sought-after courtesan in the ton. Her reputation didn’t begin to explain her exquisite sexual artistry. She made him feel as if she’d just discovered sin and was making up for lost time, combining innocence and wickedness in the tantalizing twist of her limbs and her lush mouth.

He lost himself in another desperate kiss. It was so easy to lose himself with her, he might just disappear altogether. Bay reminded himself he had the upper hand—it wouldn’t do to fall victim to the experienced wiles of his mistress. Bad enough he’d spent years in thrall to his wife. Women were all very good for amusement—and God knows he was seriously amused right now, seated in a shivering, shaking, quaking Deborah—but she was just a good fuck. Nothing more. But certainly nothing less.

He opened his eyes to break the spell, watched as she came apart again, her teeth biting her own lip in a slightly rabbity way and her dark lashes scrunched under questioning brows. Quite endearing, actually, and a sure sign that she had taken her pleasure again. As a gentleman, now he could take his. His balls contracted in undeniable need, his cock plunged on with ferocious insistence. Her tremors bore him in their tide, his mental reservations floating away. He was all body now, all male. All, when it came down to it, cock. There was nothing else of any consequence at the moment. He should, of course, withdraw, but her legs were locked around him and she must know what she was about. It would be a shame to break their unity. Criminal. His seed erupted. He shouted her name and fell on her as if dead.

The only sounds were their frantic gasps for breath and the ticking of a dreadful little angel with a clock in its porcine belly. Bay realized he’d better move before he squashed the life out of her, but truthfully, he could remain right where he was forever. Her citrusy smell was even stronger now, mixed with the scent of sex and sweat. He inhaled deeply, almost tasting the essence of Deborah Fallon. If she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.

“Sir Michael.”

He rolled off and grinned at her. “My dear Deborah, I think we might dispense with the formalities. I’ve asked you to call me Bay. That is what my friends and relations call me, and we are certainly friends, are we not?”

“No, Sir Michael, we are not.” She reached for the sheet and tried to stuff it between them. He pulled it away from her easily.

“Don’t cover yourself. I love looking at you.”

She glared at him. “But I do not wish to be looked at. If you would just listen to me for a moment—”

He sighed. He hadn’t counted on her being a talker, and certainly not so stern. Before they’d come to their arrangement, she was playful, flirtatious, like a fluffy black-and-white kitten. But it seemed her claws weren’t retracted now. He hoped she would not be too tiresome. Even if she was the most skilled harlot he’d ever fucked, it would be a dead bore if she lectured him afterward.

He tried charm. “I am all ears. In fact, my angel, every part of me is at your disposal.”

“Do not call me angel.” She looked around the room with loathing.

“What shall I call you then, Deb?”

“
Not
Deb! That is what I was trying to tell you when you—when you—took such liberties with my person.”

She was angry, beet red now, not a good color on her. Not any sort of color a man’s mistress should have. He preferred her translucent white skin, so pale she glowed like a pearl. He’d never heard she had a temper. Vanity, yes. That was understandable. Perhaps a bit of pique when she wanted something and didn’t get it soon enough. Perfection in bed, and
that
she’d already proven. Deborah Fallon was allegedly a paragon among mistresses. Everybody said so. Could it be she had the entire ton fooled? He was becoming irritated with her and himself at the moment. If he had wanted a shrew in his bed, he would have gotten married again.

“I was under the impression, madam, that my attentions were not unwelcome. You have accepted my astonishingly large bank draft and lived in my house for the past six weeks. You are wearing the clothes I bought you. Not at present, I grant you, but they hang in your closet. You have my grandmother’s necklace and my good faith. Are you telling me you wish to renegotiate our agreement?”

“That is what I’m trying to tell you, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah Fallon. Deborah is my sister, and if I see her again I am very likely to strangle her on the spot.”

“Rubbish. What kind of ruse is this?” Bay stared hard at her. She was Deborah Fallon, in his bed, well-fucked, his marks on her lush body, hers on his. The glossy hair, the blue eyes, the tits—he’d pursued the woman for months. Surely he could tell whom he was shagging. He watched as she stumbled out of bed and opened up the armoire. There was very little to choose from. Where the hell had all the gowns he’d ordered from Madame Duclos gone to? She reached for an ugly gray velvet robe, belted it tightly, and turned to him. Her braids lay like sentinels over her bosom daring any man to touch.

“My name is Charlotte. Deborah is my younger sister. I’m sorry to inform you she has eloped with Mr. Arthur Bannister. Perhaps you know him? Running to fat? Gormless? But recently he has come into some money, a house in Kent, and is stupid enough to want to marry her. She got me here under completely,
completely
false pretenses,” she muttered. “I was meant to tell you what she had done and smooth your ruffled feathers. I suppose I have gone over and above my duty in that regard.” She raised her chin, a rather charming chin with just the tiniest dimple. Deborah had no dimple there that he could recall.