Mistress By Mistake (20 page)

“I’ve spoken to my banker. Whether or not you agree to come to Dorset, I’ve arranged to have a substantial sum transferred to you. You’ve succeeded in making me feel penitent—and I’m a man who rarely regrets anything, Charlie. But I wronged you and want to salve my guilty conscience.”

So, he offered a fortune either way. She
had
been wronged, from the moment she woke with his lips suckling at her nipple. She’d been stripped of her freedom, although it had been a more than pleasant imprisonment. Terrified by his crazy wife, too. To be bound in his arms again would not be a hardship.

She’d had so little love in her life, not that Robert had truly loved her. Not that Bay did either. Both men had loved her body though. She was still young enough to feel desire, despite years of enforced purity. Could she survive her next thirty years without wishing for one more night with Bay?

She could have one more night. One more afternoon, anyway. She could allow him to make love to her right now, and focus on every kiss, caress, stroke. Store them up in her memory bank for the frigid winters ahead, like the pound notes in her ginger jar. Say good-bye to him once and for all.

Give him some small value for the money he seemed determined to bestow upon her. Give herself the gift of one last fling, as he put it. To feel him over her and in her, his hands and tongue and teeth imprinting themselves and anointing her.

She stood up and he quickly rose, concern on his brow.

She licked her lips. “I cannot give you three months, Bay. But I will give you three hours. Now. It’s all I dare.” She reached out to him, her hand trembling.

He pressed a kiss to her hand. “What if I can convince you to spare me a little more time? A month, say?”

“You can try.” Charlotte felt the corners of her mouth turn up. She must be mad, as mad as Anne Whitley, but he was so effortlessly tempting.

“I shall rise to your challenge. In fact, I’m rising now.” He pressed her palm to his breeches. She had done that to him without an ounce of flirtation. How very odd. “See? I’ve been hard for you since I walked through the door. Go close the curtains in your bedchamber. We wouldn’t want to shock Mr. Trumbull.”

Charlotte was shocked herself. But she threw her caution out the window and pulled the curtains in her mind shut and led Bay into her bedroom.

He untied her stupid cap. It was criminal to cover such hair. Glossy, rippling waves escaped down her back as he carefully removed each pin. She stood still, her eyes downcast as if she was afraid to meet his. Her lashes seemed unnaturally dark on her pale cheeks.

She was afraid of him! Afraid of herself, too, of what they had together. He would have to warm her up gently if he would have any hope of convincing her to parlay three hours into thirty days. He looked forward to sparring with her for a month, both in and out of bed. He could be persuasive, verbally and physically. She would fall from her pedestal into his arms.

But in truth, it was she who had persuaded him to follow her here without any effort at all.

Her room was small, simple, virginal, the bed snowy with white linen, every corner tucked. He would soon alter that. His bed at Bayard Court was a massive Elizabethan affair, a tester bed with fringed brocade bed hangings that could accommodate a small family. He could see himself and Charlie tented within, the shadows abetting their happy sin. Today he’d have to control his impulses to roll around with her wildly or they’d wind up on the rag-rugged floor. He unbuttoned her plain navy dress and wished she’d at least reach for his cravat, but she was still as death. Like a Christian martyr waiting on a china plate for the lion to come for supper. This would never do. She was as solemn as a nun. Had she forgotten already that it was her idea to bring him to bed in the afternoon? He had merely come to tea, expecting another set-down.

He stuck one finger under her armpit and wiggled. She flinched, bit her lip but said nothing. He applied more pressure, this time with both hands, and she let out a little scream. Her dress dropped to the floor. She toppled backward on the bed as his fingers continued their tickling mischief. She was laughing and writhing now, helpless. Her face was rosy with some anger, and—yes—enjoyment.

“Stop this at once!” she cried before shrieking. She batted at him ineffectually, her breasts rising and falling beneath her chemise and corset. Her lips opened in further protest. He had to stop their mutual torment, so he kissed her, as he had wanted to do from the first moment he nearly decapitated himself entering her cottage.

She tasted of cress and butter. Sweet tea. So sweet. Soft. He cupped her face with one hand as he untied her laces with the other to free a plump breast. It was perfect in his hand, the creamy weight temptation itself. He’d missed the scent of oranges, missed the velvet of her skin. Missed everything about her, even her bad temper and hideous caps. He thought about confessing, but he’d already pled his case. It was time to use other methods.

His tongue was useful, circling around a darkening nipple. He feasted, deliberately savoring each second buried in her lush bosom, indulging himself, and, he hoped, her as well. He knew success when he heard her sigh and felt her fingers slide through his hair. The taste of her filled his mouth, more delicious than all the store-bought biscuits in the world. He felt her melt as he suckled, her legs part. He tugged up the hem of her chemise and headed homeward, skimming her smooth skin with his fingertips. Her white thighs, the sensitive spot behind her knees, her beautiful belly—they would be tended to later. All he wanted right now was to touch her hot core. Get inside her and never leave. Make her beg for him to stay tonight, and then go away with him forever tomorrow. He dipped a finger into her dark curls, slipped between her nether lips. She was already silky, slick, welcoming.

But he could wait, though not for long. He set to abrading the inch of swollen flesh at the apex, for her pleasure and his. He would benefit from every touch, every tensing, every letting go. She shuddered under him as he worked her clitoris to rigid attention, much like his own cock, which was near to bursting in his breeches.

He drew her nipple between his teeth as he circled harder and felt her world shift. She cried out, her nails nearly piercing his shoulder. He chose to withstand the sting and soldiered on, nipping, soothing, and smoothing her as she came apart. Charlotte let loose a string of somewhat colorful descriptions of all the things he had already planned to do.

He heard her orders, and he was an obedient sort of fellow. So much for gentling her into submission. She was as wild and needy as he was. He had to have her, had to feel her tight and wet around him now. This very minute.

Apparently she felt the same way. There was no time for finesse. There wasn’t time to remove his jacket or even her shift. Between the two of them, two pairs of hands desperate, the placket of his breeches became undone and he sheathed himself within her in one very firm stroke. She spasmed around him, all warm honey, her hips lifting and driving him further inside. He was so lost he forgot to kiss her, just shut his eyes and plunged deeper, the exquisite friction almost too perfect to bear. She rose up against him and lured him down with a nip at his throat.

The heat between them danced across his skin. He opened his eyes thinking to see his jacket in flames, but saw instead his lover, her hair a tangle, her ivory skin flushed, her mouth open in joyous surprise. His tongue swept in and she returned the parry, as though she was starving, tasting him for the first time and could not get enough. He could kiss her forever, drink in her sweetness. Their coupling was so right, so thoughtless, really. He needn’t worry about position or mindless patter—she opened to him willingly and matched him each time he thrust. Then she rippled all around him, riding the crest of her orgasms, making quick cries between kisses. It had been like this from the first night, when she thought she was dreaming. Perhaps it was he who was dreaming now, for surely this was too ideal to be real.

But reality did intrude on this come-to-life fantasy, so he withdrew and spent on her belly. He lay pressed close, their heartbeats skipping between them. Her white breast spilled over in his hand, its nipple peaked and pink. The weight of his clothes was suddenly onerous—he should be with her, flesh to flesh. He’d taken her like an impatient brute, but judging from her lazy smile, she didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry I was so precipitous. I didn’t even remove my boots.”

She touched his scarred cheek. “We still have most of three hours.” Her voice was playful and sultry, even if she had reminded him how very fast he had taken her. How very fast she had brought him to completion. But it had been as good for her. Next time he would make it even better. He rolled away and tugged at his neck cloth, which had disentangled enough for her to mark him with a lovebite. She sat up and drew her shift over her head.

Her body was even more desirable than he remembered. She glistened with a sheen of perspiration from their lovemaking, and her scent, far from disturbing him, made him want to taste her all over, lick up each drop of moisture. He watched as she used the garment to wipe away the sweat and semen. If they had been on Jane Street, they could have bathed together, which reminded him he was overdressed for the occasion. He removed his wrinkled clothing, returned to the mattress and to his absolute astonishment, watched his cock recover some of its audacity.

He sensed her regaining her propriety, moving away from him both physically and mentally. Her face had lost some of its sly softness, as if she was awakening from a reverie. He meant for her to go back, for them both to go back where the world was as small as the bed they shared, and life was as simple as a good fuck. He would force her from her prudery, and with luck, would be on his way to Dorset with her in the morning. He tipped her back against the pillows and trailed his tongue from the hollow at her throat to her delicious hot slit. She would not say no. She could not say no. She was his, every inch of her, at least for a little while.

B
ay’s carriage rolled through the drive, the open fields of tall grass on either side flattened by the brisk wind. Ahead was a large stone manor house overlooking a gray-green sea. Storm clouds hung low on the horizon, promising to continue the bad weather that had followed them all the way from Little Hyssop. A few stunted black trees sprung up here and there along the lane, but mostly the green of the ground met the sky and the ocean as far as the eye could see. Charlotte took a deep breath, devouring the smell of salt air and rain. She was home for the first time in a decade, not all that far from the beach she played on as a child. Bay had promised her sailing and swimming, as well as days and nights of his masterful loving.

No, not loving. She mustn’t be foolish. Mustn’t make more of their mutual lust. And lust it was. It was as if she had shredded every admonition her poor mother had ever given her. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.” So many sentences her mama uttered began with those words, or “a lady never…” A lady would never give her body to Bay with heedless abandon in coaching houses and carriage rides. A lady would never rest on a pillow on her knees as she took her lover’s member in her mouth. A lady would never feel jubilant as she cradled and suckled him to lose all control. A lady would not crave the taste of his enslavement. Charlotte was ashamed of her easy acceptance of every vice. But how essential it was to be led astray when Bay was doing the leading.

She had meant to say “don’t.” She had meant to say “no.” Instead she had watched in a languorous stupor as Bay packed her belongings in a valise by candlelight. He carried it off before the Pig and Whistle locked its doors, with precise instructions to meet him the following day. He had obviously never doubted for a minute that he could convince her to join him, the devil. She found herself on Mr. Trumbull’s doorstep the next morning, stammering that she had been summoned back to London again to see her sister. She rode the mail coach three towns over before Bay met her in the courtyard of the Grasshopper Inn. Even though she knew not a soul, she was as veiled as a freshly made widow. Bay had tossed that veil and the cap under it out of the window of his coach almost immediately. When she delved into her case when they stopped at the first of several inns on the journey to the coast, she had been irritated to discover that he had somehow misplaced all her other caps. But he had purchased her a lovely straw bonnet, telling her the blue ribbons were an exact match for her eyes, so she was on her way to forgiving him.

He had been restless the past hour, shifting in his seat as the driver bumped along a winding path along the cliffs, almost as if he were as nervous as she was. He had spoken about his house with pride, and she could see he had every reason. She counted numerous gables and chimneys on the Jacobean façade, noted the many-paned mullioned windows. A high stone wall covered in ivy and climbing roses sheltered his grandmother’s garden at the east end of the house. Somewhere in his luggage were Mr. Trumbull’s cuttings. Bay had been most particular wrapping the stems in wet cotton batting at each stop.

They had not passed another dwelling for some time, driving down a spit of land surrounded by the sea. Bay had hopped down from his dry perch, braving the weather to unlock the gates at the end of the drive. The carriage pushed forward a few meters, then Bay locked them back up “to discourage the random visitor,” he said. Somehow Charlotte felt trapped, not that she wanted to risk her reputation and venture off the estate. There had been a village a mile or so back much like the one in which she had grown up, the Smugglers’ Rest Pub proclaiming the previous pastime of some of the citizenry. Now that the wars were over, most free traders were forced to earn an honest living, depleting the little community. Bay had given Charlotte a very brief history of his section of the Dorset coast during their trip.

As a boy, Bay had a fascination for the local smugsmiths, which his grandmother had firmly squelched. His house itself had once been owned by a prominent family who had dabbled in the trade over the centuries. He’d watched the lights on the water for hours from his bedroom with his grandfather’s spyglass. Things were now staid and settled, although there was still some remarkably good brandy in his cellars. He’d promised Charlotte a large tot of it once their feet were on the flagstone floors of Bayard Court.

The short journey had not agreed with her. She’d been queasy off and on for days. The roads were rutted and muddy, and the inclement weather had not helped, necessitating the closure of the carriage windows. She was trapped in the still air of Bay’s carriage, although the scent of him—starched linen and vetiver and sex—was very pleasant. Charlotte had seen the sun shine for just one day in two weeks, and she had spent part of that day in Bay’s arms with the curtains closed.

Her garden would be a shambles when she returned. Before she left Little Hyssop, she had pressed some money in Mr. Trumbull’s arthritic hand, asking him to hire one or two of the local boys to work in both their gardens for the next month. The produce from her vegetable patch and fruit trees was to go to the poor. Richer by six thousand pounds, she could order hampers from Fortnum & Mason to fill her belly for the rest of her life.

Six thousand pounds for thirty days. Two hundred pounds per day. The sum was inconceivable, but Bay had assured her he wouldn’t miss a single sovereign. Judging from his house, he was ridiculously rich. She wondered why he had gone into the army. As a baronet and only son, surely he could have stayed home and left the fighting to others.

And then she remembered Anne and his illegal marriage. Bay had gone off to get himself killed. Charlotte shivered. She hoped that woman was far away, her schemes for Bay thwarted by his loyal retainers.

Charlotte and Bay dashed from the carriage under an umbrella provided by a windblown Mr. Frazier. Mrs. Kelly beamed a welcome to them in the wide flagstone foyer. Evidently Charlotte had been forgiven for her earlier behavior and was now in the housekeeper’s good books. Making his excuses, Bay disappeared with Mr. Frazier almost immediately, leaving Charlotte to tour the house without him.

If Jane Street had been lovely, Bay’s true home was one hundred times more impressive. Intricate Jacobean oak paneling lined the walls. There was no evidence of Bay’s art collection downstairs; assuredly it would have shocked his elderly grandmother. Mrs. Kelly said many of the rooms in the house were still shut up, had been so even when Lady Bayard was still alive, but everything Charlotte inspected was mellow, tasteful, shining, dust-free. Bay’s little staff had been busy getting the house ready for what Charlotte was beginning to think of as the only honeymoon she would ever have. Instead of vows and a wedding ring, she would leave Bayard Court with the promise of economic independence and a priceless ruby necklace, which Bay had stubbornly insisted she keep. It was beneath her high-collared gray frock right now. The jewels were all he permitted her to wear at night in the modest inns they stopped at on the road. His letter had come to life at last with the wrong sister, but everything he had suggested became better than promised.

Charlotte was grateful most of the house was under Holland covers, as she did not think she’d get her bearings if she had to navigate through all of it. Mrs. Kelly was a bit breathless just from showing her the parlors, dining room, morning room, breakfast room, well-stocked library, and conservatory, an exquisite glass extension that overlooked the walled garden and the pewter sea. The conservatory was empty now of greenery, and rain tapped incessantly on the panes. Charlotte could imagine frost and snow on the window while tropical plants reached for the ceiling, but Bay’s grandmother had cut back on her hobby long ago.

Charlotte was winded herself when she entered her designated bedchamber. She was glad Mrs. Kelly and Irene had not put her in Lady Bayard’s bedroom, which still bore evidence of being a sickroom. Instead she followed Mrs. Kelly a good ways down the hall.

“We’ve put you right next to Sir Michael. He never moved into his grandfather’s room when he inherited, of course. He didn’t want to disturb his old gran.”

“Perhaps he will when he marries again,” Charlotte said softly.

Mrs. Kelly looked at her with some sympathy. The door to Bay’s suite stood open. The room, papered in a dark blue, was unmistakably masculine. Charlotte couldn’t restrain her curiosity and stepped in. A massive bed faced the leaded windows that overlooked the sea. Charlotte had an immediate image of lying on it, the blue brocade curtains concealing all the wicked things that Bay would do to her.

“This was his boyhood room. Mr. Frazier told me his grandmother had it redecorated after he came back from the war.”

Charlotte gazed through the wavy glass. “Bay told me he used to watch for smugglers.”

“Very likely. They were active on this part of the coast. My sister used to send me lace when she could get hold of it.”

“I make lace, Mrs. Kelly. Perhaps I’ll have time to make you some.” She had purposefully brought her equipment with her this time. She hated to be idle.

“Well! That would be lovely. I’d never say no to a bit of lace. If you’re ready?”

Charlotte would have ample opportunity to snoop into Bay’s things later. She followed Mrs. Kelly down three steps into another wing.

He had the bigger bed, but her view was just as perfect. Drawn to the window, she plunked down on the cushioned window seat to watch the whitecaps dance rhythmically beyond the lawn. Charlotte thought she might be perfectly content staring at the water all the rest of the day.

Mrs. Kelly broke the spell. “Is there anything you need, Miss Fallon?”

Charlotte shook her head. She’d examine her new room more thoroughly later. Now all she wanted to do was revel in the luxury of being in Dorset again.

Irene had already unpacked her meager belongings. Mrs. Kelly encouraged Charlotte to rest and come downstairs for tea with the master in an hour. Too excited to sleep, she washed and changed from her traveling clothes without ringing for Irene. The maid was a lovely girl, but it had been so very long ago since Charlotte and Deb had shared a maid that she was quite used to doing for herself. She sewed her own simple clothes so that she could get in and out of them without too much difficulty.

She was in a fresh gray dress, her head feeling unnaturally naked without the comfort of one of her little spinster’s caps. Of course, her neighbors in Little Hyssop thought she wore a widow’s cap. She really would feel like a widow once Bay was finished with her. There were thirty days left to enjoy her pretend marriage.

Charlotte sighed. What she had with Bay right now was better than most marriages. People in the ton married for property and consequence. For titles and wealth. If one could endure being covered by one’s husband once a week without too much revulsion, one could consider oneself lucky. Charlotte, on the other hand, could not wait to ditch her gray dress and tumble with Bay in his massive bed. She was fascinated by his conversation, loved studying his male beauty as he spoke. She could understand why Anne was so determined to have him again. Bay was the type of man one could not ever forget.

But forget him she must when she went back to reality and her little cottage.

Heavens. She could now afford something on a slightly grander scale. A house with a bigger garden. Her own conservatory, where she could make her lace in warmth and brilliant sunshine surrounded by the blooming plants she loved. She might even be forced to move from Little Hyssop if certain circumstances arose. Bay had promised to help her with investing her nest egg so that she could increase her new-found wealth.

But a financial bubble could burst, and then she’d be as badly off as her parents had been. She must be as careful and conservative with her treasure and heart as she’d been this past decade. Except for the next thirty days.

Charlotte removed the ruby necklace and wrapped it carefully in a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Leaving her room, she wished she had a trail of Hansel and Gretel crumbs to follow downstairs. After a few wrong turns, she bumped into Mrs. Kelly, who was wheeling a loaded tea trolley into one of the downstairs reception rooms. A fire burned in the grate to ward off the damp of the cavernous room. Bay was already seated in one of a pair of wing chairs in an alcove. The uncurtained French windows led out to the clipped lawn and the beach. Raindrops slid down the panes, but Bay’s smile was as sunny as it could be. He rose and kissed her hand.

“I trust you’ve settled in and everything meets with your approval?”

“Yes, of course.” She had nothing to complain about so far, except for the wretched weather, and there was nothing Bay could do about that. “Mrs. Kelly, thank you. This looks delightful. I’ll take care of serving.” Mrs. Kelly had even included a cut-glass bowl of raspberries, although Charlotte was not about to put them to their previous use. Truthfully, she wasn’t hungry at all, but she busied herself pouring tea for them both and pushing a full plate toward Bay.

“Sorry I left you in the lurch earlier and disappeared. I had some business with Frazier.” Bay wolfed down a sandwich and grabbed another as though they hadn’t shared a breakfast and a substantial luncheon already today.

“And how is Mr. Frazier? As feisty as ever?”

Bay grinned. “I believe he’s a bit bored after all the recent excitement.”

“I cannot say the same. I am looking forward to a quiet sojourn in the country. Your home is lovely, by the way.” She took a tiny bite of muffin for politeness’s sake.

“All my grandmother’s doing. This was her favorite spot in the afternoon. On a fine day the view is spectacular.” He scooped a spoonful of berries onto his dish and raised a naughty eyebrow at her. Charlotte ignored him.

“I can imagine. Even now it’s rather majestic.” The wind whipped at the shrubbery and the waves frothed white.

“I like a good storm myself. Maybe that’s why I like
you
.” He winked at her impudently.

“I’ll have you know until I met you I was most temperate. You are excessively provoking.” She watched him swallow a mouthful of berries, enjoying them far too much. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. It was stained bright pink. Charlotte thought of that tongue tasting her.