Rules for Being a Mistress (13 page)

“Now, then, my dear,” he said in his best avuncular tone. “As I was saying, there’s been a dreadful mistake. My manservant got it completely wrong, I’m afraid.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Oh? You
didn’t
order a girl to warm your bed for the night?”

“God, no! What do you think I am? A dirty old goat? I would
never
do anything so crass as to hire a woman for immoral purposes. I’m simply not that sort of man. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a prostitute,” he added quickly. “Some very nice people
are
prostitutes, or so I understand.
You
seem very nice, and I’m sure you’re very good at whatever it is you do. Please don’t take it personally.”

Cosy glared at him.

“I don’t happen to regard women as disposable commodities, that’s all,” he said piously. “How exactly did you come across Mrs. Price, being locked up in the attic all day, as you are?”

“I want to earn enough money to go to America,” she explained. “So I snuck out of the house and went to see Mrs. Price for a job. And she sent me here. You’re my first job. She said you were a rich bastard, and you’d pay me a king’s ransom for the jewel of my innocence, so how could I resist?”

“Good heavens!” said Benedict. “Here I thought I was hiring a—a respectable, hard-working young woman to work for me. How could Mrs. Price have got it so wrong?”

“Oh? Was it a
servant
you were after hiring?” she said, folding her arms under her small breasts, her skepticism apparent. “Someone to tidy up? Starting with your
dangler,
I suppose!”

“My what?” he asked, apparently puzzled.

“Your affair,” she clarified. “Your yard-arm. Your love-dart. Your
thing,
man!”

“Oh, my
thing,
” he said, understanding her at last. “It’s very kind of you to offer, Miss Cherry, but I am perfectly capable of tidying up my own dangler. I wanted you for something else. Something completely different.” He sipped his brandy as he tried to think of what that something else might be. “Something perfectly respectable. Some honest employment that would require you to visit me alone late at night…I just can’t seem to remember at the moment what it might be, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the jewel of your innocence.”

“Let me guess,” she said helpfully. “You’re an
artist,
and you want me to model for you in the nude for your latest masterpiece. Am I getting close?”

“Alas, I am not artistic. You could pose for me in the nude all night, but I fear the result would not be a masterpiece. I don’t even sketch.”

“Why can’t you just admit it?” she demanded crossly. “You want a girl in your bed, and you’re willing to pay for it. You want
me.
”

“You do seem to possess all the necessary qualifications,” he admitted. “However, I
don’t
want to take you to bed. For one thing, I’m much too old for you.”

“Then why didn’t you ask for an old woman?”

“Because I needed a young woman for the job.”

“Which is?”

His eyes roamed over the book-lined room, searching for inspiration. “Well, Miss Cherry, I am glad you ask. I’m no longer young, and my eyes are tired. I can no longer read into the night as I used to, which is fairly devastating, as I love a good book. I thought I might employ someone with young eyes to read to me.”

Her painted mouth twitched as she fought back the sudden urge to giggle. There was nothing wrong with the man’s eyesight. He had recognized her immediately.

“Someone? An Irish girl with red hair, green eyes, and a small bosom, for example?”

“Yes, exactly. You see, when I was a boy, I had an Irish governess. She used to read to me at night. I found her voice very soothing. She had red hair, green eyes, and, ahem, a small bosom. She was almost like a mother to me, really.”

“What part of Ireland?” she demanded.

“Beg pardon?”

“What part of Ireland was she from, your governess? It’s a simple question.”

“Oranmore. I have cousins there.”

“You’re Irish?” she said, startled.

“No, of course not,” he said irritably. “I have cousins there, that’s all.”

“Have you tried spectacles?” she inquired politely. “For the reading?”

“I’m too vain to wear spectacles,” he explained. “Even when I’m alone, I like to feel handsome. You might not think it to look at me, but I’m completely eaten up with pride.”

She sniffed.

“Now, perhaps, we should agree on a price for your services,” he suggested.

Her green eyes snapped. “What?” she said sharply.

“For reading to me,” he said mildly. “Penny a page? You
do
read, don’t you?”

“Of course!” she said indignantly. “Tuppence a page. Take it or leave it.”

“I think,” he said, “I will take it.”

She pursed her lips. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just get another girl?” she said.

“Quite sure.”

“And what will I be reading to you, then? Some dirty book, I suppose?”

“My old governess would never approve of
that,
” he said mildly. “I always try to read something edifying before I go to sleep. Keeps the old brain sharp.” He went to his desk and picked up a book. “Right now I am reading this,” he said, bringing it to her.

“
The Subjection of Women,
by Mr. John Stuart Mill.” She looked up at him in astonishment. “You dirty fecker!”

“The author is not in favor of it,” he quickly explained. “Neither am I, really. In case you wondered. Shall we begin? Have you got enough light there?” Without waiting for a reply, he got up and placed another branch of candles on the table behind her.

“Thank you.” She opened the book on her lap. “And, just so you know, I
wasn’t
going to sleep with you. I was going to blackmail you, but that’s all.”

Benedict returned to his chair. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Cherry. I’d hate to think you were the kind of girl who would yield up the jewel of her innocence for a king’s ransom.”

She looked grave, cleared her throat, moistened her lips, and began to read:

About halfway through the first sentence, she lost her Irish accent and began to read in a pompous English accent. He supposed she was imitating him, and he supposed correctly. She broke off abruptly as he suddenly crossed the distance between them and sat beside her on the sofa. “Hello!” she said. “Were you not comfortable in your chair?”

“Excessively comfortable, but I was having just a little trouble hearing you over there.”

“I can speak up, but it’ll cost you,” she offered.

“Wouldn’t do any good,” he replied. “I’ve become quite hard of hearing in my old age.”

“Deaf
and
blind? Poor man,” she murmured, clicking her tongue. “I almost feel guilty making you pay for it, but I’m not running a charity, you know.”

“Please go on, Miss Cherry,” he said crisply. “Exciting stuff, is it not? This notion of perfect equality between men and women?”

“I never met a man who was my equal,” she answered scornfully. “And I never met a man who thought
I
was
his
.”

“I should have thought the subject would be of great interest to you,” he said, surprised.

Jumping up from the sofa, she threw open the beveled glass doors of one of the bookshelves. “Look at all these gorgeous books! They can’t
all
be dry as shite!”

“By all means, choose something more congenial to your taste,” he said. “What sort of books do you like to read? Novels, I suppose?”

“Too long,” she complained. “Too many characters. Too many things to remember. Sure I can’t be bothered with all that. Have you got anything funny? I love a good laugh.”

Benedict consulted the shelves for something in the humorous vein and finally pulled down a dusty green book. “Miss Cherry” took it from him, opened it to the title page, and read:

She looked at him and laughed.

The next morning the baronet ate his breakfast with uncommon gusto, slathering his digestive biscuits with shocking amounts of marmalade.

“You appear to be in good spirits this morning, Sir Benedict,” Pickering remarked smugly. After all, it had been his initiative that had brought about the happy event.

“I am in excellent spirits, thank you, Pickering,” Benedict replied.

“And may I say, sir, you look ten years younger. Your company obviously agrees with you. Will your special guest be visiting us again any time soon?”

“Yes,” Benedict answered. “Tonight. I’ve given…my friend…a key, so you needn’t wait up. But I should like to offer her some refreshment.”

“A key, sir?” Pickering was alarmed. “Do you think that wise?”

Benedict glared at him. “As I was saying, I would like to offer my friend some refreshment. Nothing too heavy.”

“Strawberries and champagne?”

“Perfect! We’ll have a picnic on the rug. I am attending the theater tonight, but I shall be home by eleven-thirty. See that everything is ready for us in the study.”

Pickering was enthusiastic. “Very good, Sir Benedict.”

That night, he left the Theatre Royal with a spring in his step. He had paid only scant attention to his company, even less to the play. Miss Cherry reading Munchausen in an outrageous German accent was more entertaining than anything Bath had to offer, he was sure.

He had enjoyed every moment spent with her, even if it was only reading, and, he believed, she had enjoyed his company as well. Was she already in his study, waiting for him? He imagined her sitting on the sofa, her white skirts spread, her eyes on the door in anticipation of his arrival, her plump lips slightly parted. He became sharply aroused just thinking of her.

He let himself into the quiet house. To his disappointment, “Miss Cherry” had not yet arrived, but it was only a little after eleven. She was not so very late. He could be patient.

A bottle of champagne was in the ice bucket on the liquor cabinet. A blue and white china bowl full of hothouse strawberries sat on a silver tray on the ottoman.

At half past eleven, he dug out his watch and checked it against the clock on the mantel. Both the clock and his watch seemed to be keeping excellent time. She had promised to read to him again tonight, but, it seemed, she had decided to break her promise.

Time and again he fell for her tricks and, each time, she was only mocking him.

Furious, he dug out his silver cheroot case. It was better this way, he decided, as his anger cooled. Let it end before it begins. He was glad she did not come, he told himself. True, she had amused him last night, but he would soon find something else to amuse him. He could even ask Mrs. Price to send him another girl, if he chose.

He did not care if he ever saw Miss Cherry again. If he did, he would probably strangle her. Miss Cherry indeed! No one outside of a playhouse was ever named that. Did she think he was an idiot?

A little after midnight, he put out his cheroot and stood up to go to bed. At almost the same moment, the door opened, and Miss Cherry, dressed in an unattractive green baize jacket and skirt, slipped into the room. Cold air swirled into the room with her. She ran to the window and, without so much as a word to him, twitched the curtain aside and looked out.