Rules for Being a Mistress (20 page)

He dragged her inside, and closed the door. Turning around, she saw that even the back of the door was shrouded in black crepe. She gasped as his hand touched her shoulder and whirled around to face him. “Why have you brought me in here?” she asked, trembling.

“Clothes make the man,” he said enigmatically, pressing against the frame of the only mirror that had been left uncovered. To her astonishment, a door opened.

“How did you do that?” she whispered in awe of his supernatural powers.

“There’s a spring mechanism,” he replied, making her feel foolish. “This is my closet. I thought I might lend you some of my clothes. From a distance, you would look like a gentleman, and the constable would leave you alone. Trousers or breeches?”

She gaped at him.

“Trousers or breeches, girl?”

“I like what you’re wearing now,” she finally volunteered. “You always look so nice.”

“I see. You want the clothes from my back,” he said. “Very well.”

He pushed her behind the mirrored door. The cool, dark closet smelled strongly of cedar.

“You can change in there,” he explained, overriding her protests.

It took her but a few seconds to slip out of her petticoats. He handed her his clothing piece by piece, but instead of putting them on, she stood numb and mute as she watched him undress. She had seen him nude before, but she had not thought him attractive. Now the sight of him fascinated her.

His manhood was not in retreat now as it had been in her cold kitchen. Almost scarlet, it stood up proudly. Looking at it, she could not help but think of how he had used the women in the brothels. Had they liked it?

“Everything all right in there?” he called.

“Aye!” She picked up his clothes, still warm from his body, and began to put them on. They smelled of him. He had even unpinned the sleeve of his coat for her. She found this simple act of thoughtfulness ridiculously touching.

When she stepped out of the closet in her new clothes, he was just returning from the bedroom. The nightshirt and robe that had been waiting on the bed had found their way onto the master’s body. The slippers that had been waiting for him were on his feet. If he knew she had been spying on him, he gave no sign.

He studied her critically. The coat was big in the shoulders. The trousers were a little too long, and too big in the waist, but her womanly hips held them up.
Who knew I had womanly hips?
she thought, looking at herself in the mirror. She even had a bottom, apparently.

She assured him that, although she was no seamstress, she would be able to take the breeches in at the waist. Instead of stockings and shoes, he gave her a pair of boots. There was a padded bench in the dressing room. She sat down and pulled the boots on. They were too big. She would have to stuff the toes with newspaper.

Benedict guided her through the process of tying a neckcloth. The result was lopsided. “It will do, I suppose,” he said finally. “It’s just for show. Like Nora’s three shillings.”

Nora was, in fact, laying in wait for her young lady when she came home. Her dark eyes started when she saw Cosima’s male attire. He had even given her his best silk hat, beneath which she had tucked as much hair as she could.

“What’s the bad man done to you now, Miss Cosy?” she cried.

“Nothing!” replied the young lady, promptly bursting into sobs.

Serena cared about as much for Merovingian art as she did for Italian love songs, but she enjoyed any social gathering that Lady Matlock did not attend. When the countess was not underfoot, Serena was the highest ranking lady in Bath, a privilege she greatly enjoyed.

As Serena’s escort, Benedict was fortunate enough to be allowed to fetch her ladyship’s lemonade, fan, and shawl. Long ago, he had accepted the yoke of social obligation, but never before had he been forced to take the cold metal bit of it into his mouth. He didn’t like the taste.

“How is little Miss Vaughn?” Serena asked him, but, fortunately, she could not be bothered to wait for a reply. “Lady Dalrymple has been telling me such interesting stories about Miss Vaughn and no less a personage than
the Duke of Kellynch.
”

Serena intoned the name of this notorious philanderer in a keen whisper.

“Apparently, His Grace visited Miss Vaughn several times when the Dalrymples were staying at this place of hers in Ireland, this so-called castle. But, curiously, none of the Kellynch
ladies
ever did. It would seem our wild Irish girl is not as pure as she would have us believe.”

“What utter nonsense,” Benedict snapped. “The Duke of Kellynch is the patron of her father’s regiment. It is only natural that His Grace should take an interest in the welfare of the colonel’s wife and children.”

Serena laughed gaily, drawing looks from the lecturer, a small, dry man, who evidently took his Merovingian art very seriously. “His Grace has but one interest in my sex. You and I both know the name Kellynch is a byword for debauchery. Same as his father before him.” She glanced at him archly. “Oh, I
am
sorry. I had forgotten that the lady is a distant cousin of yours. But, perhaps, the relationship is closer than we had thought?”

Benedict silently cursed himself. His attempt to defend Miss Vaughn was only making Serena suspicious. “I would hate to see any lady’s reputation diminished by vicious gossip,” he said. “That is all.”

“A lady must live a life above reproach to deserve being called so.”

“If Kellynch
did
have designs on the girl, it would appear she has eluded him in coming to Bath. That must be to her credit.”

“Perhaps he has grown tired of her,” Serena suggested.

Something almost like a snort escaped the gentleman.

Serena read him like a book. “You do not think it possible that any man could grow tired of the beautiful Miss Vaughn, I collect. Indeed, sir, you are discomposed! I seem to have stumbled upon a secret. Now that I think of it, Miss Vaughn
does
look at you a great deal.”

“Nonsense.”

She laughed. “I am not accusing you of anything. I am well aware that you have no intention of marrying
her.
You need someone to preside at your table, a consummate hostess. Someone who can further your political ambitions. That is decidedly not Miss Vaughn.”

“Exactly so.”

“But this could be to our advantage,” she said. “You forget how fascinating an older man like yourself can be to an ignorant young female. No doubt, she sees you as a sophisticated man of the world, which you are, of course,” she added hastily. “She dreams of being sophisticated herself, and so she is drawn to you like a moth to the flame. If you could but use your influence with your pretty cousin to keep her away from poor, stupid Felix, I should be very well pleased indeed.” She laid her closed fan on his arm, stroking him. “Perhaps pleased enough to accept your offer of marriage,” she suggested.

Benedict suppressed a shudder of revulsion.

“You are asking me to seduce Miss Vaughn? You, a woman, ask me this?”

“You need not ruin her, of course, unless you want to, for some mischievous reason of your own. Just keep her away from Felix. The poor boy has been through enough.”

“I’m afraid I must ask you to release me from my offer of marriage,” he said stiffly. “I had no idea you were so unprincipled.”

Serena made rapid calculations.

Despite appearances, she was not a wealthy woman. Her inheritance had run out. She was thirty and not getting any younger. If she released Sir Benedict, it was by no means certain that she would ever receive another offer of marriage. The only reason she had not seized on his offer immediately was that she hoped her cousin Felix might one day turn to her with love in his eyes. But if she could not bring Felix up to scratch soon, she would have to marry Sir Benedict after all, and she knew it.

“No,” she said, when she had finished her meditation. “I don’t think I
will
release you. You made me an offer of marriage. It is hardly the act of a gentleman to withdraw it!” She smiled coldly. “And if you
dare
to jilt me, and marry another, I assure you, all of society will take
my
part against the lady’s. No respectable woman would ever be at home to your wife. Your political career would be ruined.”

Benedict stared at her. He did not care three straws for his political career, but the thought of his innocent wife being reviled for his own error in judgement sickened him.

Serena laughed suddenly. “I was only teasing you anyway about Miss Vaughn. It was a little test, and, I’m happy to say, you passed. Of course, I am not asking you to seduce her.”

After the lecture, it was his privilege to hand her into her sedan chair.

He walked home. His mind was full of ugly thoughts. As he entered Camden Place, he passed a well-dressed gentleman dragging his umbrella along the palings of the park.

“Good evening, sir!” said the stranger.

“Good evening,” he answered without thinking.

The gentleman struck him on the rear end with his umbrella.

Benedict stopped. He suddenly felt ten years younger. “Good evening, Miss Cherry.”

“That’s
Mr.
Cherry to you,” she said, taking his arm.

Pickering opened the door for his master. He could not help but notice that Sir Benedict looked unusually pleased with himself. “Good evening, Sir Benedict.”

“Pickering, this is Mr. Cherry.”

Pickering took the young man’s umbrella.

Mr. Cherry began to giggle uncontrollably.

“You may go to bed, Pickering,” Benedict said quickly, pushing his young friend into the study. “I shan’t need you anymore tonight.”

“Very good, Sir Benedict,” said Pickering.

Benedict closed the door, but Pickering could still hear the young man giggling like a schoolgirl. Why, he must be drunk! His master was not in the habit of entertaining drunken young men after hours, and “Cherry” was hardly a surname of distinction. Pickering was worried that Sir Benedict had fallen into low company. When, in the next moment, he heard a loud crash from the study, he did not hesitate. He threw open the study door, and stood staring.

His master and the giggling young man had removed their coats and were on the floor wrestling in their shirt sleeves. In their noble exertions, they had inadvertently overset a small table. The branch of candles on it had been toppled, but fortunately the candles had guttered out. Pickering had never suspected that his master had an interest in the ancient Greek sport, but he had evidently pinned the young man down without much trouble. Although younger than his opponent, and blessed with two arms besides, Mr. Cherry was panting and moaning piteously beneath the superior athlete. The baronet was winning handily. Caught up in the excitement, Pickering fought the urge to applaud; he did not want to break Sir Benedict’s concentration.

The young man seemed to realize he could not break free by fair means, and to Pickering’s indignation, proceeded to violate the rules of the sport. Pickering’s eyes narrowed in disgust as the young man’s arms encircled Sir Benedict’s neck in a python-like hold, while his slender legs, encased in black breeches and boots, stealthily began to slide over his master’s hips. This was a blatantly illegal and treacherous move. One’s very soul recoiled at the thought of such unsportsmanlike conduct.

“Foul!” Pickering roared. “Look out, Sir Benedict! The dirty bugger is cheating!”

“What the devil—!” Benedict leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing. At the same time, his opponent dove behind the sofa, out of sight. “Pickering, how
dare
you!”

Pickering had never seen his master so angry. He cleared his throat nervously. “I beg your pardon, Sir Benedict, but the young man was clearly cheating! He might have broken your back, heaving about like that!”

“Broken my—! Pickering, what exactly did you think we were doing?”

“Wrestling, of course,” said Pickering, wide-eyed. “Isn’t that what you were doing?”

From his hiding place, Mr. Cherry shrieked with laughter.

The baronet’s mouth twitched. “Yes, of course, that is what we were doing. We were wrestling. Go to bed, Pickering, and do not come near this room again tonight, no matter what you hear. Leave it,” he added sharply, as Pickering began picking up the overturned table.

“Very good, Sir Benedict,” Pickering sniffed.

He stiffened as he heard the sharp click of the door being locked after him. There had never been locked doors between him and his master before.

“Now then!” said Benedict. “Where were we?”

She climbed to her feet. Her masculine clothes had become disheveled in the wrestling match. Her hat was gone. Her red hair was coming loose from the neat bun she had skewered at the nape of her neck. She had not bothered with the waistcoat, the neckcloth was a muddle, and his lawn shirt was so fine she might as well have been wearing a shirt made of water. Her little breasts pointed provocatively. She was still panting from her exertions and her cheeks were uncommonly rosy.

“That was close,” she said breathlessly.

“I apologize for the interruption,” he said courteously. “It won’t happen again.”

“I should go,” she said softly.

“You just got here,” he pointed out. “You haven’t even read to me.”

“I’m thinking,” she said slowly, “it was a good thing your man came in when he did.”

“We were only kissing,” he said impatiently. “No one ever went to hell for kissing.”

She thought about it. He was perfectly correct. They
had
only been kissing. She felt hot and sweaty. The tips of her breasts were stinging, and there was an uncomfortable ache between her legs, but they had only been kissing. She had never heard of anyone going to hell for that.

“That’s true,” she said. Her knees were shaking like a newborn fawn’s and she needed to sit down. She stumbled around the sofa like a drunkard and half-fell. “But we were lying down and wriggling, too.”

“It’s not a sin to lie down. Nor to wriggle, if it comes to that. Though I strenuously deny that I wriggled.”

“No, that was me,” she admitted. But—”

“My dear girl,” he said softly, “I am not some rutting beast of the field. I am nothing like that mountebank who frightened you. And I am certainly not like that young idiot who spoiled your dress with his…enthusiasm. You made your feelings on the subject plain. I respect your wishes. You have my word I will make no attempt on your virtue. You’re perfectly safe with me. You can trust me completely.”

She looked crestfallen. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He sat down on the ottoman and looked at her gravely. “There are any number of things we might do that are quite pleasurable and not in the least sinful.”

Her eyes began to sparkle, but she did not want to seem too eager. “Oh?” she asked faintly. “Like what, for example?”

He pulled off one of the boots she had borrowed from him. She had stuffed newspaper in the toe, but it came off easily. “Kissing, of course,” he said, pulling off the other boot. She was not wearing stockings. He began kissing her feet as passionately as he had kissed her lips.

She shrieked in protest and kicked him in the face. He looked at her in surprise.

“Tickles,” she explained, her face flaming.

“You must accustom yourself to the idea,” he said reproachfully. “I am going to kiss your entire body, and I don’t like being kicked in the face.”

She caught her breath. As he continued to kiss and fondle her feet and ankles, she licked her lips nervously. “You’re joking,” she said.

“No, indeed,” he said, pausing to feel his nose. “I really don’t like being kicked in the face.” He returned to her feet, caressing first one and then the other, nibbling her toes while she squirmed and gritted her teeth. He kissed her legs, brushing his fingertips and lips lightly over the tingling flesh, raining tiny goose bumps as he went.

“You’re prickling me,” she complained. “You need to shave.”

“So do you,” he retorted, tickling the hair on her legs. It was fine as silk, and so light and sparse it was almost invisible. He was only teasing her, but she took him seriously.