Rules for Being a Mistress (4 page)

He shook his head. To his astonishment, she began to sing to him softly in Italian.

He had not been sung to by a woman since his nursery days. Her voice was light and pleasing, though by no means perfect. As she sang, she moved her fingers along her knee as if she were playing the melody on a pianoforte. The simple, plaintive melody tugged at him, body and soul. Without understanding a word of Italian, he was seduced.

She translated. “My dear beloved, believe me at least. In want of you, my heart languishes.” She laughed at his amazement. “Sure, I’m Italian in my heart.”

“You should have lessons.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“I didn’t mean—” he began quickly, but she waved him off.

“It’s true, I’m no singer. All the lessons in the world won’t change that.”

“But you’ve had some education,” he said cautiously.

“Now
that
would be grievously overstating the matter! I’ll say this for my father: if ever any of his children wanted to learn something, he made it possible. Fortunately, hooligans like ourselves never do want to learn much.”

He frowned. “Why do you say ‘fortunately’?”

“We never had much money,” she explained without hesitation. “What we had, my father, in his wisdom, gambled away. He’d have been overwhelmed, poor man, if the five of us had been scholars! I remember, once it was so bad, we had to sell everything in the house, except for my pianoforte, and we ate our dinners off it because we had no table.”

“Oh?” he said. “You play the pianoforte?”

“At least as well as I sing,” she said. “My father won the pianoforte at cards when I was five. There was money then. I had lessons. It was the only thing he ever gave me that didn’t end up under the auctioneer’s hammer. Do you like music?”

“Very much,” he said, but with the air of one closing a subject. “Miss Cosy, shall we speak plainly?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Are we not speaking plainly now, Ben?”

“I have enjoyed our conversation very much,” he began, looking at her directly. “You know, of course, that I’m an amputee. Tell me now if it disgusts you. I will not be offended.”

For a moment she was too startled to answer, but her gaze did not falter. She said firmly, in a voice that rang true, “It does not disgust me, Ben. Why would you think so?”

“Some females do find it rather off-putting. I don’t blame them.”

“Then they don’t deserve the pleasure of your company,” she said indignantly.

“I’m a single man,” he went on, encouraged, “and, like all single men of property, I must marry. I’ve come to Bath to find a wife, in fact.”

“Then it’s London you want, not Bath,” she said knowledgeably. “From what I hear, all the English girls go to London on purpose to find husbands. So they’re halfway to the altar already, right? And you, with your good looks, and your fine, dry wit, you’d slay them.”

“I’ve tried London,” he said, a little disconcerted by this advice. “My plan in coming to Bath was to find some plain, dull, respectable woman to be my wife. She needn’t even be pretty. She could have a hump for all I care. All I ask is that she be young enough to give me a son, and sensible enough to leave me alone after that.”

Cosy burst out laughing. “Plain, dull, respectable, with a hump! Where exactly do you plan on finding this dream girl?”

“It is no laughing matter,” he said coldly, which only made her laugh more. “For myself, I wouldn’t marry at all, but there’s the baronetcy to consider, and the electorate. They will expect me to marry an unexceptional woman. The moment I saw you, Miss Cosy, I knew that all my carefully laid plans were in jeopardy. To put it bluntly, you are too beautiful.”

“Ben!” she said, hitting him on the knee. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I never flirt,” he said curtly. “I am perfectly serious. Your presence here can only mean trouble for me—trouble I can ill afford. How am I supposed to pursue a marriage with some dreary, good woman when you’re here? You look like bloody Venus!” he accused.

She laughed. “You’ve met Venus? What was she like? Was she as tall as me?”

“The point is,” he said sternly, “any woman I court would suspect me of harboring some secret, passionate regard for you. There would be gossip. I’m a respectable man, Miss Cosy. The last thing I need is gossip. That being the case, I have no choice but to make you an offer. I don’t like it; it is not the way I hoped to start things off here in Bath. But I have considered the matter very carefully, and it is the only logical thing to do.”

Her eyes were round. Hastily, she held up both hands. “I’m going to have to stop you right there, Ben, before this becomes awkward.”

He scarcely paused. “Obviously, you are a very desirable female. I am prepared to offer you generous terms. You would want for nothing for the rest of your life.”

He realized that he sounded rather like a corporation attorney but he couldn’t help that. To fly off into romantic rhapsodies would have been so out of character for him that it would have amounted to a form of deception, and, if she was to share his bed, Miss Cosy deserved to know his true character. He was neither passionate nor romantic.

“If it is the thought of intimacy that repels you, let me reassure you on that score. I would not presume to enjoy relations with you more than, say, twice a week. Twice a week is not unreasonable, surely, for a woman of your age.”

“No,” she was obliged to admit. She had already remarked the sad lack of children in the city of Bath; now she understood why it should be so. Where the adults came from remained a mystery to her. “Do you think you might be a wee bit drunk, Ben?” she asked him gently.

“I am not drunk,” he said, annoyed. “Consider this: if you accept me, it will be in my power to present you to a better class of gentlemen than you are likely to meet with in Bath. Nothing would be beyond your reach in London. I certainly wouldn’t stand in your way if you got a better offer and decided to leave me.”

Cosy was on her feet. “I’m afraid, sir,” she said indignantly, “that in Ireland we take marriage rather more seriously than this! Why, in God’s name, would
I
marry a man who couldn’t be bothered to stand in my way?”

Benedict blinked at her. “Who said anything about marriage?” he demanded.

“You did! Didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t asking you to marry me,” he said vehemently. “Do you think me a fool?”

Cosy was flabbergasted. “Well, I don’t know you very well, do I?” she retorted.

His eyes narrowed. “You may be a little piece of heaven, my girl, but I am not so bowled over by your beautiful eyes that I forget myself!” he said angrily. “I am a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t marry women like you. It would be a highly reprehensible connection, degrading to us both. I’d be a laughingstock. My career in Parliament would be over. I couldn’t very well present
you
to my family and friends, now, could I?”

“Oh!” was all she could say.

“Let there be no pretense between us, madam,” he said. “You know perfectly well I was asking you to be my mistress. Don’t become the outraged innocent with me!” he went on as Cosy choked on her own fury. “I am prepared to offer you a thousand pounds if you will come away with me tomorrow. The rest can be negotiated when we get to London. We’ll be drawing up papers, of course. You can have an attorney, if you like.”

“Papers! Attorney!” she spat.

“Of course. I suppose in Ireland things are not so civilized?”

Cosy pulled herself together. He had reminded her that she represented Ireland in this sordid little conflict. She must not allow him to get the better of her. “No, indeed,” she said coldly. “We’re savages!”

He shook his head. “I suspected as much. Rest assured,
we
will have a legally binding contract, Miss Cosy. It is as much for your protection as it is for mine. If I should fail to meet my obligations, you will have recourse under the law. And vice versa.”

“How nice for us! How civilized!”

“Yes. You will come to London with me for a thousand pounds.”

It was not a question. The Englishman really assumed that, for a mere thousand pounds, she would gladly leave her home and her family to become nothing more than his whore. He might say “mistress,” but that was just perfume. Nothing could disguise the stench.

For this insult, he deserved to suffer the worst humiliation of his life.

“Not so fast there, darling,” she said sweetly, her pleasant voice masking her anger. “I’ll have to see the goods first, you understand. How do I know you’re bona fide?”

Secretly, Benedict was disappointed by her cold, calculated response to his offer, but, without a change of expression, he reached inside his coat for his wallet. “I’m glad you mean to be reasonable, my dear. I am not entertained in the least by feminine hysterics. It is essentially a business arrangement, and I prefer to conduct my business without emotion.”

He took out a thousand pound note.

Cosy looked at it, her fury hardening like hot steel plunged into icy water. “That is not what I meant, sir,” she said, smiling angelically.

“Naturally, I am not adverse to establishing my good faith,” he said. “Forgive me! I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. What is it you want of me? As fetching as you are, Miss Cosy, you can not expect to receive a larger sum.”

“Money’s a fine thing, sir,” she observed, “but I’ll not be shagging your wallet, now, will I? No, ’tis your naked body I’ll be laboring like a slave to please. I’d be a fool, wouldn’t I, if I didn’t take a long, hard look at your dangler before I commit myself to such an arrangement?”

The crudity of her language shocked him. “You certainly are a soldier’s daughter!”

“Did you mistake me for a fine lady?” she returned coolly. “I wouldn’t buy a horse without looking it in the mouth, and I won’t take a man to my bed unless he passes inspection.”

“You expect me to—to
undress
?” he said incredulously. “Here in the kitchen?”

“It’s the warmest spot in the house,” she pointed out. “We could even do the deed here, if you like,” she added, her sweet, lazy smile at odds with the breathtaking naughtiness of what she was suggesting. “Sure! We’ll pile the cushions on the floor, and you can mount me any way you please, for I’m not at all particular, not when I like a fellow as much as I like you.”

She had gone too far; with his scarred face and his amputated arm, he knew he was no young girl’s dream. “Let us not be ridiculous, Miss Cosy.”

She looked down at her hands. “For all I know, you’re covered in sores. If I went to London with you, only to find out you’re scabrous—!” She shuddered delicately. “I’d be stuck in London with a scabby man, now, wouldn’t I?”

“I am
not
covered in sores, you hussy,” he snapped.

“Good,” she said. “Then you won’t mind proving it. You don’t plan on coming to my bed all buttoned up, with your boots on, I hope?” she added impatiently. “So I’ll be seeing you in the flesh anyway. Right?”

Her request, while startling, was not unreasonable, he reflected. After all, a lady entertaining an offer of marriage had the right to know the character of her future husband before she accepted him. Did it not follow that a woman in Miss Cosy’s position had the right to know that her future lover was physically sound before she threw herself into his power?

As incredible as it seemed, he was actually considering displaying his nude body to a strange female in a kitchen.

“Is it as bad as that, sir?” she said pityingly. “Is it scales?
Carbuncles
?”

Benedict abruptly stood up and began to struggle out of his coat. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with my body—apart from its obvious defect, that is.”

He threw his coat down, and stood in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. The right sleeve of his finely pleated linen shirt had been cut short at the elbow and neatly hemmed, unlike his coat, which was tailored in the usual way.

“Of course, if you’d rather not,” she said quickly, “I’ll understand!”

“No. I insist. You are perfectly right to safeguard your health by making certain of mine,” he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“You can keep your shirt on if you prefer.”

His lip curled. “I would not have you treat me any differently than you would your other lovers!” he said coldly. “You will find nothing wrong with me, however.”

Loosening his cravat, he tore off his collar and pulled his shirt off over his head.

She stared at him in dismay. While he was not covered in sores, the thick, bristling, black hair that covered his torso was scarcely more attractive to her than a nasty rash would have been. On his chest it grew in ugly, black whorls, and, on his belly, deep, thick chevrons plunged downward to his loins. She hardly looked at his amputated limb.
That,
at least, she thought, a little irrationally,
is not his fault.