Читать книгу Mistress By Mistake - Maggie Robinson - Страница 9

She had brought two dresses to London with her, and worn another. One was gray, one was gray, and another was a bluish gray that did something nice for her eyes. She selected the latter. Irene looked faintly horrified as she helped her into it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear one of your sister’s gowns? They are ever so pretty.”

“Yes, and she took them with her.” Deb did in fact leave four dresses behind. One had a tear at the bodice as though someone had been impatient to get at what was underneath, two were cut scandalously low, and the fourth was much too dashing for four o’clock in the afternoon. And cherry red. She might as way hang a HARLOT sign around her neck and parade through Covent Garden. Charlotte had never had seven dresses at her disposal in her lifetime and wasn’t about to have her head turned now. Irene did something quite masterful with her hair and then Charlotte covered it with one of her starched spinster’s caps. She’d packed six of those. Irene looked crushed.

If Charlotte had not been in such a hurry to rush to her sister’s side, she would have brought her tatting with her. She longed to have something to do as she waited in the downstairs parlor for Sir Michael. She’d made enough lace to cover the altars of every parish church within a ten-mile radius of Little Hyssop, but she also quietly sold her best pieces to a London modiste that Deborah had recommended. Charlotte survived on the fashionable whims and trims of women in the ton. She wasn’t quite in competition with blind French nuns, but if she did say so herself, her work was very fine. Her hands were uncomfortably idle now, and a little shaky. The gilt clock over the mantel ticked inexorably toward twelve and four. Charlotte searched the drawer in the card table under the front window and found a worn deck of cards. She could play solitaire and watch traffic on the street. Get her wits battle-ready when Sir Michael stalked down the sidewalk like the predator he was.

She wouldn’t want to face him in a true battle. Deb had said he’d been in the army, and he still had a quiet fierceness about him that seemed quite deadly. He was tall, broad, and lean in all the right places, his chestnut hair still cropped close, his eyes so dark they seemed black. He was handsome without being a bit pretty and had the requisite saber scar on his cheek. She hadn’t noticed any other scars, since she was shamefully too busy having one orgasm after the next and her eyes were shut. It surprised her that he had to pay a woman for companionship.

She began to turn the cards up on the table. The king of hearts was winking at her, wearing his crown, a smile, and nothing else. Charlotte rifled through the deck. All the kings, queens, and knaves were entirely nude. With a cry of disgust, she swept the cards up and promptly shoved them back in the dark.

What could she expect from a house on Jane Street? Even buried in the country, she knew all about it. Deb had been over the moon to acquire a protector who owned a house at this fabled address. The crème de la crème of courtesans resided here in this short cul-de-sac—a dozen houses, a dozen women who were perfectly expensive and expensively perfect. To be a Jane Street mistress was an affirmation of one’s infinite worth. To be a Jane Street property owner was to be the envy of every man in the ton. Deeds passed only through death, extortionate fees, and occasional deceit. Charlotte wondered which way Sir Michael came upon his.

The dwelling itself was small and neat. There was a reception room and dining room on the ground floor, a smaller parlor, Deb’s bedroom and dressing room on the first floor, and three rooms above where Irene and Mrs. Kelly slept. Charlotte’s visit to the basement kitchen had been fruitless. Neither Irene nor Mrs. Kelly had any intention of helping her flee. They actually thought her quite mad to cast aspersions on Sir Michael’s character, and had nothing favorable at all to say about Deborah. Charlotte had gone out to the well-kept walled garden and kicked a tree.

So here she sat in the front window for all the world to see, or at least the fallen women of Jane Street and their keepers. The irony was not lost on one of the Fallen Fallon sisters. Deb might have embraced her reputation, but Charlotte had spent the past ten years hiding in Little Hyssop, far from her crime. Her parents’ untimely death had enabled her to start a new life, and now wretched Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, named for two saints but undoubtedly at Satan’s right hand, had the power to ruin her completely.

She saw him immediately as he rounded the corner. Jane Street was within walking distance of the finer clubs and households in London, handy for a man to slip away to when his cards were unfaithful or his wife boring, or vice versa. Charlotte had to give her sister some credit. At least she did not bed married men. Sir Michael was therefore unattached. It was a mystery how a man his age had avoided the Marriage Mart for so long.

Charlotte left the window and arranged herself on a chair in front of the empty fireplace. It was very comfortable. She imagined she could be cozy sitting in it in front of a roaring fire this winter, tatting or reading away. But if she was still here by then, she really, really would kill Deborah. It was almost June. She had her little garden to tend and the cats to feed. How long would it take Arthur to slink back and face the wrath of his father, the earl?

Bay did not raise the knocker but entered with his key. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to look uninterested as he entered the room. She’d have to practice later in the mirror to perfect her most off-putting expressions. Supercilious. Arrogant. Condescending. Insolent. She would match him, look for look.

“What the devil do you have on your head, woman?”

“Good afternoon to you too, Sir Michael,” she said primly.

“You look—you look ridiculous. Like an old tabby. How old are you, anyway?”

Charlotte selected ‘superior’ from her facial repertoire. “A gentleman never asks a lady her age.” She decided to ignore his snort when she called herself a lady. He certainly was no gentleman, either. “May I ring for tea?”

“I don’t want any bloody tea. Do you suppose I have any brandy left, or did Bannister drink it all?”

Charlotte felt her cheeks grow warm. Deb really did have a lot to answer for. “I know there is sherry.” She had drunk altogether too much of it yesterday, plus the wine at dinner. No wonder she let a stranger make love to her in the middle of the night. At Sir Michael’s nod, she went to the drinks cupboard and found the bottle and two glasses.

“You said your sister is younger. What does that make you? Thirty-five? Forty?”

Charlotte stopped midpour. “I’ll have you know I’m only thirty!” At his triumphant smirk, she knew he had deliberately provoked her into revealing the truth. She handed him his glass, slopping a bit onto his immaculate bottle-green sleeve. Oops.

He did not seem to notice. “I’m afraid no mistress of mine, no matter how long in the tooth, will be permitted to wear a dust rag upon her head. Kindly remove it.”

“I will not.” Charlotte had made the cap and its lace trim, and if she did say so herself, she’d done a creditable job.

“You will. And that dress. Fit for the dustbin along with the cap. Did Deborah leave you nothing to wear? Madame Duclos sent me an astronomical bill.” He crossed his leg and leaned back on the sofa, looking right at home. Damn the man.

She set the sherry down with a click on the piecrust table. “I will not wear clothes that a man other than any future husband I might obtain has paid for. I have some standards, despite my sister’s reputation.”

“Well then.” His dark brows knit, his lips pursed. “I also have standards, Miss Fallon. And I believe I have the perfect solution to our difference of opinion. You shall just have to go naked.”

Charlotte yanked her fichu to her chin. “Never! You’ll not see or touch my body again, sir. Unless I am dead and you are assisting the undertaker.”

“A most unpleasant task. Some men might flinch. But I have been at war, Miss Fallon. I have seen my share of dead bodies. I allow as how it would be a shame to kill you in order to look my fill at your womanly form, but I’ve killed as well.”

Charlotte spluttered. “First you threaten me with jail, and now murder if I don’t do your bidding? You are a fiend!”

“This from a woman who uses her teeth and hairbrush in such unseemly, some might even say violent, fashion. You are a passionate woman, in bed or out, Charlotte, despite your futile attempts to appear otherwise.”

“I have not given you leave to use my Christian name,” Charlotte said, digging her nails into the padded arms of her chair.

“Come. You gave me leave to use your body last night and this morning. We have been intimate. We will be intimate again. Call me Bay, and I’ll call you Charlotte. Although Charlotte is dreadfully dull.” His face lit. “Why, you are the Charlie Deb was always going on about! The little minx. She used you to make men jealous, you know. All those girlhood adventures she’d regale us poor fools with. We thought you were some friend of Harfield’s.”

George. Viscount Harfield. Their childhood neighbor and Deb’s seducer. To be fair, Deb had probably seduced him. She had been young and naive enough to hope for marriage. George quickly came to his senses once his father promised destitution and ruin, but he had kept Deb comfortably until he married six years ago. If Deb had a heart to break, Harfield had probably broken it. Since then Deb had gone through men, each richer and more influential than the last. Charlotte had never heard of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard, but he must have something besides his handsome face to have intrigued her sister.

“Charrrlie.” Sir Michael—well, she supposed she’d have to think of him as Bay—rolled her name around in his mouth like a fine wine. “I like it.”

Charlotte huffed. She was getting nowhere with him, losing ground every minute he sat sprawled on the sofa grinning at her. Everything she had planned all day to say was fragmented somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Snatches of “God-fearing woman” and “reasonable man” warred with each other, neither victorious. In the end, she kept her mouth shut, and opened it only to drink her sherry, which she desperately needed.

“Charlie, my dear, I thought we might set some ground rules for our association while we wait for your delinquent sister Deborah to return. Are you sure she made no mention of their exact destination?”

Charlotte shook her head. Silence was not golden.

“I am a reasonable man.” Charlotte choked on her sherry and stared at him. Was he a mind reader as well as a satyr? “I will never expect you to perform acts which you consider to be repugnant. But I do have my favorite vices and will encourage you to become accustomed to them.”

Charlotte’s ears were turning red, she knew it. The rest of her was following suit. While Sir Michael—Bay, blast him—laid out his preferences in the bedroom, she felt like a fireball of mortification, soon to explode into thousands of crimson flames. Perhaps it was time to faint. A fake faint this time, of course, which might deter him from this litany of perversion and pestilence. Mama had always advised a swoon when one heard things one did not care to listen to. Tradesmen’s entreaties, for example. Harfield’s father, the Earl of Trent, when he discovered his son had run off with Deborah. The vicar’s sermons afterward. Swooning was a useful feminine accomplishment, effective if used sparingly. But as Bay had done nothing yesterday to help her off the floor—had instead stared with lasciviousness at her exposed parts—Charlotte ruled out another drop to the carpet.

Bay waved his hand in the air. “Are you getting all this? You look a bit dazed. And red. I can repeat it all if you like.”

That was it. She was done for. If she had to listen to one more word, he would be consulting with the undertaker. Best just to get on with it until she figured out a way to disappear. Mama said sometimes one simply had to close one’s eyes and do unpleasant things in life. Charlotte suspected she was talking about the marriage act, but it was not as though she was saving herself for marriage.

“Very well. Let’s go upstairs now and do it all.”

Bay had nearly admitted that he was playing a joke upon her, that he’d engaged the services of a private detective, that she was welcome to return to Little Glossup or wherever she lived, when she tore the ugly little cap from her head and flung it in a corner. She lifted her plump white arms and pulled out the pins, and cascades of black curls helped cover her ugly dress. That was it. He was done for. He was now tangled in the sheets, panting like a madman. Who knew such crude talk could stir this little gray governess to the heights of decadent sensuality? He’d never been able to say no to a woman, more was the pity, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to say no to Charlie Fallon. He wasn’t sure he could sustain such dirty talk, but he was willing to make the sacrifice if it brought him more afternoons and evenings like this one.

She was exquisite. Now that he had seen her in daylight, he realized she was more rounded than her sister, her face softer. He had thought Deborah the fluffy kitten, but it was Charlie who was cushy, her alabaster flesh worthy of the Italian art he collected. He kept some minor works downstairs in this house, but the majority of his collection was in his town house a few long streets away. He was very fond of nudes, and he was very fond of Charlie Fallon. As long as she wasn’t speaking or throwing things at him.

He had given her little to complain of. He’d even done some of the naughty things he promised to do when she had turned that alarming shade of red. She looked like a well-satisfied woman now, her upturned blue eyes glazed, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. His hand remained on one full breast, his thumb stroking a berried nipple. If only she were wearing the ruby necklace, the picture would be perfect.

He suckled the nipple he’d readied between his fingers until she gave another groan. “I find I’m starving, Charlie. We’ll both need some nourishment if we are to do all the things on my list. I’m going to have Mrs. Kelly prepare us a tray.”

He got up and went into the dressing room. Parked in front of the fireplace was a copper tub, specially designed to hold two comfortably, three if he was in the mood. He pulled a black robe from the cupboard where he kept his spare clothes, and checked what had been Deborah’s. It was empty. She had left just the few gowns in the armoire in the other room. He was damned if he was going to go to the expense all over again of dressing his new mistress, but he truly was damned if he didn’t. Looking at Charlie in her gray gloom made his eyes hurt.

He slipped out of the bedroom past a dozing Charlie and went downstairs to consult with Mrs. Kelly. She was well-used to his erratic schedule and attire, and presented him with the week’s menus for his approval without batting an eyelash at his dishabille well before sunset. He left orders for more brandy to be purchased and carried up a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He might be missing the strawberries, but he and Charlie had much to celebrate.

He paused on the stairs and examined a lovely little painting by an unknown artist depicting the seduction of a lovely little virgin. Her draperies were billowing in the wind, revealing her lovely not-so-little form. The expression of lust on her anxious lover’s face told the whole story. Like the painted gentleman, Bay was thinking with his cock again, damn it. It was entirely possible that Charlie was as guilty as her sister in this whole affair. Just because she could make herself blush scarlet meant nothing. Their mama had probably taught the Fallon sisters exactly how to trap a man—fainting on cue, weeping, dropping handkerchiefs, showing more than a bit of ankle or bosom. What did he know about her, after all?

He’d made it his business to know all about Deborah, who had come to town with Viscount Harfield ten years ago. Bay had met her at a boisterous party once when he was home on leave and been stunned, like everyone else, by her wit and beauty. She seemed quite devoted to George until his marriage, but moved on with alacrity to Baron Perham, a widower with notorious sexual appetites. Perham was followed by Fellowes and Stuart, a young marquess and a younger duke respectively. Bay had felt some pride succeeding a duke. Deb could have picked anyone.

And then she picked Arthur Bannister over him.

Of course, Arthur had offered marriage. Who would have imagined the Divine Deborah interested in domesticity? And becoming a plain Mrs. at that. Women were a mystery that Bay had spent the past twenty years trying and failing to fathom. His wife was a prime example.

Charlie was no longer pinned to the bed like a sex-drugged butterfly but sitting in a chair, her hideous elephant-colored robe covering her lush curves. She had even tried to tidy her hair, but Bay recalled most of her hairpins were scattered downstairs on the parlor floor. He’d go down later and toss them into the street if he had to. Nothing should tame his kitten-like Venus, purring and clawing.

“I’ve brought us some champagne. Mrs. Kelly will bring dinner up later.”

“To the bedroom?” Charlie sounded shocked.

“It will save us time. All those stair steps. Down, and then up again. This way we can get right back into bed when we’re done. We might even bring a crumb or two along.”

Charlotte screwed up her face. Her words yesterday indicated she was not amenable to lovemaking that incorporated food. He’d soon convert her to his way of thinking. The thought of licking honey from her—

“It’s my turn to set some ground rules,” she said, her voice brittle.

Bay set the bottle down. No point in popping the cork if she was in a mood. He could scarcely believe that this was the same woman whose every velvet inch had given him such recent satisfaction.

“I have agreed to your suggestions thus far, repugnant as they are. I also agree to wait here until Deborah returns, or until we hear from her so I can tell her you have kidnapped me.”

“I believe the term ‘kidnap’ is incorrect. That usually involves abduction from one’s home and the use of force. I found you in my bed, in my home, Charlie. Perhaps I should add trespassing to your other infractions. I have not used force. If anything, you have forced me. To hold me down like that while you had your wicked way—why, I couldn’t escape without doing myself some bodily harm.” He watched the beginnings of her rosy bloom. He counted the seconds until she was full vermillion.

“Nevertheless. I am here against my will. I’ll honor my sister’s covenant with you as she seems to have taken your property—accidentally, I’m sure—and I don’t wish to go to jail in her place. But you cannot visit me whenever it strikes your fancy. We must work some sort of schedule for—for sexual activities. Every sixth Sunday of the month, say. That way I can mentally prepare myself.” She shuddered as if his touch was anathema to her, which he knew it was most assuredly not from her cries of “Oh, God yes, fuck me!” earlier. “And I don’t want to take meals with you. I don’t want to take meals on you. If we are ever in the position to be dining together, we shall be sitting downstairs in the dining room, I at one end of the table and you at the other.”

Bay stifled his grin, which would only inflame her further. She was adorable in her umbrage. He could play along for a bit. “Every sixth Sunday? Are you certain you can wait that long?” He tapped a finger on his chin. “And surely there can be no more than five Sundays in any given month. It’s meant to be a day of rest, too. Our activities this afternoon were not precisely restful, Charlie. I declare you wore me right out.”

“Every Saturday then.”

“Every night of the week. Including Sunday. And possibly some afternoons when I’m not otherwise engaged.”

She turned white for a change. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Evenings only.”

“Every weeknight. I’ll give you weekends off if you behave yourself.” He’d have to eat red meat and swill beef tea all Saturday and Sunday to restore his prowess for Monday. Charlotte Fallon was a tigress.

She looked as if she wanted to say more, a lot more. Instead she nodded curtly. “Very well. I am not hungry. Or thirsty. Kindly tell Mrs. Kelly.”

Well, the pendulum had swung and the tigress was now a cranky cat with fleas. Bay couldn’t bother to cajole her back to bed. Perhaps she was suffering from a bizarre brain manifestation that enabled her to turn from scorching hot to frigid, blushing red to icy pale, courtesan to spinster. There was a possibility he’d been unfair to challenge her with such suggestive suggestions and she was regretting her complicity. Too bad.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening, then. I’ll just dress and eat downstairs if you don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Kelly since she’s gone to the trouble of cooking us dinner. It doesn’t do to annoy a woman with access to sharp knives.”