Mistress By Mistake Read online

  “Be that as it may. I was under a misapprehension, as you well know. Now then. Where shall I begin?”

  “How about ‘When would you like to go home, Miss Fallon?’ The answer, in case you’re interested, is ‘Right this very minute.’”

  “That brings your questions down to nine. There’s no point in talking to yourself, you know. You’ll never get anywhere.”

  Charlotte aimed a little fringed pillow at him but missed. “How can you be so annoying?”

  “Tsk-tsk. That’s eight left for you now. And the answer is, most people don’t find me annoying at all. My grandmother loved me.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Ouch. You are cruel to remind me of my loss.” He looked sincerely upset. Charlotte longed to throw the Cupid-clock straight at his head next.

  “How many men have you slept with, Charlotte?”

  She bit her lip, hating to give him the satisfaction. “Two.”

  His face betrayed nothing. “Your turn.”

  “How many women have you slept with?” She didn’t really want to know, but it was the only thing she could think of. She already knew his middle name.

  Bay made a pretense of counting on his fingers. After more than a minute passed, he grinned and her fury mounted. “Rather a lot. But a gentleman does not kiss and tell. I never keep more than one mistress at a time, if that is what’s worrying you. You’ll have no competition.”

  Odious, insufferable man. As if she cared what he did.

  “Who was the woman from your past yesterday?”

  “You’re out of turn, Charlie.” His voice was level, but she knew she hit a nerve.

  “I’ll forfeit another question if you answer now.”

  He had the oddest expression on his face. “My wife.”

  Black spots danced the mazurka before Charlotte’s eyes. At least she was on a bed this time and wouldn’t hit her head on the floor again when she fainted.

  He’d done a stupid thing telling her that way. He found a balled-up wet cloth and wiped her brow. Her eyelids fluttered. He could see each tiny blue vein against the parchment of her skin. She was like his own version of Snow White, minus the dwarfs, of course. Bay was not completely perverted, although he’d indulged in a ménage à trois ou quatre a time or two to try to drive Anne out of his mind. It hadn’t worked, but had been pleasant in its way. Seven dwarfs would be entirely out of the question, however.

  He unbuttoned her bodice, watching the pulse leap erratically at her throat. Lord, he hoped she wouldn’t expire in his bed. It would do his reputation no good. And he would miss her.

  She’d slept with two men. He assumed she had counted him in that number, although sleeping had little to do with the flames of the past four days. He wondered that they had not combusted, both of them just a shower of sparks scattering on the rumpled sheets, scorching tiny black holes in the linen.

  She really was nothing like Deb, although even Deb had been nothing like the idea of Deb that circulated in the ton. The Divine Deborah had been with just four men as far as he knew. Five, probably, if one included gormless Arthur, who had made inroads with Deb while Bay was in Dorset. But an hour in Deb’s company made one feel as if one had been in her bed. She touched, flirted, teased. Befuddled, really. A man felt blessed that she had given him the time of day, and the exaggerations grew.

  Charlotte did not have a coy bone in her body. She was a sharp-toothed spinster that someone had hurt. Bay did not want to add to that hurt, nor did he want to get rid of her quite yet. He was the worst sort of cad. He’d driven her to desperation and theft. But he’d make it up to her, and soon.

  “Wake up, Charlie. Or I’ll take advantage of your unconsciousness.”

  “Just like the first time, you fiend,” she mumbled.

  Ah. There were her teeth. “Exactly. I’m going to sit you up now.” He pulled her up onto her pillows. She was as limp as a stuffed doll, still unnaturally pale.

  “I didn’t mean to shock you.” He smoothed a wrinkle in her bodice and she slapped him away.

  “Well, you did.” Her blue eyes were icy. “Deborah never, ever consents to sleep with married men. You tricked her and me. Bad enough I’m now fornicating, but you have made me an adulteress!”

  “Let me explain.”

  “What is there to say? Yesterday you spent the evening with your wife! I sat here like an idiot waiting for you. I’ll not be party to breaking some poor woman’s heart.”

  Bay smiled. “I don’t think you need to worry about Anne. She can take care of herself.”

  “What do you know? You’re a man! You’ve no notion how women are dependent on the occasional goodwill of their fathers and husbands. We cannot keep our own money, own property, vote. Even our children don’t belong to us. Oh my God. Do you have children?”

  He gripped her hand hard. “Charlie. I misspoke. I am no longer married. In fact, I never was married. The ceremony was invalid, as the bride had another husband. We thought he was dead but he was not. She went back to him and I went to war.”

  “Oh.” She chewed her lip, processing what seemed even to him to be the plot of some gothic novel. Whitley Abbey with its gargoyles had served as the perfect setting for sin, seduction, and intrigue. Viscount Whitley had been the perfect villain. Absently Bay rubbed at the scar on his cheek. Most people took it for a war wound, but it was not.

  “It was long ago. But Anne and I—we’ve kept in touch on occasion. Her husband died recently, and she—” He could not possibly repeat the reason Anne came to him. “She needs a friend.”

  “Do you still love her?”

  He stood up abruptly and went to the fireplace. “Is this one of your six questions?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”

  How to answer? A part of him would always love Anne. He had worshipped her, growing up not far from her family’s estate. Then she had made her brilliant marriage when she was just sixteen. She disappeared, becoming sought-after words to him in the gossip columns his grandmother read. ‘Society rejoices as Young Lady W—has returned to Town, having found rusticating at W—Abbey a bore. She and Lord W—were seen at the Somerset soiree Thursday evening.’ He finally had his chance when she returned home five years later, beautiful and tragic and lonely. He’d fought his grandmother tooth and nail for permission to marry before he came of age. If only he’d waited a few months, his life would have been far different.

  “My answer would be complicated if I could give it, Charlie. I’m not sure I know it myself.”

  “Never mind then. It’s none of my business, really.” She had drawn herself up in a little ball, her arms wrapped around her ghastly gray skirts. He would have to do something about her clothes eventually. If she stayed.

  He returned to the bed, removed one hand from her knee and massaged her knuckles. “I’ve told you my tragedy. Now tell me yours.”

  She pulled away. “It’s hardly a tragedy. I was engaged once, or thought I was. And then I wasn’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “Deborah, in a way. She ran off with Harfield. Robert was disgusted. I think at first he hoped Deb would marry George and add to our consequence, and when that did not happen he suddenly discovered his morals and became very priggish. And then my father made a truly bad investment that affected my dowry. My fiancé decided not to align himself with the disgraceful Fallon family.”

  “After he had taken your virtue.”

  Charlotte flushed. “Yes.”

  “Any number of times.”

  Her blush deepened. “Yes.”

  “The bastard.”

  “I could not agree more, but Mr. and Mrs. Chase were in fact married.”

  “Robert Chase?”

  Charlotte shrank away into the headboard. “Do you know him?”

  Bay’s fists bunched up. If Rob were standing in front of him now, he would not be standing long. “Dorset is not so large. We’ve run into each other a time or two.” He cupped her cheek. “I wonder how I
could have missed the Fallon sisters.”

  “We lived in a tiny village. Bexington. George’s father was the largest landowner, and an absentee landlord most of the time. There was very little in the way of social life. And my parents’ precarious financial position didn’t allow trips to Dorchester, let alone London at the end, when I might have made my debut. Anyway, I’ve not lived in Bexington for a decade.” He sensed her uneasiness talking about her home. She switched the topic. “How long have you been back in England?”

  “I resigned my commission after Waterloo. Took the long way home by way of Italy.”

  “Where you bought your naked ladies.”

  Bay grinned. “You don’t approve of my taste in art?”

  “I suppose it is easier to indulge in carnal pleasures surrounded by nudity rather than the martyrdom of saints.”

  He looked around the room. “Or angels. I confess when Angel—when the statues first made their appearance, they had a depressing effect upon my ardor.”

  “I doubt anything could depress you long, sir. In my limited experience, you seem randy as a goat.”

  “A goat? A goat!” Bay put a hand over his heart. “I don’t know when I’ve been so insulted.”

  “I believe it’s a classical reference to the god Pan, who was admired for his masculine attributes,” Charlotte said, her pursed mouth prim. He wanted to kiss her and make her un-pucker.

  Bay leaned in toward her. “Do you admire my masculine attributes, Charlie?”

  She blinked her eyes at his closeness, then gave him a clear blue gaze. “I believe I do. And that’s all the questions I’m willing to answer today.”

  He traced her lush mouth with a fingertip. “That was a very good answer, Charlie. I may even forgive you for calling me a goat. If I remember my mythology correctly, Pan fucked every one of the maenads. Orgies left and right.”

  “They were madwomen. Drunk,” whispered Charlotte, her lip trembling against his finger.

  “Whereas you are so very sane and sober. Even more of a challenge, I expect. Let me drive you a little bit mad, Charlie.” He kissed the corner of her mouth as she turned it up in a rueful smile. They could help each other forget the past for a while.

  Her hands brushed through the bristle of his short crop, circling gently. “What have you done with your horns?”

  “Gone the way of my cloven hooves. Help me with my boots and you’ll see.”

  Chapter 11

  This was such a mistake. Bay was not only in lust with Deborah, but was still in love with his wife. Anne. Possibly Charlotte had supplanted Deborah, simply because she was present in his bed while Deb was who knows where. Charlotte was handy. Available. And absolutely aching for the friction of his fingers on her body. From the way his mouth was coaxing hers, Charlotte had every reason to believe he was as fully engaged in this exploration as she was. His lips and tongue were in concert, advancing and withdrawing with tender ferocity. Charlotte felt as if she was being eaten up, bite by bite. Soon she would disappear.

  And then Bay could go back to his wife.

  Bay’s wife didn’t need a friend. She needed this; every woman did. This skillful assault on all her senses. The taste of coffee on Bay’s tongue, his ragged inhalations, the hardness of his cock. The scent of lime and sweat on his skin. Watching as his dark eyes shut in blissful release. Any woman who had given herself to Bay would want to do so again and again. Charlotte was a prime example. No matter how successfully she argued with herself, as soon as he stepped across the threshold, she lost her wits and found her wantonness.

  Anne had been married to Bay, had experienced his lovemaking innumerable times. How she must have suffered when she went back to her undead husband. How Charlotte would suffer when she went back to her old life.

  Bay had guided himself in her, gliding in and out with a twist that drove her mad. He was Pan, her cloven-hoofed devil, playing her body’s music to a crescendo. Her nails dug into his back as she spiraled up off the bed, legs stretched taut. He collapsed on her, then rolled her to her side, still connected in the most elemental way. She quaked against him, her skin slick and burning. He kissed the perspiration from her hairline and the tears from the corner of her eyes.

  “You aren’t unhappy with me?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No.” She would not tell him what she felt. She scarcely knew herself. Half the time she wanted to throttle him and the rest—well, they had just done the rest.

  “I don’t want to, but I may have to go away for a few days.”

  Her heartbeat slowed. “To find Deborah?”

  “Yes. The man I hired has a lead. I don’t want to leave it to chance.”

  Charlotte pulled back. “You’ve hired an investigator?”

  “Several days ago. The sooner I get my necklace back, the sooner you can go back to Little Sickup. I know this has been wrong, Charlie. Keeping you here. I didn’t mean for it to go this far.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was angry at first. You’d agree I had some cause?”

  Now he was asking her to condone what he had done to her. She could not. Worse than tying her up, he had turned her to mush with one touch, deconstructing all the barriers she’d thrown up since Robert. She was an idiot. She could remain his captive forever, wanted to stay on Jane Street as long as he’d let her. But it seemed she’d been handed her congé. Charlotte covered herself with the sheet.

  “I’ll go with you. If you have difficulty with Deborah—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “No. I’m sure she’ll see reason. Or Bannister will. It will be different being in France without any worry that my throat will be slit. I don’t suppose Deborah is handy with a knife?”

  “I daresay Deborah’s weapon of choice is her body,” Charlotte said quietly. As was Bay’s. He’d tied her in knots using no rope at all.

  He kissed her nose as if she were his niece. “I’m off then. I’ll write. If you don’t mind staying here another few days, I can escort you safely home when I get back.”

  Charlotte couldn’t watch him get into his clothes. She stared instead at the angels on the ceiling, playing lutes and floating on clouds, their wings tipped in silver and gold. Heaven above looked very happy, but somehow Charlotte found herself in hell.

  Bay marched with purpose in his step. He had a thousand things to do. Pack. Arrange for his passage. Look up Vouvray on a map. It was for the best. He hadn’t really made his mind up to go until he saw her tears. They could not go on this way. If he left, he could kill three birds with one stone. Charlie could get her life back, he’d find the rubies, and escape from Anne’s clutches all with one dash across the Channel. He didn’t believe for one minute that Anne would hang about Whitley House less than a mile away waiting for him to call on her. She was probably bullying Frazier right now to let her in the front door. And he wouldn’t put it past her to try the tradesmen’s entrance. Monsieur David had a Frenchman’s appreciation for a beautiful woman, toothache or no.

  He stopped dead on the sidewalk. He was no coward. His years in the army had proved that, along with the jumble of medals he kept in his cuff link box. He didn’t need to run after Mr. Mulgrew’s associate—he might pass him en route and never know the necklace was in the man’s pocket. He was a total stranger. He certainly didn’t want to see the familiar face of Deborah again, although he would like to thank her for leaving Charlie in her place.

  Two months ago he had made up his mind to resist Anne even if she was free. Especially since she was free. It was time to cut all ties with her. He would not bind himself to her with a child. There was a raw spot within knowing that their love was responsible for her miserable marriage, but he couldn’t change the past. Or relive it.

  He’d go home, have dinner. Another sandwich if necessary. And go back to Jane Street to surprise Charlie, sleep-warm and slumberous. He’d have to arouse her slowly so she didn’t clout him with a stone cherub. She seemed remarkably predisposed to violence.

  A dowager wielding an u
nnecessary umbrella gave him a glacial stare as she passed, maid and footman in tow. Bay snapped out of his reverie. Gentlemen just didn’t stand around thinking on street corners. Most gentlemen of his acquaintance avoided thinking at all costs no matter where they were. But there was an insistent little voice in Bay’s head that urged him to start thinking, stop coasting, pay attention. If only that voice had spoken a little louder, he might have noticed the man following him.

  He said he would write. Charlotte got out of bed, legs cramping from her acrobatic endeavors. She slipped into her robe and picked up the dress that Bay had flung with such abandon. Thankfully he had been too intent in ravishing her to search her pockets. She pulled out the little stack of letters. At least she would have something with which to compare his words to her. When he had written to Deborah, he had not yet taken her to bed. Yet his desire was all too clear. How would he express himself to Charlotte, whose body he now knew better than she did herself? He had made it his mission to explore every nook and cranny, and she had been a willing accomplice in his amatory expedition. She felt mapped, surveyed, each inch measured to scale.

  She realized now the furtive fumbling with Robert was no proper introduction to the sex act. For one thing, she had never seen all of him, just the odd thigh, a flash of white buttock, a smattering of dark chest hair when he took the time to remove his cravat. Their encounters were by their very nature hurried and clumsy, laden with guilt on her part and excess enthusiasm on his. Deb had been starry-eyed describing what George did to her, but Robert was no George. And he certainly did not hold a candle to Sir Michael Xavier Bayard.

  Charlotte had felt her emotions waver at twenty. Deb had happily disposed of her virginity and was living like a princess in London, certain that George’s father would come around eventually. Her misspelled letters were filled with exclamation points and descriptions that made Charlotte blush to her toenails. She didn’t understand half of what she read. She and Robert had an understanding from the time they were children, and their relationship in no way resembled what Deb had with Viscount Harfield. A chaste kiss here, a brush against her hip there. It was all very tame, and Charlotte decided she wanted more.