Mistress by Marriage Read online

  Fishing! She hoped they would drown. “Please see to it that the water in the tub is removed at once and return it to the dressing room. I am very disappointed in you, Ben.”

  “Aye, my lady. Knew you would be. But not all of us are cut out for schoolin’.”

  “I’m not talking about your lessons, you little heathen! I opened my home to you and you have repaid me by helping Lord Christie take me by force and keep me a prisoner against my will.”

  Ben looked around the comfortable room. “Don’t look like no prison I’ve ever been in.”

  “You’ve been in prison?” This was something new.

  “Not for more than a day or three. ’Twas a mix-up, Lady C. You can trust me now.”

  “Can I? When you’ll do anything for the villain who promises to take you fishing?”

  Ben chewed the inside of his cheek. “Lord C’s most persuasive. Goes on and on about that Shakespeare play. Taming of the—Something. Some rodent, I reckon. Tell you what. If you ain’t happy here—after a day or three—I’ll help you escape. You been good ta me. No skin off my nose.”

  Caroline was momentarily speechless between Ben’s mangling of Shakespeare and his offer to help her. So Edward fancied himself as Petrucchio? He had the wrong play entirely. She was Lady Macbeth.

  “Thank you, Ben. I knew you would come through for me. I’ll make it worth your while.” She patted her pin for good effect.

  “Don’t need diamonds, Lady C. They’d only clap me in gaol again. Some blunt would be good, though.”

  “If you find my reticule wherever Lord Christie hid it, you’re welcome to half.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out. But you’ve got to give him a chance.”

  “What?” Caroline’s vision of riding back in style to London dimmed.

  “Lord C. He’s gone to a lot of trouble. The Hazletts haven’t slept a wink for weeks what with him badgerin’ them. They’re old and they need their rest. Give the man three days, my lady. If he don’t come up to snuff, I’ll filch the key again and set you free. Deal?” He extended a grubby hand.

  “Two days, and not a minute more.”

  Ben gave a long suffering sigh. Who knew the little ruffian was such a romantic?

  “Deal.” They shook hands. Caroline laid the cloak down on the bed. It would be easier to have a proper plan in place than a chance flight from Bradlaw House. And Edward might get suspicious if she suddenly smelled of cinnamon buns rather than jasmine.

  “You won’t say a word of our arrangement to anyone, will you, Ben? I cannot trust the Hazletts any longer.”

  He straightened his spine, insulted. “I don’t peach. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Tell Hazlett you’ll bring me my meals—that the stairs are too much for him.”

  “Shouldn’t have no trouble convincin’ him o’ that. Poor blighter’s took to his bed.”

  “Good. Serves him right.”

  “Lord C says he’s movin’ you to a different room. One o’ the regular housemaids from the village is comin’ to truck your things downstairs. Said his plan weren’t watertight after all.”

  Caroline grinned. Edward must have been exhausted himself trudging up and down the stairs with her bath water. If she were closer to the ground, her climbing skills could be pressed into service once again if need be. It would be suicidal to try to escape from up that high.

  She gave a squirming Ben an impulsive hug. “Excellent. I’ll talk to you later in my new room. How do I get to the library?”

  “Turn left at the bottom of the staircase. Three doors down. Cor, but there are a lot of books in there. Who would want to read them all?”

  Caroline, if she were to amuse herself for the next two days. “Wait. We are counting today as the first of our days, are we not? After tomorrow you’ll help me?”

  Ben looked innocent. “Did you think I meant that? The day’s half over now. It’s nearly noon. Don’t seem fair to count it as a whole day.”

  Hell and damnation. At least he knew his sums. “Fine. But after noon on Thursday, I will be leaving Bradlaw House with or without your assistance.”

  “That’s fair. Do you think I can just throw this bathwater out the window?”

  Caroline didn’t stop to advise him. She had an appointment with Petrucchio.

  Chapter 19

  No one could force Magdelena to do the impossible. Not her father. Not her poor dead nanny. Not her brother Reynaldo. Certainly not the villain who had kept her prisoner in chains to slake his sinful appetites.

  —Devil in Disguise

  Edward was seated behind a massive mahogany desk, a livid bruise matching it on his cheek. Caroline bit back a smile of satisfaction at its colorful progression and curtseyed. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “It’s good afternoon, Caroline. I trust you slept well? You’re looking lovely.”

  “Yes, even without any drugging, I slept like a baby. The bed was very comfortable. In fact, the entire room is absolute perfection. I just love it. For a prison cell it is first class. I’ve never considered the combination of old gold and chocolate brown before when I decorated, but I believe I’ll have to give it a try in my new cottage.”

  Edward’s dismay was comical to behold. “I hope you won’t mind, Caro. I’ve arranged to move you to a more convenient location.”

  “More convenient for whom? I daresay it’s good exercise for all of us to climb one hundred and twelve broad steps. I’ve never felt so fit.”

  “You’ve just walked down,” Edward said. “Your new room is equally comfortable. And the mirror is intact.”

  “What color is it?”

  “How the he—I’m afraid I can’t remember. Some sort of blue, I think. Or gray.”

  “Any vases?” she asked sweetly.

  “None. No Dresden shepherdesses, no bibelots of any kind.”

  “That’s not very sporting of you.”

  Edward rubbed his cheek. “Be that as it may, I’m not here to talk decorating schemes, Caro.” He leaned back in the padded leather chair and smiled as though he had a great treat in store for her. “Most ton marriages are business arrangements at heart—joining property or political ambitions. Lawyers spend hours on settlements and wills and codicils. If the couple comes to respect each other and hold each other in some affection after all that paperwork, it’s considered miraculous.”

  “Are you dying, Edward? Is that your will there?”

  He swept the papers under the blotter. “You sound awfully hopeful, Caro.”

  She shrugged. “You can’t expect me to respect you and hold you in some affection after yesterday.”

  “I remember yesterday somewhat differently. The afternoon in particular.”

  The smug bastard. “I’m fixated on the morning. My abduction, you know.”

  “If I had thought there was any other way to get you here, I would not have resorted to subterfuge.”

  “Well, should the Christies ever lack funds, you can go about the country kidnapping heiresses.” She leaned back in her chair. “I am waiting, Edward. What is your proposal for our future? You know mine. A cottage in Dorset. Are those papers you’re hiding the deed? Where do I sign?”

  “Um. Not a deed, precisely.” Edward removed the papers from the blotter and shuffled them. He looked shifty. Nervous. Caroline went on alert.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of making a little list for you. For us, really. I thought it best to put my expectations in writing.”

  “Your expectations? I have no interest in your expectations. But I expect,” she said archly, “you know that.”

  “I’m hoping I can change your mind. What we have together, Caro, is rare. I admit I didn’t know what to do about it while we lived together, but I think I’ve got myself organized now.”

  “How lovely for you. Organization is so helpful in general. In battle, for example, one must have the adequate number of weapons and provisions and so forth.” She eyed a cloisonné ink pot on the desk. Edward snatched it away and d
ropped it in a desk drawer.

  “Quite. I suggest you look upon this list as a kind of battle plan, a battle where we both win.”

  She twirled her wedding rings. She should have stopped wearing them long ago, but they were so very pretty. “You are not making any sense at all, Edward.”

  “Caroline, please hear me out. If I were your employer, there would be a set of rules. The time you were to report for work, for example. When you would be permitted to go to lunch. If you painted pottery, for example, how many plates you would finish in the course of a day.”

  “I don’t paint. Nor do I play the pianoforte. I have none of the accomplishments one might expect for a gently reared woman. I wasn’t gently reared.”

  “You are deliberately misunderstanding me. I don’t want you to paint a bloo—blessed—thing. This is a list of suggestions—of my preferences—ways that might be pleasing to me if you chose to adapt them. I expect you to provide me with a similar list of how I might better please you.”

  “I don’t want to be pleased by you. I want to leave—that would please me.”

  “Please, Caro. Humor me.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk.

  Caroline picked it up. Edward’s handwriting was as precise and exacting as he was. She had no difficulty skimming his suggestions. “Only six?”

  “I concentrated on the most important. The curbing of your temper is, of course, the most critical. I cannot have you destroying property and screaming like a banshee every time you do not get your way. As you can see, I’ve recommended some diversionary tactics you might take when life’s vicissitudes irritate you.”

  The greatest vicissitude sat across from her. “I suppose that’s reasonable,” she conceded. Once the euphoria of destruction left her, she often felt a little foolish. She could count to ten or perhaps to twenty if the need arose. She read the second item on Edward’s list. “ ‘There will be no unnecessary talk at breakfast.’ ” She looked up at Edward. “Would I be permitted to say ‘pass the marmalade dear,’ or is that taboo?”

  “You know what I mean. When you wake you chatter like a magpie. A man can’t think. I like to begin my day quietly with the paper and correspondence. In fact, it would be altogether better if you had breakfast in bed. We could meet later in the day.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she muttered. There was no point in reading the rest. She counted to ten, then tore the paper to bits.

  “I was afraid you might do that. I made copies.” He patted the sheets on the blotter. “My memory is not what it once was. I’d hate to leave a provision out. I advise you to do the same. The original might so easily get misplaced.”

  “How am I to make my list when you’ve taken the ink pot away?”

  Edward hesitated. “You mean you’ll write one right now? That makes me very happy, Caro.”

  “I might as well get it over with. I can tell you won’t give me a minute’s peace until I do.”

  “You—you promise you won’t fling the ink pot?”

  “That would be silly. The sooner I finish your blasted list, the sooner I can leave, yes?”

  Edward pulled open the drawer and set the colorful enamel and metal ink pot on the desktop. “I thought we could discuss your terms. Perhaps in the garden. The weather is fine, and I remember how much you enjoyed your visit here.”

  “That was long ago. Six years. A lot has changed.”

  Edward stood. “Here. You take my place and write to your heart’s content.”

  “Oh, I will.” Caroline switched her seat and rummaged through the drawers for paper and pen. She sharpened a nib and discreetly dropped the tiny knife into her pocket. She hoped Edward wouldn’t notice the bulge of jewelry.

  What had happened to her Edward, the man who always knew his mind, the one who was a stickler for propriety? How could he think kidnapping and lists would transform their marriage? Had he fallen on his head or was he in the throes of early senility?

  She supposed it didn’t matter why he’d changed. He just hadn’t changed soon enough. She would never forget the look on his face or his cruel words when it was clear he expected the worst of her.

  But why should he expect anything else? If she was honest with herself, she’d given him no reason to think otherwise. In her heart, Caroline knew she did not deserve happiness and by marrying a man like Edward, had guaranteed it.

  He turned on one polished boot heel and left her alone, inspecting the shelves. He found a book to his liking and settled into a burgundy leather chair across the room, gazing up now and then to check on her progress. She wrote as rapidly as she ever had when the muse had struck particularly hard. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. He wanted a list? She’d give him a list.

  The clock struck one, a sonorous single boom. Edward crossed and uncrossed his long legs. She took another piece of vellum from the sheaf and began to copy the first page, her handwriting looping in crooked lines. She’d get no prize for neatness, but her creativity was unsurpassed. She tossed the pen down, black ink smudging her fingers. “Done!”

  Edward put his book on a table and walked across the carpet, removing a pair of spectacles from his pocket. Caroline had never seen him wear them before. He’d made no concessions to his age when they were together, certainly not in the bedroom. He hadn’t used the glasses to read his book. Perhaps he hadn’t even been reading at all.

  She handed him a paper. He took it to the mullioned window and held it to the light. “Your handwriting is so very difficult to read, my dear. Hm. Number One. Stab myself in the thigh with a—fuck?”

  “Fork, you imbecile! Stab yourself in the thigh with a fork, hard enough to draw blood.”

  He looked down. “Ten times? Surely I would be successful at the bloodletting after the second or third round.” He removed his glasses and calmly laid the list on the windowsill. “You are aware that puncture wounds frequently lead to infection. I might lose my leg.”

  Caroline shrugged. Legs, arms—there was too much of him already.

  “I would still expect you to engage in conjugal relations despite my infirmity, you know. Once I’d healed, of course. In sickness and in health was a part of your vows.”

  “Just as I promised to honor and obey you, which I will not! Ever!”

  “We’ll see about that. Are the rest of your items equally reprehensible?”

  “No,” Caroline said sweetly. “Some of them are worse.” Wait until he got to number eleven. Hitting one’s balls with a cricket bat couldn’t possibly be comfortable.

  “Caroline,” he said, his voice stern, “obviously you are not taking the purpose behind this list seriously.”

  “Oh, I’m serious! Just as serious and organized as you are, Edward. I even numbered my requests.”

  He picked up the paper again and turned it over, squinting. “Forty-seven?”

  “I can think of more if you wish.”

  He crumpled up the vellum and tossed it out the window.

  “I made a copy.”

  “And I’ll throw it out, too. Stop playing games, Caroline. I want this marriage to work. I see nothing wrong with a sensible list of expectations from each other. Most marriages could benefit from a set of ground rules. Why, we didn’t even know each other when we married. It’s only natural that there were—problems.”

  “Problems? You hated me! Your children hated me!”

  “Nonsense. You weren’t what we were used to.”

  No, she certainly had not been staid and proper. Once she was Lady Christie, it was as if every impulsive imp she harbored within banded together to wreck everything she’d wanted: to be away from her cousins, to have a home of her own, a husband, a family, no matter how dreadful Little Alice was. The imps had fought over inconsequential things, thrown valuable objects.

  Allowed themselves to get caught in the arms of another man.

  There was something wrong with her. Caroline knew what it was, but Edward must never find out.

  “Edward, I am not your employee. I don
’t want to be your wife. If you cannot see clear to divorce me, at least send me out of your reach. You promised me a cottage—with holly-hocks.”

  “I—I was unable to secure one in a timely fashion.”

  Caroline gasped. No wonder Christies always told the truth. They made very poor liars. “You never even tried!”

  Edward scrambled around the corner of the desk and grabbed the ink pot again. “I did try. Then I thought better of it after Marburn came to me.”

  “Garrett told you to kidnap me?” That was much worse than Garrett knowing. To think she’d made the man a fortune.

  “No, but he repeated your advice about running off with your maid Lizzie. I read that book, The Farringdon Farrago or some such—where the hero plays highwayman and kidnaps what’s-her-name. I thought if I got you alone without any interruptions we might become reacquainted, so to speak.”

  He read her book? Caroline thought the world was coming to a screeching halt. She expected toads to drop from the sky and pigs to fly and the sulfur scent of brimstone to knock her right on her ample arse. Lucifer himself had taken possession of Edward Christie to torment her for her many mistakes. She counted to twenty-two. “Reacquainted? How many acquaintances do you drug and tie up? Even Lord Farringdon was not such a fiend. No, Edward, you’ve lost your chance with me. Five years ago I humbled myself. Begged you.”

  Edward turned away. “I was angry.”

  “Were you? You never really said. And you never gave me time to explain.”

  “What was there for me to say, Caroline? Did you want me to throw something? Let me correct you. As I recall you said a great deal—most of it nonsense. If I’d arrived half an hour later, what I believed would have been true anyway. Rossiter was in love with you and our marriage was hopeless. You were half naked . . . and well kissed,” he added.

  “He—he tried to blackmail me!”

  “The poor fool was as desperate to have you as I am.”

  Rubbish. Andrew needed funds—he’d said as much. Even if she sold every jewel she possessed, she could not have come up with the astronomical amount he’d asked of her to keep their prior relationship a secret from Edward. His ready alternative had been to start an affair.