Maggie Robinson - Mistress by Mistake

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.”

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.