Mistress by Mistake

“How will I know you’ll answer honestly?”

He waggled a finger at her. “Come, come, Charlie. I am not the one here whose honesty is in question.”

“Up until I had the misfortune to meet you, my honesty was never in question.” Except the once, and she had paid for that lie a long time.

“I’ll begin. I quite thoroughly researched Deborah, you know. I do with all my mistresses. As you were thrust on me so precipitously without proper vetting, I must rectify that.”

“You were the one who was thrusting, as I recall,” Charlotte said tartly.

“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 menage a 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 fiance decided not to align himself with the disgraceful Fallon family.”

“After he had taken your virtue.”

Charlotte flushed. “Yes.”

“Any number of times.”