Mistress by Mistake

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 unnecessary 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.

Robert trained in his father’s solicitor’s office, doing whatever work his father chose not to do, while she tatted tablecloths for her hope chest. He asked her to be patient about their marriage, but was impatient himself when it came to anticipating the wedding night. His kisses were soft and thrilling, his desire so flattering. She felt something in his arms that needed investigation. Part of her hoped that once she gave him her virtue, he’d toss away his objections and marry her at once. She knew she could economize; living with her parents had given her that dubious advantage. But after months of groping each other in carriages and caves, Robert broke it off. A country solicitor, he said, not meeting her eyes, could not afford the scandal of her sister or the poverty of her parents. Should she discover she was with child, she was not to look to him for support, for he would deny their association. Charlotte had stood with her mouth open, very likely looking like a dying carp.

So that was very much that. Charlotte’s mama had taken to her bed with a case of brandy for a week, and she hadn’t even known the worst of it. Three weeks later, Charlotte’s parents went for their moonlit sail. She sometimes wondered if their accident had been deliberate-that their troubles had simply overwhelmed them-but she never let herself dwell on that particular possibility. When the Earl of Trent made his offer on the house, Charlotte snatched it and reinvented herself far from Bexington and Robert and scandal

Her cottage in Little Hyssop was tiny and slapdash, but it was all hers. She doubted Bay could have stood straight under its low sloped ceilings. People in the village called her Mrs. Fallon, the unfortunate fictional Mr. Fallon having drowned along with her parents. Thus widowed and orphaned, she engendered some sympathy and enjoyed a degree of freedom. All in all, it had been a nice little life, if a bit boring, until Bay decided to hold her hostage on Jane Street.

Charlotte climbed back up on the bed and flopped down on her stomach. Reading Deb’s letters was just like scratching an itch. One knew one shouldn’t, but one did it anyway. This time she would not cry or feel sorry for herself, for she would be getting a letter of her own soon. She skimmed through a few until she read Bay’s terse note announcing his grandmother’s death. There were no sensual overtures in this one. Charlotte wondered if Deb had even bothered to send a note of condolence. She picked up the next letter.

Dearest Deborah,

The church was very crowded today. My grandmother Grace would have been pleased, I think, to see old friends and enemies, though she had precious few of those despite the sharpness of her tongue. Pointed as it was, it was often accurate, and one ignored my grandmother’s advice at one’s peril. They say it’s very common when man is faced with his mortality to seek comfort in the arms of a woman. I hear many a babe has been conceived on the eve of a funeral. If you were here tonight, we could test that legend. While I am sadder even more than I expected, I am also grateful to be alive, and long to show you just how very alive I am. I will be thinking of you the whole night through.

Yours affectionately,

Bay

Charlotte swallowed. She didn’t believe Bay meant to get Deborah with child. One didn’t impregnate one’s mistress if one could help it. But she suddenly realized they had taken no precautions the past few days. Bay had already shown her exactly how alive he was, and what if there was a child growing inside her? She tried to count back to her last courses, but never paid much attention to the calendar. There had been no need since Robert. She’d made a lucky escape there.

Her mama always said not to borrow trouble. There was no point in worrying herself when there was absolutely nothing she could do but wait. And anyway, she was old, well past her prime as a woman. She had the silver hairs slithering like snakes on her head to prove it.

She returned Bay’s letters to the empty drawer and sat at her dressing table with a hand mirror. Gritting her teeth, she began yanking out every one of the coarse gray hairs that had plagued her for the past ten years. If only it were so simple to uproot her fears. And her desires.

Chapter 12

Monsieur David had recovered sufficiently to present him with a raft of palatable delicacies for his dinner. Bay had taken his time digesting, one eye fixed upon the case clock in his study. For good measure, he unpocketed his pocket watch at intervals and double-checked the time. When he was satisfied at last that Charlie should be sleeping, he stretched, rolled down his sleeves, and put his jacket back on. He left the desk in its disordered fashion, ledger books and pens strewn on the surface; he could set it to rights tomorrow when he returned from Jane Street. He had waited long enough.

The evening was mild, the skies clear, the walk was short. Spring had come to fashionable London in bursts of flowering trees and blooms in window boxes. Bay took a deep breath of night air, inhaling the sweet smell of flowers, so different from the miasma of other parts of the city. Like a naughty boy, he plucked a lilac branch from behind an iron fence, then a few buds from a stone pot that flanked some nob’s doorstep. Armed with his improvised bouquet, he would lay it on Charlie’s pillow in a few minutes.

His cock twitched impatiently. Miss Charlotte Fallon had an unpredictable effect on him, despite her fusty caps and tart tongue. And while she was far from the strumpet he first thought her, she had proved to me a very satisfactory bed-mate. If he ever ran into Robert Chase again, he’d thank him before he planted him a facer. To the best of his knowledge, Bay had never taken a woman’s virginity. He supposed he must when he married again, and the prospect did not fill him with any particular thrill.

But he was sure he’d manage it better than Robert Chase.