Mistress by Mistake

jewels or money for the life I live now. Mr. Frazier was more than generous when I left London. I cannot become a rich man’s plaything, even if you are that rich man.”

Bay took a sip of tea. “Then you do like me a little bit.”

Charlotte felt the heat in her cheeks. “What I feel or do not feel is not at issue.”

“Charlie, feelings are everything. Life is short, you know. If you didn’t know it before you met me, you must be convinced of it now. A woman like you shouldn’t go through the rest of your life buttoned up and covered up. It’s a- it’s a sin.”

“I am not my sister!”

Bay put his cup down and leaned forward. He looked suspiciously earnest, his dark eyes flashing. “No, you are not. You are better. Full of life and real passion, not someone who plays a role. Deborah is all glittering surface. You glow from within, Charlie. I was a fool not to see the difference earlier.” He paused, letting his compliment sink in. He really was a master of persuasion. If one weren’t mesmerized by his good looks alone, his voice could lull one into complete submission.

“If you are so determined to bury yourself in Little Wallop for the rest of your life,” he continued, “how can it harm you to spend three months in the country with me? Think of it as a last fling. A final farewell to the woman we both know you are. I’ll spoil you as you deserve to be spoiled. You won’t have a care. Then come back and do your good works with my money. Wear my necklace beneath your spinster’s night rail, where no one will ever see it.”

Charlotte shivered. She felt like a snake in a basket, twisting to the snake charmer’s hypnotic music. She should have some riposte-something sharp and off-putting so he would swallow up his tea and go away for good. Instead of biting him, she bit into a sandwich, struggling to keep her throat from closing.

“I’ve spoken to my banker. Whether or not you agree to come to Dorset, I’ve arranged to have a substantial sum transferred to you. You’ve succeeded in making me feel penitent-and I’m a man who rarely regrets anything, Charlie. But I wronged you and want to salve my guilty conscience.”

So, he offered a fortune either way. She had been wronged, from the moment she woke with his lips suckling at her nipple. She’d been stripped of her freedom, although it had been a more than pleasant imprisonment. Terrified by his crazy wife, too. To be bound in his arms again would not be a hardship.

She’d had so little love in her life, not that Robert had truly loved her. Not that Bay did either. Both men had loved her body though. She was still young enough to feel desire, despite years of enforced purity. Could she survive her next thirty years without wishing for one more night with Bay?

She could have one more night. One more afternoon, anyway. She could allow him to make love to her right now, and focus on every kiss, caress, stroke. Store them up in her memory bank for the frigid winters ahead, like the pound notes in her ginger jar. Say good-bye to him once and for all.

Give him some small value for the money he seemed determined to bestow upon her. Give herself the gift of one last fling, as he put it. To feel him over her and in her, his hands and tongue and teeth imprinting themselves and anointing her.

She stood up and he quickly rose, concern on his brow.

She licked her lips. “I cannot give you three months, Bay. But I will give you three hours. Now. It’s all I dare.” She reached out to him, her hand trembling.

He pressed a kiss to her hand. “What if I can convince you to spare me a little more time? A month, say?”

“You can try.” Charlotte felt the corners of her mouth turn up. She must be mad, as mad as Anne Whitley, but he was so effortlessly tempting.

“I shall rise to your challenge. In fact, I’m rising now.” He pressed her palm to his breeches. She had done that to him without an ounce of flirtation. How very odd. “See? I’ve been hard for you since I walked through the door. Go close the curtains in your bedchamber. We wouldn’t want to shock Mr. Trumbull.”

Charlotte was shocked herself. But she threw her caution out the window and pulled the curtains in her mind shut and led Bay into her bedroom.

He untied her stupid cap. It was criminal to cover such hair. Glossy, rippling waves escaped down her back as he carefully removed each pin. She stood still, her eyes downcast as if she was afraid to meet his. Her lashes seemed unnaturally dark on her pale cheeks.

She was afraid of him! Afraid of herself, too, of what they had together. He would have to warm her up gently if he would have any hope of convincing her to parlay three hours into thirty days. He looked forward to sparring with her for a month, both in and out of bed. He could be persuasive, verbally and physically. She would fall from her pedestal into his arms.

But in truth, it was she who had persuaded him to follow her here without any effort at all.

Her room was small, simple, virginal, the bed snowy with white linen, every corner tucked. He would soon alter that. His bed at Bayard Court was a massive Elizabethan affair, a tester bed with fringed brocade bed hangings that could accommodate a small family. He could see himself and Charlie tented within, the shadows abetting their happy sin. Today he’d have to control his impulses to roll around with her wildly or they’d wind up on the rag-rugged floor. He unbuttoned her plain navy dress and wished she’d at least reach for his cravat, but she was still as death. Like a Christian martyr waiting on a china plate for the lion to come for supper. This would never do. She was as solemn as a nun. Had she forgotten already that it was her idea to bring him to bed in the afternoon? He had merely come to tea, expecting another set-down.

He stuck one finger under her armpit and wiggled. She flinched, bit her lip but said nothing. He applied more pressure, this time with both hands, and she let out a little scream. Her dress dropped to the floor. She toppled backward on the bed as his fingers continued their tickling mischief. She was laughing and writhing now, helpless. Her face was rosy with some anger, and-yes-enjoyment.

“Stop this at once!” she cried before shrieking. She batted at him ineffectually, her breasts rising and falling beneath her chemise and corset. Her lips opened in further protest. He had to stop their mutual torment, so he kissed her, as he had wanted to do from the first moment he nearly decapitated himself entering her cottage.

She tasted of cress and butter. Sweet tea. So sweet. Soft. He cupped her face with one hand as he untied her laces with the other to free a plump breast. It was perfect in his hand, the creamy weight temptation itself. He’d missed the scent of oranges, missed the velvet of her skin. Missed everything about her, even her bad temper and hideous caps. He thought about confessing, but he’d already pled his case. It was time to use other methods.

His tongue was useful, circling around a darkening nipple. He feasted, deliberately savoring each second buried in her lush bosom, indulging himself, and, he hoped, her as well. He knew success when he heard her sigh and felt her fingers slide through his hair. The taste of her filled his mouth, more delicious than all the store-bought biscuits in the world. He felt her melt as he suckled, her legs part. He tugged up the hem of her chemise and headed homeward, skimming her smooth skin with his fingertips. Her white thighs, the sensitive spot behind her knees, her beautiful belly-they would be tended to later. All he wanted right now was to touch her hot core. Get inside her and never leave. Make her beg for him to stay tonight, and then go away with him forever tomorrow. He dipped a finger into her dark curls, slipped between her nether lips. She was already silky, slick, welcoming.

But he could wait, though not for long. He set to abrading the inch of swollen flesh at the apex, for her pleasure and his. He would benefit from every touch, every tensing, every letting go. She shuddered under him as he worked her clitoris to rigid attention, much like his own cock, which was near to bursting in his breeches.

He drew her nipple between his teeth as he circled harder and felt her world shift. She cried out, her nails nearly piercing his shoulder. He chose to withstand the sting and soldiered on, nipping, soothing, and smoothing her as she came apart. Charlotte let loose a string of somewhat colorful descriptions of all the things he had already planned to do.

He heard her orders, and he was an obedient sort of fellow. So much for gentling her into submission. She was as wild and needy as he was. He had to have her, had to feel her tight and wet around him now. This very minute.

Apparently she felt the same way. There was no time for finesse. There wasn’t time to remove his jacket or even her shift. Between the two of them, two pairs of hands desperate, the placket of his breeches became undone and he sheathed himself within her in one very firm stroke. She spasmed around him, all warm honey, her hips lifting and driving him further inside. He was so lost he forgot to kiss her, just shut his eyes and plunged deeper, the exquisite friction almost too perfect to bear. She rose up against him and lured him down with a nip at his