Mistress by Mistake

She was looking at him as his old governess used to, all beetle-browed and pursed-lipped.

“I manage my investments! And I collect art.”

Charlie snorted. “Art that is by its very nature suited to the advancement of your pleasure.”

How did she know he’d gazed at his paintings a time or two, his cock firmly in hand? He felt his color mount. “You are forgetting I spent a decade serving His Majesty in conditions I can assure you were not at all pleasurable.”

“Do not rest upon your laurels. What have you done lately?”

“I-I-” What had he done lately? Certainly he sent money to veterans’ charities. He tithed although he rarely attended church. He was kind to small children and animals when they crossed his path. It didn’t amount to much, not enough to brag on. “What do you think I should be doing?” he asked, turning the tables.

“What did you want to do when you were a boy? Besides be a smuggler.”

He had wanted to be an artist. His cartoons at school had been dead-on until an upperclassman objected to his depiction as a bully and only proved it by beating a young Bay to a pulp behind the dining hall. After that Bay put away his brushes and charcoal and stuck to declining Latin verbs. Anne had posed for him when they married, but he had destroyed the pencil sketches years ago. Until Angelique insisted on the ceiling fresco, he’d spent years admiring art instead of creating it. A wicked thought crossed his mind.

“I’ll show you. Stay right there.”

He took the stairs two at a time to his room. In his dressing room was a battered trunk he’d had at boarding school. Within were some dried-up watercolors, several yellowing sketch pads, and some dull sticks of charcoal. He took out his knife and sharpened the points, nicking himself in the process. Not an auspicious beginning for the rejuvenation of his artistic career.

He made a quick detour into Charlie’s room and was downstairs in minutes, the pads tucked under his arm. “Disrobe, my dear.”

Charlotte looked up at him, startled. He flattered himself to think she looked interested in an apres-breakfast interlude, as was he, but first things first.

“H-here in the morning room?” she faltered.

“The light, what there is of it through all this bloody rain, is excellent.”

“Surely you know what I look like by now.”

“Indeed I do, every lovely inch. Your body is exquisite. And I wish to immortalize it.”

Charlotte seemed to notice the paper for the first time. “You want to draw me?” She made it sound as if he planned to roast her and feed her to wild animals.

“I cannot think of a more deserving subject. You give all my Italian ladies a run for their money.”

“You’re an artist.” There was an unpleasant degree of doubt in her voice.

“You remember the ceiling on Jane Street. All the angels and clouds and whatnot.”

“You painted it?”

Her openmouthed shock was comical. He didn’t think it was because she thought he was the next Michelangelo, either. “The subject matter was not my first choice, and the execution a bit rusty, I admit. But we have all the time in the world. Twenty-nine days, anyhow. I’m prepared to practice until I get your likeness right. I’ll even put wings on you, if you like.”

“I’m certainly no angel.” She abandoned her lace making and stood up. “Let me see your notebooks.”

Bay shrugged. “I haven’t touched them in years. Trust my grandmother to have squirreled everything away. She thought I had some promise.” He handed her the oldest collection of drawings. She smiled when she saw the first, a pencil sketch of his old spaniel Homer. Perhaps he should consider getting a dog again. Dogs were diverting, and if he were to rattle around in this enormous house, he’d welcome some good company.

She picked through the pages carefully. “She was right. Why did you stop drawing?”

“I suppose I outgrew it. When I was in the army, every now and again someone might ask me to sketch their horse or their portrait in a letter home, but there was little time for frivolity.”

“Let me see the rest.”

He gave her the second notebook. The pages were mostly empty, but it was clear that a large chunk had been torn away.

“What happened to the drawings?”

Bay swallowed the lump in his throat. He had hoped she wouldn’t notice. “I’m afraid they were honeymoon drawings. Once the honeymoon and my marriage were over, it didn’t seem right to keep them.”

“Oh, Bay.” She placed her hand on his sleeve. “I am sorry for you. How horrible it all must have been.”

“It seemed so at the time. But now I begin to think I made a lucky escape.” He looked down on her. Her hair was arranged too neatly on her head. Soon he would fix that.

“Lady Whitley might not have become unhinged if she had been Lady Bayard all these years.”

“You are a warmhearted girl, Charlie.” He bent to brush his lips against hers.

“Hardly a girl,” she murmured. She responded to the kiss, deepening it artlessly. At this rate he might as well throw his drawing paper in the fire and bed her on the chaise. She aroused every bit of his lust, for all she was a short, shrewish thing.

He disengaged gently. “Later, my love. Let me stir up the fire. I shouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

“You are serious about a life study. Why can’t you draw me with my dress on?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Besides, that dress is definitely not worthy of immortalization.”

“I have nothing better. I need nothing better.”

“’Tis a shame your sister stole all the clothes, but at least we have this.” He took the ruby necklace out of his pocket and dangled it before her. She snatched it away.

“I hid it! How did you find it?”

“Sweetheart, nothing and no one escape me. I found you in Little Hurryup, didn’t I?”

“You went through my things.” There was a mulish set to her mouth. He wondered what else she had hidden from him.

“Just a pile of handkerchiefs and a stocking or two. I shall not trespass again, I promise. All your secrets are safe. Hold still.” He began unhooking, unlacing, unpinning. Her cheeks flushed, her nipples puckered dark pink. Taking the rubies and diamonds from her slack hand, he fastened it around her throat. The center stone pointed its way to the pleasure of her. He stepped back. “Perfect.”

“Hardly.”

“Oh, don’t fight with me now. You won’t win.” He rearranged the furniture, dragging the chaise to the bank of windows. He selected a comfortable chair for himself, then tore down a curtain.

“What on earth?”

“Some judicious draping.”

“I’ll sneeze my head off.”

“Nonsense. I know for a fact all the curtains were taken down and cleaned this spring. I was here.”

“Oh.” She looked very uncertain without her own dowdy gray curtain covering her. “What do you want me to do?”

“Turn into pudding, all smooth and boneless. I’m going to have my hands all over you. Try not to flinch. Sit on the sofa, please.”

He pushed her back deftly, his hands stroking satin. He was being wicked, he knew. He palmed a breast, flicked a nipple, watched the gooseflesh prickle across her limbs. He lifted a leg, stroked a foot, laid a bit of curtain across her hip.

“You can see everything! You haven’t draped me at all,” she complained.

“The next time. Now try to be quiet while I work.” He pulled the charcoal from his pocket and set to sketch.

“That will not be difficult. I have nothing to say. You did lock the door, didn’t you?”

“Um.”

“Bay! Suppose one of the maids comes in to dust or something! Your staff is worldly-wise, but Kitty and Mary are practically children. Please lock the door this instant.”

Bay’s fingers were flying across the paper, the charcoal an extension of his vision. He was baffled as to how the creative process worked, only knew how restful it felt to be drawing again. Well, it would be restful of his subject