mouth like a fine wine. “I like it.”
Charlotte huffed. She was getting nowhere with him, losing ground every minute he sat sprawled on the sofa grinning at her. Everything she had planned all day to say was fragmented somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Snatches of “God-fearing woman” and “reasonable man” warred with each other, neither victorious. In the end, she kept her mouth shut, and opened it only to drink her sherry, which she desperately needed.
“Charlie, my dear, I thought we might set some ground rules for our association while we wait for your delinquent sister Deborah to return. Are you sure she made no mention of their exact destination?”
Charlotte shook her head. Silence was not golden.
“I am a reasonable man.” Charlotte choked on her sherry and stared at him. Was he a mind reader as well as a satyr? “I will never expect you to perform acts which you consider to be repugnant. But I do have my favorite vices and will encourage you to become accustomed to them.”
Charlotte’s ears were turning red, she knew it. The rest of her was following suit. While Sir Michael-Bay, blast him-laid out his preferences in the bedroom, she felt like a fireball of mortification, soon to explode into thousands of crimson flames. Perhaps it was time to faint. A fake faint this time, of course, which might deter him from this litany of perversion and pestilence. Mama had always advised a swoon when one heard things one did not care to listen to. Tradesmen’s entreaties, for example. Harfield’s father, the Earl of Trent, when he discovered his son had run off with Deborah. The vicar’s sermons afterward. Swooning was a useful feminine accomplishment, effective if used sparingly. But as Bay had done nothing yesterday to help her off the floor-had instead stared with lasciviousness at her exposed parts-Charlotte ruled out another drop to the carpet.
Bay waved his hand in the air. “Are you getting all this? You look a bit dazed. And red. I can repeat it all if you like.”
That was it. She was done for. If she had to listen to one more word, he
“Very well. Let’s go upstairs now and do it all.”
Bay had nearly admitted that he was playing a joke upon her, that he’d engaged the services of a private detective, that she was welcome to return to Little Glossup or wherever she lived, when she tore the ugly little cap from her head and flung it in a corner. She lifted her plump white arms and pulled out the pins, and cascades of black curls helped cover her ugly dress. That was it. He was done for. He was now tangled in the sheets, panting like a madman. Who knew such crude talk could stir this little gray governess to the heights of decadent sensuality? He’d never been able to say no to a woman, more was the pity, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to say no to Charlie Fallon. He wasn’t sure he could sustain such dirty talk, but he was willing to make the sacrifice if it brought him more afternoons and evenings like this one.
She was exquisite. Now that he had seen her in daylight, he realized she was more rounded than her sister, her face softer. He had thought Deborah the fluffy kitten, but it was Charlie who was cushy, her alabaster flesh worthy of the Italian art he collected. He kept some minor works downstairs in this house, but the majority of his collection was in his town house a few long streets away. He was very fond of nudes, and he was very fond of Charlie Fallon. As long as she wasn’t speaking or throwing things at him.
He had given her little to complain of. He’d even done some of the naughty things he promised to do when she had turned that alarming shade of red. She looked like a well-satisfied woman now, her upturned blue eyes glazed, her lips pink and swollen from his kisses. His hand remained on one full breast, his thumb stroking a berried nipple. If only she were wearing the ruby necklace, the picture would be perfect.
He suckled the nipple he’d readied between his fingers until she gave another groan. “I find I’m starving, Charlie. We’ll both need some nourishment if we are to do all the things on my list. I’m going to have Mrs. Kelly prepare us a tray.”
He got up and went into the dressing room. Parked in front of the fireplace was a copper tub, specially designed to hold two comfortably, three if he was in the mood. He pulled a black robe from the cupboard where he kept his spare clothes, and checked what had been Deborah’s. It was empty. She had left just the few gowns in the armoire in the other room. He was damned if he was going to go to the expense all over again of dressing his new mistress, but he truly was damned if he didn’t. Looking at Charlie in her gray gloom made his eyes hurt.
He slipped out of the bedroom past a dozing Charlie and went downstairs to consult with Mrs. Kelly. She was well-used to his erratic schedule and attire, and presented him with the week’s menus for his approval without batting an eyelash at his dishabille well before sunset. He left orders for more brandy to be purchased and carried up a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He might be missing the strawberries, but he and Charlie had much to celebrate.
He paused on the stairs and examined a lovely little painting by an unknown artist depicting the seduction of a lovely little virgin. Her draperies were billowing in the wind, revealing her lovely not-so-little form. The expression of lust on her anxious lover’s face told the whole story. Like the painted gentleman, Bay was thinking with his cock again, damn it. It was entirely possible that Charlie was as guilty as her sister in this whole affair. Just because she could make herself blush scarlet meant nothing. Their mama had probably taught the Fallon sisters exactly how to trap a man-fainting on cue, weeping, dropping handkerchiefs, showing more than a bit of ankle or bosom. What did he know about her, after all?
He’d made it his business to know all about Deborah, who had come to town with Viscount Harfield ten years ago. Bay had met her at a boisterous party once when he was home on leave and been stunned, like everyone else, by her wit and beauty. She seemed quite devoted to George until his marriage, but moved on with alacrity to Baron Perham, a widower with notorious sexual appetites. Perham was followed by Fellowes and Stuart, a young marquess and a younger duke respectively. Bay had felt some pride succeeding a duke. Deb could have picked anyone.
And then she picked Arthur Bannister over him.
Of course, Arthur had offered marriage. Who would have imagined the Divine Deborah interested in domesticity? And becoming a plain Mrs. at that. Women were a mystery that Bay had spent the past twenty years trying and failing to fathom. His wife was a prime example.
Charlie was no longer pinned to the bed like a sex-drugged butterfly but sitting in a chair, her hideous elephant-colored robe covering her lush curves. She had even tried to tidy her hair, but Bay recalled most of her hairpins were scattered downstairs on the parlor floor. He’d go down later and toss them into the street if he had to. Nothing should tame his kitten-like Venus, purring and clawing.
“I’ve brought us some champagne. Mrs. Kelly will bring dinner up later.”
“To the bedroom?” Charlie sounded shocked.
“It will save us time. All those stair steps. Down, and then up again. This way we can get right back into bed when we’re done. We might even bring a crumb or two along.”
Charlotte screwed up her face. Her words yesterday indicated she was not amenable to lovemaking that incorporated food. He’d soon convert her to his way of thinking. The thought of licking honey from her-
“It’s my turn to set some ground rules,” she said, her voice brittle.
Bay set the bottle down. No point in popping the cork if she was in a mood. He could scarcely believe that this was the same woman whose every velvet inch had given him such recent satisfaction.
“I have agreed to your suggestions thus far, repugnant as they are. I also agree to wait here until Deborah returns, or until we hear from her so I can tell her you have kidnapped me.”
“I believe the term ‘kidnap’ is incorrect. That usually involves abduction from one’s home and the use of force. I found you in my bed, in
“Nevertheless. I am here against my will. I’ll honor my sister’s covenant with you as she seems to have taken your property-accidentally, I’m sure-and I don’t wish to go to jail in her place. But you cannot visit me whenever it strikes your fancy. We must work some sort of schedule for-for sexual activities. Every sixth Sunday of the month, say. That way I can mentally prepare myself.” She shuddered as if his touch was anathema to her, which he knew it was most assuredly not from her cries of “Oh, God yes, fuck me!” earlier. “And I don’t want to take meals with you.
