Mistress by Marriage

by Maggie Robinson

“Yes. Although it’s awfully late. I wonder if you’ll have any luck.”

  “ ’Snot that far,” Ned mumbled. “I can walk.”

  “I should like to see you try.” Jane Street was ideally located in the heart of Mayfair, so handy for gentlemen to slip away from their homes and slip into their mistresses. But she could picture Ned sprawled facedown on the sidewalk. He wouldn’t freeze to death as it was nearly summer, but he’d be a target for pickpockets and gossip.

  She plied Ned with more coffee, and he did indeed seem to come somewhat to his senses. She was treated to rambling tales of his siblings Allie and Jack. Caroline had missed Allie most of all, that sullen, gangly, impossible child who had made her married life a living nightmare. Well, to be fair, Edward did that, but Allie had helped him with a concerted, conscientious effort. The boys had been easier to deal with, being mostly away at school. When they came home, she was reminded of her scapegrace brother Nicky, and Andrew, God rot his soul.

  Hazlett came back after more than a quarter of an hour, unsuccessful in procuring a means of transportation to remove Edward Allerton Christie the Younger from her sofa. It was just as well. Despite the coffee, Ned was snoring. Grunting. And farting. There was a noxious aroma in Caroline’s parlor from which she was anxious to escape. Leaving poor Hazlett to find a pillow, a blanket, and a bucket, she climbed the stairs to her lonely bed, wondering what the morning would bring.

  The morning brought disaster. Ned had been sick in the night. Although his aim had been more or less on target, Caroline’s parlor smelled even worse than it had earlier. A ghost-white Ned lay on his back on the divan clutching his belly, his long legs dangling off to the carpet. At regular intervals he’d spasm and gasp, “Knew it. The oysters were off.” At first she thought he’d helped himself to her dinner’s leftovers, but he explained—between vomiting and a manly form of crying—that he and his friends had ordered two platters of oysters in an alehouse as they discussed the vicissitudes of their wicked yet dull fathers. Between bad seafood and worse drink, Ned was suffering, and Caroline was suffering right along with him. Food poisoning could be deadly, although she hoped the worst of it had wound up in the bucket. Hazlett had already summoned the doctor, and she had most reluctantly written a note to Edward, trying to explain in the very vaguest of terms why his son spent the night on her sofa.

  Dr. Turner arrived first. He shooed her out of the room, so she gratefully went to her little garden for fresh air. It was an oasis of peace to her, although at the moment she needed to deadhead the spent flowers. Sometimes she held her weekly teas there when the weather was fine, or sat by herself even when the weather was not. The sky was sufficiently cloudy, promising a storm. When Edward marched outside, she knew the storm had arrived a few hours early. She tossed her gardening gloves on the bench and sat down in resignation. She’d barely slept, and knew she did not look her best. A glance in the mirror had her wanting to put a sack over her head to spare the public.

  But Edward looked worse. Apart from his fury, his hazel eyes were sunken in between gray smudges and his full lips were bloodless. She hoped he’d lain awake all night in torment realizing he’d never have her body again.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.

  Caroline stared up at him, nearly cracking her neck—he was so awfully tall. He would make a perfect fire and brimstone preacher, she decided. One look at him and all the commandments would be obeyed instantly without question. But she’d never been much of a rules-follower.

  “I wrote to you. Neddie turned up late last night, and he was ill. Surely you’ve spoken to the doctor.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Edward snapped. “The young fool. Why didn’t you send him directly home?”

  “I tried to, but there were no cabs to be had at that hour.”

  He pointed a long finger at her. “If this is some sort of trick to get me back here, Caroline, you’ve misjudged badly. I won’t have you in collusion with my children again.”

  “A trick? Do you think I planned to get Neddie drunk and throw up and defecate all over my house? I suppose I paid off all his stupid friends to make him eat bad oysters to make my grand plan even more diabolical. Go round to Lord Carmichael’s house and see how his son Rory is faring. I have no reason to lure Carmichael here—I don’t even know him.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “I don’t even know.” Caroline decapitated the head of a bright pink pelargonium, crushing the petals between her fingers. “Go home, Edward, and take Neddie with you. And stop lecturing him so. He doesn’t like it. And furthermore,” she said, tossing the flower to the ground, “let him pick out his own wife.”

  Edward looked at her, his pale face glacial. “Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my children.”

  “And don’t you come to my home and tell me what to do! I’ve kept my end of the bargain—I never once tried to see your children these past five years. Your children, not ours, never ours. It was crystal clear from our wedding day that you didn’t want my help with them.”

  Edward snorted. “Help! As if you had one inkling in that rackety brain of yours how to be a mother. And this is my house. Don’t forget it.”

  She had quite enough. Recalling the satisfaction her next-door neighbor had after smashing statuary in her garden, Caroline snatched up the heavy pot of pelargonium and dropped it very close to Edward’s foot. “Get out! You gave me a life interest in this house, and my sole interest is to keep you out of it! If you are to lord your ownership over me, I’ll leave London. I have enough money now. I’m no longer dependent upon your scraps of generosity.”

  Edward opened his mouth, then shut it. The muscle in his cheek danced the tarantella. She had never seen him in such a towering rage, and was nearly giddy from it. It was time he felt as frustrated as she was.

  His next words were barely audible, yet deadly just the same. “I’ve already sent Ned home. You and I are going upstairs. Now.”

  “Are you mad? What will you do? Beat me to confess? I told you, I did not invite Ned here!”

  “You are still my wife, and you will obey me.”

  Caroline laughed a little wildly. The lack of sleep had softened his brain. “Now wait a minute. Last night you said you were going to divorce me. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I have not. But until the matter comes before the House of Lords, I expect to resume my marital rights. Not just for one night a year, but whenever I choose. I choose now. You will serve as my mistress.”

  “You are mad.”

  “If I am, you have driven me to it. I will get you out of my system one way or another.”

  Caroline clutched her gloves, feeling dizzy. “By—by forcing me? You are not that kind of man, Edward.”

  “I don’t believe much force will be necessary.” He smiled a perfectly dreadful smile.

  Caroline swallowed. Her cold, controlled husband had obviously lost his mind. “I will not cooperate.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Scooping her up, he carried her into the house.

  Chapter 4

  “I’ve got you now, my fine filly, and soon you’ll be ridden hard and put away wet,” Lord Carrolton exclaimed, a leer upon his long, lecherous countenance.

  Catriona careened down the staircase of Carrolton Manor, praying for someone to save her.

  —The Maid’s Master

  The little hellcat had bitten him. And she was not as easy to carry as she used to be. He’d noticed last night she was rounder and deliciously soft. But he adored every inch of her alabaster skin, skin so fine he could watch blue veins pulse, skin so pearlescent she nearly glowed in the dark. It was not dark now, of course, not even noon on a rainy spring day. She had lied to him, betrayed him, tricked him, yet still he couldn’t wait to sink himself deep within her pink folds.

  But he needed to catch her first. She had locked herself in her dressing room as soon as he tossed her onto the bed, scrambling like a cat and twisting about the
room, flinging the odd object at him. He avoided the shattered vase and brushed the rice powder from his jacket, then hung it neatly on the chair beside her desk. A notebook lay open, her careless loopy writing covering one-third of the page. He didn’t have his spectacles with him, and wouldn’t read her nonsense even if he did. Beth had told him, with a triumphant big-sister smirk, that Caroline seemed fond of killing off rangy, pompous, dark-haired aristocrats in her books. It would be unlucky to read about his premature demise.

  Hell and damnation. What had come over him in the garden? There she sat, a red lily in the midst of pastel blooms, taunting him. She had been so haughty about Ned and the house he’d simply snapped. He had wanted somehow to teach her something. He wasn’t sure what—his mastery, his domination, his perfect rightness. What he had proposed to her had shocked him as much as it shocked her. His estranged wife as his mistress. It was patently absurd. Their one night a year already took him forever to marshal his thoughts again, and he was planning to multiply that night by many. A hundred if he could. She would drive him to Bedlam, but first he’d fuck her until he stopped wanting to. Surely she’d bore him eventually.

  She’d made him suffer enough. If she’d begun their marriage by telling him the truth, he believed he could have born it, and forgiven her. He realized her other faults had been merely a diversion from the core of their difficulty, rather like the icing over a rotten cake.

  Perhaps he was being unfair. If she’d had more time, she might have revealed her past during a normal courtship. But he didn’t give her time, couldn’t give her time—he’d had to have her. A coup de foudre. He’d never believed in love at first sight, but it was certainly lust at first sight. Edward had known someone else would propose if he didn’t.

  He should have made her his mistress instead. Well, it wasn’t too late.

  He poked his head out the bedroom door. Hazlett was hovering in the hallway, looking conflicted as well he should. Technically, Caroline might be his employer, but it was Edward who paid his exorbitant salary and padded his pockets besides.

  “I’m not going to kill her,” Edward said dryly. “I don’t suppose you have the key to her dressing room on that chain, do you?”

  Hazlett shuffled his feet and sighed. “I had a hard night, my lord, and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “I’ll give you a pony if you give me the goddamn key.”

  The butler lifted two fuzzy white eyebrows in surprise. Perhaps the key could have come cheaper than twenty-five pounds. “I want your word that you won’t harm her. Mrs. Hazlett and I are very fond of Lady Christie, and that’s a fact. She may appear reckless and gay, and a bit—well, naughty—but she’s a good girl. Warmhearted.”

  “I’m sure she appreciates your loyalty. The key, please.”

  Hazlett stared meaningfully at Edward.

  “I’m good for it. I haven’t any money on me. I left the house in haste,” Edward said, annoyed. When Caroline’s note came, he’d nearly choked on his solitary breakfast and flown out of the house. It was a wonder he was not still in his dressing gown.

  “I’ll take your word as a gentleman about the pony and your promise to treat Lady Christie with care.” Hazlett’s keys jangled as he searched for the right one. “Here it is.”

  Edward grabbed it before the man changed his mind. “Hazlett, why don’t you and Mrs. Hazlett take the rest of the day off? Go for a walk. Take in the sights. The maid Lizzie, too.”

  “It’s raining, my lord. And I’m not sure as we should. Lady Christie might need us.”

  “She won’t. Stay upstairs in your rooms, then. Take a nap. We’ll try not to make too much noise. But under no circumstances are you to interrupt us, no matter if Lady Christie is screaming bloody murder. Especially if Lady Christie is screaming murder. Understood?”

  Two bright red patches stood out on the old butler’s cheeks, but he nodded his head.

  Edward shut the bedroom door with a satisfying click and stalked over to the dressing room. Before he could fit the key to the lock, Caroline flung it open. She had changed into that horrible robe, the one with ugly flowers that looked like splotches of blood. No doubt she thought it might put him off, but he was not so easily deterred. It swirled behind her like a trail of fire as she paced the carpet, her cheeks nearly as crimson as the poppies. Or Hazlett’s.

  “That traitor! I heard every word. Once you finish with me, I’m firing him.”

  “You can’t. He comes with the house. Please lie down. You’re making me addled with your traipsing about.”

  Caroline shot him a withering look, then tore the ribbon at her throat. The robe puddled at her feet and she was singularly, gloriously naked. “To love, honor and obey, isn’t that what I said? Well, I lied.”

  Edward found his voice. “You’ll obey me, at least.”

  “Oh, indeed, it seems I must in order to get rid of you. I’ll be watching the clock, however.” She lay flat on the bed, hands clasped like a virgin martyr in prayer and closed her eyes.

  Edward went to the mantel. A pretty little china clock covered in rosebuds told him he’d been awake almost thirty straight hours. He pitched it against the wall, where it joined the vase shards in porcelain death.

  “Add destruction of property to your other sins,” Caroline said, her eyes still closed.

  Edward examined his hand, wondering what had come over it. “I can see why you do it. It does feel—rather good.”

  “If you enjoy it so much, may I recommend you go downstairs to the kitchen? There’s plenty of crockery there.”

  “Do you remember the night at Christie Park when we went downstairs for the leftover trifle? I took you on the kitchen table as I recall. You got a splinter.”

  Caroline bit her lip, but he watched the flush spread to her chest and the tips of her shell-like ears. Yes, she remembered. He began to systematically remove his clothes, carefully folding them because he had to walk through Mayfair later in daylight . . . unless he stayed until evening . . . which he just might do.

  He wondered why he’d never hit upon this scheme before. Certainly he was furious with her, certainly he wanted to divorce her, but she was right—he was a mortal man, with manly needs, and he still had a wife to assuage them. Thanks to that blackguard Andrew Rossiter she was as skilled as any courtesan. She lived amongst them and there were any number of things she might have added to her repertoire. Why should he deny himself like some tonsured monk? The evil genius of it all stunned him.

  He could visit Jane Street every day if he had a mind to. It was he who’d decreed that silly June 14 agenda, he who’d limited their contact by virtue of his nettlesome pride. She had begged him for another chance. Well, here it was.

  Caroline had removed her nether curls for him, as he preferred once he realized it could be done. Edward took advantage of her smooth white skin by firmly pushing her legs apart and dipping his tongue to part her more yielding flesh. Her bud was ripe, rigid and pink, and he set patiently to taste her. Consume her. He had never done this with Alice, couldn’t imagine his sheltered first wife ever permitting him such liberties. He shoved the thoughts of innocent Alice out of his mind and concentrated on his wicked Caro, who was writhing and mewling with pleasure. Her fingertips skittered through his hair and danced across his shoulders with increasing urgency, and he knew it was time to insert his fingertip. She splintered—like the vase, like the clock—one more broken possession that could not be made whole but could be mended for a little while.

  He quickly sheathed himself within her, reaping the instant benefit of her orgasm. Each wave milked him, drove him deeper. For a woman who was not particularly tall, she stretched and melted like magic around his long body. He felt her everywhere, inside and out. Her eyes were shut, as though she was pretending he was just a dream. Or perhaps another lover, but it didn’t matter at the moment. He would leave no doubt that she was still his. He kissed her hard so she could taste herself, nearly bruising her mouth with his insistence, and she brui
sed him right back, her lips and teeth and tongue frantic, her nails raking the length of his back.

  His heart stuttered as his cock erupted, the breath left his lungs, his throat constricted. He could easily die where he was, and wouldn’t that teach him a lesson? One he couldn’t unlearn. Caroline could kill him without even trying. He gasped and withdrew, rolling off her sweat-satined body, sucking in air in the suddenly close room.

  “Are you done?”

  Edward had to give her credit—now that she’d had her pleasure she sounded bored, as if she had another appointment. He wasn’t fooled for a minute.

  “For now.”

  “I’m hungry, and you’ve sent the servants away,” she said peevishly, struggling to sit up. He hid his smile; it was as if her arms and legs were made of blancmange. He knew just how she felt, weak as a kitten after a tiger’s attack. He couldn’t decide which one of them had been the tiger. Perhaps they’d taken turns.

  “I didn’t have a decent breakfast, you know. The Hazletts and I had our hands full with Neddie. There wasn’t time for the smallest muffin crumb.”

  “I was called away from my breakfast as well, if you recall. I thought my son was dying.”

  Caroline sniffed, tucking a long red curl behind an ear. “Nonsense! I’m sure my letter was not meant to give that impression.”

  “And you claim to be a writer. I assure you your words—what I could read of them—were most alarming, worthy of a Gothic novel. It’s no wonder you’re so popular with the masses.”

  It was clear Caroline didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. She looked on the verge of speech but covered herself with a sheet instead.

  “Why don’t you get dressed and fetch us some provisions, Caro? It’s going to be a long afternoon.”

  “I b-beg your pardon?”

  “You’re hungry. I’m hungry,” he said, all reason. “There must be something in the pantry. Last night’s dessert, perchance? I know we never touched it.”