Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  He encountered an amusingly virginal night rail, which he made quick work of. She gave a pleased little sigh and wrapped herself around him. Her magnificent hair was in two schoolgirl braids—she certainly had not expected to entertain him this evening, and he was touched at her surprising modesty. And equally touched by her ardent, almost thirsty kisses. She tasted of vanilla and wine and smelled like a Spanish summer. She cupped his balls and brought him to her entrance and he slipped in without any hesitation. She was wet but very tight. Heaven. If she was a schoolgirl, he was as randy as a schoolboy and didn’t last long in her pillowing embrace. He’d spend more time tomorrow morning tending to her needs. He was known as a considerate lover, one of the reasons Deborah had agreed to be his mistress. Even his wife had no complaints while they were married.

  Thoroughly spent, he passed a delightful night in his lover’s arms. And when the first rays of sun had the audacity to slip through the shutters, he feasted upon her breast as if it were a banquet of cream and honey. She gave a low groan, but he didn’t think it was in protest. The faint light showed him his mistress was not quite as young as she appeared to be six weeks ago—there were a few silver strands in her unraveling ink-dark braids. No doubt she resorted to artifice and would have corrected this had she known he was coming.

  And speaking of coming, he wanted to seat himself within her again. Last night had been heaven, and now that the empty day was spread before him, the devil in him intended to visit heaven again and again. No, he was not sorry he’d paid the exorbitant price to secure Deborah Fallon’s favors. If last night was any indication of what the woman could do when she was half asleep, he would cheerfully beggar himself. He was a lucky man indeed.

  He licked her nipple to taut, pale pink perfection, wondering idly if he’d get a child on her someday. He’d been fortunate with his mistresses thus far, but he would do his duty by her if she bore his bastard. He was a gentleman, and that’s what gentleman did. Somehow the thought of an infant suckling Deb Fallon’s very tempting breast was unbelievably erotic. She would resemble a naughty Madonna, her black hair cascading down her ivory shoulders.

  By God, she was making him lose his mind. The touch and taste of her was inebriating, clouding his judgment. One didn’t keep a mistress for domesticity. One kept a mistress for sin, the darker the better. And if he knew anything about Deborah Fallon, she would complain loud and long caring for anything that was not her own luscious self. A baby? Proposterous.

  As if she heard his thoughts, she stiffened beneath him. And then she screamed.

  Ear-piercingly. Perhaps she had not recognized him when she awoke. But honestly, who could she be expecting? She was his.

  He looked up at her, suspicious. She gave him a look he’d seen only in battle, when the other side was hopelessly outnumbered, pushed beyond recklessness, and there was nothing left to lose. He hoped very much that she was not sleeping with a French bayonet beneath the mattress.

  “You! You!” she sputtered.

  “Yes, my pet, it is I. I know I gave you no notice, but thank you for your very warm welcome last night. It was worth every minute of the harrowing six weeks we spent apart.” He set back to flicking her nipple again with his tongue.

  She hit him on the head with a fist. “Get off me! This instant! You are much mistaken, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah.”

  Was this some sort of fantasy? Perhaps she liked her love play rough. To be the reluctant virgin, he the barbarian conqueror. Angelique had liked to play highwayman and victim, as he recalled. He was the victim, and a most willing one. He stood, and he delivered.

  “I shall call you anything you like, sweet, but please don’t strike me again. It’s not a bit sporting when I don’t know the rules of your game. But I’m willing to learn.”

  “This is not a game, you stupid man! Oh, I do beg your pardon! But you are under a severe misapprehension, sir.”

  She was scrambling under him quite provocatively. Her skin was on fire for him, blushing most delightfully. And here he had thought La Fallon cool and a little calculating.

  “Hush, my dove.” His lips captured hers and she squeaked. Soon he would make her sigh again. See, she was softening already. Her lips opened and he swept into the warmth. His tongue tangled with hers in a dance as old as time. He was fisting his cock to slide between her smooth thighs when she bit him.

  And drew blood. The taste of iron flooded his mouth. Why, the little she-devil! He chuckled deep in his throat and continued kissing her, showing her exactly who was in control, angling his cock into her so as to rub the top of her sex. After a very halfhearted effort to push him away, she grew as warm and hard as he, shuddering satisfactorily under him as he applied more pressure to her clitoris with his cock and thumb. She kissed him as though they would both die tomorrow, her fingers exploring the bumps on his spine, the slash on his cheek, the cleft of his arse. Fingers that flew everywhere, whereas his never strayed from the pleasurable task at hand.

  He could be patient. Last night had been a hurried affair but rather perfect nonetheless. He remembered the heat of her wet quim sheathing him, drawing him deep. Tempting as it was to sink within again this very instant, he focused instead on the kiss and the inexorable circling. He was good with his hands, even better with his tongue. But if he was any judge, she was close to coming, and any interruption and relocation would not be to either of their benefits. She was incredibly responsive, pure carnality wrapped in a small, plump package. He was unwrapping her, inch by delicious inch.

  He felt her moment of capitulation as she stilled, then burned for him. Heat from her snow-white skin enveloped their bodies in all all-consuming blaze as she held him close. He swallowed up her cry, bore the frantic scoring on his back. Her legs fell apart in blatant invitation. He was not one to miss a cue, and took advantage of her total surrender by gliding home in a single thrust. Her legs laced tight around him, hips rising, heels spurring his every move.

  Just as he remembered. Better than he dreamed. All those weeks away had heightened the anticipation, but nothing in Bay’s experience could match the silk friction of being inside Deborah Fallon. No wonder she was the most sought-after courtesan in the ton. Her reputation didn’t begin to explain her exquisite sexual artistry. She made him feel as if she’d just discovered sin and was making up for lost time, combining innocence and wickedness in the tantalizing twist of her limbs and her lush mouth.

  He lost himself in another desperate kiss. It was so easy to lose himself with her, he might just disappear altogether. Bay reminded himself he had the upper hand—it wouldn’t do to fall victim to the experienced wiles of his mistress. Bad enough he’d spent years in thrall to his wife. Women were all very good for amusement—and God knows he was seriously amused right now, seated in a shivering, shaking, quaking Deborah—but she was just a good fuck. Nothing more. But certainly nothing less.

  He opened his eyes to break the spell, watched as she came apart again, her teeth biting her own lip in a slightly rabbity way and her dark lashes scrunched under questioning brows. Quite endearing, actually, and a sure sign that she had taken her pleasure again. As a gentleman, now he could take his. His balls contracted in undeniable need, his cock plunged on with ferocious insistence. Her tremors bore him in their tide, his mental reservations floating away. He was all body now, all male. All, when it came down to it, cock. There was nothing else of any consequence at the moment. He should, of course, withdraw, but her legs were locked around him and she must know what she was about. It would be a shame to break their unity. Criminal. His seed erupted. He shouted her name and fell on her as if dead.

  The only sounds were their frantic gasps for breath and the ticking of a dreadful little angel with a clock in its porcine belly. Bay realized he’d better move before he squashed the life out of her, but truthfully, he could remain right where he was forever. Her citrusy smell was even stronger now, mixed with the scent of sex and sweat. He inhaled deeply, almost tasting the essence of Deborah Fallon
. If she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.

  “Sir Michael.”

  He rolled off and grinned at her. “My dear Deborah, I think we might dispense with the formalities. I’ve asked you to call me Bay. That is what my friends and relations call me, and we are certainly friends, are we not?”

  “No, Sir Michael, we are not.” She reached for the sheet and tried to stuff it between them. He pulled it away from her easily.

  “Don’t cover yourself. I love looking at you.”

  She glared at him. “But I do not wish to be looked at. If you would just listen to me for a moment—”

  He sighed. He hadn’t counted on her being a talker, and certainly not so stern. Before they’d come to their arrangement, she was playful, flirtatious, like a fluffy black-and-white kitten. But it seemed her claws weren’t retracted now. He hoped she would not be too tiresome. Even if she was the most skilled harlot he’d ever fucked, it would be a dead bore if she lectured him afterward.

  He tried charm. “I am all ears. In fact, my angel, every part of me is at your disposal.”

  “Do not call me angel.” She looked around the room with loathing.

  “What shall I call you then, Deb?”

  “Not Deb! That is what I was trying to tell you when you—when you—took such liberties with my person.”

  She was angry, beet red now, not a good color on her. Not any sort of color a man’s mistress should have. He preferred her translucent white skin, so pale she glowed like a pearl. He’d never heard she had a temper. Vanity, yes. That was understandable. Perhaps a bit of pique when she wanted something and didn’t get it soon enough. Perfection in bed, and that she’d already proven. Deborah Fallon was allegedly a paragon among mistresses. Everybody said so. Could it be she had the entire ton fooled? He was becoming irritated with her and himself at the moment. If he had wanted a shrew in his bed, he would have gotten married again.

  “I was under the impression, madam, that my attentions were not unwelcome. You have accepted my astonishingly large bank draft and lived in my house for the past six weeks. You are wearing the clothes I bought you. Not at present, I grant you, but they hang in your closet. You have my grandmother’s necklace and my good faith. Are you telling me you wish to renegotiate our agreement?”

  “That is what I’m trying to tell you, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah Fallon. Deborah is my sister, and if I see her again I am very likely to strangle her on the spot.”

  “Rubbish. What kind of ruse is this?” Bay stared hard at her. She was Deborah Fallon, in his bed, well-fucked, his marks on her lush body, hers on his. The glossy hair, the blue eyes, the tits—he’d pursued the woman for months. Surely he could tell whom he was shagging. He watched as she stumbled out of bed and opened up the armoire. There was very little to choose from. Where the hell had all the gowns he’d ordered from Madame Duclos gone to? She reached for an ugly gray velvet robe, belted it tightly, and turned to him. Her braids lay like sentinels over her bosom daring any man to touch.

  “My name is Charlotte. Deborah is my younger sister. I’m sorry to inform you she has eloped with Mr. Arthur Bannister. Perhaps you know him? Running to fat? Gormless? But recently he has come into some money, a house in Kent, and is stupid enough to want to marry her. She got me here under completely, completely false pretenses,” she muttered. “I was meant to tell you what she had done and smooth your ruffled feathers. I suppose I have gone over and above my duty in that regard.” She raised her chin, a rather charming chin with just the tiniest dimple. Deborah had no dimple there that he could recall.

  He heard the unmistakable ring of truth in her voice. Good God. He had practically raped a stranger.

  No, not raped. She had been willing. Twice. And this Charlotte so resembled her sister they could be twins. Bay shoved the enticing thought of the two of them in his bed out of his mind at once. He opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming.

  She raised a white hand, a hand that not long ago had scored his back, sifted through his hair, caressed his stones. “Do not apologize for this morning. And I suppose last night. That wasn’t a dream after all, was it?” she asked rhetorically. “We are both at fault. But in my opinion you are well rid of any association with my sister. She is not—thoughtful.”

  Bay barked out a laugh. The absurdity of the past few hours would not be duplicated if he lived to be his grandmother’s age. “Nevertheless, I do apologize, Miss Fallon. It is Miss Fallon, isn’t it?”

  Charlotte nodded, looking acutely uncomfortable. Bay frowned. “Forgive me for being so blunt. But you were not a virgin, were you? I would hate to think that this—this mistake resulted in your losing your innocence.”

  She stood very straight, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “My innocence was lost long ago, Sir Michael. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to wash and dress and make arrangements to return to my home.”

  “Of course. Allow me to assist you in any way possible.” He reached for his discarded trousers. “I presume your sister made off with the clothes I bought her.”

  “She may have,” Charlotte said evasively.

  “What about the necklace?”

  Charlotte went to the dressing table and picked up something glittery. She held it to the sunlight which was now slanting brightly through the shutters. “I should have known.” She turned to him. “I’m afraid this is paste, Sir Michael. And the workmanship is inferior at that. I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”

  “What?” He strode across the floor in two steps and ripped it out of her hand. “No, not this bit of trumpery. The ruby and diamond collar. With a large pigeon’s blood ruby drop at the center.”

  Charlotte bit her lip, reminding him of earlier. But the woman who had been so responsive—so hot beneath him—had disappeared behind a gray shroud. “I—I don’t know. She packed several jewel bags, but surely she wouldn’t take a family heir-loom.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t she,” he said, grim. He began to pull open drawers. Empty, every one of them, save for one torn stocking, a packet of pins, a broken fan, and all the romantic letters he’d written to Deborah Fallon the past six weeks, ass that he was. “I’ll be damned. Where else could she have put it? It’s very valuable.”

  “Perhaps she hid it. To keep it safe.” Charlotte was worrying the end of one of her braids. Unbidden, the image of it flowing down her back distracted him from his anger. Bay subdued the urge to grab a hairbrush and release all of that black silk.

  Threaded with a bit of silver. Deborah Fallon wouldn’t allow such impudence to take root on her head. What a fool he had been this morning. Ass. Ass. Ass.

  “If you wouldn’t mind delaying your departure, Miss Fallon, I’d appreciate your help finding my grandmother’s necklace.”

  She looked frightened now. “What if it’s not here?” she whispered.

  No one could possibly believe La Fallon could prefer Arthur Bannister over him even if gormless Arthur had inherited a moldy old estate in Kent. Deborah would never be satisfied with so little. Unless Deborah Fallon was going to supplement their income with the sale of practically priceless rubies.

  But everything had its price.

  Damn it. The little witch knew her sister had stolen it. She had probably packed it in the valise herself. They were in it together, fleecing him, scheming to switch places, making him a laughingstock. Charlotte had been accomplished in her ardor. Virtually acrobatic. She was as much a whore as her sister.

  He loomed over her. “Well, then, I suppose you’ll have to stay until it’s found.”

  Her succulent lips opened. He’d put them to good use later. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. It seems the position of my mistress is currently vacant. You’ll do in a pinch. Perhaps your sister will save you by returning my property. I’ll have you prosecuted for theft and fraud if she doesn’t.”

  Bay watched her fall to the carpet. How trite. She was a good little actress, he’d give her that. But the Fallon sisters und
erestimated him if they thought they could get away with this charade. He’d been burned once and still bore the scars.

  Chapter 2

  Charlotte stared at the ceiling. There were painted cherubs up there too, cavorting with something that looked very much like Satan in a white fur coat. She blinked and saw she had mistaken a cloud for the Prince of Darkness. She touched the back of her head and felt the lump forming. Mama had tried to teach her daughters the graceful art of fainting. Deborah had taken to the lessons like a duck to water, but Charlotte had discovered an actual blackout could not be choreographed. She had only ever fainted twice in her life and both times had cracked her skull.

  She struggled to sit up. No, she was still mistaken. Satan was indeed here, minus the fur coat. In fact, Sir Michael Xavier Bayard was wearing nothing but a pair of buff trousers, his chest rather magnificent with a faint dusting of coppery hair. His arms were corded with muscles, his feet long and bootless, his smile terrifying. His eyes were as dark as the pit of Hell and trapped her in place. On the floor, on her sore bottom, with her old robe splayed open to reveal every inch of her legs and worse. She clutched the fabric shut. Too late. He’d seen it all before anyway. Those very legs had been wrapped around him in ecstasy not half an hour ago.

  Oh. She was just as bad as Deborah. Worse. At least Deborah had some business sense before she entwined her limbs around a man. Sir Michael and the others had paid her a fortune over the years for the exclusive right to her body. Deb had once explained to an unwilling Charlotte that men didn’t value what was free. She insisted on an outrageous sum at the beginning of each relationship, a generous monthly allowance, and, of course, shelter, victuals, clothing, jewels, and anything else she was able to inveigle. Both upstairs rooms in Charlotte’s tiny cottage were crammed with the overflow of Deb’s gentlemen’s largesse. There were trunks full of clothes not a year out of season when they were stored, some of them never worn. Mother-of-pearl opera glasses, and Deb hated opera. Four full sets of bone china for twelve. A grotesque sterling silver epergne. Even a stuffed parrot, its brilliant feathers fading. If Charlotte sold every feather and bit of frippery, it would serve Deb right for landing her in such a pickle.