Chapter 19
Bay’s carriage rolled through the drive, the open fields of tall grass on either side flattened by the brisk wind. Ahead was a large stone manor house overlooking a gray-green sea. Storm clouds hung low on the horizon, promising to continue the bad weather that had followed them all the way from Little Hyssop. A few stunted black trees sprung up here and there along the lane, but mostly the green of the ground met the sky and the ocean as far as the eye could see. Charlotte took a deep breath, devouring the smell of salt air and rain. She was home for the first time in a decade, not all that far from the beach she played on as a child. Bay had promised her sailing and swimming, as well as days and nights of his masterful loving.
No, not loving. She mustn’t be foolish. Mustn’t make more of their mutual lust. And lust it was. It was as if she had shredded every admonition her poor mother had ever given her. “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.” So many sentences her mama uttered began with those words, or “a lady never…” A lady would never give her body to Bay with heedless abandon in coaching houses and carriage rides. A lady would never rest on a pillow on her knees as she took her lover’s member in her mouth. A lady would never feel jubilant as she cradled and suckled him to lose all control. A lady would not crave the taste of his enslavement. Charlotte was ashamed of her easy acceptance of every vice. But how essential it was to be led astray when Bay was doing the leading.
She had meant to say “don’t.” She had meant to say “no.” Instead she had watched in a languorous stupor as Bay packed her belongings in a valise by candlelight. He carried it off before the Pig and Whistle locked its doors, with precise instructions to meet him the following day. He had obviously never doubted for a minute that he could convince her to join him, the devil. She found herself on Mr. Trumbull’s doorstep the next morning, stammering that she had been summoned back to London again to see her sister. She rode the mail coach three towns over before Bay met her in the courtyard of the Grasshopper Inn. Even though she knew not a soul, she was as veiled as a freshly made widow. Bay had tossed that veil and the cap under it out of the window of his coach almost immediately. When she delved into her case when they stopped at the first of several inns on the journey to the coast, she had been irritated to discover that he had somehow misplaced all her other caps. But he had purchased her a lovely straw bonnet, telling her the blue ribbons were an exact match for her eyes, so she was on her way to forgiving him.
He had been restless the past hour, shifting in his seat as the driver bumped along a winding path along the cliffs, almost as if he were as nervous as she was. He had spoken about his house with pride, and she could see he had every reason. She counted numerous gables and chimneys on the Jacobean façade, noted the many-paned mullioned windows. A high stone wall covered in ivy and climbing roses sheltered his grandmother’s garden at the east end of the house. Somewhere in his luggage were Mr. Trumbull’s cuttings. Bay had been most particular wrapping the stems in wet cotton batting at each stop.
They had not passed another dwelling for some time, driving down a spit of land surrounded by the sea. Bay had hopped down from his dry perch, braving the weather to unlock the gates at the end of the drive. The carriage pushed forward a few meters, then Bay locked them back up “to discourage the random visitor,” he said. Somehow Charlotte felt trapped, not that she wanted to risk her reputation and venture off the estate. There had been a village a mile or so back much like the one in which she had grown up, the Smugglers’ Rest Pub proclaiming the previous pastime of some of the citizenry. Now that the wars were over, most free traders were forced to earn an honest living, depleting the little community. Bay had given Charlotte a very brief history of his section of the Dorset coast during their trip.
As a boy, Bay had a fascination for the local smugsmiths, which his grandmother had firmly squelched. His house itself had once been owned by a prominent family who had dabbled in the trade over the centuries. He’d watched the lights on the water for hours from his bedroom with his grandfather’s spyglass. Things were now staid and settled, although there was still some remarkably good brandy in his cellars. He’d promised Charlotte a large tot of it once their feet were on the flagstone floors of Bayard Court.
The short journey had not agreed with her. She’d been queasy off and on for days. The roads were rutted and muddy, and the inclement weather had not helped, necessitating the closure of the carriage windows. She was trapped in the still air of Bay’s carriage, although the scent of him—starched linen and vetiver and sex—was very pleasant. Charlotte had seen the sun shine for just one day in two weeks, and she had spent part of that day in Bay’s arms with the curtains closed.
Her garden would be a shambles when she returned. Before she left Little Hyssop, she had pressed some money in Mr. Trumbull’s arthritic hand, asking him to hire one or two of the local boys to work in both their gardens for the next month. The produce from her vegetable patch and fruit trees was to go to the poor. Richer by six thousand pounds, she could order hampers from Fortnum & Mason to fill her belly for the rest of her life.
Six thousand pounds for thirty days. Two hundred pounds per day. The sum was inconceivable, but Bay had assured her he wouldn’t miss a single sovereign. Judging from his house, he was ridiculously rich. She wondered why he had gone into the army. As a baronet and only son, surely he could have stayed home and left the fighting to others.
And then she remembered Anne and his illegal marriage. Bay had gone off to get himself killed. Charlotte shivered. She hoped that woman was far away, her schemes for Bay thwarted by his loyal retainers.
Charlotte and Bay dashed from the carriage under an umbrella provided by a windblown Mr. Frazier. Mrs. Kelly beamed a welcome to them in the wide flagstone foyer. Evidently Charlotte had been forgiven for her earlier behavior and was now in the housekeeper’s good books. Making his excuses, Bay disappeared with Mr. Frazier almost immediately, leaving Charlotte to tour the house without him.
If Jane Street had been lovely, Bay’s true home was one hundred times more impressive. Intricate Jacobean oak paneling lined the walls. There was no evidence of Bay’s art collection downstairs; assuredly it would have shocked his elderly grandmother. Mrs. Kelly said many of the rooms in the house were still shut up, had been so even when Lady Bayard was still alive, but everything Charlotte inspected was mellow, tasteful, shining, dust-free. Bay’s little staff had been busy getting the house ready for what Charlotte was beginning to think of as the only honeymoon she would ever have. Instead of vows and a wedding ring, she would leave Bayard Court with the promise of economic independence and a priceless ruby necklace, which Bay had stubbornly insisted she keep. It was beneath her high-collared gray frock right now. The jewels were all he permitted her to wear at night in the modest inns they stopped at on the road. His letter had come to life at last with the wrong sister, but everything he had suggested became better than promised.
Charlotte was grateful most of the house was under Holland covers, as she did not think she’d get her bearings if she had to navigate through all of it. Mrs. Kelly was a bit breathless just from showing her the parlors, dining room, morning room, breakfast room, well-stocked library, and conservatory, an exquisite glass extension that overlooked the walled garden and the pewter sea. The conservatory was empty now of greenery, and rain tapped incessantly on the panes. Charlotte could imagine frost and snow on the window while tropical plants reached for the ceiling, but Bay’s grandmother had cut back on her hobby long ago.
Charlotte was winded herself when she entered her designated bedchamber. She was glad Mrs. Kelly and Irene had not put her in Lady Bayard’s bedroom, which still bore evidence of being a sickroom. Instead she followed Mrs. Kelly a good ways down the hall.
“We’ve put you right next to Sir Michael. He never moved into his grandfather’s room when he inherited, of course. He didn’t want to disturb his old gran.”
“Perhaps he will when he marries again,” Charlotte said softly.
Mrs. Kelly looked at her with some sympathy. The door to Bay’s suite stood open. The room, papered in a dark blue, was unmistakably masculine. Charlotte couldn’t restrain her curiosity and stepped in. A massive bed faced the leaded windows that overlooked the sea. Charlotte had an immediate image of lying on it, the blue brocade curtains concealing all the wicked things that Bay would do to her.
“This was his boyhood room. Mr. Frazier told me his grandmother had it redecorated after he came back from the war.”
Charlotte gazed through the wavy glass. “Bay told me he used to watch for smugglers.”
“Very likely. They were active on this part of the coast. My sister used to send me lace when she could get hold of it.”
“I make lace, Mrs. Kelly. Perhaps I’ll have time to make you some.” She had purposefully brought her equipment with her this time. She hated to be idle.
“Well! That would be lovely. I’d never say no to a bit of lace. If you’re ready?”
Charlotte would have ample opportunity to snoop into Bay’s things later. She followed Mrs. Kelly down three steps into another wing.
He had the bigger bed, but her view was just as perfect. Drawn to the window, she plunked down on the cushioned window seat to watch the whitecaps dance rhythmically beyond the lawn. Charlotte thought she might be perfectly content staring at the water all the rest of the day.
Mrs. Kelly broke the spell. “Is there anything you need, Miss Fallon?”
Charlotte shook her head. She’d examine her new room more thoroughly later. Now all she wanted to do was revel in the luxury of being in Dorset again.
Irene had already unpacked her meager belongings. Mrs. Kelly encouraged Charlotte to rest and come downstairs for tea with the master in an hour. Too excited to sleep, she washed and changed from her traveling clothes without ringing for Irene. The maid was a lovely girl, but it had been so very long ago since Charlotte and Deb had shared a maid that she was quite used to doing for herself. She sewed her own simple clothes so that she could get in and out of them without too much difficulty.
She was in a fresh gray dress, her head feeling unnaturally naked without the comfort of one of her little spinster’s caps. Of course, her neighbors in Little Hyssop thought she wore a widow’s cap. She really would feel like a widow once Bay was finished with her. There were thirty days left to enjoy her pretend marriage.
Charlotte sighed. What she had with Bay right now was better than most marriages. People in the ton married for property and consequence. For titles and wealth. If one could endure being covered by one’s husband once a week without too much revulsion, one could consider oneself lucky. Charlotte, on the other hand, could not wait to ditch her gray dress and tumble with Bay in his massive bed. She was fascinated by his conversation, loved studying his male beauty as he spoke. She could understand why Anne was so determined to have him again. Bay was the type of man one could not ever forget.
But forget him she must when she went back to reality and her little cottage.
Heavens. She could now afford something on a slightly grander scale. A house with a bigger garden. Her own conservatory, where she could make her lace in warmth and brilliant sunshine surrounded by the blooming plants she loved. She might even be forced to move from Little Hyssop if certain circumstances arose. Bay had promised to help her with investing her nest egg so that she could increase her new-found wealth.
But a financial bubble could burst, and then she’d be as badly off as her parents had been. She must be as careful and conservative with her treasure and heart as she’d been this past decade. Except for the next thirty days.
Charlotte removed the ruby necklace and wrapped it carefully in a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Leaving her room, she wished she had a trail of Hansel and Gretel crumbs to follow downstairs. After a few wrong turns, she bumped into Mrs. Kelly, who was wheeling a loaded tea trolley into one of the downstairs reception rooms. A fire burned in the grate to ward off the damp of the cavernous room. Bay was already seated in one of a pair of wing chairs in an alcove. The uncurtained French windows led out to the clipped lawn and the beach. Raindrops slid down the panes, but Bay’s smile was as sunny as it could be. He rose and kissed her hand.
“I trust you’ve settled in and everything meets with your approval?”
“Yes, of course.” She had nothing to complain about so far, except for the wretched weather, and there was nothing Bay could do about that. “Mrs. Kelly, thank you. This looks delightful. I’ll take care of serving.” Mrs. Kelly had even included a cut-glass bowl of raspberries, although Charlotte was not about to put them to their previous use. Truthfully, she wasn’t hungry at all, but she busied herself pouring tea for them both and pushing a full plate toward Bay.
“Sorry I left you in the lurch earlier and disappeared. I had some business with Frazier.” Bay wolfed down a sandwich and grabbed another as though they hadn’t shared a breakfast and a substantial luncheon already today.
“And how is Mr. Frazier? As feisty as ever?”
Bay grinned. “I believe he’s a bit bored after all the recent excitement.”
“I cannot say the same. I am looking forward to a quiet sojourn in the country. Your home is lovely, by the way.” She took a tiny bite of muffin for politeness’s sake.
“All my grandmother’s doing. This was her favorite spot in the afternoon. On a fine day the view is spectacular.” He scooped a spoonful of berries onto his dish and raised a naughty eyebrow at her. Charlotte ignored him.
“I can imagine. Even now it’s rather majestic.” The wind whipped at the shrubbery and the waves frothed white.
“I like a good storm myself. Maybe that’s why I like you.” He winked at her impudently.
“I’ll have you know until I met you I was most temperate. You are excessively provoking.” She watched him swallow a mouthful of berries, enjoying them far too much. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. It was stained bright pink. Charlotte thought of that tongue tasting her.
“So I have been told. Come sit on my lap, Charlie. I’d like to provoke you right this minute.”
Charlotte felt her blush wash over her. She supposed she must do as he asked. He was paying her more than enough. She slipped from her chair to his. His hand reached under her gown. Besides her caps, he had failed to pack any drawers. He was an absolute fiend.
“Ah,” he sighed happily, finding her shamefully accessible. He set to strumming the center of her womanhood. She leaned back onto his shoulder, her eyes closed. There was nothing but his hands and her body. He held her still with one hand. With the other he made her loose, free. Unraveled. She was soon as wet as the windowpane, weeping onto his fingers. Wanting much more.
Half of her wondered if Mrs. Kelly would return for the tea cart; the other half was quivering under his concerted stroking. She was on the cusp of danger and delight. He held her in an iron grip as if he was afraid she’d run off. Impossible. She’d be mad to forgo this sensual abandonment. That would happen all too soon, and she’d be back in her little cottage, lonely and rich. Unhappy. Untouched.
Charlotte knew happiness was an illusion, but she’d settle for touch. She needed Bay’s touch. Everywhere. Right now. She began by kissing the raspberry essence from his mouth. His lips were firm, his tongue wicked. It twinned with his fingers to subdue her worries and lull her into bliss. Just when she thought things could not be more perfect, he edged her over the cliff, catching her as she fell apart in his arms.
Her eyes were still closed as he shifted her and fumbled with his falls, keeping her reality in check. His shaft was adamantine against her bare buttocks. His broad hands raised her hips. She steadied herself on the arms of the chair as he gripped himself and filled her from behind. She sheathed him easily, feeling every glorious pulsing inch of him inside her. They both stilled, Bay’s breath hitching in blissful agony.
And then she took control. She pushed herself up on the arms of the chair. Came down hard. He was buried deeper than ever, touching her
in places previously forbidden. Exquisite sensation washed over them both, like the driving rain outdoors.
Touching. So basic. So elemental. So cleansing for the soul, so affirming that one was not truly alone in the universe. Charlotte felt each prickle of coppery hair on her skin, each imprint of his fingertips, each ragged breath against the back of her neck.
She nearly swooned with the glory of it, but she knew better. She was a very bad swooner, although this time she thought Bay might keep her safe in his arms. They were around her now, helping her to rise and fall, repeating the rhythm again and again until she thought she’d die of his touch, both inside and out. As he lost himself, his hand sought her center again. She joined him a jolt of breathless union, as fierce as the waves outside slapped against the rocks.
His hand splayed on her belly in ownership. Too sated to move, she leaned back against his heaving chest. His lips were at her neck, her ear, whispering words she couldn’t make sense of. She couldn’t make sense of anything. The man drove her completely mad. They had taken no precautions—again. Charlotte was playing a dangerous game, one she suspected she might have already lost.
She couldn’t tell him. Wouldn’t tell him that more than likely a few weeks ago—perhaps that very first night—they had made a new life. It was too soon to tell, but she was almost certain. Her courses had not come. Even if she had been off balance what with the kidnapping and gunplay, her body should have righted itself by now.
She could not think of any child as a mistake, for she had longed for motherhood even as she pushed away the few suitors she’d had over the years. Of course it meant she’d have to sell her cottage and move again, go to a new part of the country, this time as a widow bearing her late husband’s child. She’d had years of experience playacting, although she did not look forward to trading her gray dresses for black ones again. It couldn’t be helped.
There would be sufficient funds, and Lord knows she had sufficient love within her to raise a baby. She knew if she asked him, Bay would do right by his son or daughter, but the thought of tethering herself to him as a dependent for the next twenty years pierced her soul. He needed to marry some sweet young thing and have a normal life. She couldn’t stand by in the shadows and watch that. She needed to disappear.
Mistress By Mistake Page 20
