Mistress By Mistake

by Maggie Robinson

  “I’m so fat!” she cried.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You are perfect. Womanly.”

  Bay sounded offended, and Charlotte hurried, “I’m not criticizing your work. It’s beautiful. Beyond beautiful. I just—I just didn’t know I looked quite like this.”

  She didn’t only look fat. She looked sinful. Her eyes were not quite open, and she had a cat-that-swallowed-a-canary smile. So smugly satisfied, as though she had just been plowed very thoroughly by the sultan, who was obviously a magnificent lover. Possibly the best lover in all of Dorset. Or rather, in the Ottoman Empire. “It—it’s lovely. Very flattering.”

  Bay took it from her. “You don’t like it.”

  “I do! It’s marvelous, really. The detail is exceptional. It’s just—this woman looks so wicked.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow. Charlotte blathered on. “I’m dull. Boring. Not a bit wicked. And surely my breasts are not quite so large.”

  Bay gazed down at the portrait and then at her chest. “Oh, I don’t know. I think I was fairly accurate. But shall I try again?”

  Charlotte knew she was blushing to the roots of her hair. She wished she could plead a headache to end this art experiment. Or hunger. But after the enormous breakfast she’d eaten, Bay would never believe it. She’s risen from their bed, starving for a change. She soon would be even fatter than she was if she didn’t push away from Mrs. Kelly’s table.

  “I want some drapery this time.” She knew she sounded petulant, but couldn’t help it. It was not natural to lie about naked in the middle of the day, a man smirking as he immortalized you.

  “All right. Get yourself settled.”

  Charlotte padded barefoot to the sofa. She wrapped the curtain around her like a shroud and lay down.

  “No and no and no.” Bay tugged and pulled until her breasts sprang free and half her belly was exposed. He propped her cheek up on a curled fist, tucked some pillows under her elbow, and fiddled with her hair. “Better. As you didn’t care for the sultan story, you choose. Tell me who you are now.”

  “I’m Charlotte,” she said, gritting her teeth. Her knuckles bit into her jaw.

  “What, that dull, boring woman?”

  “Don’t be so vexing. I can’t talk if my hand is to stay still.” She stared out through the gray rain at the gray sky and the gray sea.

  “Very well. You’ll have to trust me on the next fantasy.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the fleet movement of Bay’s hand as he propped the sketchbook on his knees.

  “You are—you are a woman waiting for your man to return home from the sea. He’s been gone a very long time. So long you’re not certain he’ll ever come back. There are some mornings when you awaken that you’re too lonely to get out of bed.”

  Charlotte knew all too well what that felt like. The week before Bay turned up in church had been difficult.

  “You’ve kept all his letters and read them when you’re blue-deviled.” She turned sharply to look at him, but Bay was absorbed in his work and didn’t notice.

  “Is he a sea captain?”

  “A pirate, actually. Quite an infamous one.”

  “With a woman in every port, I imagine,” Charlotte said dryly.

  “Oh, no. he’s quite devoted to you—a puritanical pirate, if you will. That ruby necklace—it was part of some buried treasure on a tropical island. He couldn’t wait to sail home and give it to you.”

  “Where is he now? Drinking rum in the shade?”

  “He’s lost in a storm. The mast is broken and the sails torn asunder. He may never get back home.”

  “Oh, you are horrid! That’s a terrible story!” She sat up and covered herself with the curtain. Bay joined her on the couch.

  “Exactly. Perhaps you’ll approve of this version of you.”

  This Charlotte no longer looked sated, but unbearably sad, searching out a window for her missing pirate’s ship. There was much less of her on display, yet she was still embarrassingly lush.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a sin you ever gave up your art. You are disgustingly talented.”

  “Why, thank you, I think. I’m not sure about the disgusting part.” He ran smudged fingers through his hair. “Damn, but I need my hair trimmed. I wonder if I can get Frazier away from—is it Kitty or Mary?”

  “Kitty. I could cut your hair.” Although shearing off those incipient curls would be a shame.

  “Aha! A Delilah in my house! Not a chance. I take my manhood seriously. I don’t want to tempt you with sharp scissors.”

  “I would never hurt you—now,” Charlotte said. She had learned her lesson the hard way. She would remember her poor mama’s advice and count to ten before she lost her temper again.

  “That’s delightful to hear. Perhaps you should dress before luncheon. Here, let me help you.”

  He unwound the curtain from her body as if he were unwrapping a present, then looked toward the pile of clothes that Charlotte had neatly folded. “No,” he said quietly. “Perhaps not quite yet.”

  He tipped her backward on the couch again, this time arranging her not for posterity but for pleasure. As was his wont, his mouth and fingers brought her to completion before he entered her with a patience she could only wonder at. She’d lost all control some time ago in the arms of her sultan-pirate. She now combined the desperate longing of the wistful wife with the sexual artistry of the houri, pressing herself against his hot, hard body, her legs locked around him, stretching and constricting her muscles until his seed spilled deep within her. There was nothing in the world but the two of them, their breaths ragged, their skin damp and fragrant. Charlotte blessed the cursed weather for keeping them indoors. She would never enjoy a rainstorm like this so well again.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Bay whispered.

  “Silly.” She ruffled his hair. “You cannot have the first idea.”

  “You are very happy you came back to Dorset.”

  “True, I am, but that was not foremost in my thoughts.”

  He pulled her even closer. “Tell me then.”

  Charlotte felt an irrepressible urge to laugh. “Don’t be insulted, Bay, but I was thinking about the weather. I am a dull, boring Englishwoman, after all.”

  Chapter 21

  It rained for over a week, days and days of damp, leaden skies and roiling ocean. Bay’s hand became surer wielding his charcoal. He expanded to India ink and watercolors, sending to London for a fresh set of paints. He’d never be a master with oil paint, but he was determined to improve while he had such a radiant subject. Charlie had learned to relax, and their fantasies had expanded far beyond pirates and sultans. Each session ended with a satisfying foray in the art of love. Almost half of his time with Charlie was up, and he was missing her already.

  But one morning a brilliant ray of sunshine pierced the cocoon of his bed hangings, and he pushed them aside. His bedroom was bathed in light so bright, Bay thought he’d be struck blind. In her sleep, Charlie turned from the glare with a little groan, exposing the length of her white back to him. He pulled the covers from her buttocks and was inspired to sketch her from this angle. She was as compelling as any odalisque he’s seen in a museum, her jet hair ribboned across the pillows. He slipped from the bed to get his pad, then returned to draw her sweet curves.

  She was beautifully fleshy. He pictured her buoyant in the sea like a mermaid, playful, teasing. Perhaps today they would have their picnic on the beach. There didn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky.

  If he counted correctly, there would be a full moon tonight. Even better to make love to her under its pearly glow, listening to the lap of each wave as they rode to their bliss together. He stiffened automatically and knew he couldn’t wait for this afternoon or this evening to take her.

  He cast the pad aside and returned to the bed. What position suited him this morning? He and Charlie had been creative exploring the house and each other. He decided to spoon a
gainst her, his cock bobbing against her lovely arse. He reached over her soft belly and buried his fingers in her nether curls, stroking her awake. She gasped and thrust back snugly as though she had been dreaming of just such a thing. He guided himself in with his other hand, interlocking the pieces of their sensual puzzle until her wet and heat surrounded him. Inflamed him. Completed him.

  “Good morning,” he whispered, and then made it so.

  He kissed her shoulder, a poor substitute for her mouth, but he knew this position gave him easy access to her breasts and her clitoris. He cupped one full breast and circled the nipple, peaking it to perfection. She always came so alive in his hands. It was not so much his skill but her life force, long buried beneath gray dresses and linen caps. Charlie was meant for lust, even more so than her famous sister. Meant for love.

  Now, where did that thought come from? His cock surged in possession. She was his absolutely. At least for now. Every smooth white surface, every curly dark hair. He smiled against her back. Even the silver ones. Her innocent blue eyes, her knowing mouth. Her small, work-worn hand, now pressing his as he rolled her clit between his fingers.

  “Oh! I cannot bear much more. Please, Bay!”

  “Please what?” He couldn’t bear much more either, but couldn’t bear the thought of stopping. Of withdrawing from her tight perfection. Never had any woman made him feel this way. Transcendent. Capable of nearly anything.

  She uttered something, but it was more a growl than a word. Then her core shook him to his own, marking him. Making him lose control. His seed spilled inside her, as it so often did. He’d long since stopped worrying about consequences. He’d take care of her. Always, if he could.

  When they were at last finished with each other for the time being, Charlotte squinted into the shafts of sunlight. “Can it possibly be? Is the sun really shining, or have you brought me to heaven?”

  “Both,” Bay chuckled. “As you have brought me.” He kissed her mouth, tasting sleep and satisfaction. “And we should make the most of it before the clouds roll back in. Breakfast in bed first, though, I should think.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I’m not at all hungry. Some tea perhaps. I think I could manage that.”

  Bay raised himself up on one elbow. Now that he could see her face, she did look pale. “Are you ill?”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine. Mrs. Kelly’s been spoiling me rotten with her cooking. I’ve overindulged, that’s all.”

  “Charlie, I’ve told you a hundred times I love your body. And shown you, too. You’ll not be so foolish to go without eating. I won’t permit it.”

  “Really, you sound very bossy this morning, Major Sir Michael. I’m not one of your soldiers to be ordered about.” She sat up quickly, and just as quickly dropped back into the pillows.

  “Charlie! What is it?”

  “A dizzy spell. It will pass.”

  “This is what come of going without food, you ninny,” Bay thundered. “I’ll go downstairs and bring up a tray myself, and you’ll eat every bit.”

  He belted his robe and left the room. Charlotte scrambled out of bed and made it to the chamber pot just in time, then collapsed on the floor. “Blast.” She felt too weak to pick up the pot and toss the evidence out the window, but she must before Bay returned. Staggering to the window, she heaved the mess onto the bushes below, gulping the fresh sea air. Sunlight sparkled on the water like a convocation of fireflies. She had to close her eyes.

  There would be a baby. She had no doubt of it now. She was queasy at the thought of food, and not just at breakfast time. Her breasts were so swollen she struggled to lace them flat enough to fit into her gowns. Charlotte had spent years as Little Hyssop’s helpful neighbor and was well aware of the symptoms of pregnancy. Bay might notice, too. As her sister Deborah once said, Bay was a noticing sort of fellow.

  What would he do if he discovered her secret? She need only get through the next two weeks before she never had to see him again.

  Which would tear her heart in two, for she loved him so.

  She hadn’t wanted to. For all his naughty, teasing barbs, he was the finest man she had ever met. He was thoughtful, and deeper than the rakish dilettante she first supposed him to be. Charlotte alternately cursed and thanked Deb for tricking her and running off with Arthur. How much easier her life would be if she’d never felt Bay’s wicked kiss that morning on Jane Street.

  She threw open all the bedroom windows to air out the room, then turned her attention to her own appearance. The pier glass on the wall told a grim tale. Charlotte splashed some water on her face, pinched her cheeks for color, and borrowed Bay’s tooth powder to get the revolting taste out of her mouth. Before she put on her dressing gown, she turned to the side and examined her reflection. Her stomach, never flat to start with, seemed a little rounder. But perhaps she was just imagining things.

  Hearing the rattle of the breakfast dishes, she sat down at the round table tucked into the corner of Bay’s bedroom. She was not going to wind up in bed again, covered with jam and crumbs and clotted cream while Bay feasted.

  “Here we go.” The tray was heavy with covered dishes and condiments. Charlotte felt her stomach flip but willed the sensation away. Bay poured her a cup of tea and began to drop a sugar lump into it. He knew her sweet tooth, but today she wanted bitter, black, and harsh.

  “No sugar this morning, please. I told you my stomach is not quite settled from all the rich food last night.” She pretended to take a sip. “Ah, isn’t the day just beautiful?”

  “The wind is brisk, a perfect day for a sail. I say, Charlie, our breakfast will blow away with all these windows open. Do you mind if I close some?”

  “I’ll do it.” She leaped up to shut the window that overlooked the vomit-covered bushes, praying for more rain to wash away the stain. She was not at all sure her stomach was ready for a day spent in a boat, pitching and rolling about.

  She came back to a plate loaded with ham, toast, and eggs and began to mince everything into miniscule pieces. “Do you really want to go out on the water? I haven’t been on a boat since my parents died.”

  Bay looked stricken. Oh, she was evil, using such an excuse. If she did get ill, she could always chalk it up to plain seasickness.

  “Not if you don’t want to. I’m sorry, Charlie, I didn’t think.”

  “Perhaps not today. But a walk along the beach would be lovely.” She forked a tiny square of eggy toast into her mouth and chewed determinedly.

  “That might put the roses back into your cheeks.”

  He was looking at her with speculative intensity. He was a noticing sort of man. She forced a smile. “If you didn’t keep me up all hours of the night, you randy devil, I suppose I might look like less of a hag. A woman my age needs her beauty sleep, you know.”

  “I didn’t hear any objection to my attentions, my dear. And I know from experience when you are not pleased, your wicked tongue can lacerate. All I can remember of last night’s conversation was ‘Please, please’ and ‘Oh, yes’ and ‘Oh, God.’” He slathered butter on a muffin and crunched away, looking pleased with himself.

  “See? I must have been half-asleep if I confused you with the Lord.”

  Bay looked up at the coffered ceiling. “I’m waiting for lightning to strike.”

  “Not today.” She took a deep breath of fresh air, reveling in the salty scent. “You must want to visit with your tenants now that it’s not so grim.”

  Bay put his napkin down. His plate was clean, whereas she had barely touched a thing. “You know, I may just do that. You won’t mind being alone for a few hours?”

  “I welcome a respite from your wicked ways. I shall loll about like a lady of leisure.”

  “Good. You might do so in my grandmother’s garden. Feel free to make any improvements. I expect to be inundated with bouquets when I return. I imagine it’s a bit overgrown since I left.”

  “As my garden at home must be.”

  He got up and chucked her under he
r chin. “You sound wistful. Homesick. Have I bored you?”

  “Don’t be silly. You could never be boring.” How she would miss him when she left. And how she would miss her cozy little cottage. The Widow Fallon could not stay in Little Hyssop and produce a child in seven months’ time.

  “We’ll have a romantic picnic supper on the beach. Watch the sun set. How does that sound?”

  Charlotte agreed that sounded like a perfect way to end the day. She watched as Bay moved efficiently around the room, his military bearing and training still evident. In a matter of minutes he was shaved and dressed for riding. Charlotte decided it was time to make a foray into cleanliness herself and rang for a bath in her own room. A good soak would help her think and plan more clearly.

  She spent the rest of the day in blissful retreat within the high stone walls of Bay’s grandmother’s garden. The roses had rioted over their cages and trellises. Charlotte found an old pair of gloves and kept busy pruning and clipping, wondering if Bay had transplanted Mr. Trumbull’s cuttings. She peered into the empty conservatory and saw four lonely jars on a wooden table. By next spring, the twigs they held would be ready to join the rest of the bushes. She stepped inside with her basket of flowers and shears, imagining the space as it must have been years ago, lush and redolent with plant life. The sun-heated bricks warmed the soles of her slippers. A solitary wicker chair listed in one corner, and she dragged it to the wall of glass so she could watch the ocean beyond the emerald lawn. It wouldn’t do to become so mesmerized by the waves that she forgot to put the cut roses in water, but she couldn’t resist watching the gulls wheeling over the whitecaps. She supposed in a few hours she would be frolicking below like a fat water sprite, drunk on wine and Bay’s attentions.

  Sunlight slanted in through the glass roof, making her hot and drowsy. The girls could tend to the flowers. Charlotte rather thought she should have a nap to be ready for the night.

  Bay had been busy since he returned home. His tenants had been glad to see him and had pressed all manner of tribute on him—tiny wild strawberries, a tin of biscuits, a thick wedge of Dorset Blue Vinny, a nut loaf fresh from the oven. Mrs. Kelly had augmented her baskets, and Bay sent Frazier and the maids to set up the picnic area sheltered by a crescent of rocks. He had half an idea to sleep under the stars with Charlie, so there was much to-ing and fro-ing with blankets and pillows and whatever else might come in handy. Once things were to Frazier’s satisfaction, he was to walk the girls to the village and take the rest of the evening off. There was the pub—and Kitty’s parlor, if Angus wished to brave the difficult Mrs. Toothaker.