“He was a viscount,” Anne’s ambitious father said, as if that explained everything.
“And I am a mere baronet. Rich, though. I can pay for Anne’s treatment. Dixfield might know of a place—”
“No!” Mrs. Buckland’s face was white now. “She’ll be with mad people. She won’t be safe.”
“Madam, I and my fiancée Miss Fallon—indeed my entire household staff—will not be safe unless Anne’s locked away. She can’t keep shooting my valet. Eventually, he won’t stand for it. Should harm befall Charlotte, I would have to take matters into my own hands.”
He stared down Mrs. Buckland, leaving no doubt of his threatened intentions. The woman looked away. “I’ll discuss it with Dixfield. You need do nothing more than—than sign the papers.”
Both the Bucklands suddenly looked their age. Anne was their only child, born to them when they had given up hope of ever having children. She had been spoiled from the instant she opened her blue eyes in her bassinet. They had wanted nothing but the best for her—which unfortunately included marriage at sixteen to a viscount with a vast estate and a predilection for cruelty. Anne had spent nearly twenty years paying for her parents’ willful blindness.
Mr. Buckland nodded. “Very well. Tell Dixfield—tell Dixfield we’ll cooperate.”
“Kenneth! Couldn’t we keep her at home? Hire s-someone?”
Her husband touched her gently, as if he knew she was already broken. “Marjorie, you know he’s right. It’s been an uncomfortable few weeks having her home again. You must agree.” He turned to Bay. “Thank you, Sir Michael. I’m sorry things have turned out the way they have. If I had known—well, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Tell Jamie Dixfield to do his best. It won’t be easy.”
No, it wouldn’t be. But if anyone had a hope with Anne, it might be the other lad who had loved her, too.
Bay wanted nothing more than his bed, with Charlotte beside him. Seeing Irene standing discreetly in the hallway as he saw the Bucklands out the door, his heart stuttered. “Is she all right?”
Irene blushed. “Yes, sir. A bit tired. She’s having a bath and would like to see you as soon as it’s convenient.”
Bay supposed Jamie Dixfield could wait a while. He’d lent the doctor the two stable boys for the day to serve in shifts as needed, and secured Mrs. Kelly’s niece, who lived in the village, to assist the doctor’s elderly housekeeper in the care of his difficult new patient. The man had access to drugs and restraints, so he was better equipped to deal with Anne Whitley than most.
He pictured Charlie in the bathtub. It was almost as large as the tub on Jane Street. He’d lost his neckcloth somewhere during the hazardous evening, but began to unbutton his shirt as he mounted the stairs. Hot water. The satin of Charlie’s clean skin against his heart. His pace quickened.
He didn’t bother to tap on the door but went straight to the little dressing room. Charlie’s back was slick with soap bubbles, her hair piled up in a hasty knot atop her head. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the pins and watched it tumble down.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you! You might have given me apoplexy,” she said, looking up at him, the tender skin beneath her blue eyes a perfect match for them.
“You did sleep a bit, didn’t you?” he asked, concerned.
“Off and on. I missed you.” She extended a hand of welcome. Bay dropped his wrinkled trousers and slipped gratefully into the water.
“I was rather busy.”
For a few minutes there was silence between them as Charlie lathered his torso, her wicked fingers teasing the hair under his arms and tracing the muscles of his chest. She made no mention of the purple circle at the base of his ribs, but brushed by it with a featherlight caress. What could she think of his honor and intentions, when she had found him with Anne last night? He stilled her hand. He had to tell her. Now, when the words were foaming up to the surface like soap bubbles. Words he was too stupid to say yesterday. “I love you, Charlie, and only you. You saved my life last night. If I had gotten the gun away from Anne, I think I would have shot myself. It was the only way to stop her.” He watched all color leach from her face; even her lips seemed bloodless. “I can’t kill her. Oh, I think about it, I’ve even talked about it, threatened her parents with it, but I can’t. There’s too much history. And pity. But if you can forgive me, I’ll make last night up to you for the rest of our lives. Please marry me, Charlie. I can’t live without you.”
She blinked, or perhaps he did. There were tears in his eyes, tears of frustration and impossible yearning. He hadn’t cried in quite some time; it simply wasn’t done. But all he wanted to do was hold Charlie’s beautiful wet body to him and weep into her sea-scented hair. He was so tired, so very, very tired.
He heard her sigh and then whisper the word he needed to hear. And then the problem of Anne seemed to float out of range as the miracle of Charlie’s love washed over him. Her kiss was so innocent. So hopeful. So hard to resist, and he would never have to. Why had it taken him so long to realize that love could be separated from obsession and defeat? Charlie would never collar him and tug at his leash on a whim. She would give herself to him without reservation, and he to her. Anne as an obstacle was removed from his heart and their path.
Her finger stroked the raised scar on his cheek, a permanent reminder of his stupidity. But he would brave any sword if it meant a future with Charlie. Perhaps every single stumble had led him right here where he should be, in cooling bathwater with this stubborn, loving woman. A woman who saved his life with a chamber pot. In the middle of the most delicious, the most disarming kiss, he began to laugh.
He couldn’t stop. Relief coursed through his blood like the richest wine. Charlie’s eyes flew open, her dark brows beetled. She looked as prim as if she had one of her ridiculous lacy caps on her head. She smacked his chest.
“You simply cannot get the hang of this proposing business. Just what is so amusing?”
“Oh, my love. Think about it. A short while ago I entered a dark house to commit the sin of seriously mistaking your identity. You must admit we got off to a most dubious beginning. I seem to remember candlesticks and kidnapping and a bite or two. But there’s no doubt. None. You were made just for me, and I thank God for it.”
“Well.” She seemed somewhat mollified by his explanation and just a bit speechless. He tangled his fingers in her hair and she winced.
“How is your head?”
“Sore. My poor mama’s fainting lessons were unsuccessful, I’m afraid.”
Bay grinned. “You had fainting lessons? Just what else did your mother try to teach you?”
“I was a poor study. She would be horrified to see what Deb and I have come to.”
“Now, now. Your sister is a respectable married woman and you are about to be.”
She leveled a clear blue gaze at him. “You really want to marry me?”
“Have I not proposed awkwardly twice already? If you tell me the third time’s the charm I shall endeavor to do it better, but only once more. A man can only debase himself so much.”
Charlie scooted back, sloshing water onto the carpet. “Debase? Is that how you think of it? Lowering yourself to my level?”
“You quite mistake me. I’m on my knees, Charlie, and damned uncomfortable.”
Charlie glanced down, and just as quickly looked into his face. His erect shaft pierced the water like a rigid fish.
“I n-need to wash my hair,” she stammered.
Bay leaned in closer. “I’ll do it for you, if you do something for me.”
“Anything,” she whispered. “You know I’ll do anything for you.”
There was an urgent tapping on the bedroom door. Charlotte disentangled herself from the covers and Bay’s sleep-heavy arm and threw on her gray robe. Running her hands through her hair, she wished Bay had allowed it to dry before he fell upon her like a starving man. But a few knots were nothing to the saturated bliss of her body. She cracked the door open.
A pale Frazier stood there, his arm in a sling.
“What are you doing up? Oh, that sounds awful, but I thought you weren’t to be disturbed. How are you, Mr. Frazier?”
“I’ve never been better, Miss Fallon. Miss Kitty Toothaker has agreed to be my bride.” The man grinned like an idiot, and the gruff old Scot completely disappeared. “But Sir Michael’s wanted below. It’s Dr. Dixfield come to call, and he seems a mite agitated.”
“What time is it? Oh, good Lord. Lady Whitley hasn’t escaped, has she?” Charlotte looked down the hall behind him as if she expected to see the Black Widow any second.
“Just on four. And no. That was the first thing I asked. He says she’s got plenty of protection at the house and he felt confident enough to leave her.”
Charlotte hoped the doctor didn’t have any spare firearms lying around. “If you give us a few minutes, I’ll wake Sir Michael and we’ll get dressed and be right down. Have Mrs. Kelly do up a tea tray. I’m actually hungry.” They had slept right through lunch. No, not slept.
Angus Frazier gave her a beatific smile. “Yes, yes. You should eat more in your condition.”
Charlotte shut the door. Did everyone in the entire household know her secret? Everyone but Bay.
What if she wasn’t pregnant, but coming to the end of her child-bearing years? She knew of women her age who got sick and whose flow had stopped. She also knew women who bore offspring well into their forties. Mrs. King in Little Hyssop even had a babe at fifty-one, the same year one of her daughters gave birth to her seventh grandchild. Perhaps she should see a doctor.
Well, there was one waiting downstairs. She leaned over her lover, sprawled like Gulliver across the linens, his cock rampant, a sleep-sweetened smile on his face. She would be interrupting a very pleasant dream.
“Bay, wake up. Dr. Dixfield is here.”
“Unh.” He rolled over, giving her a very fine view of his bottom. It was a beautiful bottom to be sure, white, tight, just the right curvature to fill out his pantaloons properly, but she needed to see his dark eyes. Wide open.
“Bay!” Sharper now. He sat bolt upright, reaching for an invisible weapon. Realization dawned and he gave her a sexy smile. “Sorry I fell asleep. Come back to bed and we’ll take up where we left off.”
“Bay, you need to get dressed. Dr. Dixfield is below.”
“Damnation! Has she run off?” He was stuffing a leg in his ruined pants before she had a chance to even walk to the wardrobe.
“He says not. I’ve ordered tea and sandwiches. You haven’t eaten a thing.”
Bay gave her a sardonic look, and she felt the blush spread from her nose to her toes. Bay had been very, very thorough, “proposing” to her again and again until there was absolutely no question she would agree to be his wife. No wonder losing him had deranged Anne Whitley.
He stuck a comb in the tepid basin and slicked back his coppery hair. The longer it grew, the more it seemed to turn autumnal. Even with a day’s growth of beard, he was so handsome the breath left her.
He gave her a quick kiss. “Take your time. I won’t decide anything important without you.”
And he was gone.
Jamie Dixfield was one of his oldest friends. Bay had mentioned him numerous times over the past few weeks, recalling one boyhood stunt or another. He had entrusted Anne to Jamie’s care, and not only because he was a doctor. Charlotte wished to make a good impression, but was faced with her dull dresses. Gray or brown? She pulled a pale ashy muslin dress over her head, quickly braided her hair, pinched her cheeks, and bit her lips. That would have to do.
She needn’t have worried. When she reached the parlor, neither man even glanced her way. Both of them were standing before the bank of windows, not enjoying that view either but emanating a certain menace toward each other. The tea table was untouched. Nervous, Charlotte cleared her throat.
The doctor was the first to break away from Bay’s glare. He was an attractive man, if somewhat disheveled, with curling fair hair and an angular face. He looked like he’d been wrestling alligators on the Nile, but she supposed he had only wrestled a distraught Anne Whitley all day. Smiling, he revealed even, white teeth. “You must be Charlie. May I be one of the first to offer my wishes for your future happiness?”
His hands on hers were long, elegant, and warm. Good, safe hands for a doctor. “Charlotte, actually. No one calls me Charlie anymore, except for Bay.” And her sister, but there was no point in bringing her into this. “How do you do, Dr. Dixfield?”
“It’s just Jamie, but if you must be Charlotte, I can be James.” He winked at her. Out of the corner of her own eye she saw Bay flex his fists as if he longed to thrash his oldest friend for displaying such charm to his fiancée.
“What is going on?” Charlotte asked baldly. “Whatever it is, you’ll both do better with some tea and a sandwich. Won’t you sit down and join me?”
“Tea won’t solve this,” Bay bit out.
“Very likely not.” Jamie smiled at her again, but the smile didn’t reach his sober gray eyes. “I’m afraid my old friend and I are having a rather fundamental disagreement. As lovely as it is to meet you, perhaps we can become better acquainted another time.”
“You’ll not order Charlie out of my parlor in my house!”
“No, indeed. I’d never interfere with the woman you love.” Dixfield sat on the edge of the nearest chair, inspecting a loose button on his wrinkled jacket.
“Love!” Charlotte sat down quickly as Bay stalked about the room, waving his arms about like a windup toy. She had never seen him so ruffled, not even when his life had been in danger. “Don’t talk to me of love! You’re as unhinged as she is!”
“I beg your pardon,” Charlotte said with feeling, “but just because I agreed to marry you does not mean I’m unhinged.”
“Not you,” both men spoke at once.
“Oh, do sit down, Bay, you’re making me dizzy. What do you take in your tea, Jamie?”
“You can’t turn this debacle into a tea party, Charlie. It won’t work.” But at least Bay landed on a sofa, too far away to have tea or any sort of plate passed to him.
“Sugar please, no milk or lemon.” The men were quiet while she poured a cup, her hand shaking just a trifle, and passed it to the doctor. She served herself, adding a huge dollop of milk for the baby.
“Now,” she said after taking a bracing sip, “suppose one of you tells me what this is all about.”
The mantel clock ticked a full minute before Bay spoke, his voice dripping sarcasm. “It seems the doctor here has a peculiar plan to bring Lady Whitley back to some semblance of sanity. Why don’t you tell her, Jamie? I find I’m unequal to the task.”
Charlotte had heard of asylums for those afflicted with mental impairment. Some people in the ton even went so far as to visit the inmates—in Bedlam, for example—for sheer amusement. Such cruelty. Surely this kind, friendly man didn’t plan on subjecting Anne Whitley, no matter what she’d done, to such a fate.
And he didn’t. What he said next was far more frightening.
“It seems love is in the air—first for Angus Frazier, then for you and Bay, and now for me. I’ve asked Lady Whitley to marry me.”
Charlotte dropped her cup to the floor. Its contents fell on her slippers and it rolled harmlessly on the thick Aubusson carpet. She was too shocked to remark on the hot tea finding its way between her toes.
“You see? Unhinged,” said Bay grimly.
“I have loved Anne Buckland since I was a boy. Bay had his turn with her, and now it’s mine. We talked for hours when she woke up, Anne and I. She just wants what all women want: a home, children, a man she can depend on. She can depend on me. I’ve had my chances with the ladies, but I never married. It’s always been Anne. When I heard her husband died, I was getting my courage up to go see her, but then she came back home.”
“But—but—” Once she found her tongue, she revealed their shameful recent history. Charlotte was fairly sure she mentione
d the word gun a few times. Bay chimed in about the brutes who kidnapped him. Nothing would shake Jamie Dixfield’s certainty that he could make Anne Whitley happy. His eyes shone as he pleaded his case.
“But I realize it would be awkward if I kept my practice here. My father has retired, but he’s still got some good days left in him, long enough to train a new doctor for these parts. Bay has more money than God, you know, more than he’ll ever need. I’ve come for a loan. He can set me up in another town where no one knows Anne or the trouble she’s had. I heard about a situation not long ago from a doctor friend of mine up in Scotland. A new country. A new start.”
Bay looked shattered. “If I thought it could work, I’d give you my whole fortune, Jamie, but you don’t know what she’s like now.”
“Oh, I believe I do. I was there this morning when she had her little fit, remember? She’s told me everything, Bay—what her husband did to her and what she did to survive it. She wants a baby so badly that it’s clouded her judgment. That happens to some women. I’ve seen it before.”
“I wager you’ve never been at the business end of a gun over it,” Bay snapped.
“No. She didn’t need to hold a gun on me. I was most willing.” Dixfield flushed, realizing what he’d just revealed. Bay stared at him, slack jawed. “I’ll marry her, whether you approve or not, whether you can give me any money or not.”
“Good God. She was drugged, Jamie. I watched you dose her myself. You can’t count on anything she said or did.”
“It was just honey and brandy. I knew she needed to sleep, and she did. She’s sorry, Bay, truly sorry for causing you both such trouble. It’s as if she was under some kind of spell and now she’s snapped out of it.”
“You’re the one who’s under a spell, man!” Bay returned to pacing the room, running his hand through his hair every seventh step. Charlotte counted—he was as regular as a metronome.
Mistress By Mistake Page 27
