“I’m sure,” Charlotte said, praying that it was true.
The next hour passed as Deb gave orders from the couch while Charlotte brewed up tea and a fierce backache. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when the cart rattled off, taking the clomping, stomping men with it. Arthur and Deb repaired to the relative luxury of the Pig and Whistle, saying their good-byes as they were making for Kent with all the treasure at first light. Charlotte was spared sharing her supper with them—fresh bread, ham, and beans from her garden, which were running riot up over the poles. She and Kitty and Angus had dined in the cozy kitchen together, and the couple was now readying the two cleared-out attic rooms for nightfall, although Charlotte imagined just one of the pallets would be slept on tonight. Frazier’s arm was fully healed, and there was no reason why he could not consummate his engagement. Charlotte had no objection, as long as they weren’t too noisy. She was looking forward to sleeping undisturbed in her own bed beneath her own worn quilts.
By now Little Hyssop’s rumor mill was working overtime. First there had been Charlotte’s sudden departure, then her sister’s arrival and the removal of a king’s ransom worth of oddities from the tiny cottage, then Charlotte’s return with two servants in tow. She’d have a lot of explaining to do in the morning and needed all the rest she could get.
She went into her little back bedroom off the kitchen and opened the window to the summer night. Her hollyhocks had grown up taller than she was and mostly blocked her view of the stars. But she made her wish anyway, undressed, and crawled into bed. Fingering the heavy necklace still at her throat, she was reassured. She may not have a ring, but she had something better—a man who swore he loved her and would protect her always.
She woke in the middle of the night to loud growls. The sound was not at all catlike, and it came from indoors, not out. Frightened, she grabbed a trusty candlestick and tiptoed through the dark to the parlor. Angus Frazier had angled the sofa against the hall entryway, and was guarding her noisily against nighttime visitors in his sleep. Either that, or Kitty had thrown him out for the ruckus. Charlotte noted on her way back to bed that the kitchen door was blocked with a chair. No Little Hyssopian would gain access to her cottage tonight. She fell back asleep with a smile on her face, and woke to the smell of frying bacon, which gave her stomach only a minor lurch. It was to be one of the good mornings. She pulled on her gray robe and stepped into the kitchen.
Sunlight streamed in through the open back door. A jar of fresh-cut flowers was centered on the set table, and Kitty was in total control. A pan of eggs bubbled on the stove, and bread had already been buttered. “Good morning, miss! Did you sleep well?”
“Like the dead. This looks lovely, Kitty. The food and the flowers. Thank you.” She sat down like a true lady of leisure as Kitty poured her a cup of tea.
“Oh, your garden is a wonder, Miss Fallon. I could be happy living in a cottage like this. It’s just perfect.”
“It is, rather. Not fancy, but I’ve been happy here.”
Or as happy as one could be, lonely and more or less poor.
She would miss her cottage when Bay came for her, silly as that was. Bayard Court was beautiful, and she was sure his house in town was as well, with its fabled French chef, but Little Hyssop had been her home for a decade. Charlotte looked at Kitty’s shining face as she stirred the eggs. “I say, I’d like to make a wedding present of it for you, when Sir Michael and I marry.”
Kitty dropped the wooden spoon. “You’re joking!”
“I’m not. But perhaps I spoke too soon. Mr. Frazier might not like it. I don’t know what he could do to keep busy in Little Hyssop.”
“Oh, now that he’s got Sir Michael settled with you, he’d love to retire. He gets a small pension from the army, you know. Enough for us to live on. And I’m sure Sir Michael would be generous. He owes Angus his life. Saved him single-handed from a band of rogue Frenchies, he did. Bad ’uns. They killed them all.”
Charlotte shuddered. It was difficult to imagine Bay using his artist’s hands to willfully kill other human beings. But of course he had. It was his job, or he would not be here today.
Of course, he wasn’t here. But perhaps there was a letter from him. He had promised to write. Charlotte ate her breakfast quickly, washed up, and braved the walk into the village. Her walk should have taken just five minutes. However, it seemed every one of her neighbors had work to do in their front gardens this morning, and her trip down the lane was a slow but steady one. She deflected most questions to their obvious disappointment, stuck faithfully to comments about the weather, and found herself in the tiny tobacco shop that doubled as Little Hyssop’s post office after most of half an hour had passed. Mr. Forrest’s eyes lit up as she entered, the bell jangling behind her.
“There you are! I’ve got a passel of mail for you, what with the month you’ve been gone. Your sister was in here yesterday, accusing me of withholding her letters, because she’d not heard from you. Off on a secret adventure, eh?”
“You might say that. I’ll take my mail, and a few ounces of pipe tobacco. You pick it—something not too strong but aromatic.” Mr. Frazier might as well benefit from her gauntlet.
“Don’t tell me a fine lady like you has taken up that habit.” He waited expectantly, but Charlotte simply shook her head, rifling through the letters. Her sister’s hand was on most of them, but one brought a smile to her lips.
A letter from Bay! To her, not to her sister. Charlotte slipped the letters into her reticule, then paid for the tobacco and practically ran home. Let the neighbors talk. She went directly to the back garden bench beneath a trellis of roses that were past their prime but still fragrant and carefully broke the seal.
Dearest Charlie,
You haven’t even been gone a day, but I miss you more than I can put into words. Wish me luck. I have an appointment tomorrow with the Bucklands and Jamie. If things go my way, we should have everything settled within a month or two. Until then, I shall dream of you every night. All my love,
Bay
Charlotte leaned back, then reread the few lines. It wasn’t half as romantic as she’d hoped, and vague to boot. Although it was gratifying he’d written before she’d even exited Dorset’s borders.
And two months! It was an eternity. Getting Jamie and Anne to Scotland couldn’t possibly take that long. She wanted to write right back to him, but was distracted when one of the stray cats rubbed up against her stocking with unusual affection. Hungry again, even after Kitty put the breakfast leavings out. Sighing, she went inside to inspect her larder. But first, she pressed Bay’s letter between the pages of her Bible, right where her marriage lines would be written. Someday.
Chapter 25
Charlotte had quite a collection of letters now, which she kept in the drawer by her bedside. To her dismay, there was little talk of scarlet butterflies sucking nectar or rubies glimmering in the candlelight, but each missive was treasured nonetheless. The letters were altogether more like what a husband might write to a wife, although she and Bay were still the only unmarried couple of their extraordinary summer. Unfortunately Bay had missed the Fraziers’ wedding last week. Mr. Kemble had presided. But even though Angus and Kitty had been relative strangers to Little Hyssop, everyone turned out for the occasion under the unusually hot late September sky.
Bay had approved of her deeding her cottage to the happy couple, and was supplementing it with a monetary gift of his own. The newlyweds were on a brief honeymoon trip to Scotland now to visit Mr. Frazier’s ancient mother and slightly less ancient brothers. Charlotte thought it was rather nice to have her house back, although clearly Kitty now thought of it as her own. She had moved around the kitchen crockery to suit herself and Charlotte had difficulty finding things. But soon, God willing, she’d be in Dorset.
Bay had left absolutely nothing to chance. His last letter had brought hope to her heart.
Dearest Charlie,
An entire ocean will separate us from the Dixfields
as soon as I personally pack them on a vessel heading to Boston. They were married last Saturday in the village church, after three of the longest weeks of banns-reading in history. I kept expecting Anne to pop up herself to object each time, but her father and mother sat on either side of her and must have pinched her still. I stood as Jamie’s best man, if you can believe it. He whispered at the altar that Anne has missed her monthly, so perhaps our waiting all these weeks was worth it. I know Jamie was most diligent in his “treatment” of his fiancée. You’ll be happy to know that Anne did not give me a second look, which was a bit hard on my pride.
So soon, my darling, I will be knocking at your door, fresh from the docks, travel-worn and needy. I know you’ll provide the succor I require.
All my love,
Bay
Somehow Bay had fixed it for Jamie to be a doctor in the new state of Maine in America, and his gift to the bride was a fur cloak to weather the uncompromising winters. Charlotte didn’t know how Bay had arranged it all or how much it had cost him, but she was anxious to arrange her own wedding. She laid a hand on her growing belly and tried to get comfortable in her bed. Good thing her dresses were old and unfashionable—the high waists still concealed her condition from the world. But it was too hot tonight to wear clothes of any kind. A regular Indian summer had descended on Little Hyssop, confusing her spring bulbs—Kitty’s now—into sprouting up. Her night rail hung neatly in the cupboard and she was shamelessly naked under a thin sheet.
She was nearly asleep when she heard a muffled thud. Snatching the candlestick from the nightstand, she put it down when she heard the familiar curse and smiled. Kitty did have to move that chair from its perfectly good spot for the intruder to trip over. This was one intruder Charlotte wanted to intrude, and intrude deeply. She feigned sleep, pulling the sheet down so one very full breast was exposed in the moonlight. The sight might give him ideas.
Charlotte heard him shed his clothes with each step. Her old mattress listed. How brave he was to stretch out beside her, when she so easily could bean him on the head as he set it down on her pillow. She waited to feel his touch, but instead was rewarded with a nearly immediate light snore.
The fiend! She didn’t care how tired he was, or how long he’d traveled, or what time of night it was. They had been apart for centuries, and he was not going to sleep without intruding. She turned on her side, studying his chest, lifting and falling with each breath. Touching a flat copper nipple was not quite enough, so she fastened her lips around it and sucked.
“Unh.”
He lay still, too still. Charlotte snaked a hand down his belly to his cock, which was awake even if he was not. Unless he was pretending, although the snores sounded reasonably authentic. She climbed atop him and licked along the seam of his lips, coaxing them open until she thrust inside to his warmth. He gave her the merest nip, and she knew then what he was doing.
This was a re-creation of their first night. He was the innocent, sleep-laden and nearly virginal. She was the aggressor. Experienced. Hungry. Desperate. She was the fiend.
It had not taken her long to fully participate then. Bay was just as irresistible all those nights ago as he was now. The mistake he made resulted in the greatest blessings of her life. She knew love, and love grew within her. But had she left it too late to tell him?
She wouldn’t think about that right now. No, it was time to seduce the seducer. She deepened the kiss, trailed her fingers slowly down his chest to his erection again. He was, impossibly, harder than a few minutes ago. Her hand curved around him and lured him to her folds.
He groaned. She wondered if he would continue to feign sleep or master her as he always had. She didn’t have long to wait. His black eyes snapped open and a feral grin split his face. He was her pirate tonight, home from his long quest at sea. It did not take him any time at all to grab her hips, slide into her center, and find his treasure. Their connection was instant and insistent. True.
“Welcome home,” she whispered. He watched as she rode him hard, oblivious to heat or vanity. He would see her, all of her, in the moonlight. He was a noticing sort of man. His hands wove through her hair, cupped her swollen breasts, stroked everywhere, finally coming to rest on her stomach. The moment he realized, Bay’s hand stilled, the touch so gentle she thought she’d weep. He smiled slowly, his cock pulsating inside her.
And then he held her in place, his orgasm fierce, almost frenzied. She came along with him, grateful.
His hand returned to her belly in wonder. “My God! Charlie, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’re not angry?” She attempted to move, but he wouldn’t let her. The warmth of his protective palms went straight to her heart.
“Of course not! But why go through this alone?”
She pushed a tangle of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to tell you, the day I left. But I wasn’t really sure then, and so frightened, and I didn’t think you’d let me leave if you knew. I was sure she’d do something, and I had to get away.” The words rushed out, but she couldn’t say Anne’s name. No matter that she was married and on a boat half an ocean away, there would always be residual fear of Anne Whitley.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Bay brought her down to his chest, his arms strong around her. “You’re safe. Our baby is safe. You just don’t know how much I’ve hoped for this day. I’ve even got a special license, you know. No banns for us. When?”
“The doctor thinks February. It must have happened right at the first.”
“When I didn’t know you. But I know you now. Thank God for it. I’ll go see Vicar Kemble in the morning.” He kissed her forehead, both cheeks. Then her mouth, spending a bit more time on that consummate kiss. A kiss that promised their future happiness. Oh, she would be cross and he would be fiendish, but she loved him enough to believe in the possibility. “You don’t want a big Little Burpup wedding do you?”
“We just had one. I did the flowers. They were lovely. You truly aren’t angry?”
He squeezed her tighter. “I would have been wild with impatience getting everything settled had I known. A madman. As it was, it was sheer hell. I’ll tell you about it sometime. God, I missed you so, Charlie. I even missed you yelling at me.”
“I can do that if you want.” She snuggled into his shoulder.
“Tomorrow, my love. We’ve got tomorrow and the rest of our lives for you to yell at me. Right now, all I want to do is sleep with you in my arms.”
“I suppose that’s as good a plan as any.”
All those weeks of waiting, over. She’d sleep very well tonight. She was drifting when he spoke again. “I do have just one request, however.”
She yawned. “Just one?”
“Those caps of yours.”
“Don’t worry, Kitty and Angus will take care of the cats.”
“No, no. the caps. Those silly lace things. You’re not to bring them to Dorset. I won’t stand for them.”
“They’re very proper.”
“But you are not. My wife is the most improper woman in Dorset. See?” He nudged her hip with his stiff cock. “See what you do to me. I think the plan to sleep has changed.”
Here’s a sneak peek at UNDONE, the historical romance anthology featuring Susan Johnson, Terri Brisbin, and Mary Wine. Turn the page for a preview of Susan’s story, “As You Wish.”
Fortunately for the earl’s pressing schedule, the night was overcast. Not a hint of moonlight broke through to expose his athletic form as he scaled the old, fist-thick wisteria vines wrapped around the pillars of the terrace pergola. The house to which the pergola was attached was quiet, the ground floor dark save for the porter’s light in the entrance hall. Either the Belvoirs were out or already in bed. More likely the latter with only a single flambeau outside the door.
He’d best take care.
Kit had described the position of Miss Belvoir’s bedchamber—hence Albion’s ascent of the wisteria. Once he gained the roof joists of the Chinoiserie pergola, he would have access to
the windows of the main floor corridor. From there he could make his way to the second floor bedchambers, the easternmost that of Miss Belvoir, where, according to Kit, she’d been cloistered for the last month, being polished by her stepmother into a state of refined elegance for her bow into society a few weeks hence.
Which refinements, in his estimation, only served to make every young lady into the same boring martinet without an original thought in her head or a jot of conversation worth listening to.
He hoped there wouldn’t be much conversation tonight. If he had his way there wouldn’t be any. He hoped as well that she wouldn’t prove stubborn, but should she, he’d stuff his handkerchief in her mouth to muffle her screams, tie her up if necessary, and carry her down the back stairs and out the servants’ entrance. It was more likely though—with all due modesty—that his much-practiced charm would win the day.
Pulling himself over the fretwork balustrade embellishing the pergola, he stood for a moment balanced on a joist contemplating which window would best offer him ingress. His mind made up, he brushed himself off, navigated the vine-draped timbers, and reached the window. Taking a knife from his coat pocket, he snapped open the blade, slipped it under the lower sash, and pried it up enough to gain a fingerhold.
Moments later, he stood motionless in the dark corridor. The stairs were to the right if Kit’s description was correct. After listening for a few moments and hearing nothing, he quietly made his way down the plush carpet and up the stairs. A single candle on a console table dimly illuminated the hallway onto which the bedrooms opened. Pausing to listen once again and distinguishing no undue sounds, he silently traversed the carpeted passageway to the last door on his right.
Mistress By Mistake Page 29
