Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 17

The tomcat’s yowl awakened her. Soon he was joined by the female’s grating song. It was still fully dark, damp and grim with the torrents of rain that had fallen for days. The weather had matched Charlotte’s mood perfectly. Since her return home, she had been unable to appreciate her snug little cottage or the sudden profusion of flowers and vegetables in her garden. Instead she saw bare whitewashed walls and a tangle of weeds that would have to wait until the sun shone. If it ever did. Perhaps Deb had left some paintings upstairs with which she could beautify her humble house. No nudes, of course, although absolutely anything could be in the crates that Deb had shipped to her over the years. Charlotte should sit down and write to her, offer to send everything off to Arthur’s estate in Kent. Bard’s End. She knew that now.

She wondered if Deb had even returned home yet, or was still honeymooning with her new husband. Charlotte’s precipitous disappearance from Little Hyssop had been duly noted and remarked upon. When accosted in the village shops, Charlotte staunchly told the tale of her sister’s wedding, not that she had witnessed it. She discovered she had a flair for dissembling, right down to the color of her sister’s wedding gown (rose pink, she decided, mostly because it would be her own choice in the unlikely event she ever married) and choice of flowers (white lilies, for the same reason). This fictitious version of her London trip seemed to satisfy the local tabbies, who always had time for a good gossip, even if the protagonists were unknown to them. Charlotte had trudged home with her meager supplies, the brim of her old straw hat dripping rainwater, but she was not struck by a bolt of lightning for telling her lies. Despite Mr. Frazier pressing quite a lot of money into her hands, far more than she asked for, she had set it away for a rainier day and was determined to resume her quiet life on her restricted budget.

Now she really was a whore, bought and paid for, even if she didn’t intend to touch all the pound notes Mr. Frazier had conjured unless major calamity befell her. The money was sitting in a chipped ginger jar on her mantel. No self-respecting thief would be tempted to remove such pottery from the premises. She supposed if the cottage ever caught fire, she’d force herself to rescue it.

Having a bit of a financial cushion was a help. She might not be able to depend on Deb to keep herself and the cats afloat now that Arthur controlled the purse strings. And Deb had been indifferently generous anyway, depending on the gullibility of her past patrons. Months could go by before she remembered that she had a sister buried in the country. The last ten years had been a test for Charlotte to live within exceptionally modest means. The little she got for her lace had put food on the table, although it was not generally known in Little Hyssop that Mrs. Fallon supplied the ton with trimmings for their unmentionables and evening gowns.

Despite the early hour, Charlotte rose. There was no point in tossing and turning while Tom was fornicating under her bedroom window. The blasted cats had been contentious ever since she returned, punishing her for their abandonment. When they weren’t rutting, they were strutting and slinking and squalling around the kitchen door like beggars. Maybe if she tossed a few sardines into the dark, the racket would quiet down.

Charlotte opened her wardrobe and reached for her gray robe. Her hand brushed the cherry-red dress that she had unaccountably packed when she left London. She would never wear it again, of course. Little Hyssop was not the type of town that would sanction a scarlet woman. In fact, as today was Sunday, she would be on her knees in church in a few hours, praying for forgiveness. She had been foolish in the extreme-again. God must be very displeased with her, for surely she was old enough and experienced enough to know better now than to fall for the blandishments of an attractive man. She heaved a sigh. Bay was very attractive indeed.

Her little bedroom was just off the kitchen. It suited her to live all on one floor; it was cheaper also to heat just the downstairs rooms. She felt her way through the shadows, the coals a faint spark in the stove. She stuck her head out the kitchen door and was rewarded by a blast of wind and needling rain. Hard to believe that June was here when she had to race barefoot across the cold wet grass to the privy. She wasn’t about to ruin her slippers, but hoped she would not step on anything untoward in the gloom. The scent of battered roses climbing the little shed was pleasant and masked the fact that she needed to order lime the next time she went to the shops. She rationalized going outside this morning was much like a shower bath, freezing though it was. She lingered a bit on the path, letting the rain sluice down her face and throat. The cats were silent at last, probably languishing in the afterglow under the hydrangea bush. Sardines would be superfluous.

Once indoors, Charlotte stripped off her wet robe and set to stirring up and adding to the coals. She pulled a stool in front of the warming stove and brushed her hair, rebraiding it. When the flames licked up, she lit a fat tallow candle on the center of the table, filled the kettle, and made her tea. She was going to the early communion service. By all that was holy, she should not even be thinking about tea. But she was chilled to the bone. She allowed herself one small lump of sugar only, breaking the bad habit of three on Jane Street. Charlotte had a dreadful sweet tooth. Mrs. Kelly had aided and abetted it.

As the sky lightened, Charlotte blew out the candle and toasted her forbidden bread. She ate it minus butter and jam as penance. If she cleaned her teeth thoroughly, Vicar Kemble might not realize that she had broken her fast. It wasn’t as if she weren’t going to Hell anyway. Eating breakfast was a very minor transgression. She pinned up her still-damp hair and dressed in a gray dress in the gray light. It was her turn to do the altar flowers this morning. She had been smart enough to pick them in a brief break in the rain yesterday afternoon, and pails holding drooping blooms were lined up along the edge of the carpet of her snug parlor. She fished out the flowers and laid them in a flat basket, covered her hair with her usual cap and battered hat, and marched down the lane to the church, gripping an umbrella tightly in the wind. Her skirts whipped about in the mud. Her person would win no prizes today for beauty, but her flower arrangements would speak for themselves.

Once inside the hushed, cool church. Charlotte shivered and grabbed the empty brass urns off the altar and took them to the vestry. As good as his word, the vicar had left a ewer filled with water, and she poured it carefully into each container. She heard the thud of the church door and waited for Vicar Kemble to shout out a good morning, but curiously she heard only booted footsteps on the stone aisle and the scraping of a kneeler. An early bird sinner with plenty to pray for, she thought, and continued her task. The rain spattered against the roof and pinged against the wavy glass window. The world outside was a blur of gray and green. It was good to be home, doing something familiar in a familiar place. She didn’t miss Jane Street a bit. Or Bay either.

Her cottage garden had blossomed quite happily while she was away in London. She buried her nose to inhale the rich scents and stepped back, giving the vases a critical eye. Too much yellow on the left. She ruthlessly ripped some buds from the coreopsis stalks. There. Perfect balance, a rainbow of colors and fragrance. Lifting one heavy vase she carried it to the altar.

The top of a gentleman’s head was just visible over a high-backed pew toward the rear of the church. It was too dim inside to distinguish its color-darkish, some sort of brown. She didn’t wish to disturb him in prayer, so tiptoed quietly over the flagstones to get the other urn. When both were in position, she herself slipped into her regular spot, tugged her gloves back on, and closed her eyes. Just last week she had been staring down the barrel of a gun. She was still alive. Pinching herself just to make sure, her lips moved in the silent repetition of the Lord’s Prayer. She leaned back, relaxing into the pew. A few neighbors came in and nodded to her, then Mr. Kemble, who flashed her a bright smile and disappeared to change into his cassock.

The steady rain drummed on the slate roof throughout the brief Holy Communion service. The sound was as lulling and peaceful as a prayer. Charlotte nearly dozed off through the reading, and had to pinch herself again. She needed her wits about her to instruct the children who would be coming for Sunday school. She rose to take communion, joining the few others before the altar. Mr. Kemble paused, then looked over their heads to the back of the church. After a moment, there were crisp footsteps against the stone floor. Charlotte didn’t turn out of politeness, but expected it was the same man who had come in while she was busy in the vestry. He knelt at the opposite end of the communion rail, his face shielded by the very topiarylike hat of Mrs. Beacham.

A stranger then with the few faithful who came to early services. Charlotte peeked around the corner of her own bonnet again, but was rewarded with only the sight of Mrs. Beacham’s truly extraordinary hat. Receiving her wafer and sipping from the chalice, she returned to her seat. Curious now, she observed the broad shoulders clad in dark brown superfine, the unscuffed boot soles. Whoever the gentleman was, he had money.

She watched as he tipped his head forward. There was something about the close crop of hair-

Bay! Charlotte dropped her Book of Common Prayer. It fell with a clunk that reverberated through the near-empty church. Hastily, she bent to retrieve it, staying low as he walked back down the transept. Her blood rushed to the surface of her skin. She needed to leave at once.

Mrs. Kemble was more than capable. She could deal with the children for the Bible lesson in the rectory when they came. Half of them were hers anyway. Perhaps the rain would keep the others away. Charlotte inched down the pew, heart beating rapidly.

Mr. Kemble stepped down from the altar and made his way down the aisle. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all ever more. Amen.”

Charlotte shot up as the bells began to ring, her heart racing. Bay was waiting in the vestibule, a tall beaver hat rolling in his hands. He was deep in discussion with Mr. Kemble. His face lit with mischief when he saw her. Charlotte clutched at her umbrella and prayerbook, wondering which would do more damage wiping the smirk off his face.

“Ah! Mrs. Fallon! The flowers are as ever lovely,” Mr. Kemble boomed. “This gentleman was just remarking on them. I told him you have one of the loveliest gardens in the village. Puts Mrs. Kemble’s to shame, it does.”

“Th-thank you, Mr. Kemble,” Charlotte stuttered.

“I would so love to see it. Gardens are a particular interest of mine,” Bay said smoothly. “One might say they tie me in knots.”

“B-but it’s raining!” Charlotte glared at him. Let Mr. Kemble think of it what he would.

“A little rain never harmed me. I’m used to much worse, I assure you. Kidnap. Torture. I was an army man. Mr. Kemble, perhaps you would do me the honor of introducing me to this young lady.”

It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to give him a rousing set-down. Young lady! She had more gray hairs after her time with Bay than ever. He was not going to charm her ever again.

“Certainly, sir. Sir Michael, isn’t it? Haven’t a head for names, I’m afraid, a failing in my line of work, but I do know Mrs. Fallon’s. Pillar of the church. She made the altar cloth too. Mrs. Fallon, may I present Sir Michael-” The vicar looked helplessly at Bay.

“Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fallon.”

Charlotte flushed and fidgeted. “How do you do?” she asked her feet.

“Very well. Do say you can give me a tour of your garden before I am obligated to leave your charming village. Perhaps you have time now? Good morning to you, Mr. Kemble. Excellent service.” Bay put his gloved hand on her elbow and practically shoved her out the open door. In one fluid motion he took her umbrella and popped it open over them. Charlotte had no opportunity to beg off teaching Sunday school. She could only hope Mr. Kemble would make her excuses to Mrs. Kemble since it seemed she was practically being carried away by a forceful man with a heretofore undeclared passion for gardening.

“Why are you here?” Charlotte blurted.

He looped his arm through hers. The comfort and warmth of it was most unsettling. “London was a bit of a bore. I thought I’d go home for a bit, actually. To Bayard Court. It’s right on the coast, you know. June. Summer. Swimming and boating. I was rather hoping to persuade you to join me.”

Charlotte escaped his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous! Our association is over. Completely over.” Charlotte stepped in a puddle and lurched sideways. Bay tugged her close, saving her from going down in the mud.

“I don’t see why.”

“Oh, don’t you? I’ll have you know I was telling the truth when I said I was a respectable woman! This is my home, and I’ll not give the gossips any reason to talk. How dare you come to church?”

“I dare because I worry about my immortal soul. And yours. I often go to church.”

Charlotte snorted.

“I do, no matter your rude noises. My grandmama insisted upon it. You still think me a fiend, don’t you?”

Charlotte decided it was best to remain silent. She didn’t trust herself to speak coherently. They continued on the path. It seemed Bay knew exactly where he was going, which made her even more nervous.

Bay peered through the sheets of rain. “Little Muckup is a quintessential English village, isn’t it? It must be lovely on a sunny day. Thatched cottages. Climbing roses. And you, on the altar guild, arranging flowers and tatting lace. How homely. There are cats too, as I recall?”

She couldn’t resist elbowing him in the ribs.

“Don’t mock me! I’m very happy here! And you will ruin everything!” They turned into her lane. She would not let him into her home, she would not. He could wander around the garden in the wet all day to lend credence to the fiction that he was some sort of horticulturist. If any of her neighbors were nosy, they would not see Sir Michael Xavier Bayard cross her threshold for any reason whatsoever.

“I have been completely discreet. I put up at the Pig and Whistle last evening and didn’t overindulge, although the local ale is very good, I must say. Even when the landlord-Mr. Braddock, is it?-tried to pry my life story out of me, I resisted all his efforts. I even asked your vicar to introduce us this morning. No one will have an inkling of our earlier association.”

“Association!” Charlotte stamped her foot, splashing more mud on her skirts. “You blackmailed me into becoming your mistress! I trust you got the necklace back?”

They were at her gate now. One of the cats darted under a bush. Unfortunately Charlotte could detect the very distinct aroma of cat arousal. Bay seemed oblivious. He passed her the umbrella, put a hand in his pocket, and pulled out the most magnificent rope of rubies and diamonds she had ever seen. The umbrella tipped. Charlotte shut her mouth before the raindrops fell in and she drowned.

“You can see why I was anxious to have it back, I trust. Mr. Mulgrew returned it to me the other day.”

“Uh.” How absurd she was being! As if jewels meant anything to her at all. She was not Deborah. No indeed. Her head would not be turned by sparkling cold stones-

Unbidden, Bay’s written words snaked into her head.

I cannot wait to clasp the rubies and diamonds around your throat and watch as the candlelight reflects each facet on the marble whiteness of your body. For, my dearest Deborah, you shall need no other adornment than these borrowed jewels and the velvet of your own soft skin. It is my wish to fuck you until we are both quite exhausted, and then fuck you again.

She edited out the “dearest Deborah” part, feeling gooseflesh wash over her body. It was just the chill from the ever-present rain, she assured herself, nothing more. She had read those foolish letters one too many times if she could quote them so readily. Why had she packed them into her bag and not left them at Jane Street, shut tight in a dark drawer? She would burn them in the stove today. Yes, she would.

Bay wiped a raindrop from the tip of her nose and righted the umbrella. “We’re getting soaked through, Charlie. Do you think I could beg a cup of tea from you? Perhaps a bit of bread? It’s hard to believe that summer is right around the corner.”

He was talking about the weather, impudent man. As though they had some sort of normal relationship. A relationship not predicated on bullying and sinful sex and sheer terror.

Charlotte’s lips thinned. “You must leave. I understand the Braddocks put on an excellent spread at the inn.”

Bay tsked. “Here I’ve come, all this way to see you, and you want to cast me off. I confess, Charlie, I’m wounded.”

“Good! You have been nothing but a pebble in my shoe, Sir Michael, since the instant you-you-”

“Brought you to heaven beneath all those cherubs? I do remember, Charlie. There was no talk of shoes and pebbles, but rather a lot of charming undulating and heavy breathing. And love bites.” He looked so very self-satisfied she wanted to shriek.

“I propose,” he continued, “that we start again. As if that week we shared never happened. Why, I met you in church just this morning and inquired after your garden. A hobby of mine.”

“You never mentioned it before,” Charlotte muttered.

“There are a great many things you don’t know about me,” Bay smiled. “Come, Mrs. Fallon, you’ll catch your death out here in this drizzle. Surely you can spare me some hot water and a few tea leaves.”

“If I give you breakfast, do you promise to leave me alone?”

Bay shook his head. “I never make promises I can’t keep.” He pushed the gate in and made for her front door. “A cheerful red. Matches your roses. Did you paint the door yourself? I expect it’s unlocked. I thought about coming by last night, you know, but it was too reminiscent of our earlier introduction. And we are starting fresh.”

Charlotte found herself running after him. He turned the handle before she could make the pretense of fishing a key out of her pocket.

“Ah. I was right.” He ducked under the lintel. He was almost too tall to stand straight under her cozy ceilings. She hoped he’d knock himself unconscious. “Delightful. All this lace. I suppose you made it yourself?” He was standing in the center of her little parlor, hands in his pockets, no doubt checking to see if the blasted necklace was still there. Why on earth did he have it on his person? She supposed he didn’t trust the Pig and Whistle clientele, which was ridiculous. Visitors to Little Hyssop were pure as the driven snow. Except for him.

“Where is your wife?” she asked, acid dripping from her tongue.

“Lady Whitley is on the Continent. I hope she doesn’t bump into your sister. The resemblance might unhinge her.”

“As if she’s not completely unhinged already! The woman held a pistol to my head! And had you beaten and kidnapped!” Charlotte could still see faint traces of bruising under Bay’s chin and around his left cheek.

“I do apologize. Sincerely, Charlie.” His black eyes bore into hers. She turned away.

“It’s warmer in the kitchen. If you’re not too grand, you can sit at the table in there.”

“I’m not too grand,” he said softly. “Mrs. Kelly’s sister always welcomed me in hers when I was a lad.”

“Well, you’re overgrown now. Mind your head.” As if she cared whether he hurt himself, although it would be a chore to drag his body outside into the mud.

Bay ducked under a beam and found himself in a square snug room. The old stove threw out welcoming warmth. Filthy weather had followed him ever since he left London. He dearly hoped once he got to Bayard Court the sun would shine and the sand would run hot between his toes. Frazier, Mrs. Kelly, and Irene had already been sent ahead to open the house and alert the skeleton staff at his grandmother’s house that he was on his way. After his little adventure in London, it was time for a change of scenery.

He envisioned a picnic with Charlie, her black curls released from that dreadful little cap and blowing in the sea breeze. The secluded cove at the bottom of his cliff was perfect for bathing. Her pearly skin would shimmer in the sunlight, her spectacular breasts bob in the sea. She would be his own particular mermaid, and he most willing to crash against her rocks, lose his trousers to frolic in the surf with her.

“Do you swim?”

She was slamming tea things together, mulish. “Of course. But I am not,” she said as she hacked into a half loaf with a deadly looking knife, “going to Bayard Court or anywhere else with you.”

“I’ll give you five thousand pounds.”

The knife clattered to the floor. He knew he was utterly mad. The plan was to woo her away from Little Pileup gently, and he’d just baldly offered her a fortune-an insane amount, five times the amount he’d given Deborah to seal their deal. What had come over him? Charlie had. She had come over him, under him, virtually into him. He wanted her as he had not wanted a woman since Anne. It had been impossible to shake the thoughts of her away, and Lord knows, he had tried.

At first he’d been unable to get the image of her frightened white face out of his mind. He saw her sitting frozen in that blue chair, her scarlet dress like a splash of blood. It had taken him hours that day before his heart beat normally, but then he’d had his hands rather full encouraging Anne to make her travel arrangements. His subsequent guilt over Charlie proved to be overwhelming, and he decided he must make more of an effort to make things up to her for Anne’s insanity. Charlie had taken such a paltry amount from Frazier and deserved so much more for the trouble their acquaintance had visited upon her. He consulted with his banker, planning to soothe his culpability with cold, hard cash.

But then Bay saw her in his mind’s eye when she wasn’t frightened, when she was pink and warm and honeyed in his arms, when she was shuddering in pleasure, weeping his name as she crested beyond her prim propriety. This image swiftly overtook the first, and had haunted him in his lonely bed for several nights. He decided to see her himself and make sure she was all right. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Only he had the most ungentlemanly thoughts. Even with her nasty gray dress and grim face, he wanted to find the nearest feather bed and kiss her senseless. Everywhere.

“You are absolutely mad. You cannot buy my company, not for any price.” She flew around the kitchen with even more irritation than before, embarking on a long litany of his deficits. Bay sat back in his humble chair watching her with appreciation. It was not every nearly virgin spinster who would turn down five thousand pounds. So eloquently, too, although he stopped paying attention somewhere around the ninth or tenth “fiend.” Charlie was a most unusual woman. He was right to come, even if his noble impulses were now tucked into a pocket and the devil was stirring in his trousers.

“Well?” she asked somewhat shrilly.

Bay gathered himself from his fantasy. “I beg your pardon. What is the question?”

“Milk or lemon? If it’s lemon, I haven’t any. I’m sure they have lemons at the Pig and Whistle. Barrels of them.” She slopped a white pottery mug of tea on the table. The Welsh dresser had some lovely blue and white dishes, but he had been given this rude, misshapen cup with a significant and deadly looking chip right where he might place his lips.

“Just sugar, Charlie. I’ll need something sweet if I’m to sit here being harped at.”

“Harped at? I’ve not begun to harp!” She shoved a sugar bowl at him and tongs clattered after it. “You will ruin me! There are probably twenty people staring out their cottage windows waiting for you to emerge. I don’t know why I let you in, I really don’t.” She sat down abruptly and covered her face with her hands.

They were a bit rough, he noted, probably from the gardening and doing for herself in her little house. He should have known that first night when he felt them on his back and buttocks that they were not the hands of a cosseted mistress. But he’d been rather too busy to think.

“Charlie,” he said carefully, “there is no reason for you to be upset.”

“No reason? Because of you I was almost killed!”

“Well,” he replied, dropping a small lump of sugar into the mug, “I suppose I could say the same. But here we are, sharing a comforting cup of tea.” He stuck his finger in and swished, as she hadn’t provided him with a spoon. It was tepid at best. She really must be trying to rush him out of here.

Charlie got up and went to her sideboard. She took down a fragile cup and saucer set and poured her own cold tea, still looking troubled. He wanted to ease the little v that appeared between her dark brows, lift the clouds from her blue eyes, turn her rosy lips up in a smile. “Six thousand,” he said.

Charlie choked on her tea. She set the china down with a crash. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

Bay smiled. “I’m afraid not. I was too busy watching you storm around the kitchen in high dudgeon. You are very captivating when you’re angry.”

Charlie gave a disgusted sniff. “Please. Do be original.”

“It’s true. You are so full of pique and passion, you’ve made an indelible impression on me. I would not be here otherwise.”

“Let me see if I understand you. You will pay me six thousand pounds to go to Dorset with you.”

Bay folded his hands and nodded. This was not entirely how he wanted to woo her to Bayard Court for a romantic interlude. Offering money was so crass. But he was in sore need of comfort, and it seemed Charlie was the only one who could provide him succor. She was not the only one who’d been terrified recently. The sooner he wiped Anne Whitley from his consciousness, the happier he would be.

“You truly have six thousand pounds to throw away for a few days of sexual congress?”

“I had hoped you would spend the summer with me there actually,” Bay said calmly.

Charlie got up as if she were sleepwalking. She came back to the table with a jar of golden plum jam, centering it in front of her. Bay’s stomach rumbled. Surely she was not going to eat without offering him anything. The knife still lay on the floor where she had dropped it earlier. He rose, picked it up, and sliced another piece of bread. “Where do you keep your cutlery?”

She pointed silently to the Welsh dresser. He opened a drawer and took out a spoon from the modest collection of coin silver and tin. Grabbing two plates, he went to work making a jam sandwich for each of them. He gobbled his in three bites while she stared at hers as if she wasn’t quite sure what it was.

“Why?”

Bay swallowed the last chunk. The jam was delicious. He’d seen the plum trees in her front garden. He actually did have an interest in gardening; he was Grace’s grandson, after all. This jar was probably the last of the previous summer’s bounty. A few more mysterious glass containers were lined up on the dresser. Charlie probably put them up herself. “Why what?”

“You have your pick of any lightskirt in London. You own a house on Jane Street, for heaven’s sake, a guarantee that you can attract the most discriminating whore. And I know there is such a thing. I got to know the neighbors a bit. It was-they were astonishing.”

Bay smiled to think of Charlie in the midst of a group of courtesans. He knew there were regular entertainments on Jane Street. He just hadn’t imagined his Charlie being entertained.

“I prefer you, Charlie. We were becoming well used to each other, and not in any sort of boring way, I might add. If you are worried about your reputation, don’t be. Bayard Court is somewhat isolated. Frazier and Mrs. Kelly and Irene will be on hand to provide discreet service. I let most of my grandmother’s staff go when I shut up the house-and found them all employment, so you can wipe that sneer off your face, Mrs. Fallon. The neighbors will respect that I’m in mourning and not expect me to partake in the social scene, what there is of it. We’ll have time to get to know each other better.”

“Whatever makes you think I want to get to know you better?” Charlie’s face was bright red again, not a good omen.

Bay shrugged. “You must admit we were getting on quite well toward the end. I was on my way to visit you when I was kidnapped that night, you know.”

“Rubbish. You were going to France to see my sister.”

“No. I changed my mind. I decided to let Mr. Mulgrew’s operative earn his fee. I didn’t want to leave you, Charlie. Didn’t want to leave your bed.”

She was silent, her hands trembling around the teacup. She must have heard the sincerity in his voice, must understand that he wasn’t ready to leave her behind in Little Fillup forever just yet. A summer idyll would be just the thing for both of them. They’d had a difficult time and deserved some restoration of their spirits. Even if it cost him the earth.

A part of him wished she’d come even without the enticement of a fortune. He glanced around the simple room that was dominated by the large stove. A streak against the whitewashed wall showed where the stove smoked, but the rest of the kitchen was spotless. A gleaming copper teakettle sat atop its surface. The space was cheery without being one bit ornate, much like the parlor he’d had trouble standing upright in. Perhaps her head wouldn’t be turned by money-she was nothing like her sister.

“You tempt me,” she said at last.

“Good.” He grinned at her.

“Oh, not you,” she said scornfully, finding her bite. “It’s nearly impossible to turn down that kind of money, as well you know. I could do a lot of good in the village.”

“I mean the money for you, Charlie, for your future.”

“Little Hyssop is my future. It’s not as though you’re offering me marriage.”

A prickle of unease swept from his neck down his spine. Of course he couldn’t offer to marry her, not that she wouldn’t make some man a happy husband. Judging from the condition of her cottage, she was an excellent housekeeper, not that any wife of his would ever have to lift a finger-his nabob grandfather had ensured that. And he knew from experience her performance in the bedchamber was every man’s dream. She’s certainly bedeviled his nights since they’d been apart.

She stacked and carried her dishes to the slate sink. He pushed his arctic tea aside and stood. “Think about my proposition, Charlie. I’ll be at the Pig and Whistle until I hear from you.”

She continued the washing up, not acknowledging his departure. Fine. Let her stew over it for a day, a week, however long it took. He’d wander about the countryside on his garden tour until she came to her senses and into his arms.