Mistress by Mistake

Chapter 22

Bay watched her as she unselfconsciously licked apple tart crumbs from her fingers in the shimmering glow of the lantern. Her glorious hair corkscrewed down her shoulders. The robe had come undone, and each time she had leaned forward to pick another treat from the basket in the center of the carpet, Bay caught a glimpse of plump white breast. The moon had risen, casting a silver stripe on the sea. The sky was spattered with stars and a sultry breeze billowed the makeshift tent. If this wasn’t the perfect time to propose, there would never be one.

He’d moderated his wine intake, wanting to be clear-headed when he made the most decisive declaration of his life. Charlie had no such scruples. She was a bit tipsy, delightfully so. Gone was the cap-wearing solemn spinster of old. In her place was a saucy temptress, whose every movement aroused his unbridled lust.

But he felt more than that. Much more. And hoped to find the words to tell her.

He didn’t think she’d believe him, not after their distinctly rocky beginning and tempestuous middle.

It’s not as if he’d had much practice proposing either, not like his old army friend and fellow baronet Sir Harry Chalmers. Harry had been engaged four or five times. He’d been spectacularly unlucky in love, but the man at least had an initial way with women and words. Harry seemed to propose every time he popped out of bed. A little advice might prove useful right about now.

Of course, Bay had proposed once himself, thirteen long years ago. He couldn’t quite recall what he’d said to Anne to convince her to marry him, but in any event wouldn’t want to repeat that experience. He’d been a callow youth with years’ worth of worshipping her from afar, and she’d been a lonely young widow itching to get out of her parents’ house again. Anyone might have done for her back then, he thought sourly, except somehow she had become as fixated on him now as he was once with her. The fact that Anne had not stayed abroad was worrisome, but he shook his head free of those details. Now was not the time to be ruing the past and recent present. Now was the time to sweep Charlie off her feet with romance and enchantment.

Charlie was already off her feet, lounging in innocent seduction on a stack of cushions. Her eyes were half closed, her lashes casting long shadows on her cheeks in the flickering light. Her alabaster skin glowed, and her lips were stained from the berries and the fine port that Frazier had packed. Bay wanted to kiss those lips, taste the berries and the wine and the tart and Charlie, so he did. She snuggled against him with a sigh.

“This has been perfect.”

He caressed her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “The best is yet to come.”

“What? Have you arranged for some entertainment? Dancing girls from your harem, perhaps? This all does remind me of an Oriental dream-the tent, the carpet, dining on pillows.”

“I wouldn’t insult you with any other women, Charlie. You are the only one I need.”

He felt her stiffen beneath him. Just pretty, insincere words, she’d be thinking. It was now or never.

“Charlie, there’s something I want to talk to you about.” He ran a hand through his too-long hair. By God, he was nervous. “I’m not sure where to start.”

She rolled back on the rug, tucking her legs beneath the dark robe. Her face was covered now with a jet curtain of hair. Just when he wished most to see her, she was drenched in shadow.

“Charlie, look at me. I promise it’s not so terrible. You might even like it.”

“Don’t spoil it, Bay.” Her voice was brittle. “Just let me have tonight. We can discuss me leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving! What the devil are you talking about?”

“This-this holiday or whatever you wish to call it. Our time together is almost up. But I can go home sooner. Lord knows I have plenty of work ahead of me. Why, my garden is probably a jungle! Those village boys won’t know-”

He kissed her again to shut her up. She fought every parry and thrust. Just when he thought he had softened her, she broke away with surprising strength. Tears glistened like diamonds on her cheeks.

“Charlie, sweetheart, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

He should have written the words beforehand and read them. Always was handy with the ladies in a letter, each missive full of flights of fancy and romantic nonsense. But he’d never meant much by them-they were just a way to smooth his way into their beds. Tonight was different, and it was clear Charlie had no idea what was on his mind.

“Marry me,” he blurted.

“What?”

She looked at him with her mouth flapping open, rather like a dazed fish who has realized life as he knew it was over.

“Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, Charlotte Fallon?” He smiled. There. That was much better.

“What?”

“Good lord, Charlie, you’re making this difficult. You haven’t got water in your ears, have you?”

“Water?”

Well, that was an improvement over “what,” though they sounded rather alike. He took her hands in his. “Charlie, I am proposing marriage to you. It’s not something I do every day, mind you, and no doubt I’ve gone about it the wrong way. But you wouldn’t like it if I’d had years of practice and a past littered with wives and fiancées, would you? One is bad enough. And now,” he said, catching sight of her black eyebrows knitting together, “I’ve reminded you of Anne, which I’d hoped never to do. Blast.”

Charlie seemed less fishlike, but her hands were cold as ice. “Let’s get closer to the little stove, shall we? You’re chilled.” He dragged her across the carpet and settled her in front of the camp stove. What he wouldn’t have given for one of these on the Peninsula. There were times he thought he’d freeze to death, but here he was, still alive, making a mess of the most important night of his life.

“You want to marry me.”

She sounded as if she were in some sort of trance, but at least she was talking sense. “Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, I do.”

“W-why?”

“Because.” She’d have to settle for that. He hadn’t quite worked it through his own mind. Oh, he could go on about her delicious sinful body and her wicked sharp tongue, but taken together they didn’t add up. And he wasn’t about to babble on that he loved her. That she bespelled him. She’d think him an imbecile.

“Because why?”

Lord, she was stubborn. Here he’d offered her a life of comparative luxury and she was bedeviling him with questions. He cleared his throat and fixed his eye on the smiling face of the Man in the Moon. That fellow didn’t have to explain, just be and beam down. “We suit, you and I. You must agree we’ve gotten on great guns the weeks we’ve been here. I know you like Bayard Court, and it needs a chatelaine. I’ve decided to retire to the country, and you can keep me company.”

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t it enough? I can settle more money upon you if you like, although I won’t be a cheese-paring ogre. You’ll have whatever you need, and then some. And you love to garden. We can set up the conservatory again with all the plants in the kingdom.”

“I’m not going to marry you because of plants,” she said, her voice rising. “Or housekeeping. Or money, you stupid man! Do you-do you love me?” She was practically screaming now.

Bay reminded himself her tongue was a part of her body that he did in fact love. What harm would it do to tell her? She wasn’t Anne, about to control and subjugate him for his weakness. Charlie was a completely different soul. But he would keep the upper hand at all costs.

“Whatever love is. I hold you in the deepest affection. You are not at all the woman I first thought you to be.”

Bay suddenly found himself sprawled on his arse in the sand. Charlie was above him, shaking a little fist very close to his nose. He knew she was perfectly capable of using it, so he scrambled away. “What have I said? Of course I love you, you little shrew! Why else would I ask you to marry me? You haven’t any money, and you’re old! Mature, I mean, past your first season,” he said hastily, crawling sideways like a crab.

“You utter fiend! How dare you!” Her hair lifted wildly in the breeze, making Bay think of a frenzy of black snakes. Snakes that seemed ready to inject their venom in him with glee.

“Well, let’s be honest. You’re on the shelf,” he tried to reason. “We both have unfortunate pasts, but together we can make a good life.” He ducked too late as she flung sand at his face. “There’s no need of that.” He spat out a mouthful of grit, grateful her aim wasn’t higher. His sight was important to him, and right now Charlie was a vision as the High Priestess of Passion. The belt of her robe trailed in the sand, and she seemed unaware that her body was fully exposed to him in the moonlight. Her nipples were puckered with anger and cold, making him very interested in soothing them. “Sweetheart,” he attempted, “perhaps my choice of words was clumsy, but-”

“Clumsy! What an understatement! Where is the man who wrote ‘I dream of you, despairing when the sun wakes me. For in the darkness you are near, your lips a crimson butterfly dancing from one end of me to another, delighting in my nectar’?”

The words were absurd, yet somehow familiar. “What rubbish! What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh!” She twirled around in pique, swirling up a storm of sand. “I should have known better, truly I should. You’re right-I am ‘mature,’ old enough to know better. If you think I want some marriage of convenience-your convenience-you have another think coming!”

“You silly woman! I just told you I loved you! What more do you want? Fealty? A blood oath? Find me a knife in the basket and it’s done.” He instantly regretted his words. An armed Charlie was not someone to be taken lightly. She could slice out his liver and serve it to him for a midnight snack without a qualm.

So much for sleeping peacefully under the stars. Charlie was stomping off in the direction of the tunnel, tripping on her loose robe. He heard her snort of disgust and watched her tie herself up tight again. Just as well she went into the cool cave to cool down. He’d have to think up something brilliant when she came out to pacify her.

Obviously the elaborate romantic setting had not been enough, and perhaps his statements had been less than heroic. One never reminded a woman of her age if one could help it. But how could Charlie not know how he felt about her? One didn’t do all they did together when one felt indifferent. Dispassionate. He pushed himself off the damp sand, brushing off his backside. He’d like to swat Charlie’s bum for tossing him down, the little baggage. Her temper was uncertain at the best of times. Why on earth did he want to saddle himself with her for eternity?

Bay knew the answer. It was lodged like a chubby little fist in his heart. Charlie’s fist. He truly was putty in her hands, at her mercy, and that was no way to spend the rest of his years. But he could no more dislodge her fist than rip out his heart. They were one.

He settled himself back on the old rug, supine and, yes, vulnerable, wondering what was taking her so long. She’d left the lantern behind, but he hadn’t heard her curse the darkness. He’d give her time. Privacy. He tucked a pillow under his head and gazed at the cloudless velvet sky. Thousands of stars twinkled above, dimmed a bit by the brightness of the full moon. From his position, he could see the stone door ajar. Surely she wouldn’t bumble in the dark through the passage up to the house-he’d only had Frazier clear the little room free of dust and cobwebs for the makeshift necessary room, and she would get unpleasant surprises if she were so foolish. In a minute or two he’d pick up the lantern, casually stroll up to the cave, and inquire as to her health. After all, she had drunk a fair amount of three kinds of wine. He’d like to think her choler was caused by overindulgence, but he knew he’d bungled his offer of marriage.

The waves lapped in hypnotizing rhythm yards away, though Bay was alert to the nuances of the night. An owl flew slow and low over the beach in search of prey, its wingspan startling. There were encouraging hoots in the distance as the creature inspected Bay in a lazy loop.

Bay tossed a crust onto the sand. “Go away. We need the rest for breakfast.” The owl couldn’t be bothered, but two sandpipers darted from the dunes and fought an energetic battle over the crumbs. Bay sat up to watch the racket, then pulled a watch from the pocket of his robe, a habit from the army he’d never broken. He needed to know what time it was, although he had nothing in particular to do but woo the woman he wanted to marry. A shadow intervened. Smiling his most charming smile, he turned.

“Frazier told me where to find you.”

Bay kept his smile in place, but his throat constricted. Lady Anne Whitley, cloaked from head to toe in widows’ black, edged up to the carpet, the silver barrel of her gun glinting. Bay took a deep breath, confirming his fears. The weapon had been fired recently, but he’d heard nothing out here except the birds, the waves, and the wind.

“He didn’t want to tell me. Loyal to a fault, he is.”

“I hope you haven’t done something foolish, Anne.” He kept his voice steady, but as loud as he dared, praying that Charlie would stay put.

She shrugged, the hood of her cloak falling back. “He’ll live, if those stupid girls have their way. It was just a scratch.”

Frazier would have been on the road to the village, walking the Toothaker sisters home. Perhaps between the two of them they had helped him to safety and then had the presence of mind to send someone after Anne before she shot the second man of her evening. If something happened to Frazier-

Or to Charlie-

Bay would kill Anne himself.

He couldn’t think twice about it. The woman he had loved once had disappeared.

He watched the gun waver. She was as nervous as he was.

“Where is she?” Vitriol dripped from each word.

“Where is who?” he bluffed.

“Your whore, Bay. The little slut you ran off to Dorset with. That Charlotte.” She spat out the name as though its taste was foul. “You tricked me in London, Bay, sent me away. But I came back.”

He would never be free of her. Charlie would never be safe from her. Did Anne’s parents know the lengths to which she’d gone? Could they keep her confined before she did something desperate? Deadly? They had an aversion to scandal, had done their best to hush up Anne’s bigamy, turned a blind eye when Anne had complained of Whitley’s treatment of her. She’d had no one to turn to for years, except him, stolen moments in a broken life.

“We had a disagreement. She’s gone off somewhere. Surely you heard?”

“I’m sorry to have missed that.” She looked around at the little seraglio he’d created. “Very romantic. Wasted on a tart like her. You never learn, do you? Silly letters, extravagant gestures.”

The letters! That’s where the whole butterfly-nectar tripe came from, all those letters he wrote to Deb to keep her sweet. Charlie must have read more than the one about the necklace. He pictured her in a starched white cap, a frown on her face, poring over the little bundle that had been tied with a blue ribbon. At least she’d have them if he died, words that weren’t even written to her but had meant something just the same.

Bay flopped back on the carpet, inching toward the trunk that held his pistol. They had used it as a dinner table, the bottle of port and two glasses still resting on the surface.

“Do you mean to shoot me, Anne? I say, I’d much rather share the rest of this wine with you. If I’m about to meet my Maker, or more likely go to the devil, at least the pain of it will be dulled.”

“What good are you to me dead?”

“None, I should think. Do you still wish to go forward with your procreation plan? If so, holding a gun on a man is somewhat suppressive of any ardor he might manage. I confess despite the romantic setting, I’m limp as a willow branch at the moment. Not my best night, I’m afraid. What with the little whore lacerating me with her fishwife’s tongue and you threatening me with that pistol, my willy’s awfully weak.”

“You won’t fool me again, Bay. Don’t bother. Lie back.” Cocking the pistol, she smirked in triumph at him.

“Oh, Anne.” He failed to keep the despair out of his voice.

He could try to do as she wished, hoping she’d be so distracted Charlie would somehow emerge from the cave and run up to the house for help, if there was any to be found. He’d kept them short-staffed on purpose, protecting Charlie’s reputation. There was Mrs Kelly. Irene. A scrawny kitchen boy if he remembered correctly. Frazier was wounded, and with luck being tended to in the village. Two stable lads, callow youths with spots, probably sound asleep. His old coachman. Reinforcements were coming tomorrow, too late to save him from this calumny tonight. “You’ll deny me that glass of wine?”

He could topple the bottle, make a pretense of getting another inside the trunk, seize the weapon.

And then shoot her. Perhaps not to kill after all, but to send her own weapon flying into the sand. It was a good plan, the best he could come up with on short notice.

“You’ve had enough. Undo your breeches, Bay. Now.”

Charlotte stood in the oblong of moonlight watching, her heart in her throat.

She had done her business earlier, quite furious after the worst proposal in the history of mankind. Stewing a bit in the dark, she contemplated turning back into the hidden passage to reach the house, but it was pitch-black and the route was unfamiliar. She hadn’t the luxury of playing hide-and-seek and pirates in the tunnel to know where she was. Bay had said he and the servants had brought everything down to the beach over the lawn, so it would be most unwise of her to brave through decades of cobwebs to reach an equally dark cellar.

So she had sat on the swept floor to think, wrapping the cashmere robe around her. Bay didn’t know about the baby, yet he still had asked her to marry him. That was a good thing, she reckoned. There was no talk of duty or guilt. She might be old, but not too old to have his child. He’d be surprised when she told him, but she wouldn’t tell him yet. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be hers. She’d go out there and make him re-propose, this time with a few high-flown phrases, something a woman could cherish on a cold night when the silver in her hair outnumbered the ebony and her bright blue eyes were cloudy and gray. Perhaps she should ask him to write it in one of his infamous letters-his pen was much prettier than his tongue. Although his tongue had its uses. She had shivered with remembrance.

And then she had risen, gone to the secret door, and seen a menacing black wraith standing over Bay with a moonlit silver gun. Heard Bay’s bravado. Saw as he cleverly lounged toward the trunk and the disappointing result. Heard the ominous click of the pistol. The voices were subdued now, carried off by the wind.

There had been an old lantern in the corner. Silently Charlotte backed back along the wall, extending her bare foot. There. She touched cold metal. As she bent to pick it up, the handle came off in her hand and the lantern clattered to the floor, splintering, its echo sounding like cannon fire. Please God that Anne didn’t hear it and come to investigate. Charlotte didn’t doubt that Lady Whitley would shoot her dead without thought. But maybe the sound of the ocean and the gulls and Anne’s black beating heart obscured the noise.

Charlotte picked up a curved scrap. Could she use the lantern shards like a knife? She really didn’t think she had the strength to plunge a bit of broken metal into another human, no matter how worthy there were of dismemberment. But she had to do something.

She wouldn’t have time to delve into the trunk and get the gun, not that she would know what to do with it to begin with. She’d probably shoot Bay by accident and then she’d want to shoot herself. She had the belt to her robe-a garrote? The thought of strangling Anne was remarkably appealing, but Charlotte knew she’d lose her will or her footing, and the gun might go off. There was nothing for it. She returned for the chamber pot, tipping the contents into the bladed beach grass, using one of the linen rags to dry it out as best she could with trembling hands. Bay was prone now, the striped robe pulled up from his legs, the soles of his bare feet curiously innocent. Anne appeared to be sitting on him, her back straight, the gun not visible but undoubtedly trained on him. Anne was sick. Deranged and obsessed. And if anyone deserved to be crowned with a chamber pot, it was Anne Whitley.

Charlotte waited. There was murmuring, awkward shifting, then regular movement. She froze, realizing the full extent of what she was watching. But she needed to find her courage, find the right time to interrupt this hellish display when Anne would be too preoccupied to expect anything other than fulfillment of her obscene fantasy.

Charlotte clutched the porcelain bowl with both hands, gliding across the evening-damp sand. The Man in the Moon winked and grinned down at her. If she succeeded, the story would be too good to ever tell, a joke she would share with the full moon and her husband. If she failed, the clouds would blot out all the light in her life.

She was so near. As was Anne, moaning, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. Charlotte was now close enough to see Bay’s pale face, his eyes shut, his mouth a grim straight line. Good. If he had been enjoying himself, she might have had to brain him as well. Raising her arms, she dropped the pot down with all her might. Anne swayed for a harrowing moment, then toppled to her side, a deafening roar following.

The gun had discharged harmlessly into the sand. Charlotte picked it up and flung it underhanded into the encroaching waves.

“Nice to see you. Excellent aim. On both counts.” Despite his blinding smile, Bay’s rough voice betrayed his anxiety. He was scrambling up, pulling the striped banyan down over a rather flaccid cock.

“I’ll marry you,” Charlotte said, her eyes suddenly moist. “But I want a proper proposal. The last one was rubbish.”

“I’ll do better tomorrow.” He pulled a long length of rope from the trunk and efficiently trussed up Anne’s arms. Squelching the desire to roll her into the sea, he tied her securely to one of the tent poles. Someone else would have to deal with her. He was done.

And a good thing too. For his brave Charlie had fainted, pitching backward onto the rug with an alarming thud, just like the first day he met her. This time he knew she wasn’t faking. He scooped her up and carried her back over the rocks and grass, heedless of his bare feet, shouldering his way into the closest room, which was the empty conservatory. The moon and stars shone through the glass ceiling, bathing the room in ghostly light. He laid her out on one of the wooden worktables and gently patted her cheeks.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your prince is here, and I will never, ever let you go.”