A Perfect Mistress

Chapter One

Jackson stood on the steps of the house, hands clasped behind him, face stern. He should knock on the door. Yet here he stood, scowling at the massive knocker, making no move to use it. He huffed out an impatient breath.

Either do it or
don't
, man, he told himself. Stop standing here like an escapee from an asylum. Before he could change his mind, he gave a quick rat-a-tat-tat on the ornate door.  The servant who answered seemed taken aback by the eye patch and the scarred face, but he was civil enough.

In a matter of moments, he
found himself in a sitting room and
offered a drink. No insipid tea here, he thought approvingly, swirling the whiskey around in the fine, heavy glass. When the madam of the house walked in
and smiled
, he eyed her approvingly as well, and got right down to business.

Half an hour later, he stalked out the door and marched down the steps, his face carefully expressionless as he jammed his hat down on his head.  Acquiring a mistress had sounded so easy when
he'd
first thought of it; come to St. Louis, find a woman who had no scruples about being paid to sleep with him, and take her home.
And
it
had
been easy until they realized where they would be staying. He offered money enough for them to overlook his scarred face and his unpolished ways
. It was the
accommodations
that he offered them that
was
the problem – it was the big city where they wanted to be,
not the wilds of Missouri.

********************

When had she turned into such a spineless ninny?

Sophie shifted her basket to her other arm, frowning as she walked briskly down the street. Had it been when David died and left her penniless, and she
was forced
to go and live with her stern, joyless father in his cold, miserable house? When her father had died a scant six months later, making no provisions for her? 
Or
when Thomas, the distant cousin who professed to love her, had forced her to the floor and … Sophie stopped the bad memories with a shudder, before they could overtake her. 

She frowned irritably as she entered Mrs. Dunn's dressmaking premises, frightening
the poor
assistant into believing that she was unhappy with her purchases.  Sophie's conscience smote her, so she softened her manner and assured the sweet girl that she was quite, quite happy with her choices. By the time she left, the assistant was beaming, for she believed that
she
was the
sole
reason Sophie frequented the establishment. 

Sophie's pace slowed as she started home, the frown returning to her face.  What difference did it make, really? She had woken, finally, from the haze of unhappiness she had existed in for three years. She'd been so fearless before; just look at how
hard
she'd fought Father for permission to marry David even though he was a poor country lawyer, and she'd come out victorious in the end.  It was time to find that
woman again, the one who wasn't afraid of anything.
It was time to stop being spineless and return to the person she used to be.

After Thomas had hurt her,
he'd
wept on the very breasts
that
he'd savaged, sworn he loved her and worshiped her and
he would never touch her again.
He had been overcome by lust, he said,
and he would be careful to avoid such situations from now on,
but Sophie
wasn't
a fool. She knew a little something about men, and
she knew
that a man who hurt a woman once was prone to do it again, and
she'd
run. As soon as he let her go,
she'd
run as
far and as
fast as she could, right to the one person she had believed would be happy to see her:
Delia, her scandalous sister.
Their father had disowned Delia years ago and considered her as good as dead, but Sophie had always known where to find her.

And
Delia
had
been happy to see her, only not for the reasons Sophie had
imagined.
No matter how much Delia had seemed to dote on her after their mother died, it was not familial love that had thrown open the doors of her home and made her nearly weep with joy upon greeting her sister. It was the prospect of unpaid help.

For someone who spent money so lavishly on herself, Delia was a pinch-purse when it came to anything else. She'd let a maid go soon after Sophie arrived, explaining airily that she was no longer needed, because Sophie would be happy to take up the slack, wouldn't she? 
And
she wouldn't mind taking that small room in the servant's quarters, would she?  Because it
wouldn't
do for her friends to know that some sad little ghost like Sophie was actually related to such a famous actress.
When Sophie got back on her feet again and she looked a little better, then she would introduce her as her sister. After all, no one noticed servants, did
they
? No one would think a thing about it.

Sophie snorted. Famous
actress
. It
hadn't
taken her long to realize that Delia
made a living as a kept woman
, not an actress. It was how
she'd got
the house she lived in, the jewels she wore
, and the clothes on her back.
She'd
had precisely two acting jobs since Sophie had arrived three years ago, and both of those because she'd been sleeping w
ith the owner of the playhouse, and even
that
couldn’t keep her the parts for long. She was a terrible
actress
; she’d been booed off the stage two nights running in her last job, and Sophie had overheard the playhouse owner telling her that she was too much trouble to keep around. His wife was getting suspicious, even her beautiful breasts
weren’t
enough to blind the audience to her terrible acting, and he couldn’t afford her, he said. She had expensive tastes, and he had a theater to run. Delia had gone off in a huff, swearing that she would never work for him again and
he’d
be sorry, he would. There were plenty of others lining up at her door, and she
didn’t
need him. When she was famous, he could come and apologize,
and if he groveled enough, she might forgive him.

Delia
hadn’t
had an acting job since. She
had
survived
this long only
because she had
men who paid her
, and she had currently been without a lover for months.

It was beginning to worry Delia
,
it was easy to see
.
She was fast running out of money, and
s
he'd
sold
the last
of h
er real jewels a month ago. T
he ones she had left were made of paste.
Sophie knew, because
she’d
been the one to take them to the jeweler and bargain for a good price.
She’d got
enough money to keep a frugal household going for about four months, and then Delia would be penniless. Sophie was worried, too; what would she do if she
couldn’t
live here? Delia
wasn’t
exactly a model of sisterly love. If
Delia had to sell this house, Sophie would get nothing, and Delia
wouldn’t
lift a hand to see her settled. A woman alone
wasn’t
safe in this city, and the worry had been keeping her up nights.

Delia had
been a terror for weeks, flying into rages, becoming progressively more demanding, and
unstable.
She’d
reduced the cook to tears on at least two occasions, and she’d thrown a chamber pot at the poor girl who helped Sophie with the heavy cleaning two days a week because her bedroom carpet wasn’t clean enough.
And
worst of all, she’d thrown a tantrum at the haberdashery because the lace on her new bonnet was torn after she wore it only once. The genteel woman who made the bonnets and hats there had ordered them out, her nose quiv
ering, and Sophie had pulled Delia
away still raving.

Sophie did her best to soothe her out of her behavior, and sometimes it worked. Delia would break down into tears, and then let Sophie lead her to her room and put a cold cloth on her head while she lay on the bed. She was always sorry after her temper tantrums, and she went to apologize sweetly to everyone
she’d
offended with her behavior. The woman from the haberdashers
wasn’t
having it, though; she told Delia that she could find elsewhere to shop. She worked in a respectable shop, and she
wouldn’t
have the likes of Delia in it. Sophie had held her breath, hoping that Delia
wouldn’t
make another scene, and she let it out in a whoosh when Delia only turned away with a sniff and said she didn’t like their
inferior goods, anyway. She
would be glad to shop elsewhere.

Then t
wo days a
go, Delia had
done the unthinkable: S
he struck Sophie in the face when something
wasn't
ironed to her satisfaction. It had been at that moment, while Sophie was holding a hand to her stinging cheek
and Delia was shrieking at her
, that
she realized in horror what she ha
d allowed her life to become. 

She was Delia's drudge, and this would be her role for the rest of her life unless she did something
about it
soon
.

When Delia had left last night for an evening at the theater, the entire household had breathed a sigh of relief. When she'd come home in the wee hours of the morning, she'd been in a fine mood, giggling and singing, and when she'd rung for Sophie to come and help her out of her dress, s
he'd actually been almost kind, something that hadn’t happened for
quite some time
.
While some of her good mood could be attributed to
all
the champagne
she'd
drunk, it wasn't the only reason
she was happy
. 

It meant, of course, that she had another man in her sights.

Chapter Two

Jackson stood on the steps of yet another house, scowling again at a doorknocker.  If this one didn't turn out to his satisfaction, he was giving up and going back to his country home.
He'd
had enough of St. Louis
, and he longed for the country
.
At least there, if people
didn’t
know how to behave, he could hide
on his farm
and not have to deal with them.
He was tired of people who stared at him and snickered behind their hands, and
he was weary
of soft women
whose
hard eyes
were
filled
with scorn. 

He rapped firmly on the door, and found himself staring into the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. 

Sophie smiled up at the striking
gentleman
on the doorstep, her smile turning quizzical when he stared at her strangely and said nothing. She let her eyes roam over him appreciatively; he was tall and
well-built
, and his clothes fit his firm body superbly. His coat molded itself to the hard muscle in his shoulders and his trousers followed the long line of his muscled legs. Sophie felt a rush of heat and jerked her eyes back up to look at his face, hoping he hadn't caught her staring, but it was a vain hope. A small smile curled the generous mouth and his eyes twinkled naughtily, but still he said nothing.  He
was
wearing an eye patch and he had a scar on that side of his face as well.
It snaked across his face and bisected his cheek, and the thick, ropy line was still red. It was a new injury, no more than a year old.
Sophie felt her heart melt; perhaps the reason he
didn't
speak was because of an injury.