Mistress by Marriage (5 page)

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Authors: Maggie Robinson

Tags: #Historical romance, #Fiction

BOOK: Mistress by Marriage
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She shouldered her way through the kitchen door, wondering how she’d keep the sheet up as she foraged for food. Four sets of eyes looked up in surprise. The traitorous Hazlett was not napping, but having a substantial lunch with his wife, Lizzie, and Ben the kitchen lad. They rose in unison, talking over each other.
“Lady Christie, I hope you understand—”
“Good Lord, you’ll catch your death, dear—”
“Oh! This is so romantic!”
“Gor!”
“Be quiet, all of you,” Caroline grumbled. “I cannot fire you, Hazlett, but I want to. You have aligned yourself with
him
one too many times.”
“My lady,” the butler blustered, “he assured me he wouldn’t harm one red hair on your head! What has the villain done to you?”
“Oh, be quiet. And fetch a ham out of the larder. Make us some sandwiches. You’re good at that. Find me a bottle of the most inferior wine we have. For
him.
Mrs. Hazlett, if I could trouble you for a cup of tea, I’d be very grateful. I need my wits about me. Ben, you are to go out to the garden immediately and forget you ever saw me in such disarray. Oh, hell and damnation, it’s raining. Sit in the shed, then, until Mr. Hazlett tells you to come back in. And Lizzie, please do something with my hair. I cannot go on like this.”
Tea and hairpins and sandwiches miraculously appeared as a goggle-eyed Ben disappeared. Caroline sat silent as the three servants went out of their way to soothe her. A tray was laden and poor old Hazlett mounted the steps with it. She stood like a doll while Lizzie and Mrs. Hazlett draped and knotted the sheet so she was nearly presentable. No doubt Edward would strip her of it at the first opportunity, but at least she could walk upstairs without incident.
Steeling herself, she returned to the scene of the crime. Edward was sitting in bed propped against pillows like an eastern potentate, a sandwich in one hand, a goblet of inferior wine in the other. She supposed she was designated to be the dancing girl.
“You look very fetching in that sheet, Caro. You might even start a new fashion craze. Come join me.”
She raised her haughty chin. “I’m not hungry.”
“Come, come. This was all your idea. Have a bite.” He extended his sandwich toward her.
The bread was fresh and studded with fragrant seeds, the mustard sharp in her nostrils. She could bite his pink thumb off and pretend she mistook it for ham. “No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. Old Hazlett made enough for an army. I’m sure we’ll work up an appetite and get to it later. He tells me that caramel dessert was nowhere to be found, but there’s pie. I know how you like your pie.”
Oh, he was wicked. Andrew had told him about the Cherry Pie Incident and she had not denied it because she couldn’t. Andrew had told him so much that day, but not the whole truth, thank God. She’d been rooted to the floor, mute, disheveled. It had been the worst day of her life . . .
Except for around midnight last night, when she thought Edward was gone forever. Now it seemed she couldn’t get rid of him. And she wanted to. She did.
She collapsed on her dressing table chair. Lizzie had done wonders braiding her hair and pinning it into a rather regal coronet. She could pass for some Roman goddess, one of the obscure ones. Clementia, goddess of forgiveness, although just at present Caroline was full of righteous outrage. Sentia, who helped children develop. She’d helped Edward’s, hadn’t she, as best she could? And Ben, too. But never Disciplina. Caroline had been unable to control her passions all her life.
Edward was not supposed to become her passion, just her husband. She’d seen his sangfroid as a benefit, not a detraction, when they’d first met. True, he was precipitous in his proposal, but she’d taken the ton by storm and was very much in demand. It was only sensible that a sensible man move quickly if he wanted to secure her hand in marriage. And it was only sensible of her to move quickly and accept, before her unpleasant past caught up with her. Edward was steady, reliable, boring, living in a world very different than the one she was trying so desperately to escape. But it had taken Andrew so little effort to insinuate himself into Edward’s world and back into her life. Her year of marriage had been fraught with peril far beyond the management of three obstreperous children.
“Penny for your thoughts, Caroline.”
Her hand shook as she wiped away a tear. “I am tired, Edward. I didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Tsk, tsk. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat.” He patted the bed. “We’ll rest a while. Come here, Caro. Now.”
Because she had no righteous outrage left, she went.
Chapter 5
 
“This contract is illegal,” she sputtered. Her mama had taught her to read before she was forced onto the streets to lead her life of sorry sin.
“So, sue me,” Lord Grant grinned. “I’ll have you, and have you now.”
—The Viscount’s Willing Victim
 
S
he lay curled up like a child beside him, her hairpins scattered on the pillow. Idly he toyed with her braid, losing his fingers in the red silk as he unraveled it. It was a sin to confine hair like that, and words were inadequate to describe its color—not Titian nor auburn nor russet nor ginger. His own Boudicca, although not precisely tall or terrifying.
They’d slept several hours, and slept only. She had been truthful admitting she was tired, as was he. Perhaps because he’d gone so long without sleep he’d made an irrevocable mistake taking her to bed again, but he wasn’t sorry. Yet.
Tomorrow he would go to his old friend Sir William Maclean’s chambers to hammer out what needed to be done to end the marriage. Will would know what to do, and do it quietly until it was necessary to unleash his rapier-like tongue. A bill of divorcement before Parliament was not a light undertaking; it truly might be years before the thing was settled. Edward had the letters, but the damn things were undated, so getting Rossiter on board was imperative. Ironic that his entire future was in the hands of such a man. Rossiter would have to be sued, but Edward was well aware it would be he who would wind up paying the damages to himself. He had a severe dislike for the man, whom he kept tripping over in the most unlikely social situations. Rossiter was no better than a male courtesan, stylish and sleek, always looking to advance himself. Caroline had been foolish in the extreme when she gave her virginity to him without sufficient payment.
Edward looked at his sleeping wife, her face smoothed of artifice. He had hoped her to be an innocent when he married her, but was not too terribly disappointed to find she was not. She did her damnedest to cry out and feign ignorance on their wedding night, but Edward was not a complete innocent himself. There had been his virginal, hesitant Alice, and a few other women besides. It had seemed important to Caroline to continue the fiction that he was her first, so he let it go. She had been five and twenty after all, living a shockingly unsupervised life with her ramshackle brother in the wilds of Cumbria, never coming to town.
Town went to them. Certain elements of it, at any rate. Nicholas had been a viscount with a tumbledown estate and a penchant for sin; his parties had been legendary, reaching even Edward’s staid ears. But her brother was dead and Caroline had seemed eager for a new life. If Edward had not been thinking with his cock for the first time in his life, he would have seen how wrong she was for him and his children. But he couldn’t think then, and now he was thinking too much.
She sighed and stirred, and he drew her closer. Her eyes flew open, black lashes bent and tangled from their encounter with the pillow. “Oh, it
is
true.”
“What?”
“You’re here. I thought it was a dream.”
Edward chuckled. “Yes, I am every maiden’s fantasy.”
“I’m hardly a maiden.”
Edward thought it safer not to comment. Her sexual experience had proved to be one of her few virtues.
She squirmed in his arms. “When are you going home? I need to write. I have a deadline.”
“I’m sure you’ll find some way or other to placate Garrett.”
She pushed at him harder, but he didn’t release her. “You will never think the best of me, will you? Garrett is a friend, a business partner, no more.”
“But he would like to be something more, wouldn’t he? He’s rich. I suppose you could call him handsome. I wonder why it is you’ve suddenly become so proper.” He watched her flush and felt her nails dig into his chest.
She sent him an equally piercing look. “I never mix business with pleasure.”
“Ah, so you’d sleep with a stranger. Or perhaps an old acquaintance.”
“Or an old husband,” she said tartly.
“Touché.” He let her go. The shadows had deepened; it was nearing dusk. They had slept much longer than he thought. Any acrobatics in front of the mirror would have to be postponed. She left the bed in an instant and wrapped herself back in the garish robe.
“Really, Edward, since we are to be lovers, you’ll need to give me some sort of schedule. I do have a life, you know.”
“I’ll have to consult my calendar and get back to you. I should think four or five times a week should do the trick.”
“Four or five times!” she screeched.
“Oh, all right, more often if I must.”
She simply stared at him openmouthed as if he’d grown an additional penis.
He was gratified that he’d robbed the famous author of words. “We’ll settle for six. Thursdays off, since that’s your entertaining day. You might be too fatigued from all the gossip with your neighbors, and I prefer you to be fully responsive.”
“You—you—I will not, I can
not
give six nights a week to you!”
“No one said anything about nights. There are tedious social events I must attend before I leave for the country. As I said, I’ll consult my schedule and write down the dates and hours. You’ll still have plenty of time to write your books. And it won’t be for very long, not even a month. We’ll see how I feel in the fall when I return from Christie Park.” He waited for her to say something, do something, throw something, but she stood absolutely still. “That’s that, then. As it happens, I have an engagement this evening. And I suppose I should check up on Ned and give him a piece of my mind.” He rose and began to dress, keeping an eye on Caroline in case he had to parry an attack. But she was curiously, disconcertingly passive. Her silence unsettled him more than he liked to admit. He was used to her tirades of temper. He’d seen more than enough of them in the year they were married.
Once he had tied his cravat to his satisfaction, he kissed her quickly on a pale cheek. “Good-bye. I’ll be in touch.” He had nearly reached the bottom stairstep when he heard a remarkably vile curse and a satisfying crash. Something wooden this time, he thought. No doubt he’d find out what it was the next time he came to call.
 
“Hell and damnation!” She heaved the carved jewel box against the wall. There was an explosion of topaz and pearls, amethysts and aquamarines, a diamond or two. Caroline was disgusted. Her room looked like a battle zone. The sheets were still balled in a corner and she’d already cut her foot on a Meissen fragment from the earlier vase mishap. She’d been fond of the jewel box, too, a long-ago Christmas gift from her brother. He’d teased her that she’d have a proper place for her paste jewelry, and that one day their fortune would improve and he’d buy her something real. Her gemstones were real now, if mostly inexpensive, but her fortune was as lamentable as ever.
She limped back to the bed, not having the energy to strip it again. Edward’s spoor was everywhere. She’d better get used to it. Apparently he would be tormenting her on a daily basis. Except for Thursdays. She let out a howl and threw herself facedown on the pillow.
There came the tentative tap on the door. Poor Lizzie. Caroline had made a dreadful mess, and it wasn’t fair to make her maid pick up after her. “I’m all right. Go away, Lizzie.”
“Are you sure, Lady Christie? It sounds—it sounds as if something broke again.”
“You mean
I
broke something again. You might as well enter, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The blonde maid opened the door a crack. “I’ve seen worse. I think.”
“Oh, God. What am I going to do?”
“Well, first, you should put your slippers on. Your foot is bleeding on the bedding,” Lizzie said sensibly. “Then you should gather up your jewelry, because I’m not to be trusted. I might abscond with that sapphire choker. I’ve always been fond of it.”
Caroline grinned in spite of everything. She loved it when Lizzie showed some of her old spark. She had been a delightful, mischievous girl before Pope had beaten the daylights out of her.
Caroline climbed off the bed, scooped up the necklace and handed it to Lizzie. It was not from Edward—she had bought it herself to celebrate her first year as an author, and the stones were not so very large or valuable. “It’s yours.”
“Oh, Caroline—Lady Christie, no! I couldn’t take it from you! And where would I wear it anyway?”
Caroline tucked the necklace in the pocket of Lizzie’s apron. “You won’t always be my maid, Lizzie. Someday you’ll have jewels again, and furs, and a fine gentleman to see to your comfort.”
“Now you’re writing me into one of your stories. Not everyone gets their happy ending.”
“Don’t I know it.” Caroline bent over and winced. Whatever she had done to her back while gardening would not go away. Rutting like a wild beast with Edward hadn’t helped much either. She straightened up with difficulty. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. You’ll have to pick up the rest and steal me blind. My back is killing me. I didn’t think of the consequences of my anger. I never do.”
“Sit down while I change the sheets. We’ll put you to bed with a hot brick after a nice hot bath.”
That sounded like heaven. Caroline hobbled to a wing chair by the window. The street was empty of Edward and every other living thing. Most of her neighbors slept their days away since their nights were quite busy. “I’m an awful lot of work for you.”
“Nonsense. I’d do anything for you, Lady Christie.”
Caroline leaned back in the chair. Her cat Childe Harold, Harold for short, had made himself scarce while Edward was visiting. He jumped onto her lap now and purred. When she named the cat for the hero of Lord Byron’s epic poem, it had seemed fitting that as a writer she should give a nod to literature, although truthfully she found Byron rather hard going. Being a girl, she’d not been educated in the classics; being a woman, she found Byron’s antics even more scandalous than her brother’s. Her tastes were simpler, her life distilled into manageable bites.
Edward was going to gobble her up and ruin everything.
Lizzie moved to and fro, sweeping, straightening, lugging water for Caroline’s bath up to the dressing room with an embarrassed Ben. Despite her nap in Edward’s arms, she was still exhausted, and watching poor Lizzie and Ben tired her out even more. But her room was aired and fresh, her bath and clean sheets awaited. She was promised wine and soup and vanilla pudding for supper, things she wouldn’t even have to chew. She sat in the tub like a child, permitting Lizzie to wash her hair and sponge her off, then retired to her bed with a tray, the brick on one side, Harold on the other. She fell asleep before the last ray of sunshine hit the spire of the local church she was too ashamed to attend.
And dreamed. She and Nicky were in the haymeadow at sunset, lying on the ground holding hands. Above, a flock of birds wheeled and swooped, their delicate shadows dappling the earth. Although his lips were moving, she couldn’t hear what he said over the chatter of the birds. He pushed her braid away and pressed his lips to her ear, and suddenly she was waltzing with Edward, his long legs gliding effortlessly on the polished floor. He spun her in circles until she was dizzy, her dress a red blur—as red as the blood that seeped from Nicky’s wound.
She woke with a start and sat up. Harold objected, kneading the coverlet until he was comfortable again. The room was black, the house quiet. Wiping the tears from her face, she punched down the pillow and started her night all over again.
But sleep wouldn’t come. She hated nights like that, when her old demons took root and wouldn’t leave. She supposed she deserved every minute of their haunting—she’d courted sin with naïve fervor, caught it, embraced it.
She’d loved Nicky with all her heart. He was nearly her twin, born just fifteen months before she was. They’d been inseparable until he was sent off to school. Caroline was nearly joyful when her father couldn’t afford to send him to university. But by then he had a new friend, a better friend, Andrew Rossiter. When Caroline’s father died suddenly over a hand of bad cards, Nicky invited Andrew to live with them. An orphan himself with no particular place to go, Andrew had happily assented. Their guardian, a man as improvident as their father, didn’t trouble himself to supervise them, preferring to spend their tiny inheritance in far-off London. When then sensible Mary eloped with her soldier, the three of them had the house to themselves.
There was no one to tell them what to do. There was no one to tell them what not to do. So they did everything, until the money ran out.
It was Andrew who got the bright idea to turn their home into a kind of hotel for vice. Gentlemen who wanted to escape the strictures of town were happy to comply with their exorbitant tariffs. Every month of the year they came for one week of unlimited food, unlimited wine, unlimited sex, gambling, drugs—everything and anything was available for the right price chez Parker. There was no limit to Andrew’s connections or imagination. Caroline was sheltered from most of the debauchery, actually locked safe in her room, because Nicky foolishly hoped she’d make a good marriage someday. He was far more anxious than she was for her to find a rich man to improve the family coffers.

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