Rules for Being a Mistress (3 page)

She started down the hall with his bag in one hand, the candlestick in the other.

As he followed her, Benedict could not help observing that her undergarments were of very fine silk, in marked contrast to the cheap baize of her skirt and jacket. He was able to make this observation because the back of her skirt had been tucked into its waistband. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, he chose to believe this had happened accidentally, no doubt while she was
jumping
into her clothes. Rather than call the faux pas to her attention, which would have embarrassed them both, he reached out and corrected the problem with a sharp, decisive tug.

Cosy whirled around. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Benedict showed her only boredom and a slight, puzzled frown. “I beg your pardon?”

His unruffled calm succeeded in confusing her. “I thought—I thought I felt something brushing against me,” she said uncertainly.

“Oh? I daresay it was a draft.”

Evidently judging it best to keep an eye on him, she backed through the swinging door that led into the servants’ part of the house. After a short flight of stairs leading down, Benedict found himself, for the first time in his life, standing in a kitchen.

Unlike the cold, dark hall upstairs, the kitchen was warm and inviting. Cosy dropped his bag next to the huge brick chimneypiece, placed the branch of candles on the big work table, and invited him to sit down. Though shabby and threadbare, the two chairs beside the fire were upholstered in brocade and must have graced a drawing-room at some point in their careers. As promised, a tortoiseshell cat was curled up in one of them. Benedict took the other.

Miss Cosy’s easy manners seemed better suited to the kitchen. He felt that he was now in her domain and that she, and not he, was in charge. Briskly, she stirred up the small banked fire with the poker, adding a few broken bits of wood to it. Then she stood on tiptoe to retrieve the whiskey bottle from its niche in the chimneypiece. She poured a generous measure into a glass.

“Get this in you quick as you can,” she said, holding it out to him.

He raised a brow. “You keep the brandy in the chimney, do you?”

Her eyes twinkled at him. They were green as the sea. He was less sure about the color of her hair. In this light, it looked more yellow than orange. “There’s no brandy in this chimney,” she told him. “It’s whiskey. And it’s doing you no good this side of your tonsils.”

Leaving him to it, she took the kettle into the scullery to fill it from the pump. “He’ll spoil the milk if he stays,” Nora warned her, taking the kettle from her.

Cosy was not surprised to find Nora hiding or, rather, spying, in the scullery.

“That is an ignorant superstition, Nora Murphy,” she said angrily. “Anyway, he can’t help being left-handed, poor man. He’s an amputee.”

“I had the notion he was foreign the moment I clapped eyes on him,” Nora said darkly.

“Aren’t you ashamed to be so ignorant?” Cosy scolded her. “He’s had his right arm amputated at the elbow, Nora. That means it was cut off by the surgeon. Now, go and make up the fire in my room before I lose my temper.”

Nora was shocked. “Your room, Miss Cosy!”

Cosy blushed. “I’ll be sleeping with
you
in the attic, of course,” she snapped.

When she returned to the kitchen with the kettle, the Englishman was sitting as straight as a ramrod in his chair, but he had finished his whiskey like a man. Encouraged by his thirst, Cosy set the kettle on the hook, swung the arm into the fire, and then refilled his glass. Not a word of thanks did he utter. She could only suppose that extreme privation had made him forget his manners. And, of course, being English, he had little manners to begin with.

She tied on her apron. “You’re hungry, of course,” she said brightly. “And if there’s anything I won’t stand for, it’s a hungry man in my kitchen.”

“No, thank you,” he replied.

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him.

Incredibly, he claimed not to be hungry.

“Are you sick?” she demanded.

“Certainly not,” he said coldly.

“Would you not have something?” she pleaded. “Even if it’s only bread and jam.”

Benedict sipped his second whiskey, accustoming himself to the smoky flavor. “You seemed to be having trouble hearing me, Miss Cosy,” he said. “I am not hungry.”

The sad fact was, she had little in the house to tempt a man’s appetite.

“You should have been here last week, sir,” she sighed. “The scallops were so nice. You wouldn’t have said no to them. God forgive me; I nearly forgot the pear! With a drop of honey, it’ll make you a nice tart.”

She looked at him hopefully, but he was unmoved. “I dined earlier in Chippenham.”

She retreated reluctantly. “If you’re sure you’re not hungry…”

“I am!” he told her curtly.

“Oh, you
are
hungry,” she cried, delighted. “Will it be the tart, then?”

“No, I’m
not
hungry,” he said, cutting short her pleasure. “I am absolutely certain of it.”

He sipped his whiskey.

“Sure that pear was bruised anyway,” she said, rallying. “Is it a pipe you smoke, Sir Benedict? I could fill it for you. My own father smokes a pipe, and, ever since I was a young girl, I’d always fill it for him, so it’s no trouble.”

“I don’t smoke,” he said.

She smiled incredulously. “
You
don’t smoke?”

“Not anymore,” he said with more accuracy. “The tax has become so impertinent, I have decided to give it up for a bad habit.”

“In that case, I’d say your coat’s been sneaking a few behind your back.” She laughed.

Benedict was horrified. “That is not the scent of
my
tobacco,” he said quickly. “I was obliged to take up some stranded people on the road. The gentleman smelled of cheap tobacco—and perfume, unfortunately. The carriage was utterly polluted. But I had no choice. In good conscience, I could not have left them out in the rain.”

“’Tis such a bother, indeed, taking in strangers on a cold, wet night,” she gravely agreed. “Sure they’re more trouble than they’re worth, them strangers, and never a word of thanks!”

“Quite,” he answered, in no way connecting her remarks to his own situation. “But one must always be charitable to those in need. I apologize if the odor offends you.”

“Ah, no. It’s myself that owes you an apology,” she said, sitting down on the brick step with her back to the fire. “Here I thought you’d been out all night, smoking and womanizing, like a proper gentleman!” Her green eyes danced.

Benedict could not believe the woman had sat down in his presence. Usually, his reserved manner was enough to curtail all such impudence. “No, indeed, Miss Cosy,” he said stiffly. “I told you I no longer smoke.”

She laughed out loud. “Just the womanizing then?”

Benedict stared at her. The women of his own class, ladies, never laughed with their mouths open. It was considered vulgar, but, perhaps more important, few women of this age had better than tolerable teeth. So, instead of laughing out loud, they smirked, they tittered, and they giggled behind their gloved fingertips or their fans.

He ought to have been disgusted by this vulgar, laughing Irish girl. Instead, inexplicably, her laughter aroused him. He suddenly wanted to make love to her right there, right where the cat sleeps. It was an irrational impulse, of course, like all sexual attraction, but to deny it would have been even more irrational, and, where irrationality could not be avoided, Benedict liked to keep it to a minimum. Recognizing the attraction was the first step in controlling it.

“I am too old for such exercise, Miss Cosy,” he said firmly.

“Ah, no. Your hair is still black, and your back is still straight. Why, you couldn’t be more than a hundred and ten.”

“Miss Cosy!” he said sharply. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Only for about the past
five
hours,” she said with mock exasperation.

“I am thirty-eight,” he said indignantly. “You cannot be more than twenty-two.”

The kettle whistled, and she jumped up to take it off the hook. “Are you sure you won’t have a cup, Sir Benedict?” she asked. “No sense wasting a boiling kettle, is there?”

“No; I thank you. One is obliged to drink so much tea in society that I never drink it in private life.” He held out his glass. “Whiskey will suffice, I think.”

Cosy hesitated. Having learned from bitter experience that a third glass of whiskey could turn even the most respectable man into a thorough blackguard, she had decided to cut him off at two. “That would be your third, sir,” she reminded him gently. “You might want to slow down.”

“Why?” he said sharply. “Is there something wrong with your whiskey?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then, for no reason he could detect, burst out laughing. Again, her laughter had its unsettling effect on his physiology. With tears in her eyes, she uncorked the bottle. “You’ve earned your third glass, so you have. ‘Is there something wrong with your whiskey?’” she repeated as she poured it out.

She sat down on the step again and wiped her streaming eyes with the corner of her apron. “It’s just the sort of thing Sandy would say, to get a third glass out of me. He could always make me laugh, Sandy. God forgive me, he’s the one I miss the most.”

Benedict felt absurdly jealous of the unknown Sandy.

“I’ve three brothers altogether,” Cosy said, after a moment, persevering in the face of his apparent indifference. The man had a face like carved marble. “
They
appreciated my cooking,” she added, giving him a look of strong reproach. “Of course, they’d eat their own fists if I let them, so it’s hardly a compliment.”

Benedict was pleased. “I see. Sandy is your brother?”

“One of three,” she reiterated.

The possibility of three Irishmen running tame in his house, eating their own fists, did not appeal to Benedict at all. “Are they in Ireland?” he asked, concerned.

“They are not. Larry’s in hell, of course,” she said matter-of-factly, “but there’s hope for Sandy, I’m thinking. I’m on my knees for him, anyway. They served in the Fifty-fourth, the Duke of Kellynch’s Own Regiment of Foot. Do you know it?”

He spoke gravely. “Yes, of course. Only four men survived the Waterloo action.”

She nodded. “My father was one. He’s in India now, with two hundred fresh recruits. Larry and Sandy were not so fortunate. They died there in Belgium, like so many.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gravely. “Especially in regards to poor Larry.”

“They were fighting men,” she said simply. “Were you at Waterloo?”

“Only as an observer.” Benedict held up his glass. “To the fighting Kellynch.”

The toast earned him an unprecedented fourth glass of whiskey. The drink seemed to be loosening his tongue, which pleased her. She thought he was the most interesting man she had ever met. She could have talked to him all night. She never wanted to go to bed.

“You said you had three brothers.”

“My youngest brother is on his way to India now,” she told him. “That’s Dan. He’s only eighteen, the lamb. When you knocked, I was afraid you might be bringing me bad news.”

Reassured that her father and brothers were all out of the way, he had no further interest in her family. “How long have you been acquainted with Lord Skeldings?” he asked abruptly.

“Skeldings?” she repeated in surprise. “Which one is he?”

“How many have there been?” he wanted to know.

“Too many,” she said frankly. “One more lordship, and I’m off to America.”

He frowned at her. “Lord Skeldings is the owner of this house, Miss Cosy.”

“Is he so? It was all handled by agents,” she explained. “I asked only for a nice, quiet place in a respectable street. So I did all right for myself, I think?”

“Certainly Camden Place is respectable enough for anyone,” he said.

She wrinkled up her forehead. “Pretty steep, though, I’m thinking?”

“Yes; but walking uphill is good exercise.”

“No; I meant the rent.” She laughed. “Don’t you think it’s exorbitant? Sure England is a dear place; everything is exorbitant.”

“Not everything, surely,” he murmured.

By strict definition, it was impossible for
everything
to be exorbitant, of course, but Miss Cosy did not seem to concern herself with definitions, strict or otherwise. Her fondness for the word “nice,” for example, almost amounted to a speech impediment. “Aye; everything!” she insisted. “I’ve not had a nice joint of beef these three weeks together.
Eleven
pence a pound! And now it’s Lent, and I couldn’t have it, even if I could afford it.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. If Miss Cosy was to be his mistress, she would have to learn to be more precise in her choice of words, and to elevate her conversation above these mundane matters in which he had no interest. To that end, he would recommend books for her, to improve her mind and refine her tongue. Her soft, creamy voice would remain unchanged. He didn’t even mind her Irish accent. It occurred to him suddenly that she might not be able to read at all; reading was widespread among women of the upper and middle classes, but most of the lower orders, both male and female, usually were illiterate. This was especially true in Ireland.

“What do your friends call you?” she asked him suddenly. “Benny? Or Dick?”

He was appalled. “Neither, I trust!”

“They can’t call you
Sir Benedict,
” she pressed him. “It’s unnatural.”

“It is not unnatural,” he said stiffly. “It is my name. My brother and, occasionally, my sister, call me Ben,” he added reluctantly. “I don’t encourage it. I believe nicknames are a form of degradation.”

“It’s a form of affection,” she argued, laughing. “Ben. I like it.”

Rather to his own surprise, he made no objection to this form of degradation.

She leaned toward him. “Did you know that, in the Italian language, ‘ben’ is an endearment?” she asked him.