Rules for Being a Mistress Read online

  Slowly the girl uncrossed her ankles, then crossed them again, this time with the other ankle on top. “What sort of an awful mistake?” she asked curiously.

  “Damn,” he murmured in dismay. To his chagrin, he was experiencing the first stirring of male excitement. Rationally, he knew that this was not his fault. It was merely a physical response to being alone with a disreputable female, a female who had come here to pleasure him.

  She stood up and pulled the strings of her cloak and let it fall to the ground. He stared at her, unable to help himself. The simple white garment she wore fitted her tightly in the bodice but hung loosely about her legs. His eyes made the pleasant journey from her shapely ankles to her heart-shaped face. Incredibly, Pickering had got it exactly right. Then his whole body recoiled in shock as he recognized the cool green eyes of Miss Vaughn.

  She had taken great pains to disguise herself. She had painted her face with white lead and put on a long, tangled red wig. He guessed it was her mother’s. Her lips and cheeks were heavily rouged. Her eyelashes and brows had been darkened inexpertly with kohl. She looked like a badly painted doll, but it was not enough of a disguise to fool him. He would have known those green eyes anywhere.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Vaughn?” he said angrily. “Have you lost your reason?”

  Cosima’s heart skipped a beat. He could not possibly recognize her! The last time she had looked in the mirror, she had not recognized herself. Evidently, she looked more like herself than she had realized. Sobering thought!

  “Do you need money as badly as this?” he said a little more calmly.

  “I’m not Miss Vaughn,” she said, scowling. “I’m her sister. But I was born on the wrong side of the blanket, so I’m not acknowledged in the eyes of the world. They keep me locked in the attic by day. I’m the dark secret of the family.”

  He didn’t seem to give her story any credence, however.

  “I see,” he said. “You’re the illegitimate half-sister. Of course you are.”

  “I prefer the term love child, if you don’t mind.”

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Benedict went to the door and opened it so unexpectedly that Pickering almost fell into the room. “Pickering, you may retire for the evening,” his master said coldly. “I shan’t need you anymore tonight.”

  He closed the door in Pickering’s face. After pausing to collect himself, he turned to face his uninvited guest. The right thing to do, of course, would be to end this ridiculous charade at once, snatch that repulsive wig from her head, spank her, and send her home with tears carving lines into her painted cheeks. To do anything else would be stupid and irrational, not to mention immoral and illegal.

  “I’m afraid I’m not being much of a host,” he said clearly. “Please, sit down. May I offer you a little brandy? Or sherry, perhaps?” He was already walking toward the liquor cabinet.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Certainly not,” he said, pouring out the brandy for himself with a steady hand that belied his jumping nerves. He downed it in one gulp and quickly poured out another.

  “Please, sit down, Miss—?”

  “Cherry,” she answered promptly.

  “What an unusual name,” he said. “Short for Charity, I suppose?”

  “No,” she said impatiently. “It’s because of my hair.”

  “Of course. Please sit down, Miss Cherry.”

  She thought about it. After a moment, she walked around to the front of the sofa, flounced her skirts, and seated herself with her ankles crossed and her knees clamped together. He sat down in one of the chairs and took a sip of brandy.

  “Now, then, my dear,” he said in his best avuncular tone. “As I was saying, there’s been a dreadful mistake. My manservant got it completely wrong, I’m afraid.”

  Her green eyes narrowed. “Oh? You didn’t order a girl to warm your bed for the night?”

  “God, no! What do you think I am? A dirty old goat? I would never do anything so crass as to hire a woman for immoral purposes. I’m simply not that sort of man. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a prostitute,” he added quickly. “Some very nice people are prostitutes, or so I understand. You seem very nice, and I’m sure you’re very good at whatever it is you do. Please don’t take it personally.”

  Cosy glared at him.

  “I don’t happen to regard women as disposable commodities, that’s all,” he said piously. “How exactly did you come across Mrs. Price, being locked up in the attic all day, as you are?”

  “I want to earn enough money to go to America,” she explained. “So I snuck out of the house and went to see Mrs. Price for a job. And she sent me here. You’re my first job. She said you were a rich bastard, and you’d pay me a king’s ransom for the jewel of my innocence, so how could I resist?”

  “Good heavens!” said Benedict. “Here I thought I was hiring a—a respectable, hard-working young woman to work for me. How could Mrs. Price have got it so wrong?”

  “Oh? Was it a servant you were after hiring?” she said, folding her arms under her small breasts, her skepticism apparent. “Someone to tidy up? Starting with your dangler, I suppose!”

  “My what?” he asked, apparently puzzled.

  “Your affair,” she clarified. “Your yard-arm. Your love-dart. Your thing, man!”

  “Oh, my thing,” he said, understanding her at last. “It’s very kind of you to offer, Miss Cherry, but I am perfectly capable of tidying up my own dangler. I wanted you for something else. Something completely different.” He sipped his brandy as he tried to think of what that something else might be. “Something perfectly respectable. Some honest employment that would require you to visit me alone late at night…I just can’t seem to remember at the moment what it might be, but it has absolutely nothing to do with the jewel of your innocence.”

  “Let me guess,” she said helpfully. “You’re an artist, and you want me to model for you in the nude for your latest masterpiece. Am I getting close?”

  “Alas, I am not artistic. You could pose for me in the nude all night, but I fear the result would not be a masterpiece. I don’t even sketch.”

  “Why can’t you just admit it?” she demanded crossly. “You want a girl in your bed, and you’re willing to pay for it. You want me.”

  “You do seem to possess all the necessary qualifications,” he admitted. “However, I don’t want to take you to bed. For one thing, I’m much too old for you.”

  “Then why didn’t you ask for an old woman?”

  “Because I needed a young woman for the job.”

  “Which is?”

  His eyes roamed over the book-lined room, searching for inspiration. “Well, Miss Cherry, I am glad you ask. I’m no longer young, and my eyes are tired. I can no longer read into the night as I used to, which is fairly devastating, as I love a good book. I thought I might employ someone with young eyes to read to me.”

  Her painted mouth twitched as she fought back the sudden urge to giggle. There was nothing wrong with the man’s eyesight. He had recognized her immediately.

  “Someone? An Irish girl with red hair, green eyes, and a small bosom, for example?”

  “Yes, exactly. You see, when I was a boy, I had an Irish governess. She used to read to me at night. I found her voice very soothing. She had red hair, green eyes, and, ahem, a small bosom. She was almost like a mother to me, really.”

  “What part of Ireland?” she demanded.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “What part of Ireland was she from, your governess? It’s a simple question.”

  “Oranmore. I have cousins there.”

  “You’re Irish?” she said, startled.

  “No, of course not,” he said irritably. “I have cousins there, that’s all.”

  “Have you tried spectacles?” she inquired politely. “For the reading?”

  “I’m too vain to wear spectacles,” he explained. “Even when I’m alone, I lik
e to feel handsome. You might not think it to look at me, but I’m completely eaten up with pride.”

  She sniffed.

  “Now, perhaps, we should agree on a price for your services,” he suggested.

  Her green eyes snapped. “What?” she said sharply.

  “For reading to me,” he said mildly. “Penny a page? You do read, don’t you?”

  “Of course!” she said indignantly. “Tuppence a page. Take it or leave it.”

  “I think,” he said, “I will take it.”

  She pursed her lips. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just get another girl?” she said.

  “Quite sure.”

  “And what will I be reading to you, then? Some dirty book, I suppose?”

  “My old governess would never approve of that,” he said mildly. “I always try to read something edifying before I go to sleep. Keeps the old brain sharp.” He went to his desk and picked up a book. “Right now I am reading this,” he said, bringing it to her.

  “The Subjection of Women, by Mr. John Stuart Mill.” She looked up at him in astonishment. “You dirty fecker!”

  “The author is not in favor of it,” he quickly explained. “Neither am I, really. In case you wondered. Shall we begin? Have you got enough light there?” Without waiting for a reply, he got up and placed another branch of candles on the table behind her.

  “Thank you.” She opened the book on her lap. “And, just so you know, I wasn’t going to sleep with you. I was going to blackmail you, but that’s all.”

  Benedict returned to his chair. “I am glad to hear it, Miss Cherry. I’d hate to think you were the kind of girl who would yield up the jewel of her innocence for a king’s ransom.”

  She looked grave, cleared her throat, moistened her lips, and began to read:

  “The object of this Essay is to explain as clearly as I am able grounds of an opinion which I have held from the very earliest period when I had formed any opinions at all on social political matters, and which, instead of being weakened or modified, has been constantly growing stronger by the progressive reflection and the experience of life. That the principle which regulates the existing social relations between the two sexes—the legal subordination of one sex to the other—is wrong itself, and now one of the chief hindrances to human improvement; and that it ought to be replaced by a principle of perfect equality, admitting no power or privilege on the one side, nor disability on the other.”

  About halfway through the first sentence, she lost her Irish accent and began to read in a pompous English accent. He supposed she was imitating him, and he supposed correctly. She broke off abruptly as he suddenly crossed the distance between them and sat beside her on the sofa. “Hello!” she said. “Were you not comfortable in your chair?”

  “Excessively comfortable, but I was having just a little trouble hearing you over there.”

  “I can speak up, but it’ll cost you,” she offered.

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” he replied. “I’ve become quite hard of hearing in my old age.”

  “Deaf and blind? Poor man,” she murmured, clicking her tongue. “I almost feel guilty making you pay for it, but I’m not running a charity, you know.”

  “Please go on, Miss Cherry,” he said crisply. “Exciting stuff, is it not? This notion of perfect equality between men and women?”

  “I never met a man who was my equal,” she answered scornfully. “And I never met a man who thought I was his.”

  “I should have thought the subject would be of great interest to you,” he said, surprised.

  Jumping up from the sofa, she threw open the beveled glass doors of one of the bookshelves. “Look at all these gorgeous books! They can’t all be dry as shite!”

  “By all means, choose something more congenial to your taste,” he said. “What sort of books do you like to read? Novels, I suppose?”

  “Too long,” she complained. “Too many characters. Too many things to remember. Sure I can’t be bothered with all that. Have you got anything funny? I love a good laugh.”

  Benedict consulted the shelves for something in the humorous vein and finally pulled down a dusty green book. “Miss Cherry” took it from him, opened it to the title page, and read:

  “GULLIVER REVIVED;

  “OR, THE VICE OF LYING PROPERLY EXPOSED: CONTAINING SINGULAR TRAVELS, CAMPAIGNS, VOYAGES AND ADVENTURES IN RUSSIA, THE CASPIAN SEA, ICELAND, TURKEY, EGYPT, GIBRALTAR, UP THE MEDITERRANEAN, ON THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, AND THROUGH THE CENTRE OF MOUNT AETNA, INTO THE SOUTH SEA.

  “Also,

  “An Account of a Voyage into the Moon and Dog-star, with many extraordinary particulars relating to the cooking animals in those planets, which are there called the Human Species.

  “By BARON MUNCHAUSEN.”

  She looked at him and laughed.

  The next morning the baronet ate his breakfast with uncommon gusto, slathering his digestive biscuits with shocking amounts of marmalade.

  “You appear to be in good spirits this morning, Sir Benedict,” Pickering remarked smugly. After all, it had been his initiative that had brought about the happy event.

  “I am in excellent spirits, thank you, Pickering,” Benedict replied.

  “And may I say, sir, you look ten years younger. Your company obviously agrees with you. Will your special guest be visiting us again any time soon?”

  “Yes,” Benedict answered. “Tonight. I’ve given…my friend…a key, so you needn’t wait up. But I should like to offer her some refreshment.”

  “A key, sir?” Pickering was alarmed. “Do you think that wise?”

  Benedict glared at him. “As I was saying, I would like to offer my friend some refreshment. Nothing too heavy.”

  “Strawberries and champagne?”

  “Perfect! We’ll have a picnic on the rug. I am attending the theater tonight, but I shall be home by eleven-thirty. See that everything is ready for us in the study.”

  Pickering was enthusiastic. “Very good, Sir Benedict.”

  That night, he left the Theatre Royal with a spring in his step. He had paid only scant attention to his company, even less to the play. Miss Cherry reading Munchausen in an outrageous German accent was more entertaining than anything Bath had to offer, he was sure.

  He had enjoyed every moment spent with her, even if it was only reading, and, he believed, she had enjoyed his company as well. Was she already in his study, waiting for him? He imagined her sitting on the sofa, her white skirts spread, her eyes on the door in anticipation of his arrival, her plump lips slightly parted. He became sharply aroused just thinking of her.

  He let himself into the quiet house. To his disappointment, “Miss Cherry” had not yet arrived, but it was only a little after eleven. She was not so very late. He could be patient.

  A bottle of champagne was in the ice bucket on the liquor cabinet. A blue and white china bowl full of hothouse strawberries sat on a silver tray on the ottoman.

  At half past eleven, he dug out his watch and checked it against the clock on the mantel. Both the clock and his watch seemed to be keeping excellent time. She had promised to read to him again tonight, but, it seemed, she had decided to break her promise.

  Time and again he fell for her tricks and, each time, she was only mocking him.

  Furious, he dug out his silver cheroot case. It was better this way, he decided, as his anger cooled. Let it end before it begins. He was glad she did not come, he told himself. True, she had amused him last night, but he would soon find something else to amuse him. He could even ask Mrs. Price to send him another girl, if he chose.

  He did not care if he ever saw Miss Cherry again. If he did, he would probably strangle her. Miss Cherry indeed! No one outside of a playhouse was ever named that. Did she think he was an idiot?

  A little after midnight, he put out his cheroot and stood up to go to bed. At almost the same moment, the door opened, and Miss Cherry, dressed in an unattractive green baize jacket and skirt, slipped into the room. Cold air swirl
ed into the room with her. She ran to the window and, without so much as a word to him, twitched the curtain aside and looked out.

  “You’re late,” he said sternly.

  “I know!” she whispered. She sounded frantic. She was out of breath, as if she had been running. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t get away sooner, with that fecking dirty constable of the Watch lingering in the street like a bleeding vagrant!” She let the curtain fall closed. “I don’t think he saw me, the bollocks.”

  Benedict felt a stab of guilt. He had never given a single thought about the risk she was taking in coming here. It was scarcely a hundred yards from his door to hers, but for a young woman it was as fraught with danger as the Silk Road. He shuddered to think what would have happened to her if the constable had caught her.

  She took a deep breath and smiled at him. She had not bothered to paint her face tonight, and her red hair was tied back neatly with a ribbon. On her feet were sturdy boots; walking the steep, slippery paths of the cold, dark park in high heels on the previous night had not been such a delightful experience that she wanted to repeat it.

  “Smoking, Ben? You said you gave it up,” she teased him. “Did they repeal the iniquitous tax on tobacco?”

  “I decided it was not fair to punish the British merchant for the stupidity of his government. I didn’t think you were coming,” he added stiffly.

  “Honestly, I couldn’t get away sooner,” she said. “I was afraid you’d gone to bed already. But I decided to risk it, in case you hadn’t. Shall we get started, then?”

  Not waiting for an answer, she sat down on the sofa and picked up the small green book from the table. She had marked her place with the ribbon attached to the book’s spine. “I think we’d made it to Chapter Five: ‘A favorite hound described, which pups while pursuing a hare; the hare also litters while pursued by the hound—’”

  He sat down next to her on the sofa, turned her face to his, and kissed her.

  Chapter 8