Rules for Being a Mistress Read online

  Cosima covertly examined him for some sign that he had been womanizing his way through London for the last three weeks. There was none, which just went to show what deceivers men were.

  “Do you know where my jumping rope is?” Allegra demanded.

  “Under your bed, I should think,” Cosima replied. “Everything else is!”

  Allie ran out of the room.

  “No running in the house!” Cosy called after her uselessly.

  She smiled at him, but it was a cool smile. After the initial surprise of seeing him, she was now recovered. “How was London, then?” she inquired politely. “Did all the girls cry when you left?”

  “On the contrary,” he said. “I distinctly heard cheering.”

  “Oh? Then what kept you away from Bath so long? I was sure it was a woman.”

  It pleased him to think she might be jealous. “I had business on my estate.”

  “Business? Oh, you mean with the governess?”

  Anyone else would have received a sharp set down for this impertinence. But he merely smiled and answered, “One of my neighbors was intent on selling a strip of land that lies between my estate and his. I don’t care to have a stranger for a neighbor, so I was obliged to buy it myself. Paid too much for it, too.”

  “You’re a rich bastard,” she said cheerfully. “You can afford it.”

  He reached into his coat for the packet of bills he had won from the Duke of Kellynch on the turn of a card. “I have obtained your bills,” he said. “They will trouble you no more.”

  He held them out, looking forward to receiving her gratitude.

  Cosima only laughed and jiggled the baby. “When did they ever trouble me?” she wanted to know. “Put them in the desk there, if you will. What do I owe you for them?”

  The key was in the lock. He opened the little desk and placed the bills inside. “I’ve no intention of paying you back, of course,” she added. “I’m only curious.”

  “You owe me nothing. I won them from the Duke of Kellynch on the turn of a card.”

  “The Duke of Kellynch?” She stared at him blankly. “Jimmy?”

  “Uncle Jimmy,” he corrected.

  She scowled. “Uncle Jimmy has a big mouth,” she observed.

  “He certainly does,” Benedict agreed. “He told me all about Castle Argent. Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money, Miss Vaughn. You ought to take it.”

  “If my grandfather had wanted to give me money, I would have been pleased to take it. But he didn’t. He gave me that house. It’s mine, and I intend to keep it.”

  “Think of what you could do for Miss Allegra and your mother with fifty thousand pounds,” he urged her. “You could live anywhere you wanted.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I can see,” she said coldly, “that three weeks in London haven’t changed you a bit! You’re still the same interfering, nosy, high-handed—”

  “There you are, my dear,” Lord Redfylde said, striding into the room. He looked singularly out of place among the little tables and chairs. “Where is the new nursemaid?” he demanded angrily when he saw that she was holding his youngest child.

  “I sent her down to the kitchen for a basket,” Cosima replied, just as the girl came running into the room swinging a basket by the handle.

  Cosima went to work, wrapping the baby up and laying her in the basket. Lady Caroline went to sleep instantly. “Put her in the shade, mind,” she warned the girl. “I won’t have her ladyship boiling in the hot sun like a lobster.”

  “No, indeed, Miss Vaughn,” replied the nursemaid, whisking Lady Caroline away.

  “Are you acquainted with Sir Benedict, my lord?” Cosima asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Lord Redfylde gave the baronet two fingers to shake. Oddly enough, Benedict did not avail himself of them. “Come, my dear,” he went on, turning to Miss Vaughn. “Everyone is asking for you.” Redfylde held out his hand, and she took it without hesitation.

  “Did you hear that, Cousin Ben? Everyone is asking for me.”

  She went out on Redfylde’s arm, laughing.

  Benedict stood by, forgotten.

  “I was only gone three weeks,” he muttered angrily.

  Chapter 16

  The evening finished with a fine display of fireworks. Benedict thought it would never end. Finally, the musicians had packed up, and the guests departed little by little. Lady Agatha was carried home in her chair. Lord Redfylde was the last to leave. He kissed Miss Vaughn’s hand. The servants he left behind worked like demons in the dark park, packing everything up and carrying it away.

  Lady Agatha slept soundly as Cosy and Nora got her undressed and into bed. Allie, on the other hand, announced her intention of staying up all night, and Cosima was seriously tempted to give her some of Dr. Grantham’s sleeping drops. A glass of warm milk did the trick, however, and, just a little after midnight, Cosima was finally able to disguise herself as Mr. Cherry and slip out of the house.

  All that remained of the festivities in the park were a child’s toy boat and a few ribbons streaming from the trees. She used the key he had given her to enter the house. “Three weeks,” she said angrily, throwing open the door to the study. “Three weeks, and not so much as a dirty look from your direction! Who do you think you are?”

  Benedict was seated at the fire reading one of his edifying books. “Pickering, you may go,” he said calmly as his manservant emerged from the dressing room.

  “Good evening, Mr. Cherry,” the manservant said pleasantly.

  “You may finish unpacking in the morning, Pickering,” Benedict said.

  She pulled the brim of the top hat down over her eyes as Pickering went past her. “Good night, Sir Benedict. Good night, Mr. Cherry.”

  “I did not expect you this evening,” said Benedict when Pickering had gone.

  “I suppose,” she said angrily, “you had a different girl every night in London, reading to you. You faithless hound!”

  He couldn’t help but laugh. “You flatter me. Believe me, my life is not that interesting. Besides, something tells me you weren’t exactly lonely without me. Lord Redfylde seemed very attentive.” His voice, sharp with jealousy, thrilled her. He was jealous and did not even try to conceal it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I’ve never met Lord Redfylde.”

  “Never met—!” He became angry. “You were laughing and flirting with him all afternoon,” he accused her, climbing to his feet. His snowy white nightshirt hung loosely from his spare frame. “You had him eating out of your hand. He kissed you good night.”

  “Oh, that. That wasn’t me, Ben. That was Miss Vaughn. And he only kissed her hand.”

  “Don’t,” he said curtly. “I’m too tired for games. You are Miss Vaughn. There is no Cherry. Ridiculous! I’ve known all along, my girl. You didn’t fool me for a minute.”

  Walking up to her, he tore the hat from her head.

  And stared.

  “What have you done to yourself?” he demanded.

  Her hand went up to her hair. She had cut it to an inch and dyed it bright red with henna. During the day, she had been wearing a wig made of her own pale hair.

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  Benedict’s heart was pounding. He had seen Miss Vaughn—the real Miss Vaughn—only a few hours before. Her hair had been blonde, as always, and, while it had been cut in the Grecian style, it certainly had not been cropped or red.

  “I cut it,” she helpfully explained. “Don’t look so stricken, Ben. It will grow back.”

  With her short red hair, white skin, and huge green eyes, she looked more feminine and vulnerable than ever. Even the man’s clothes she was wearing seemed to emphasis her delicate bone structure. She didn’t look like Miss Vaughn at all, he realized. Not when one looked closely and critically at her. Cosima was hard-eyed and tough as nails. She teased men and laughed at them. She always had to have the upper hand. Cherry was soft and kind.

  And real.

&n
bsp; He cupped her chin with his hand. The happiness in her green eyes nearly unmade him.

  “Are you real?” he asked softly.

  She smiled at him. “I’m as real as you are, Ben.”

  “You were not at the picnic?”

  “No, Ben. Miss Vaughn doesn’t want me showing my face to the world. Not while a big lord like himself is sniffing around. Of course, nothing will ever come of it, but—”

  She was not allowed to finish. His mouth closed over hers possessively.

  “I suppose,” she said shrewishly, turning her face away, “you had your fun with that mouth while you were in London! And I’ve been here breaking my heart for you.”

  “I was only gone three weeks.”

  “Three weeks is an eternity!”

  “I suppose it is, for a woman,” he said.

  He smiled at her warmly. He looked so young and handsome when he smiled that she felt her knees turn to butter. “There is no one else,” he said. “There is only you. Cherry.”

  It was a ridiculous, adorable name, the name of a girl in a play.

  “Oh?” she said, catching her breath. “I’m sorry, Ben. You said you wanted to see less of me. So I bought my ticket to America. I only came to say good-bye.”

  “You’re not going to America,” he said.

  His gray eyes gleamed, and suddenly she no longer wondered what it was about this man that had so captivated her. “Am I not?” she asked.

  “Not in my clothes, you’re not,” he said. “Go and take them off at once.”

  She gasped. “But I can’t go to America naked!”

  “You’re not going to America,” he replied. “You’re going to bed. Take off all your things, and wait for me in the bedroom. I’ll be with you very soon.”

  She frowned slightly. “Wait for you? Where are you going?”

  He touched her mouth. “Trust me,” he said.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

  His mouth curved. “If you don’t do as you’re told? Nothing.”

  If she had run away from him, he would not have stopped her from leaving.

  “Well,” she said, “they are your clothes. I don’t want to be accused of stealing from you.”

  She slipped into the bedroom, quick and silent as a thief.

  Left alone in the study, Benedict groaned. He had denied himself the pleasure of watching Cherry undress, not out of concern for her modesty, and certainly not due to any reticence on his part, but because he knew he would not be able to control himself as her delicate female body emerged from the masculine clothing. His self-restraint had already been pushed to the limit, but he forced himself to think about the consequences of making love to the girl. He had nothing to use to prevent conception, and he refused to risk making the girl pregnant. He was not the sort of man to leave a girl with ten pounds and a babe in her belly; he despised that sort of selfish, thoughtless man.

  And yet, not making love to her was equally unthinkable. She was willing, and he had a painful erection. This desire was no mere impulse that could be shaken off. This was a deep, driving need, as powerful as hunger or hatred, and it could not be denied. He could not deceive himself. His desire was so strong there was no way he would be able to withdraw from her body before she carried him to a climax. If she became pregnant through his carelessness, he feared she would hate him.

  There was only one feeble thing he could do to protect her. It was distasteful to him, but he did it anyway. Taking off his dressing gown and his nightshirt, he masturbated into the nightshirt, catching his seed in the fine white linen. The first emission scarcely interfered with his arousal, but, he felt, the danger of conception had been diminished significantly, and, relieved of at least some of its burden, his body would be better able to withdraw at the critical moment.

  Belting his robe on again, he entered the bedroom.

  He had not specified where she was to wait for him in the bedroom, but she had chosen to sit on the edge of his bed. He was going to bed her. She knew it, and so she waited for him on the bed, her feet flat on the floor, her knees clamped together, her white arms crossed over her breasts. Her white skin gleamed in the firelight. She looked quiet and submissive, more proof that she was not Miss Vaughn, if any more were needed.

  Sheer, masculine power surged through him as he looked at her, enjoying her as he might enjoy a painting he had recently acquired. Finally, he spoke. It was a simple command and she obediently moved her arms, and placed her hands at her sides. She was trembling, and despite the warmth of the fire, the small pink nipples of her breasts stood out in keen points. Without speaking, he looked at her for a long time. She tried to raise her eyes to his, but her courage failed her. It dawned on him slowly that she was not merely overcome with desire for him. She was a virgin and she was terrified.

  “Would you be more comfortable in a nightshirt?” he asked her gently.

  Her green eyes flickered up to his and he was amazed to see that she was hurt, hurt that he would even consider allowing her to cover herself. “It makes no difference,” she said.

  It was true. Whether clothed or naked, she was equally vulnerable to him.

  He approached the bed. Her lips fell open as she realized that under the black brocade, he was already naked. Thick black hair bristled on his chest. Her eyes fell to the embroidered belt. It was loosely tied, and beneath it the gown parted on either side of his member. The foreskin was pushed back and the constricted head was scarlet and engorged. Benedict presented himself to her without a trace of embarrassment.

  “Ben!” she said helplessly, color surging back into her cheeks.

  “It’s just another part of my body,” he replied, apparently unconcerned by her embarrassment. He did not touch her. He did not kiss her. He seemed to be in no hurry. He just stood there waiting.

  She suddenly realized what he expected of her and a panic she could not fight welled up within her. “You wish me to—to palate you—like the whores in the brothels?” she whispered, her cheeks burning with shame.

  He looked surprised. In fact, he had just been giving her a little time to get used to his appearance before forging ahead. But if the lady was offering…“If you wish.”

  “No!” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “I won’t do it.”

  He shrugged. “Then don’t.”

  She shivered. The thought of pleasing him excited her, but the thought of taking him into her mouth filled her with disgust. Even worse, what if she did it wrong and it gave him no pleasure at all? “I couldn’t. It’s not nice.”

  “Then we had best leave it.”

  Quite unreasonably, his reasonable attitude annoyed her.

  Cosima had never been so desperately nervous in her life. She had expected him to do everything. He had always taken charge before. Now he seemed to expect something of her beyond quiet acquiescence. “I’m not one of your whores,” she snapped.

  She realized, of course, that her evil genius—or, as Nora would have it, her Christian conscience—was doing its best to ruin everything, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

  For the first time, he looked angry. “I said: leave it.”

  To his complete astonishment, she burst into tears. The last vestiges of doubt vanished completely. Miss Vaughn, he knew, would never, ever cry in front of a man. She would rather die first. “How long are you going to make me wait?” she demanded in a broken voice.

  He tried to make her laugh. “Perhaps an hour. Maybe two.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Ben!” she said angrily.

  He laughed softly as he bent to kiss her mouth. “I was just looking at you. I enjoy looking at you. You’re very beautiful, you know. I don’t often get the chance to admire such a beautiful girl.”

  Her nerves were raw and her temper frayed.

  “There’s no need,” she said, “to coddle me. You don’t have to pay me pretty compliments, and you don’t have to kiss me, either! I’m not a baby. I’ve made up my mind to let you have me. So
there’s no need to be kissing me now. All I ask, is that you be quick about it.” She glanced at him. “I’d like to get it over with, if you don’t mind. I’m not going to cry, if that’s what you’re thinking!”

  She seemed quite unaware that tears were rolling down her cheeks as she spoke.

  He looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head. “You want me to—”

  “For God’s sake!” she said. “If you don’t do it now, I’m leaving.”

  “All right,” he said. “Lay down for me. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “Finally!” Without question, she obeyed, falling straight back on the bed.

  “No; don’t cover yourself,” he said, as her hands automatically sought to hide her nakedness from him. “I want to look at you.” Obediently, she held her arms at her sides, her fists clenched. The embarrassment of being totally open to his gaze was too much; she closed her eyes and waited for him with as much anticipation as dread.

  “Could you hurry, please?” she snapped, braced for the ultimate in unpleasantness. “I’m getting cold.”

  Her knees had parted a little and he was able to stand between her legs. The soft furrow between her legs lay exposed, and, as he nudged her thighs farther apart, he could not resist parting her completely. She was small and tight like a little apricot. The flesh was cool to the touch and dry, as if she had no desire for him. “You’re not ready for this,” he said, withdrawing his hand.

  Cosima was insulted. “I am ready,” she protested, opening her eyes.

  He had moved away from her.

  “No,” he said gently. “You’re not.”

  “I am,” she insisted. “Ben, I love you. I’m ready. I swear it.”

  “You are not ready, my girl,” he said firmly. “Not yet.”

  He slipped to his knees between her thighs. Her hips jerked in protest as his breath caressed her inner thighs.