Mistress By Mistake

Book 0: Courtesan Court

by Maggie Robinson

Genres: Historical Fiction; Victorian Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Scandal Is Only The Beginning. . . Charlotte Fallon let her guarded virtue fall once--and she's paid dearly for it ever since. She swore she'd never succumb to men's desires again. But even a village spinster's life miles from temptation can't save her from a sister with no shame whatsoever. Or a heart that longs for more, whatever the cost. . . Sir Michael Bayard found more than he expected in his bed when he finally joined his new mistress. He'd fantasized about her dewy skin and luscious curves, assured her understanding that what passed between them was mere dalliance. But he didn't expect the innocence and heat of her response in his arms. Nor her surprisingly sharp tongue once she was out of them. . . A few days of abandon cannot undo the hard-learned lessons of a lifetime. Nor can an honest passion burn away the restraints of society's judgments. Unless, of course, one believes in nonsense like true love. . . First comes seduction. . . As children, Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, and Laurette Vincent were inseparable. As young adults, their friendship blossomed into love. But then fate intervened, sending them down different paths. Years later, Con still can't forget his beautiful Laurette. Now he's determined to make her his forever. There's just one problem. Laurette keeps refusing his marriage proposals. Throwing honor to the wind, Con decides that the only way Laurette will wed him is if he thoroughly seduces her. . . Then comes marriage. . . Laurette's pulse still quickens every time she thinks of Con and the scorching passion they once shared. She aches to taste the pleasure Con offers her. But she knows she can't. For so much has happened since they were last lovers. But how long can she resist the consuming desire that demands to be obeyed. . .? Praise for Maggie Robinson's Mistress by Mistake "Sizzles off the page." --Anna Campbell Too late for cold feet Baron Edward Christie prided himself on his reputation for even temperament and reserve. That was before he met Caroline Parker. Wedding a scandalous beauty by special license days after they met did not inspire respect for his sangfroid. Moving her to a notorious lovebirds' nest as punishment for her flighty nature was perhaps also a blow. And of course talk has gotten out of his irresistible clandestine visits. Christie must put his wife aside—if only he can get her out of his blood first. Too hot to refuse. . . Caroline Parker was prepared to hear the worst: that her husband had determined to divorce her, spare them both the torture of passion they can neither tame nor escape. But his plan is wickeder than any she's ever heard. Life as his wife is suffocating. But she cannot resist becoming her own husband's mistress. . . "A very talented debut author." — Romance Junkies Praise for Maggie Robinson's Mistress by Mistake "Sizzles off the page." —Anna Campbell

Release date: April 15, 2010

Publisher: Brava

Print pages: 321

Sample

Jane Street, London, 1820

“Honestly, Charlie! You’re ruined anyway! What difference does it make?”

Charlotte felt the room spin every time her sister said the words “honestly, Charlie.” Honesty had very little to do with Deborah Fallon. She was a mistress of prevarication. She was a mistress, period.

Charlotte Fallon looked at her sister, her beautiful, selfish, stubborn younger sister. The sister she was always trying to save in one manner or another, not that she’d been successful. Charlotte wished she had tossed her letter into the fire without opening it. “I should never have come.”

“Nonsense. This is the ideal solution. Arthur wants to marry me, Charlie. I’m not getting any younger, you know. And neither are you. Surely you cannot stand there all stiff and disapproving and deny me happiness.”

No one of importance had ever denied Deborah Fallon anything. One look at her cloud of black hair and mischievous sky-blue eyes, her bee-stung lips and spectacular bosom, and they had fallen at her feet. Since the age of sixteen, she had flaunted her assets and traded one rich man for another. Now twenty-six, she was still lovely and in possession of a very tidy fortune, even tidier now due to the recent infusion of money from the coffers of Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. He was expected to arrive in London from his Dorset estate any day now and fall into Deborah Fallon’s bed. His own bed, actually. This house, every stick of furniture, every carpet, every lacy curtain belonged to him, as did the woman who was packing a sleek new trunk.

Charlotte Fallon did not belong to anyone. She also had black hair, only it was confined by hairpins and covered by a starched linen cap. Her sky-blue eyes were not mischievous at present, but dismayed. Her bee-stung lips were drawn into a frown, and her spectacular bosom heaved in indignation. “You cannot take Sir Michael’s money and run off with Arthur Bannister!”

Deborah continued to fold clothes into the trunk. Charlotte took inventory of her sister’s impropriety. Wispy, sensuous underthings trimmed with frivolous ribbons and bows. Low-cut silk dresses in every color of the rainbow. Embroidered slippers. Sheer stockings. Velvet jewel bags filled with precious stones.

“I shall leave you some of my wardrobe. And my pearl and sapphire necklace.” Deborah sighed with sacrifice. “It’s not as though I’m taking everything. I thought for a moment to take the paintings, but after consideration I just couldn’t do it to the man. He is very fond of his art, even if they’re only minor works by obscure painters. And I’ll leave him you.”

“I don’t want to be left! You cannot just install me in your bedchamber and expect Sir Michael not to notice!”

“Of course Bay will notice. He’s a very noticing kind of fellow. Those eyes! So black and knowing. They quite gave me shivers. But you and I are much alike, or would be if you didn’t look like such a prude. Honestly, Charlie, where is the harm? He’s a wonderful lover, and Lord knows you could do with a bit of amusement.”

Charlotte felt a wave of revulsion. “You—you’ve slept with him already?”

Deborah tossed her black curls. “Don’t be absurd. I never let him touch me. Not even a kiss. That’s why he paid so much. I was absolutely unattainable without his contract. But,” she said, closing the trunk latch with finality, “I’m on good terms with Helena Colbert, my predecessor. It was she who decorated this bedroom.” Deborah looked around at the grotesquely chubby cupids that lurked on every surface. “Granted, she does not have much imagination, but she assured me bedding Bay was not a hardship. She said he’s quite masterful.”

“If that is true, why have you chosen Arthur?” Charlotte had met Arthur Bannister. Charlotte doubted Arthur could master anyone, let alone Deborah. He was the prematurely balding third son of an earl, obviously not destined for the clergy if he married her sister the famous courtesan.

“Arthur is very sweet. He loves me. His family will come round in time.” Deborah gave her an assured smile. Everybody always loved her; it was inconceivable to her that one could not.

“You don’t love him, do you.” Charlotte did not tack a question mark to her words.

“Honestly, Charlie! What is love anyway? You thought you were in love and look how that turned out. You’re thirty years old and live in the country with cats.” Deborah pulled on her gloves. Pale yellow kidskin. How ridiculous for traveling, but they matched her slippers and flimsy striped dress. Charlotte envisioned her sister discarding the whole outfit in the carriage on the way to Dover just to ensure Arthur continued the journey. “We haven’t much time. Thank goodness Bay’s grandmother got sick and died and he was called away.”

Only Deborah could say such a thing and look like an angel doing it. Charlotte wanted to throttle her sister’s slender white neck. “You are attempting to perpetrate fraud, Deb. Theft. For all I know the man will lock me up in prison in your place before he finds you.”

“Pooh. He’s quite besotted with me. And even if he doesn’t like you, you can explain this whole affair far better than I can in a letter. I should be quite thoughtless if I just left a note on the pillow.”

An understatement. Deborah had always been thoughtless. She had broken her late parents’ hearts when she ran off to London with George, although they did manage to spend the money she sent home at irregular intervals. Charlotte was ashamed to acknowledge that without Deb’s help, her cats might go hungry. Of course, the cats weren’t really her own. The half dozen or so were ferociously feral and only visited her out of habit, not gratitude. They would not dream of curling up on the hearth or resting upon her bed pillow or being helpful mousers. No, they yowled for their scraps and milk at the cottage kitchen door when hunting was poor or the weather problematic. They would be perfectly fine until she returned to Little Hyssop after she put her sister’s ridiculous scheme behind her.

Deborah patted the feather bed. “Come. Sit down. I have many instructions to give you.”

Charlotte blushed as brightly as a virgin, although she could not claim the title. Surely her sister was not going to subject her to courtesan lessons. She was most certainly not going to take Deborah’s place in anything but conversation with Sir Michael, who was at least owed an explanation once he returned to town.

Charlotte reflected it had ever been thus—Deborah would do something impetuous and Charlotte would pick up the pieces. She dearly hoped that Deborah’s new protector was not too badly smitten, for she was not good at mending heartbreak, especially her own. She listened with half an ear as Deborah recited a litany of practicalities and positions. Charlotte felt the beginnings of one of her vexing headaches. Any amount of time spent with her little sister was sure to produce such a result. She was never more relieved than when Irene, the young maid hired by Sir Michael to attend to whichever mistress was in residence, announced that Mr. Bannister was below and his driver on his way up for the luggage.

Charlotte was tugged downstairs and reintroduced to Arthur, who was a few years Deborah’s junior despite the hair loss and beginnings of a paunch. These shortcomings were more than mitigated by the recent death of his great-uncle, who had remembered young Arthur kindly in his will. A pity that the old man had died after Deborah had come to her arrangement with Sir Michael Xavier Bayard. But then illness and another fortuitous death occurred, keeping the baronet in Dorset these past six weeks. Charlotte was afraid that Arthur Bannister had already slept beneath Sir Michael’s sheets and could not like him for it.

“Come, my love. The carriage awaits, and I’ve a special license.” Arthur patted his breast pocket smugly. Deborah said he’d spared no expense to make London’s fairest Cyprian his own. By the time Sir Michael came home, she would be Mrs. Bannister. Of course, they were to travel on the Continent first, just to give his family and Sir Michael a while to calm down. Then Deborah would be mistress only of Arthur’s late uncle’s estate in Kent.

Deborah kissed her sister good-bye, and to her horror, Charlotte discovered her eyes were filling with tears. Truly, she wished her sister happy. If she thought for a moment that Arthur Bannister could control Deborah’s dishonorable impulses, she might feel very differently about this hasty wedding. Deborah might make a poor wife, but at least one of the Fallon girls would be a bride at last.

Deborah left in a flurry of swishing skirts and lavender water. Suddenly the little house was quiet as a tomb. Somewhere below Irene and Mrs. Kelly, the cook-housekeeper, were engaged in dinner preparations for her. Charlotte didn’t think she could eat a bite. A glass of sherry, on the other hand, would steady her nerves for the task ahead. She poured a healthy tot from a crystal decanter and drank it down in one gulp.

To think that her sister wanted her to become a harlot! As if she were at all suited to the position Deborah had cut out for herself almost a decade ago. To foist her on a stranger, to leave Charlotte holding the bag when Sir Michael returned made her heart skip erratically. She should have known to read between the lines of Deb’s badly spelled letter. Anything Deb considered to be an emergency was really a catastrophe.

Charlotte poured another drink. It would not do to get foxed. It was a family curse. Both the Fallon parents had drowned their financial sorrows in a bottle, then drowned in reality when they had the drunken idea to go for one last midnight sail before their beloved boat was repossessed. Charlotte had disposed of their crumbling manor house, paid off their debts, and moved as far inland as she could. She had been scrupulous about sharing the pitiful proceeds with her sister. Judging from the contents stuffed in her trunk and stored in the country, Deborah had never needed a farthing. Her gentlemen had been generous from the start.

Charlotte sighed. Her sister had not been so very indiscriminate. She’d had only four lovers in ten years, each of whom had showered her with jewels, money, and clothing. Deb had not been able to wheedle anyone out of a house yet—save for poor Arthur. Charlotte should turn tail and go right back home. A note on the pillow would do as well as any stuttering excuse she could give Sir Michael for her sister’s behavior.

She returned to Deb’s bedroom to regroup, shoving a plaster Cupid away to set her drink by the bedside. Lord, but she was tired. The flying trip to town when she imagined her sister dying—or worse!—had sapped every bit of strength she had. And then to discover what Deborah planned—well, it quite took one’s breath away.

She lay in the Cupid-infested room, nervously bunching the scarlet satin coverlet between her fingers. She would not unpack her own trunk but to pull out her tattered night rail and robe later. She could not move in and assume her sister’s life. She didn’t even want to consume her dinner. But an hour later, fresh-faced Irene was at the door informing her that supper was on the table. Charlotte imagined it tasted delicious, but was too distracted to tell. Despite her earlier pledge, she gulped a great deal of wine in order that she might actually fall asleep in her sister’s bed. Woozy and warm, she allowed Irene to help her undress and bathe, then crawled under the covers, closing her eyes to the grinning statues. How Deborah had borne them for six weeks was a wonder.

She slept as if dead, having the most delightful tipsy dream somewhere past midnight. But when morning came and she found her nightgown hanging from a fat angel’s head and a naked man with his lips planted firmly around her left nipple, she knew her dream was now a nightmare.

 

Bay had done his duty. When news of his grandmother’s illness had arrived, he’d left immediately for Bayard Court, his oceanfront boyhood home. Grace Bayard had raised him, and he owed her everything. She’d been a little bit of a thing, but her tongue and wits were sharp, and she’d done her damnedest to set him on the proper path. It was not her fault that he had strayed more than a time or two. She had wanted to see him settled again and a father, and perhaps one day he would be. But at present he had the divine Deborah Fallon waiting for him in his little house in Jane Street, the most exclusive enclave of kept women in London. Deb was the third mistress he’d set up there. The first, Angelique Dubois, had not been much of an angel of any kind or even French, despite her name. His last lover, Helena Colbert, had served him well for a year, but things had wound down to their natural conclusion. His friend Viscount Marlow was happy to take her off his hands, gushing his gratitude in disgusting fashion at every opportunity.

Bay had been ready for a change, and his choice was the most alluring Deborah Fallon. Those full lips, those fuller breasts, those tip-tilted blue eyes. She looked like a naughty cream-fed kitten. She had some wit, and if she were a bit of a prima donna, it was only because she knew her own worth. Her last protector had to reluctantly marry to further the family line, and nothing he could say would make Deborah part of a triangle. She had her standards—her lovers had to be rich, of course, and completely unattached. Along with several others, Bay pursued Deb for weeks before he persuaded her to move into Jane Street, and he hadn’t gotten to warm the sheets even once before he was called away.

He’d stopped at his town house to make himself presentable after his long journey, pleased to see that someone had thoughtfully hung a mourning wreath upon the front door. He was truly sad that his grandmother had passed, but she had been nearly ninety-five, a very great age. He was three and thirty—and would be happy indeed to treble that if he remained as shrewd as his grandmama up till near the end. She had fallen in her garden, tending to her beloved roses. The doctor thought she had had a series of small strokes, and by the time Bay arrived, she was sleeping most of her days away. She had rallied briefly at the sight of him, then went to bed one night and never woke up. Bay had stayed to see to the disposition of her faithful servants and shut up most of the house for the time being. He was a city man now. One day he might try to raise a family again in the stone manor house, but now he meant to raise his spirits in Deborah Fallon’s arms.

Perhaps he’d been foolish to ride back to London. Every inch of him hurt, but he was damned if he was going to wait any longer for Deborah. He wondered how she’d amused herself while he was away. He let himself in to the dark house with his own key and climbed the stairs. He could have been blindfolded and still have found Deborah’s bedroom. She had changed her perfume to a delicious harmony of orange and lemons, and her fresh scent filled his head. He stood by the bed, not wanting to startle her awake, dropping his clothing quietly to the floor. This was not how he pictured his first night with his new mistress, but he was stiff as a poker and could not wait to seduce her over champagne and strawberries.

Angelique’s revolting cherubs were still gleaming in the moonlight. Helena had been too superstitious to remove them and had actually acquired several more. Poor Deborah had probably waited for him to return before she made any changes. He fully expected her to make the bedchamber her own, although the rest of the house was exactly to his taste.

Their liaison had not gotten off to a good start. The carters had no sooner delivered Deborah’s trunks before he’d left her in tears in the marble hallway. He had sent letters and flowers weekly, of course, and news of his grandmother’s death. In a foolish fit of lust he had discovered a ruby necklace in his grandmother’s jewel case and sent it to London, with the understanding that Deborah could wear it as long as she was his mistress. He was longing to see it around her white throat—it, and nothing else adorning her luscious body.

Grace Bayard was the rare woman who didn’t care much for ostentatious jewelry, so he had never seen his grandmother wear it. He had buried her with the plain gold band his grandfather had given her eighty years ago, before he made his fortune. Their marriage had not been an especially happy one. His grandmother had been practically a child when she wed, the fashion of the day. Her husband was older and ambitious, spending much of their married life outside England. Their long separation resulted in just one child, Bay’s father.

Grandmama Grace had told him once his grandfather had given her the rubies to atone for some infraction. His grandfather, Bay thought, must have done something spectacularly bad, for the rubies were large and lustrous and very valuable, and the diamonds surrounding them not insignificant either. The collar with its enormous center drop was fit for a princess. Hell, fit for a queen. He hoped it had not been a mistake to gift them to Deborah temporarily. He’d have to tread carefully when he discussed the necklace on the morrow.

He encountered an amusingly virginal night rail, which he made quick work of. She gave a pleased little sigh and wrapped herself around him. Her magnificent hair was in two schoolgirl braids—she certainly had not expected to entertain him this evening, and he was touched at her surprising modesty. And equally touched by her ardent, almost thirsty kisses. She tasted of vanilla and wine and smelled like a Spanish summer. She cupped his balls and brought him to her entrance and he slipped in without any hesitation. She was wet but very tight. Heaven. If she was a schoolgirl, he was as randy as a schoolboy and didn’t last long in her pillowing embrace. He’d spend more time tomorrow morning tending to her needs. He was known as a considerate lover, one of the reasons Deborah had agreed to be his mistress. Even his wife had no complaints while they were married.

Thoroughly spent, he passed a delightful night in his lover’s arms. And when the first rays of sun had the audacity to slip through the shutters, he feasted upon her breast as if it were a banquet of cream and honey. She gave a low groan, but he didn’t think it was in protest. The faint light showed him his mistress was not quite as young as she appeared to be six weeks ago—there were a few silver strands in her unraveling ink-dark braids. No doubt she resorted to artifice and would have corrected this had she known he was coming.

And speaking of coming, he wanted to seat himself within her again. Last night had been heaven, and now that the empty day was spread before him, the devil in him intended to visit heaven again and again. No, he was not sorry he’d paid the exorbitant price to secure Deborah Fallon’s favors. If last night was any indication of what the woman could do when she was half asleep, he would cheerfully beggar himself. He was a lucky man indeed.

He licked her nipple to taut, pale pink perfection, wondering idly if he’d get a child on her someday. He’d been fortunate with his mistresses thus far, but he would do his duty by her if she bore his bastard. He was a gentleman, and that’s what gentleman did. Somehow the thought of an infant suckling Deb Fallon’s very tempting breast was unbelievably erotic. She would resemble a naughty Madonna, her black hair cascading down her ivory shoulders.

By God, she was making him lose his mind. The touch and taste of her was inebriating, clouding his judgment. One didn’t keep a mistress for domesticity. One kept a mistress for sin, the darker the better. And if he knew anything about Deborah Fallon, she would complain loud and long caring for anything that was not her own luscious self. A baby? Proposterous.

As if she heard his thoughts, she stiffened beneath him. And then she screamed.

Ear-piercingly. Perhaps she had not recognized him when she awoke. But honestly, who could she be expecting? She was his.

He looked up at her, suspicious. She gave him a look he’d seen only in battle, when the other side was hopelessly outnumbered, pushed beyond recklessness, and there was nothing left to lose. He hoped very much that she was not sleeping with a French bayonet beneath the mattress.

“You! You!” she sputtered.

“Yes, my pet, it is I. I know I gave you no notice, but thank you for your very warm welcome last night. It was worth every minute of the harrowing six weeks we spent apart.” He set back to flicking her nipple again with his tongue.

She hit him on the head with a fist. “Get off me! This instant! You are much mistaken, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah.”

Was this some sort of fantasy? Perhaps she liked her love play rough. To be the reluctant virgin, he the barbarian conqueror. Angelique had liked to play highwayman and victim, as he recalled. He was the victim, and a most willing one. He stood, and he delivered.

“I shall call you anything you like, sweet, but please don’t strike me again. It’s not a bit sporting when I don’t know the rules of your game. But I’m willing to learn.”

“This is not a game, you stupid man! Oh, I do beg your pardon! But you are under a severe misapprehension, sir.”

She was scrambling under him quite provocatively. Her skin was on fire for him, blushing most delightfully. And here he had thought La Fallon cool and a little calculating.

“Hush, my dove.” His lips captured hers and she squeaked. Soon he would make her sigh again. See, she was softening already. Her lips opened and he swept into the warmth. His tongue tangled with hers in a dance as old as time. He was fisting his cock to slide between her smooth thighs when she bit him.

And drew blood. The taste of iron flooded his mouth. Why, the little she-devil! He chuckled deep in his throat and continued kissing her, showing her exactly who was in control, angling his cock into her so as to rub the top of her sex. After a very halfhearted effort to push him away, she grew as warm and hard as he, shuddering satisfactorily under him as he applied more pressure to her clitoris with his cock and thumb. She kissed him as though they would both die tomorrow, her fingers exploring the bumps on his spine, the slash on his cheek, the cleft of his arse. Fingers that flew everywhere, whereas his never strayed from the pleasurable task at hand.

He could be patient. Last night had been a hurried affair but rather perfect nonetheless. He remembered the heat of her wet quim sheathing him, drawing him deep. Tempting as it was to sink within again this very instant, he focused instead on the kiss and the inexorable circling. He was good with his hands, even better with his tongue. But if he was any judge, she was close to coming, and any interruption and relocation would not be to either of their benefits. She was incredibly responsive, pure carnality wrapped in a small, plump package. He was unwrapping her, inch by delicious inch.

He felt her moment of capitulation as she stilled, then burned for him. Heat from her snow-white skin enveloped their bodies in all all-consuming blaze as she held him close. He swallowed up her cry, bore the frantic scoring on his back. Her legs fell apart in blatant invitation. He was not one to miss a cue, and took advantage of her total surrender by gliding home in a single thrust. Her legs laced tight around him, hips rising, heels spurring his every move.

Just as he remembered. Better than he dreamed. All those weeks away had heightened the anticipation, but nothing in Bay’s experience could match the silk friction of being inside Deborah Fallon. No wonder she was the most sought-after courtesan in the ton. Her reputation didn’t begin to explain her exquisite sexual artistry. She made him feel as if she’d just discovered sin and was making up for lost time, combining innocence and wickedness in the tantalizing twist of her limbs and her lush mouth.

He lost himself in another desperate kiss. It was so easy to lose himself with her, he might just disappear altogether. Bay reminded himself he had the upper hand—it wouldn’t do to fall victim to the experienced wiles of his mistress. Bad enough he’d spent years in thrall to his wife. Women were all very good for amusement—and God knows he was seriously amused right now, seated in a shivering, shaking, quaking Deborah—but she was just a good fuck. Nothing more. But certainly nothing less.

He opened his eyes to break the spell, watched as she came apart again, her teeth biting her own lip in a slightly rabbity way and her dark lashes scrunched under questioning brows. Quite endearing, actually, and a sure sign that she had taken her pleasure again. As a gentleman, now he could take his. His balls contracted in undeniable need, his cock plunged on with ferocious insistence. Her tremors bore him in their tide, his mental reservations floating away. He was all body now, all male. All, when it came down to it, cock. There was nothing else of any consequence at the moment. He should, of course, withdraw, but her legs were locked around him and she must know what she was about. It would be a shame to break their unity. Criminal. His seed erupted. He shouted her name and fell on her as if dead.

The only sounds were their frantic gasps for breath and the ticking of a dreadful little angel with a clock in its porcine belly. Bay realized he’d better move before he squashed the life out of her, but truthfully, he could remain right where he was forever. Her citrusy smell was even stronger now, mixed with the scent of sex and sweat. He inhaled deeply, almost tasting the essence of Deborah Fallon. If she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.

“Sir Michael.”

He rolled off and grinned at her. “My dear Deborah, I think we might dispense with the formalities. I’ve asked you to call me Bay. That is what my friends and relations call me, and we are certainly friends, are we not?”

“No, Sir Michael, we are not.” She reached for the sheet and tried to stuff it between them. He pulled it away from her easily.

“Don’t cover yourself. I love looking at you.”

She glared at him. “But I do not wish to be looked at. If you would just listen to me for a moment—”

He sighed. He hadn’t counted on her being a talker, and certainly not so stern. Before they’d come to their arrangement, she was playful, flirtatious, like a fluffy black-and-white kitten. But it seemed her claws weren’t retracted now. He hoped she would not be too tiresome. Even if she was the most skilled harlot he’d ever fucked, it would be a dead bore if she lectured him afterward.

He tried charm. “I am all ears. In fact, my angel, every part of me is at your disposal.”

“Do not call me angel.” She looked around the room with loathing.

“What shall I call you then, Deb?”

“Not Deb! That is what I was trying to tell you when you—when you—took such liberties with my person.”

She was angry, beet red now, not a good color on her. Not any sort of color a man’s mistress should have. He preferred her translucent white skin, so pale she glowed like a pearl. He’d never heard she had a temper. Vanity, yes. That was understandable. Perhaps a bit of pique when she wanted something and didn’t get it soon enough. Perfection in bed, and that she’d already proven. Deborah Fallon was allegedly a paragon among mistresses. Everybo. . .