LITMIR.BIZ

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missionary came to talk. Either way, it would be no picnic for Charlotte. Surely Bay wouldn’t be so barbaric.

      “Wh-what do you mean?”

      “I mean, my dearest Charlie, I’m going to tie you to the bed until I tire of you and untie you.” He dipped a gloved fingertip into the indentation of her chin. “But I just don’t see that happening any time soon.”

      Slavery, then. And it might even be somewhat pleasant.

      Bay was beginning to seriously regret ever clapping eyes on Deborah Fallon. If he hadn’t fallen a bit in lust with her some eight or nine years ago, envying Harfield his luck in having such a delicious little neighbor to run off with, he might not be saddled with her sour sister. To think that he had almost convinced himself Charlotte was innocent. As soon as his back was turned, she’d made off with more of his property. His grandmama’s necklace was one thing, but his art—it soothed his soul. It was as necessary to him as breathing. It inspired him to see the perfect form of women, fleshy and dimpled, gilded with apricot and pearl. They were constant, caught in their prime, unchanging. Idealized women who didn’t lie or steal or betray. The original models may have been whores, but the artists who painted them had found their purity and humanity. In this life when women—and men, too—were so undependable, Bay liked keeping company with his pretty two-dimensional strangers.

      He wondered if he should take everything down and crate it to save himself the bother of hunting Charlie down again. No. Why should he? This was his house, arranged for his benefit. It was not as if she would have the opportunity to leave the house in the immediate future. The knots were quite strong on the silk ropes.

      His grandmother always said he should have chosen the navy instead of the army. She loved the ocean at their doorstep and preferred a naval uniform above all others. But when Bay had purchased his commission, it was with the intent to get face-to-face with the enemy and slice his throat. Or have his own throat sliced. He was so angry at the time, he hadn’t cared which. When one is twenty and brokenhearted, one thinks very foolishly, if one thinks at all.

      He put his fingers in his ears as Charlie gave another bloodcurdling scream. He was very much afraid he’d have to gag her as well, or face the disapproval of his neighbors. The Marquess of Conover next door had not set up his mistress yet, however. There was still much to-ing and fro-ing with a swarm of staff and Conover’s occasional supervision. Bay was more concerned with Lady Christie on the other side, who fancied herself a bit of a godmother on the street. She might not take kindly to Bay trussing his mistress on the bed, naked and extremely unwilling. He’d also taken a page from Mr. Peachtree’s book and thrown her shoes out the window into the garden in the unlikely event she found a way to escape.

      Ah, well. Charlie deserved the inconvenience. But he knew Mrs. Kelly was not absolutely on board with his method of bringing Charlie Fallon to heel, and poor little Irene was so shocked he’d given her the week off to see her mum. Bay would do for Charlie himself—wash her, brush her midnight hair, feed her Mrs. Kelly’s delicacies. He supposed he’d have to release her so she could use the chamber pot. He was a man of some compassion, after all. And fastidiousness.

      When he was done with her, she’d not think to lift so much as one of his teaspoons from the dining room sideboard drawer. He checked his pocket watch. Just enough time to go home and bathe and dress for dinner. The spittle the little temptress hurled in his direction had dried on his lapel, but the fact that it was there at all irritated him. Perhaps she would be so hoarse when he came back, she couldn’t put that lovely mouth of hers to speech. He had other plans for it entirely, and they did not include listening to any more of her surprisingly creative epithets.

      “I’m off, Mrs. Kelly,” he shouted down the basement stairs. “If you need some cotton batting for your ears, don’t hesitate to visit the shops again.”

      Mrs. Kelly hurried up, wiping her hands in her spotless apron. “I do apologize again, Sir Michael. I had no idea Miss Fallon would be so duplicitous. To send me out for Grains of Paradise when ordinary peppercorns would do. I don’t know when I’ve been so deceived.”

      “It’s not your fault. The Fallon sisters may look like angels but they are as devious as the devil himself. Pay no mind to her caterwauling. I shall return for dinner. What’s on the menu tonight?”

      “Well, she told me it was to be a romantic supper.” She ticked the items off her flour-dusted fingers. “There’s to be oysters. Asparagus. Stewed celery. Salmon en croute. Chicken in ginger sauce. Almond torte. Fresh figs in cream. Chocolate petit fours. Raspberry fool. And of course, champagne. A whole case of it from some vineyard I’ve never heard of.”

      Bay grinned. The little witch had sent Mrs. Kelly out for foods commonly considered to be aphrodisiacs, and had planned for him to consume them all alone. Well, Charlie would be joining him tonight and reap the benefits of her recipes. Not that he would need any assistance in that area. When it came to Charlie Fallon, he was hard as marble, in body and in heart.

      Chapter 6

      The angry tears had left dry salty tracks on her hot, flushed face. Not that she was warm. In fact, her body was covered in gooseflesh as she lay, each limb staked to a carved bedpost by lengths of white silken rope. Trust Sir Michael Xavier Bayard to have implements of torture so handy. At least he had not blindfolded her, and there was no need of a gag anymore. After all her useless shrieking, she could barely croak out her displeasure at what the fiend had done to her. The evil little clock-cupid on the nightstand told her his arrival was imminent, which was a very good thing. If he did not release her to relieve herself very soon, this day would progress from folly to festering Hell.

      How she ever thought his punishment might be amusing was a complete mystery. She had been robbed of her clothes and her dignity. He had set her spinster’s cap on fire, causing the lingering malodorous scent in the bedchamber. He had opened the window to the little balcony to air the room and toss out her boots, and the gauzy lace was wafting in the twilight breeze. The air had also caused her nipples to peak into hard pink points. Her hair was a snarled mess from writhing in fury. Her mama would not know which was worse—her nudity or her dishevelment.

      Yes, Mr. Peachtree was right. It was a very good thing her poor mama was dead. Mama had ambitions for both her girls. She was spared the knowledge that Deb did not get George to marry her after all and that Charlotte had somehow fallen even further into disgrace than her sister. Charlotte would consider herself lucky if she didn’t wet the bed.

      The thud of the downstairs door brought a surge of unbalanced hope. When the demon entered the room a few long minutes later, Charlotte gave him a pathetic smile.

      “Please,” she whispered. “Untie me. I need to use the chamber pot.”

      The fiend’s dark eyebrow raised. “How am I to know your intentions are honorable? You may decide to bean me with it if I let you loose.”

      Oh merciful heavens. Surely he wasn’t going to watch her. She shut her eyes to the frustrated tears that were welling up again.

      “Oh, very well,” he relented. She felt her bonds on her wrists loosen and abstained from grabbing his head and squeezing. Punching him in his handsome straight nose. Giving him a scar to match his other cheek. Instead she rubbed the feeling back into her hands and arms as he stood over her, looking at though he wanted to fry her with thunderbolts.

      “I’ll need your word that you’ll not kick me or try to run away.”

      “I promise,” she croaked.

      When her legs were free, she hobbled to the dressing room door. There must be something in there she could use as a weapon—a hanger, a footstool. She’d spent the afternoon contriving ever more violent imaginary attacks upon his person. Although she had always thought herself a pacifist, it was easy for her to see now why people committed murder. But if he had been angry with her before, he was apt to be even more so if she attacked him physically. It would have to be poison. Slow. Painful. Her mama said patience was a virtue, and Charlotte’s chance would come to bring Sir Michael Xavier Bayard to his knees.

      She

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