Page 2 of My Fake Mistress
Blythe bit her lip. ‘It’s not so simple. I’m… I’m not sure he believed me. In fact, he laughed and said he’d thought you’d forgotten…’ Her cheeks burned as she clutched her skirt. ‘He said he thought you’d forgotten how to use… it.’
‘It?’
‘Your…’ Was he going to make her say it? ‘Your…’
‘I know what you mean,’ he snapped, but she could tell by his tone, his ire was not directed at her. ‘Crude arse.’
‘I think it might help convince him if he saw us sneaking around. Isn’t that what happens at these parties? Trysts and liaisons?’
‘How can you be sure we’ll be seen by him? What if someone else sees us? It would damage your reputation. And mine.’
‘Which is why we have to be careful. We can only be spotted by him. Thankfully, I know where he’ll be. And I think we’ve got just enough time to get there.’
It had been over twenty years since Julian had snuck into the garden to meet a woman for a private rendezvous, and despite his reluctance, as he wove his way between the knotted roots and ducked to escape a willow’s trailing vines, he couldn’t deny the delicious flush of excitement that shivered inside him.
But it wasn’t because he was headed to a lover’s tryst; it was a ‘put that arse Carlson in his place’ tryst. The man was entirely too cocky, and flaunted his position, and moved on from his wife’s death with all the subtlety of a peacock flaunting his feathers.
Away from the rock lined gravel paths and hidden by the fresh spring foliage, Blythe pulled aside a veil of leaves and peered up. Above, the lights from the ballroom spilled onto the lawn, casting sharp shadows over the grass.
‘He told me to meet him on the balcony. Said he’d give me a sample of hisprotection.’ She shuddered.
Julian smothered an urge to find the man who had made her feel so uncomfortable and pulverise his teeth into grains of sand. Instead, he exhaled between his lips. Knocking Carlson’s ego to the floor while helping Blythe would be far more satisfactory than any blow he could wield with his fists.
‘We should look as if we are… entangled.’ Blythe hesitated, then reached for him. Even through his coat, he felt the warm rush of her hands as they slid around his shoulders to intertwine around his neck. ‘If he sees us like this, do you think he’ll be convinced?’
‘He should see you first.’ Julian clasped her waist and swung her so that her back was to the balcony, his palms pressing into the firm curve of her hips.
She laughed, like she did when they played cards, or on her first night when they’d met over dinner, and he’d been enraptured by her stories about her work with her uncle. ‘He will not recognise the back of my head. He needs to see my face.’ And she gripped his shoulders and spun him in a half-circle. The glittering lights from above danced in her eyes, and a slash of light between the leaves caught the turned-up corner of her mouth. Such a pretty mouth, with little brackets at the edges and a kiss of a dimple on her left cheek.
‘I will obscure you. I am a dark-haired gent with a valet. My hair is neat and close cut. More than half the men here fit my description. No other lady has golden hair as beautiful as yours. He will recognise you instantly.’ And he spun her, casting her face into the shadow.
‘Yours is not completely dark. You have a little silver through the coal.’ She brushed her fingers across his forehead. ‘But only a little.’
‘Shhh.’ Julian caught the shift of a form across the balcony. ‘I think he’s stepped outside.’
Carlson’s swaggering shadow came first, casting arrogant splotches that stretched down the side of the house and spread across the lawn. He inhaled a cigar, puffed out his chest, then wheezed out the smoke, slightly coughing at the end of his exhalation.
‘Is it him?’ Blythe asked. Her entire body had gone tense under his fingers.
‘It’s him. He’s watching the ballroom. Now he’s scanning the trees. He’s seen me. I think he recognises me. I think…’
Julian dipped his head as his palm cupped Blythe’s head and drew her closer. Less than an inch from her lips, he paused. ‘Yvette did not tell me you had a position.’ Her hair curled between his fingers, each silken strand a caress against his skin.
She looked up at him, slightly closing the gap between their mouths. ‘I only received the letter yesterday. I can scarce believe it. For so many years, it’s all I’ve wanted. I loved working with my uncle, but when he passed, everything went to a second cousin. I was not even allowed to take the client register. I barely left with my toolkit. But now, I can do the unimaginable. I will make magnificent artists live forever. Give them eternal life.’
‘Eternal life? I thought you restored paintings. Have they let women become priests?’
Her chuckle, light and earthy, tickled his skin. ‘Not at all. And while it is a calling that at times feels divine, it is, in reality, far more practical. Restoring paintings, removing the dust and grime, replacing the lacquer, stretching the canvas, or reapplying gilt to frames, it seems so small but it’s so important. I will not usher anyone into the afterlife. I will keep death at bay.’
‘That is a gift. It sounds like magic.’ Julian had never bothered to hire a conservator for the family collection, and he felt an unwelcome flurry of remorse at the realisation. He had banished so many of the artworks to obscurity, like his memories, and his happiness. Only his pain he had kept close.
‘It’s really only cleaning,’ she said, slightly dipping her face so that her forehead glanced his lips.
Julian checked the balcony. Carlson, gripping the marble balustrade, tipped forward in inquiry. Blythe watched Julian intently, likely reading him for signs of success or failure. All her earlier worry had left her, and she seemed to share his excitement at the clandestine nature of their deception. Close, he noticed the slightest of gaps between her front teeth. Adorable. Her hair had been piled into some ornate style, likely by Yvette’s maid, and a few curls had bucked themselves free of restraint. Julian slid his thumb over her hips and found a slight wear in the velvet, and with a sink, he wondered how much of her meagre funds she had spent on a wardrobe for the weekend. Despite her well-worn clothes, she emanated the most magnetic radiance and energy, and he saw what Carlson wanted to possess. A young woman full of life, determination and resilience, she was the sort of person that drew others to her orbit simply through her captivation with the world, and the way she helped them to see the everyday as beauteous, as if they had not seen it before.
‘Do you think he’s convinced?’ she asked, and the breath of her whisper skated over his lips. And before logic could intrude, he said, ‘No, I don’t,’ and closed the space between them.
She tasted of champagne and plump raspberries. She didn’t respond to him, just stayed stiff in his arms. For a stumbled heartbeat he regretted his impulse, but then her lips parted, and she cupped the back of his neck and squeezed as her body arched into his.
