6. Chapter Six

Blythe's held breath began to nip at her throat as she made the last stroke against the canvas. She dipped the brush into the water and swirled, before wiping the bristles on her apron and setting it, toe up to dry, in a small glass jar.

She leaned back against her chair and sighed. Perfect.

Lady Tate's kittens had likely never looked better.

As she packed her containers and squeezed out her sponges, she tallied the hours she had spent working on Lady Tate's collection that immortalised her beloved cats, those gone and the others that still sauntered around her home. Her uncle would have charged double what Blythe had quoted, but unlike him, she had no real reputation. And apart from being besotted with her feline's, Lady Tate was a bit of a gossip, and if she was happy with Blythe's work, she'd possibly recommend her to her friends.

Maybe that would be enough to keep her in accommodations and cleaning supplies.

‘I'm afraid I can't help with this,' a gruff voice sounded behind her. ‘Cats make me sneeze.'

It couldn't be. But even after two weeks, his rough timbre was unmistakable to her ears, and no one else could send gooseflesh racing over her skin. It had to be him. ‘Julian.' His name caught in her throat as she swivelled to find him. Black suit, gold cravat, his skin slightly flushed and his eyes bright. Did he ever look ruffled?

‘Lady Tate is an old friend. She let me in.' He spun the brim of his top hat in his hands. ‘I searched for you at the gallery. Why aren't you there?'

Blythe busied herself with packing up her kit. ‘Blythe is a common name for men too. They didn't realise I was a woman. When they saw my uncle's surname, they made an assumption. When they realised their error, well…'

Blythe swallowed the indignity of her dismissal before she had begun. The disappointment had sent her to bed for three days. It was only when her sadness had been replaced by anger, and hunger, that she had found the stamina to rise, make enquiries, and secure a little work.

‘But you are better than this.' He waved his hand at the painting, slightly wincing at the gaudy colours. ‘You should be caring for Gentileschi's. For DaVinci's.'

‘These matter to Lady Tate. They make her happy.' Blythe packed the last of her things into her case and closed the lid. ‘Why are you here?'

Julian twisted the hat in his hand slightly faster now, his grip closing and unclosing against it. ‘I want you, Blythe. Not for a night. For always.'

Her heart had been racing, but now it lurched hard, barely suspended in her chest. ‘You want me to be your wife?'

As the word wife dropped from her lips, Julian's expression tore. His features pained; she read the dilemma that coursed in him. If he married, his adored daughter would be demoted. She would move from heir apparent to presumptive, her life shifting from certain to tenuous, from future baroness in her own right to baron's daughter. Because if he married, the possibility of a son to usurp Yvette's inheritance would be ever present. It would taint all conversations and sour every interaction. Even a simple How are you would become loaded.

‘I can't marry you. I love you, but my love for my daughter…' He dropped his hat to the floor and strode two quick steps across the room and grasped her hands. ‘But the thought of not being with you shreds me. Let me care for you. Support you.'

How often had she thought of his hands that cradled hers over the past weeks. How she had wished for a nurturing embrace, or a kind ear, even a simple cup of tea that she didn't have to make herself. When she looked to him, his face was full of love and lightness, no longer battling a memory.

‘Are you asking me to be your mistress?' The words curled from incredulity to delight as she weighed his proposition. ‘Your real mistress?'

‘Mistress. Companion. Lover. Friend. I don't care what you call yourself. I don't mind if you work. You should, you're a genius.' He tugged her to her feet and pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘Just be mine. I'll be yours. If our hearts are one, does it matter what sheet of paper binds us?'

‘But won't it be awkward, with Yvette, and…' Blythe stumbled her last reservations.

‘She told me to find you. She isn't upset, although she did question your sanity.' He huffed a low chuckle. ‘She wants you to be happy. Please. You don't have to do everything alone.'

‘If we have children, they'll be bastards.'

‘Do you want children?' he asked.

She shook her head, for once not embarrassed by her admission.

‘There are ways to avoid such things. I even purchased a ummm…' His voice dropped to a coarse whisper. ‘A French letter, in the hope you would say yes.' His eyes sparkled, and she could not tell if it was with mischievousness or bravado. Perhaps both.

Blythe slid her hands along his coat lapels, then entwined them behind his neck. She curled her fingers through the soft whisps of his hair and drew him close.

‘You are a cad, Baron Moncrief. A rogue. A terrible rake, to keep a mistress half your age.'

Julian kissed her hard, his hold possessive, his mouth tender. ‘I am the very worst.' He picked up her kit and offered his arm. ‘Would you care to join me at the Langham Hotel for a clandestine evening? I have booked a room for Mr and Mrs Jones.' He nipped her earlobe, then growled, ‘But we can't be caught. It would be properly scandalous.'

‘Is there a view of the street?' she asked, biting her lip, her insides already dissolving.

‘Of course. I would not have booked it otherwise.'

‘And is the carriage ride long?'

‘I will tell the driver to run over anyone in our path.'

‘Oh no. Don't do that. Tell him to take the most scenic route he can. And Julian—' She tugged his ear close to hers. ‘I'm not wearing any drawers.'

THE END

I hope you enjoyed my steamy short, My Fake Mistress.