Rules for Being a Mistress Read Online Free Page A

“Will it be the tart, then?”
    “No, I’m not hungry,” he said, cutting short her pleasure. “I am absolutely certain of it.”
    He sipped his whiskey.
    “Sure that pear was bruised anyway,” she said, rallying. “Is it a pipe you smoke, Sir Benedict? I could fill it for you. My own father smokes a pipe, and, ever since I was a young girl, I’d always fill it for him, so it’s no trouble.”
    “I don’t smoke,” he said.
    She smiled incredulously. “ You don’t smoke?”
    “Not anymore,” he said with more accuracy. “The tax has become so impertinent, I have decided to give it up for a bad habit.”
    “In that case, I’d say your coat’s been sneaking a few behind your back.” She laughed.
    Benedict was horrified. “That is not the scent of my tobacco,” he said quickly. “I was obliged to take up some stranded people on the road. The gentleman smelled of cheap tobacco—and perfume, unfortunately. The carriage was utterly polluted. But I had no choice. In good conscience, I could not have left them out in the rain.”
    “’Tis such a bother, indeed, taking in strangers on a cold, wet night,” she gravely agreed. “Sure they’re more trouble than they’re worth, them strangers, and never a word of thanks!”
    “Quite,” he answered, in no way connecting her remarks to his own situation. “But one must always be charitable to those in need. I apologize if the odor offends you.”
    “Ah, no. It’s myself that owes you an apology,” she said, sitting down on the brick step with her back to the fire. “Here I thought you’d been out all night, smoking and womanizing, like a proper gentleman!” Her green eyes danced.
    Benedict could not believe the woman had sat down in his presence. Usually, his reserved manner was enough to curtail all such impudence. “No, indeed, Miss Cosy,” he said stiffly. “I told you I no longer smoke.”
    She laughed out loud. “Just the womanizing then?”
    Benedict stared at her. The women of his own class, ladies, never laughed with their mouths open. It was considered vulgar, but, perhaps more important, few women of this age had better than tolerable teeth. So, instead of laughing out loud, they smirked, they tittered, and they giggled behind their gloved fingertips or their fans.
    He ought to have been disgusted by this vulgar, laughing Irish girl. Instead, inexplicably, her laughter aroused him. He suddenly wanted to make love to her right there, right where the cat sleeps. It was an irrational impulse, of course, like all sexual attraction, but to deny it would have been even more irrational, and, where irrationality could not be avoided, Benedict liked to keep it to a minimum. Recognizing the attraction was the first step in controlling it.
    “I am too old for such exercise, Miss Cosy,” he said firmly.
    “Ah, no. Your hair is still black, and your back is still straight. Why, you couldn’t be more than a hundred and ten.”
    “Miss Cosy!” he said sharply. “Are you flirting with me?”
    “Only for about the past five hours,” she said with mock exasperation.
    “I am thirty-eight,” he said indignantly. “You cannot be more than twenty-two.”
    The kettle whistled, and she jumped up to take it off the hook. “Are you sure you won’t have a cup, Sir Benedict?” she asked. “No sense wasting a boiling kettle, is there?”
    “No; I thank you. One is obliged to drink so much tea in society that I never drink it in private life.” He held out his glass. “Whiskey will suffice, I think.”
    Cosy hesitated. Having learned from bitter experience that a third glass of whiskey could turn even the most respectable man into a thorough blackguard, she had decided to cut him off at two. “That would be your third, sir,” she reminded him gently. “You might want to slow down.”
    “Why?” he said sharply. “Is there something wrong with your whiskey?”
    She stared at him blankly for a moment, then, for no reason he could detect, burst