Cosgrove’s mistress. Charlotte’s imagination took flight, telling her what that would be like. Not just a few stolen hours in a hired room, but whole evenings, whole nights, in a house that was theirs alone.
But only on the evenings Cosgrove was free, only the nights he wasn’t engaged elsewhere. Perhaps there’d be the occasional lazy morning, the occasional snatched afternoon, but never full days. The earl had a busy life, and she’d be separate from it. He’d visit when it was convenient, when he felt the need for her. Otherwise, she’d be alone. Waiting for him.
I’d be Ophelia. Slowly going mad.
But it was tempting. So very tempting.
Charlotte stared at him. The black hair, the gray eyes, the strong face. A man of staunch principles, who wasn’t afraid to fight for what he believed was right. A man who made her laugh. Who made her love him.
What should I choose?
If she accepted Cosgrove’s offer, she could no longer be Albin. The earl would expect to find her home whenever he visited: day or night. She could be his secretary, or his mistress, but not both.
Which did she want? Working with Cosgrove, helping him fight his battles? Or the intense pleasure of sharing his bed, when the world retreated and it was just the two of them—candlelight and shadows and intimacy?
I want both.
She tried to swallow, but the muscles in her throat were too tight. “And when you marry again?”
“It will be a marriage of convenience. It wouldn’t alter our arrangement.”
Perhaps not for you, but for me it would.
She couldn’t share Cosgrove’s bed if he had a wife.
The decision became clearer. This wasn’t a choice between mistress or secretary; it was a choice between mistress for a short time, or secretary for a long time.
Put like that, it was easy to choose.
Charlotte removed her hand from his clasp. “Thank you, sir. Marcus. But I . . .” She searched for an excuse. “I can’t leave my position.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Your job means that much to you?”
My employer does. “I came to London to earn my living. I don’t wish to be dependent on anyone ever again.”
“You wouldn’t be dependent on me. The house would be in your name. It would be yours should we decide to terminate our relationship.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“You wouldn’t need to work again.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. She shook her head again. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Cosgrove stared at her, his mouth tight, as if her refusal was more important than she’d thought.
“If . . . if we could just continue as we are? Until you marry?”
“No,” he said. “From now on I’ll pay. You can’t tell me you earn enough to hire a hotel room each night.”
Charlotte bit her lip. She looked down at the rug, plucked at a tuft of wool. Five nights had considerably eaten into the money Cosgrove had advanced her.
“I’ll hire a set of rooms. Will you accept that much?”
She glanced at him, and nodded.
His mouth was still tight, his cheekbones and jaw sharp. He’s displeased. He wanted me as his mistress.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve made you angry.”
Cosgrove’s face lost its angularity. “No. Don’t apologize. It was presumptuous of me. It’s I who should be begging your pardon. Forgive me.” He took her hand again and pressed his mouth to her palm.
Charlotte’s heart seemed to turn upside down in her chest, like a carriage tipping over.
His eyes caught hers. “Shall we?”
Charlotte let him pull her to her feet, let him lead her to the bed.
The earl smoothed strands of hair back from her face, and bent his head and kissed her. The tenderness of his mouth made her close her eyes, made her want to change her mind and accept his offer.
Charlotte opened her eyes. Cosgrove’s face filled her vision, strong-boned, beloved. I love you, sir, but I can’t be your mistress.
She’d made her choice. Albin, not Charlotte.