“Drat the man!” Charlotte snapped to the empty room. Putting the volume aside, she walked to the window and peeked out, hoping to see his coach or his figure striding gracefully toward the town house, but all was quiet below.
Cursing her longings, she turned away. It had been a long, difficult week since her aborted elopement. Charlotte had spent much of her time in introspection, a habit in which she rarely indulged, but which was called for now.
She faced her failure head-on. As the season approached its end, she realized that it had all been for naught. Her father’s money had been wasted as surely as if he had tossed it to the wind, for she was in love with the one man who would not have her and she could not bear to marry another. How she would make it up to her dear papa and the siblings who depended upon her, Charlotte did not know.
They would not scold her. Charlotte knew that as surely as she knew her own heart, and it made her dread facing them all the more. They would be happy to see her return, and only the oldest among them would even be aware that she had squandered the family’s future. Papa would brush aside her apologies, and even Sarah, dear, sensible Sarah, would probably say nothing except that they must watch Papa’s spending and put a patch of garden...
Charlotte blinked back the tears. Their kindness would make it worse. She would rather they bluster and blast her like Max, for then she could fight back. Their sweet smiles would only make her berate herself enough for all of them.
She sighed, aware that she had sunk into the first case of blue devils she had known since the death of her mama, but she seemed unable to drag herself out of them. Even Augusta’s recovery could not seem to cheer her. If only she could see Max.... Charlotte knew instinctively that he would lighten her mood, if only for a little while, but Max stayed resolutely away.
Charlotte had seen nothing of him after that strained evening on the road and the tense ride back in Sibylle’s coach. His mother, laughing merrily, said that he was ashamed to show his injuries in public, but Charlotte was not amused. She was worried about him. Had his eye swollen shut? Was his beautiful lip black and blue? She wanted to stroke his brow and prepare a poultice and pamper him, but she could not. She cursed the restraints of town life that prevented her from visiting him as she surely would if he were at Casterleigh.
Charlotte was tempted to go to him anyway, flouting convention entirely, but she knew that Max would not be pleased to see her. Unlike her, he did not approve of breaking the rules or endangering her reputation, which had been tarnished by the Gretna Green debacle.
Sometimes Charlotte had the cowardly wish that her reputation had been destroyed. Then she could return home without admitting her failure and without taking the blame for her lack of a husband. Much to her disappointment, however, her good name remained intact. There were whispers, of course, but Sibylle put it about that the baron had been called home suddenly. Quite suddenly, Charlotte thought with a bitter smile.
It was ludicrous, but no one cut her. She received invitations just as before and went out, although only to smaller functions and always with both Sibylle and another trusted escort, usually Raleigh, to watch over her. The sumptuous surroundings, rich foods and glorious costumes that once bedazzled her went unnoticed, however. She was too miserable.
Admirers still crowded around her, fetching her refreshments, begging her to dance and trying to coax a smile from her, but Charlotte wanted to see only one face, be it bruised and battered. And she did not. Max, she suspected, was avoiding her.
Earlier in the week, he had summoned Sibylle to his town house, where he lectured her unmercifully over her dereliction of duty and threatened to cut off her funds if she did not keep a closer watch upon her guest.
Charlotte had been horrified at both the warning and the fact that Sibylle would tell her of it, but the lady laughed off the shameful episode as entirely amusing and typical of Maximilian. She claimed she had even managed to sit still through part of his scolding because he was in such a muddle that she enjoyed watching him.
That airily presented explanation, like so much of Sibylle’s chatter, was unintelligible, so Charlotte gave it no heed. She did pay attention, however, when Sibylle mentioned that Max should appear tonight at their small fete.
The party had been hastily planned to present a good face after the Burgess scandal, though Charlotte suspected that Sibylle hardly needed an excuse to plan lavish entertainments. She thrived on such things. Charlotte did not, and yet she was looking forward to this evening.
She hoped to get one final look at the man she loved, one last conversation, one more dance.... What she really wanted was one last kiss, but Charlotte knew she could hardly count upon it. Although she vividly remembered the few times Max had treated her as a desirable woman, she was far more likely to receive a scolding than a heated embrace.
Charlotte frowned. She did not want to part on those terms; she wanted to take a glorious memory home with her, a memory of Max’s dark eyes filled with the wanting of her. She knew that she would never have more than that from him, but that might just be enough to sustain her until her heart healed itself.
And tonight might be her last chance to make that memory. Although Sibylle had not mentioned it as yet, others were already making preparations for the move to their country homes. Summer, for the ton, would be played out at house parties at grand estates or in visits to the famous watering spots like Bath. Charlotte had already received invitations to join them, but she had declined politely. Such entertainments held no allure for her.
What she wanted was Max, and this evening promised to be the last time she would see him, the last time she would feel that fission in the air between them, and the last time her heart would gallop in her breast—for a lifetime.
Charlotte planned to savor every moment.
* * *
Maximilian glanced at his reflection in the tall gilt mirror that graced the entryway and frowned. He could still see a hint of color around his eye and mouth, a reminder of his recent injuries, which served to sour his mood. Noticing Chevalier’s attention upon him, Maximilian turned slowly, pinning the Frenchman with a look that dared him to speak. For once, the servant wisely kept quiet, though his eyes fairly danced.
“Your mother has not yet come down, but I believe I saw Miss Trowbridge looking over the refreshment tables in the dining room,” he said.
Maximilian gave him a curt nod of thanks and a hard gaze, but Chevalier was already turning away. With a grimace, Maximilian decided he was seeing affronts to his dignity everywhere, even in places they might not exist. His experiences with Charlotte had made him permanently apprehensive, he suspected. The thought made him reflect, a bit uneasily, that his dignity might be lost to him forever.
He pulled himself up straighter in an attempt to retrieve it and made his way to the dining hall and the woman who had become a thorn in his side more aggravating than any split lip or blackened eye could ever be. Remembering all too well the last time he had come upon her unannounced in the Wycliffe town house, Maximilian took a deep breath before peering in.
He realized, belatedly, that he was actually expecting to find her in the arms of yet another overzealous suitor, and the surge of relief he felt when he saw her alone was nearly physical in its intensity. She was addling his brain; he was certain of it. Would he ever be right in the head again? Silently, Maximilian picked up one of the glasses of champagne that were standing ready on the table and took a sip, trying to steady nerves that had never needed steadying before.
She looked more beautiful than ever in a fantastic Corbeau satin gown that would, no doubt, heighten the effect of her luminous eyes. Lush and expensive, the material dipped over her breasts in a manner calculated to make every man in the room take notice and added sophistication and allure to her already luscious form. With a groan of dismay, Maximilian immediately recognized his mother’s fine hand in the garment, for it was certainly not something Augusta Thurgoode would choose.
“Charlotte!” He
roared. He had not meant to shout. Good Lord, he never shouted! But some sort of sound erupted from his lips in protest against a dress that would have all the males fighting each other to rid her of it. Unfortunately, the noise startled Charlotte, who whirled around so abruptly that the contents of her glass flew onto his waistcoat.
“Damn it, Charlotte!” In his later years, Maximilian would claim he did not know what possessed him, but suddenly he was so heartily sick of being doused with foodstuffs by the vicar’s daughter that something inside of him snapped. He did not stop to think. He did not even hesitate. He simply dashed the champagne he was holding all over the front of her far too provocative gown.
“Max!” Charlotte shrieked his name softly and blinked at him, while he stood frozen in horror, unable to believe that he had committed such a dreadful act, such a grotesque breach of etiquette. With an air of confusion, Maximilian lifted the glass in his hand and stared at it suspiciously, as if it had acted of its own accord. Only when he had assured himself that the vessel could not be blamed did he look back at Charlotte.
He expected her to be aghast, to be near fainting or weeping, or perhaps, knowing Charlotte, to be so furious she might lash out at him with a swift kick. To Maximilian’s infinite relief and utter amazement, she was none of those. She was, instead, doubled over with amusement. Maximilian stared at her golden head, bobbing up and down, and he was as stunned by her reaction as by his own behavior. Then, before he could speak a word of apology, she grabbed up another glass from the table and aimed the liquid at him. It splashed all over the shoulder of his black Weston coat.
“Damn it, Charlotte. Have you lost your mind?” Maximilian asked as disbelief and outrage warred within him. Charlotte did not immediately respond, but ran around the end of the table, giggling like a girl, and flung more champagne at him. It soaked his hair and dripped into his eyes.
With a low oath, Maximilian grabbed the nearest glass and tossed off another portion at her. She ducked and came up laughing to send another shot of liquid at his head. This volley wet his face, and he sputtered furiously before tossing two at a time across the table at her.
They hit her throat and her bodice, and Maximilian noticed the way the thin, dampened material clung to her breasts, revealing the hard tips of her nipples to his fascinated gaze. He stopped and stared, his eyes fastened to her ripe curves as she picked up two more glasses, feinted superbly and sent the contents toward the burgeoning bulge in his pantaloons.
It was her last real effort. She was laughing so hard that she had to pause for breath, and Maximilian took the opportunity to pick up a nearby bottle and shake it soundly. Charlotte saw his intent, but could do nothing but back away, her slim hands held up before her while he descended upon her.
“No, Max, no!” she shrieked between gasps. Unheeding, he grinned wickedly and unleashed a stream of liquid that sprayed all over her. She fell onto the floor in a sodden heap, giggling and spluttering, while Maximilian stood over her feeling ridiculously victorious.
He was enjoying himself.
The absurd thought made Maximilian feel light-headed—weak and strong altogether—and when he looked down on the vicar’s daughter, her bright hair escaping its bounds, her gown plastered to her like a second skin and those breasts, those wonderful breasts... They were wet. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to lie on top of her and taste them.
Temptation made his head throb and his body grow heavy with desire. Even the thought of the servants who might walk in at any moment or the guests whose arrival was imminent did nothing to stop the thrumming of his blood. Slowly, he set down the bottle he held and took a step forward. Charlotte lifted a hand up to him...in invitation?
Maximilian sucked in his breath and took it, allowing her to pull him down beside her. Once there, however, he discovered that Charlotte was oblivious to his need, for instead of coming into his arms, she grabbed the bottle and dribbled the last of its brew upon his head. What might have easily turned into something else became, once again, a subject of humor, and when his mother arrived, they were still on the floor, soaking wet and laughing like loons.
“Charlotte!” they heard Sibylle call from the doorway. “Who have you got there with you? Get up, the both of you! Maximilian will blame me for any fun you are having. And he will have a fit when he sees what you have done to his carpet! Do you hear me?”
Sibylle was actually stomping one of her dainty feet. Charlotte sat up abruptly, obviously chastened, but Maximilian stayed where he was, one arm flung over his face as he choked back his mirth. “You, sir!” Sibylle called. “Get up this instant, or I will send Maximilian after you! Then you will find yourself facing pistols at dawn.”
With a groan, Maximilian lifted his head slowly, and the look on his mother’s face was well worth the price of a new rug. “My God! Maximilian, is that you? No! It cannot be,” she protested, teetering on her feet as though she might collapse. “It is not you!”
Maximilian rose as gracefully as he could under the circumstances and helped Charlotte up to stand beside him. “It is me, madame,” he said calmly. “And I hate to disappoint you, but I have no intention of calling myself out.”
* * *
As a romantic evening, it did not rate highly, but it had been memorable, Charlotte reflected as she gazed dreamily at the delicate silk hangings on her bed. She had not gotten her kiss, but she had a final waltz with Max, when both of them had changed into dry clothes, and during that all-too-brief dance, he had watched her with something other than his usual detachment.
Coupled with the previous events of the night, it was enough. Smiling, Charlotte recalled with vivid clarity the moment Maximilian had let himself go, cavorting like a boy with her among the splash of expensive wine. Drowning in champagne... It was a luxury she would never know again, and that thought tempered her guilt over the expense.
Of course, Sibylle had not cared. The carpet had been rolled up and the floor mopped before any of the guests arrived. The only lingering effects of the whole episode had been the odd looks Maximilian’s mother had sent her way, as if Charlotte had turned out to be much more of a puzzle than she had anticipated.
Sibylle obviously had been surprised to catch her son in such play, so much so that Charlotte suspected poor Max had never been a boy. And yet, the child was still there in him somewhere, with its lighthearted love of life intact, just waiting to be released.
Charlotte shut her eyes against a vision of Max with Jenny, bemused but happy to hold her, and Max sharing a quip with Kit as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. When she pictured the earl running and laughing with his own children, she felt tears wet her cheeks. She sat up abruptly. Oh, Max, I hope your wife, whoever she may be, can unlock that secret part of you, Charlotte wished silently. A knock on the door made her wipe her face guiltily.
“Come in,” she called. Her maid, Annette, brought in a morning tray and set it neatly in front of her. Breakfast in bed! How her brothers would scoff and her sisters would swoon, if they only knew, but Charlotte had decided to pamper herself in the little time she had left. She would surely never know such delights again, and besides, she told herself, she was always up long before Sibylle. The dining room was vast and lonely at this hour, so it was much cozier to eat in her room.
“Good morning, Annette,” Charlotte said. “Thank you,” she added as the maid plopped up her pillows.
“You have a letter, which must have been missed in yesterday’s excitement. I put it on your tray,” Annette noted with a smile.
“Oh, thank you!” It was from her papa, and Charlotte felt a sudden homesickness coupled with an eagerness to hear news of those who loved her for herself, be she only a poor vicar’s daughter. Pushing the tray aside impatiently, Charlotte broke open the wafer and unfolded the sheets. Her food remained untouched, and Annette’s quiet retreat went unheeded as Charlotte read and reread the page until finally she stared at it in disbelief.
My dearest Charlotte,
&nb
sp; We are all rejoicing at the welcome news from Lord Wycliffe. Although he says many gentlemen have been pressing offers for your hand upon him, he has forwarded to me only the most welcome one, from Viscount Linley. Wycliffe assures me that the viscount has an impeccable reputation as well as great wealth, and, indeed, he has presented an astounding settlement for my approval.
We are so proud of your success, my dear, and the girls are all agog that you are to gain an unexpected title. They are already calling you Viscountess Linley, as you can well imagine. The boys are not as impressed, but are begging for details about the viscount’s stables, and etc. One hopes that he is not put off by children, for I suspect they are counting the days until they can ask to visit.
Since Wycliffe said you were anxious to be wed, I have told his lordship to accept on my behalf. I hope this is welcome news to you, my dear, and that you have not been kept chafing at the bit, so to speak, while all was under consideration....
The letter went on with news from home and more felicitations upon her betrothal, and no matter how many times Charlotte read it, the words never altered. She would have thought it all an elaborate hoax but for the fact that Max was involved, and Max was nothing if not reliable and responsible.
Finally, after her fourth look at the pages, she began to accept the bizarre news. To her dismay, it appeared she was suddenly to marry Viscount Linley—a man she could not recall for the life of her.
Vainly, Charlotte searched her memory, but there were so many gentlemen who flitted in and out of her orbit, teasing and talking with her, fetching her this treat and that refreshment or begging her for a dance, that Charlotte could never have recalled them all. The name tugged at her mind, just out of reach, for although she knew she had heard it before, she could put no face to it.
The mysterious viscount was not one of her more persistent suitors, of that she was certain, or she could have recalled him easily. Roddy Black, Captain Stollings, Sir Burgess, Viscount Raleigh... Charlotte blinked and looked down again at her father’s scrawled lines, but there was no mistaking the name. It was not Raleigh. And although a dozen other admirers came quickly to her mind, none of them were Linley.
The Vicar's Daughter Page 20