by Allegra Gray
Right now, he just wanted to touch her. He’d nearly decided to abandon caution and reach for her when she lifted her fingers to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut to stifle a yawn.
Graeme blinked. Her earlier claims had been no lie. She truly was exhausted.
“Not too far now. We’ll have you home soon, lass,” he reassured her.
At his change in tone, she tipped her chin up, and the look of longing he saw in her eyes sent a surge of fierce desire and protectiveness flooding his system.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. He heard the slight catch in her breath, and the desire to protect warred with desire of a very different nature.
The carriage stopped.
Charity blinked and shook her head to clear it, no longer certain she could blame the opium wine for her mesmerized state. No, Lord Maxwell was to blame. There was something about him. She’d felt it the first time she’d met his eye, and every time since.
The door opened, and a footman assisted her down.
Charity’s heart sank—and her head cleared—the moment she set foot on the ground.
Lord Maxwell’s carriage had indeed stopped in front of her home—as had another carriage just in front of his, from which her mother, followed by her sister and brother in law, the Duke of Beaufort, had just alighted.
“Unbelievable,” Charity muttered. She turned back to the carriage, where Lord Maxwell’s frame filled the door. “Did I say I had eight hours to live? Make that about five minutes.”
“Is something amiss?”
She motioned for him to remain in the carriage. “The trouble is mine, not yours. You’ve been a gentleman. Now go,” she urged, keeping her voice low. “Hurry.”
“Charity?” her mother called.
Charity winced, mouthed “save yourself!” to Lord Maxwell, then faced her family. If only she had something besides her flimsy evening shawl to cover her blasted costume.
“Charity, who is that you’re talking to?”
“Too late.” She heard Lord Maxwell’s deep voice just before the sound of his boot hitting the ground behind her.
She shot him a dirty look. This would be difficult enough to explain without a great hulking man following her.
“Good evening, Mother. Good evening, Your Grace. Evening, E.,” she greeted her family in a breezy tone. “I was simply thanking Lord Maxwell here for giving me a ride home after my companions became…indisposed.”
By now she’d drawn close enough to her family for them to register her unusual garb. Lady Medford’s eyes narrowed. “Lord Maxwell.” She inclined her head. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Charity suppressed a shiver at her frosty tone. “Shall I make the introductions indoors, then?” This was sure to turn ugly. At least she could usher them off the street rather than act out this scene in front of the neighbors and their servants. She swept inside, not giving anyone a chance to argue.
As she expected, the small crowd trooped into the house behind her. Once in the salon, Charity made the introductions more thoroughly. “Alex and Elizabeth Bainbridge, the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. Elizabeth is my sister,” she explained. “And Lady Priscilla Medford, my mother.”
“A pleasure. Graeme Ramsey Maxwell, Earl of Leventhal.”
The group stood awkwardly.
“Perhaps we should be going,” the duke offered.
“Oh, no,” Elizabeth protested, the corners of her lips quirking in amusement. “This is far too interesting.”
Charity gave her a grateful smile. Growing up, they’d gotten into scrapes together. She was on her own now, but at least her sister wouldn’t totally abandon her.
“I say. Almack’s has changed their dress code dramatically since I last attended,” Lady Medford challenged.
“Sarcasm is unbecoming,” Charity shot back. “Fine. We both know I did not attend Almack’s this evening.”
“Masquerades are terribly fun, don’t you think so, Alex?” Elizabeth nudged her husband, who shrugged agreeably and headed for the brandy decanter. “What an incredible costume, Charity.”
“Although your support for your sister is noted and, I’m sure, appreciated,” Lady Medford said, “this particular masquerade was not one I deemed suitable for an unmarried young lady.”
“Perhaps we might discuss that after we bid Lord Maxwell goodnight,” Charity suggested, as her growing anger and embarrassment threatened to destroy the last calming effects of the opium wine. “I’m certain he has no wish to listen to our differences of opinion.”
“I am not certain I am ready to bid him farewell just yet. How long have you known Lord Maxwell?”
Charity sighed. “About two hours.”
“And what were you doing at the masquerade, Lord Maxwell?” The words were loaded with too much bite to hold any pretense of an innocently-asked question.
Lord Maxwell’s brows lifted, but he held his own. “Rescuing your daughter. Obviously.”
Charity would have smiled at his lack of intimidation, but the idea that she’d required rescuing—true though it was—rankled too sorely.
“Please tell me this was not a ‘pistols at dawn’ sort of rescue,” the duke drawled.
“No,” Charity stated emphatically. “Absolutely not.”
“You were in a carriage alone with him,” her mother pointed out.
Graeme took a step back, beginning to feel as though he’d been thrust into the lead role in a Cheltenham tragedy without studying his lines. Perhaps he should have made his escape when Miss Medford had suggested. But he’d never been a coward, nor the sort to abandon someone in trouble. And Miss Medford was simply too compelling. Even the threat of family introductions, made under highly suspicious circumstances, had not been enough for his instinct of self-preservation to kick in.
“Do not try to fool me, Charity,” Lady Medford said. “I am not so old as to have forgotten the type of antics young people sometimes get up to. The sort they regret later.”
Miss Medford plunked a hand on her hip. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If you are so in doubt, why do you not simply call for the physician to examine me? He will assure you I am unharmed. Again.”
Graeme reached up and felt his jaw. Still closed. Good lord—what kind of young woman was he dealing with that her family distrusted her to the point of needing a physician’s word over her own? And, apparently, not for the first time.
Of course, Miss Medford’s willingness to submit to an exam suggested truth to her claim of innocence. Which then begged the question—what on God’s green earth had an innocent been doing at the Wicked Baron’s ball? His head started to spin.
“Come now, Mother.” The young duchess, Miss Medford’s sister, spoke up once more on her behalf. “I’m certain Charity meant no harm. She was reasonable enough to accept a ride home when it became clear the evening’s entertainment was not, perhaps, what she’d hoped or expected. Would you have rather she’d stayed?”
“I’d have rather she’d had the sense not to go in the first place,” Lady Medford retorted. She heaved a sigh. “But, failing that, I suppose you are right.” Adopting a more pleasant tone, she asked, “So, Lord Maxwell, what is it that brings you to London? Your accent and title, unless I’m mistaken, mark you as a Scot.”
Graeme debated the wisdom of answering honestly. Well, why the hell not? The evening couldn’t get any stranger. “Actually,” he replied, “I came to London to look for a wife.”
“Oh, my word.” Miss Medford closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and rounded on her mother. “Do not get any ideas.”
Graeme rocked back on his heels, beginning to enjoy himself.
He’d only spoken the truth. He had come to London to look for a wife.
He was, of course, quite certain that Miss Charity Medford did not fit the bill. A wife ought to be nurturing, submissive and controllable. Charity was…not.
Though ravishing and sensual, the chit obviously had a wild streak that ran deep. Hardly an ideal attribute for a d
utiful wife, let alone a suitable mother for his young ward.
He’d had plenty of time on the journey south to consider the sort of woman he might court—and who might be convinced to spend the majority of each year in the Scottish highlands he called home. A young widow, perhaps, or simply someone less…beautiful than Charity Medford. Not ugly, of course. Just…less. Miss Medford, he suspected, had all of London at her feet. She didn’t need him.
Except that she had, tonight.
It was probably too much to hope for a repeat occurrence. If only he could take his eyes off her.
“Brandy?” the duke asked him congenially.
Miss Medford looked between the two men, her parted lips—lips he longed to taste again—registering her disbelief. “Not two minutes ago you considered dueling, and now you’re inviting him for a drink?”
The duke tipped his head. “If Lord Maxwell is truly the chivalrous gentleman you so fiercely purport him to be, it seems the least I can do.”
“You’re actually enjoying this,” she accused.
“Fine brandy, my loved ones gathered together…what’s not to enjoy?”
Graeme bit back a laugh, though he noticed the redheaded duchess was not so successful in stifling her merriment. With the tension of moments before diffused, even Lady Medford’s features relaxed.
Miss Medford, however, threw up her hands. “I must be too exhausted to think clearly, for this all seems absurd to me. Since I cannot be as witty and amusing as the rest of you, I fear I must excuse myself. I wish you all a good night.”
Graeme watched her go, disappointed. She’d left the door open, and the soft sway of her hips held his gaze long enough that he saw the way she paused, her whole demeanor drooping as she reached the staircase leading, he presumed, to the family quarters. Whatever else she was hiding, he believed one thing she’d said. Miss Charity Medford was indeed very, very tired.
As for the rest, Graeme was not a man to let a mystery go unsolved. Nor was he—normally—one to make snap decisions.
He hoped he wouldn’t regret the one he made now. After all, he knew only three key facts about Miss Medford. One, she was unmarried. Two, she came from respectable family. Third, and perhaps most importantly, he knew from those brief moments in the dark tonight that he’d never again be able to touch another woman without wondering “what if?”
Everything after number three was a matter of detail.
“I must be on my way as well,” he informed those remaining in the room. “It was a pleasure to meet all of you, as well as the charming—if unconventional—Miss Medford.”
“Lord Maxwell,” Lady Medford said, “you have my sincere apology if my daughter’s…situation…inconvenienced you this evening.”
“No inconvenience,” he assured her, already moving toward the door. Better to leave before things got awkward again. They would need time to digest his next words. “Scotland is home to quite a few unconventional people. I hope Miss Medford will like it. I rather think I’m going to marry her.”
Chapter 4:
In which the word “rather” is analyzed and found lacking.
“I rather think I’m going to marry her?” Charity echoed, popping off her bed. “That was his proposal?”
She’d already dropped off into a dreamless slumber when her door had burst open and her sister, brimming with news, had shaken her awake. She blinked and shook her head, certain the effects of that evening’s heavily-laced punch were still fogging her mind.
Elizabeth bounced on the balls of her feet. “I don’t know that it technically counts as a proposal, given that it was uttered more in the form of an announcement than a request. We could hardly ask for clarification, either, as he made this proclamation on his way out the door. This Lord Maxwell may actually share your proclivity for drama.”
“Heaven help us both, then. I barely know the man. It’s not as though he asked me, either,” she muttered. “He could at least have asked permission.” She sank back down on the bed.
“I suppose it’s a statement of intention, at any rate. Honorable intention,” her sister squeezed her hand consolingly.
Charity hated the concern in her sister’s eyes. “’I rather think’ is hardly a solid foundation on which to rely,” she scoffed. “For example, if I were to say ‘I rather think I shall cut my hair off short,’ it doesn’t mean I am actually committed to doing so.”
“You needn’t be upset. No one has agreed to anything yet. After all, you even said you’d only known Lord Maxwell for two hours. Surely he intends to court you before making a formal proposal.”
“I have no idea what he intends,” Charity admitted, tugging at her hair. Why was she so upset? The man was gallant. Sensual. From what little she knew, straightforward. She could do far worse.
“Do you want him to court you? After all, why not? He is quite handsome. And an earl.”
“Don’t let Alex hear you saying that,” Charity mustered the energy to tease. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She scrubbed at her face with her hands, willing her fuzzy brain to think. If only she could think.
Finally Elizabeth took pity on her. “Never mind this all for now. Get some sleep, sister dear. You really do look like you need it. We can put our heads together in the morning. I’m sure things will appear more clearly then.”
“Right,” Charity mumbled. “How am I supposed to sleep now?”
Elizabeth gave her a small smile. “Rest, then, at least. Worrying won’t help.”
“Right,” Charity repeated.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” Elizabeth promised. “I should make you face Mother alone, but I won’t.”
“You’re the best. Really.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “Of course. That’s what sisters are for.”
In spite of Charity’s protest that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, her body had other plans. By the time Elizabeth closed the door behind her, the foggy entrails of slumber were already curling through her mind, pulling her back under.
“We need a plan.” Lady Medford looked around the breakfast room expectantly, as though by announcing the obvious, she’d done her part.
The room’s other occupants—Charity and Elizabeth, the latter of whom had arrived early and was gently bouncing her young son on her lap—straightened.
The few hours’ sleep had done wonders for Charity. For the first time in days, she felt awake. And only too aware of her precarious situation. Perhaps, though she was loathe to admit it, her behavior had gotten somewhat out of hand. She clasped her hands on her lap to keep them from trembling, and managed to look her mother in the eye. “I know it is too late to apologize, Mother. At any moment, some enterprising acquaintance of yours will decide the hour is decent enough to come break the news of my scandalous behavior.”
Her mother pursed her lips. “What would you have me say to them? Deny you were even at that horrible masquerade?” She harrumphed. “I do wish I could simply look away and let you deal with your own troubles. But you live under my roof, and I’d like to keep what’s left of our family’s dignity intact.”
Charity shot a quick look at her sister, who was being uncharacteristically quiet. They both knew the Medford family would have very little “dignity” left if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth’s marriage to the duke.
Elizabeth had had a brush or two with scandals of her own before marrying Alex. Not to mention their father’s inauspicious death and empty coffers. So, Charity rationalized, her own escapades were simply following in the family footsteps.
“I accept responsibility for my actions,” Charity stated.
Her mother waved a hand. “That is well and good, but it does not help us now. Is there any chance the woman who saw you might be uncertain as to your identity?”
“She called me by name,” Charity admitted in a low voice. “And then I ran. Even if she had not been certain, my reaction must have confirmed my identity.”
“Oh, Charity,” Elizabeth said sympathetically.
; “So people will know you were there.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “But they do not know why she was there. All we really need is a good reason.”
“I cannot think of any legitimate reason an innocent would attend such an event,” Lady Medford stated.
Charity ignored her mother’s unhelpful response. “What are you thinking?” she prompted her sister.
“The gossips always love a good story. Most of them are not above embellishing any ondit they find lackluster. All we must do is beat them at their own game. Think creatively. We could say you came looking for me…that you needed to speak with me, something urgent, and were afraid that if you showed up to the Wicked Baron’s masquerade as yourself, meaning without a costume, you would not have been allowed in.”
“Which is likely true.” She had been invited, but there was a difference between showing up as a young lady of society and showing up in a mysterious costume…no one would think twice about the latter.
Lady Medford nodded. “Oh, I see. Yes, that just may work. Better yet. Say she came looking for me. I am a widow of measurable years, not a duchess and young mother. My presence at such a masquerade, though still not desirable,” she glared meaningfully at Charity, “would be little cause for talk.”
“Lovely. So I came looking for you,” Charity said. For the life of her, she could not imagine her persnickety mother deigning—let alone desiring—to attend the Wicked Baron’s masquerade. “Why? Oh. Wait. I have it. What if little Noah had suddenly spiked a fever, and you were terribly afraid, Elizabeth, and even though Alex would of course have summoned a physician, you wanted our mother at your side?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I’m not sure I like using my son in such schemes, but I suppose it does no harm. He will never even know. We can say the fever came and went suddenly, but gave us a scare. You would have borrowed the costume from me, of course.”
“Were you seen dancing? Or partaking in…whatever else it is that people partake in at that debauched event?” Lady Medford asked.