London's Best Kept Secret

by Anabelle Bryant

  * * *

  Charlotte could hardly form words for the effervescent nervousness alive within her. Dearing had entered the room, a commanding presence, his eyes only on her as his strides ate up the carpet between them. Thank heavens she’d chosen the aubergine silk with cutaway lace sleeves. The elegant neckline and exposed shoulder design complemented her décolletage, with just enough skin to tempt and tease. She’d never worn the gown, convinced Dearing remained uninterested, but things were seemingly altered, and she didn’t care why.

  A wicked thrill whirled through her as she accepted the glass of sherry and his fingertips brushing against hers with unexpected contact. Heat bloomed across her nape. What if he found her wanting? Deficient of the charm and beauty he’d expected when he bought her hand in marriage?

  She wouldn’t allow those misguided ideas to take root and instead took a second sip of sherry. If only she could decipher her husband, one minute staid and reserved, the next utterly charming, always with feelings opaque and concealed.

  Now candlelight glistened off each strand of his thick hair, the color of ancient gold, his eyes the warmest brown. Desire unfurled, new and eager, and she welcomed the sensation.

  “I’m pleased you’re home this evening.” She hoped she didn’t sound forward or foolish for all the agony she’d spent choosing the words.

  “As am I.”

  His eyes moved over her, stalling for several breaths at her neckline, and she hoped the simmering heat of excitement didn’t pinken her skin. “We haven’t shared as much time together as I’d hoped.” There, she’d said it aloud. Would he withdraw or admit he’d handled their new marriage with clumsy disregard?

  “Yes, and I accept fault for all that kept me out of the house.” He glanced away and back again, his expression softening.

  “I . . . I share that fault.”

  “Let’s put it behind us, then.”

  His gaze searched her face before he reached forward and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, just as they had the other day, and she saw bold desire in his eyes. Her husband wanted her. How gloriously delightful. Her exhalation came out in a series of shallow breaths, each a whisper of hope and anticipation.

  How could it be that this strong, handsome man, successful and well respected, had chosen her for a wife? At times, she grew perplexed in seeking a reason. While she believed herself amiable and kind, attractive in the classical sense, Dearing hadn’t known her beforehand and yet had offered to bind them together for life. In doing so, he’d saved her family from utter despair.

  “I’ve never thanked you properly.” It was the truth. Despite several attempts during their brief engagement, she’d never managed to voice how grateful she and her family were for his magnanimous rescue, the moment never appropriate. “You went away on business for so long after the ceremony, and I likewise suffered a fair amount of sulking.”

  His expression altered. Did he interpret her comment as disappointment in their union? She hadn’t meant to imply it. Her brooding stemmed from a long list of confusions and the sudden loss of her perceived future. Desperation replaced anticipation. She needed to salvage the conversation before she ruined the evening.

  “My family will always be indebted to you.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile at the poor choice of words. “I mean to say, Father was at the brink of depression. He tried every way imaginable to recover our security but met with failure repeatedly. Mother could hardly sleep or eat. Even my sisters, who are often the instigators of mayhem and megrims, were solemn and downtrodden, aware our reputation would be ruined, our family with an uncertain future. We were snared in an impossible position. Status and dignity prevented my father from revealing our penurious fate, and yet there were no funds to provide the ample dowry any suitor would expect.” Unbidden tears welled in her eyes as she recalled the hopelessness they’d all experienced. She’d worried heartily over her father’s health, the strain and distress etched into his face for what seemed like endless days and nights. “Until you stepped in and rescued us.” Her words were spoken with gentle awe, for she would never be able to express her full gratitude.

  “Charlotte . . .”

  Was he uncomfortable with her praise? It didn’t matter if his objection was meant to deter; she adored the sound of her name in his voice.

  “Please allow me to continue.” She offered him a genuine smile. “I realize our courtship was nonexistent and our union is unconventional, but whatever the terms and your reasons for it, I consider your gesture benevolent and heroic.”

  “Charlotte . . .”

  His brow wrinkled with what looked like irritation. She spoke the truth. Did it somehow ring false? Uncertainty, bold and insistent, consumed her, but when he didn’t say more, she rushed on, afraid she’d never have the courage or opportunity to reveal her innermost respect. This could be their new beginning, a forging of fragile, tenuous compatibility, and she refused to flounder or fail.

  “I may not be the ideal wife, but I will strive to be amenable in all ways.”

  He looked away, toward the windows at the front of the room, and his mouth flattened in the same way he seemed to press down emotion with control and restraint. She waited for him to return his attention, and several long minutes stretched between them. He exhaled thoroughly, as if shedding whatever resistance had taken hold. Though it was his next movement that had the hairs on the back of her neck raised.

  He thrust two fingers into his waistcoat, as if searching for a handkerchief or pocket watch, though there was no chain to indicate he carried a timepiece, and with that ordinary and otherwise meaningless effort, his entire countenance was transformed.

  Something like alarm lit his eyes. She watched him clench his teeth, his jaw all at once hard set and angry. And then, with nothing more than a curt glance, he excused himself and left the room.

  Chapter Six

  Dearing took the stairs by twos. He’d made a hash of things. Something had changed this evening. Happiness seemed within reach. Until Charlotte mentioned his rescue. Because it was not a rescue. It was not a noble, self-sacrificing dispensation. He’d seen her, fallen love-struck, and selfishly pursued his desire in disregard of a gentleman’s code of conduct or etiquette’s stricture. He’d eschewed a proper courtship and created circumstances evidenced by secrets that could never be told. Nothing courteous or benevolent existed in his action. He wouldn’t forgive the deed by polishing history. Worse yet, he’d assumed a controlling share of stock that enabled a pathway to a fortune.

  How long until Charlotte created her own truth from his deception?

  Tonight, the evening had gone to hell. Just when he’d begun to believe they could get on together and he’d prepared to bare his soul, Fate kicked him in the ballocks and he discovered the key was missing from his waistcoat pocket.

  Thereafter, no logic could be formed. His heart clenched with fear and apprehension.

  He carried the key with him always, moved diligently from waistcoat to waistcoat with each clothing change.

  Now he hurried to his bedchambers to check the contents of the coat he’d worn earlier, an outcry of condemnation loud in his ears. Throwing wide the door, he strode to the wardrobe and abused each garment in an attempt to inspect each pocket, the search in vain.

  Bloody hell.

  He removed the handkerchief and thrust his fingers in the pocket to strain against the stitching in hopes of finding the elusive key, but it proved another failure. Where had it gotten to, and how would he find it? With a breath of exasperation, he refolded the cloth and belatedly noted the smear of dried blood, a red alarm against the crisp white linen.

  Wait.

  The kitten.

  The bite.

  The handkerchief.

  He must have dropped the key in Charlotte’s bedchambers. But why hadn’t he heard it jangle against the floorboards to announce its fall? The thick wool rug before the bedchamber door.

  He’d become distracted. Lost
a little in the idea of rightfully loving his wife in her far-too-pure four-poster bed.

  Damnation.

  He needed to return to her rooms at once or he’d find no peace. He shot his eyes to the door between their chambers. Where was Charlotte now? Still belowstairs in the dining room, or had she retreated to her rooms after his abrupt departure?

  He exhaled deeply. It could very well be she’d had no opportunity to find the key, for that part of the room led to only one place, and his lady wife had never come knocking. No doubt it still lay upon the rug, nestled within the woolen nap, awaiting his return. He would open the door, retrieve the key and exit undetected.

  Shifting his attention to the hall, he listened outside his bedchambers, annoyed with his own breathing for the loudness in his ears. The house stood quiet. Now seemed the opportune time, the staff likely attending to dinner or taking a meal in the kitchen.

  He crossed the room and twisted the knob to crack the door a hairbreadth. Jill, his wife’s maid, hummed a faint tune within the interior. He opened the door a little wider. Her back was turned to him, her arms filled with clothing as she flitted around the room in completion of her tasks.

  He closed the panel and waited, counting to twenty, then thirty, before repeating the attempt. At last, he watched the maid depart and returned to his task. Perspiration dotted his upper lip and he wiped a palm over his face as he entered his wife’s rooms.

  How would he explain his actions if he were caught?

  No time existed for that unsettling predicament, and he crouched low to examine the rug at his feet. Flattening his palm and skimming the wool, once, twice, as he muttered a curse. The key wasn’t there. Had Charlotte recovered it? Or mayhap the maid in her routine cleaning? It could be any female servant, housekeeper to chambermaid, who maintained the house and carried a jaunty chatelaine of keys about on her duties.

  He stood, and for lack of direction scanned the room, relieved when the cursed kitten who’d caused his anguish didn’t materialize to provoke him further. The bedchambers were prepared for the evening hours. Fresh water filled the ewer beside the basin on the nightstand and a vase of pink roses graced the bureau. A fresh towel hung on a hook near the full-length mirror. Atop the vanity, an open jar of pins and a silver hairbrush waited alongside two thick white ribbons. He’d never seen his wife’s hair unplaited. That realization cut to the bone.

  Everything about their relationship was restricted, bound or otherwise out of reach. His chest tightened. It was all his doing. He swallowed with the unpalatable truth. He shifted his eyes to the left and settled his focus on the mattress where, across the bedlinens, a gauzy white night rail lay silently in wait. He ran his fingertips over the cloth, barely touching it and at the same time wanting to wind the fabric around his fists to bring it to his face to inhale its fragrant perfume. He stepped back, his jaw tight with regret and desire. He should leave. Every moment spent within Charlotte’s chambers caused his heart to ache further, his temperament to spike, and yet he remained a breath longer.

  Another poor decision.

  A pair of fancy pantalets were set upon the foot of the mattress. His wife must favor delicate underthings, the white silk edged with fine lace trim, the shimmer of tightly spun gossamer a tinder to his banked lust. He swallowed, his mouth inordinately dry, and wiped at the sweat across his brow. His heart endured a heavy beat.

  A soft sound across the room at last tore his attention from the frilly scrap of temptation. A blur of black near the windowsill served to return his wits. He exited the room, more determined than ever to win his wife.

  * * *

  “I think Dearing was in my rooms.” Charlotte strove for a casual mention as she and Amelia wended their way through the crowd on Bond Street, a footman trailing behind. In truth, the suspicion her husband snuck into her bedchambers when she was otherwise occupied had pestered her through the night. Most especially after his odd behavior before dinner.

  “You’re not sure?” Amelia smiled, her head canted to match their eyes beyond the brim of her velvet lace bonnet. “Whatever do you mean?”

  They’d come to Bond Street for a morning of shopping, and as Amelia was now a duchess, a footman followed them at three strides no matter where they went. Charlotte understood the purpose, but she missed the privacy once shared with her dearest friend.

  “I wasn’t there when he entered—if he entered,” she explained. “I’m not certain.”

  “You’re confusing me.” Amelia nodded toward the milliner’s window, and they wove their way across the walkway and entered the shop, the footman abandoned near the inside doorframe. “By the by, what did you name your kitten?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath, gladdened to be away from the crowd and within the quiet interior of the popular hat shop. “I haven’t decided. Anyway, I believe Dearing entered my room because I found a key.”

  “A key to what?” With a brisk wave, Amelia shoed away the shopkeeper, who approached with alacrity, the gleam of prospective sales an immediate lure. She then removed her bonnet, looped the ribbons over her wrist and began to inspect the newest fashions on display.

  “I don’t know.” Charlotte continued the thread of their conversation as they browsed. “But I found it lying in front of the adjoining door that leads to his bedchambers.”

  Amelia turned, her eyes wide. “Finally, this becomes interesting. What else did you discover?”

  “I inquired with the servants and no one had any idea where the key belongs or what lock it opens. The household keys are all silver plate and this one is bronze.” She touched her bodice, where the item in question remained pinned inside her corset for safekeeping. “I don’t believe it opens the adjoining door as it wouldn’t make sense that Dearing needed a key. The lock is on his side only.”

  “This design is absolutely stunning.” Amelia reached for a cobalt-blue headpiece trimmed in champagne silk ribbons. She examined it carefully but didn’t try it on. “What else happened? I can tell by the anxious look on your face, you are near bursting to share details.”

  “We had a moment.” Charlotte beamed. Perhaps the evening hadn’t progressed as she’d anticipated, but there was no denying something had happened when Dearing touched her cheek. If only she hadn’t babbled on about gratitude and heroics. Maybe he perceived her as bird-witted. She would strive to become a clever conversationalist.

  “Do tell,” Amelia insisted before she replaced the hat on its stand and moved farther down the store aisle. Charlotte followed, anxious to gain her dearest friend’s perspective.

  “We were having a drink with conversation before dinner and he was different. I could see it in every way, from the look in his eyes to his manner and words. He appeared relaxed and at ease in my company instead of rigid and restrained.” Her voice tapered to a low, awestruck whisper that captured Amelia’s direct interest, her friend focused with rapt attention.

  “What happened?” Amelia clasped Charlotte’s hands in hers.

  “Things proceeded well. He appeared sincere, his conversation heartfelt, but then I mentioned his valiant rescue and all emotion shut away in an instant. He was suddenly the staid aristocrat who cared very little for his wife.” The threat of tears pricked her eyes, and she looked away, the array of mobcaps and scarves strewn across the counter to her left an instant blur of color.

  “I’m sorry.” Amelia gave Charlotte’s hands a squeeze before releasing them. “But his indecision doesn’t fool me. Something is holding him back, and the only way you can discover it is to continue to seek him out. If you believe he was in your rooms, then you must find a way to get him back there. Surely we can think of some ruse—”

  “I won’t employ trickery and deceit. Honesty is the one trait I respect above all others, and I’m certain it’s a quality Dearing reveres. He expressed genuine interest in having me as his bride and I couldn’t bear the thought of stooping to some dishonest ploy to win his affection. Deception is an unbecoming business, and I’m not comfo
rtable with the idea.” She toyed with a pair of kidskin gloves on a nearby counter, unable to look Amelia in the eye and reveal the piercing turmoil in her heart.

  “Are you comfortable sleeping alone each evening? With one-sided conversations and lonely meals? He caused this chasm of awkwardness by leaving without explanation directly after your wedding only to return with a continuation of the same odd behavior.” Amelia placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Of late, he’s led you to believe hope exists. We can’t ignore the opportunity.”

  “I’m guilty of a fair amount of avoidance,” Charlotte mumbled, quick to defend Dearing, or at the least share in the responsibility of their failed relationship.

  “If that’s true, it was a result of his choices.” Amelia tugged Charlotte forward and placed a frivolous bonnet in her hands. The hat was fashioned in ladybug red and trimmed with artificial apricots, grapes and cherries. The garish design produced the effect desired. The mood shifted, and Charlotte relaxed a little. “Time to exact a drastic change.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte agreed, huffing a forced breath of fortification. “I know I could come to love him if he’d only allow me the privilege.” Indeed, she was already in love with the idea of loving her husband.

  “I believe he cares for you.” Amelia placed the fruit-laden bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons under her chin. Then she screwed her face into a ridiculous grin. They broke into laughter so loud, it drew the unwanted attention of nearby shoppers. The moment passed and left them with the more serious subject unfinished. “What is it you want from marriage, Charlotte? Are you interested in children only, or do you wish for the other half of your heart? To spend time with the one person who completes your soul?”

  “As you have with Scarsdale.” Charlotte exhaled deeply. “Yes. I want true love. To understand Dearing’s hopes and goals and to share a precious intimacy.” She smiled, more for the hopeful future she painted than from amusement. “To know each other so well, we can finish each other’s sentences without thought.”