London's Best Kept Secret

by Anabelle Bryant

  “You should make a list.” Amelia matched her grin. “I find lists can be quite helpful.”

  “Perhaps, although I don’t believe that’s necessary. I have my most precious desires memorized by heart.” Charlotte flicked a wayward cherry on the hat’s brim as Amelia replaced it on the table. “Thank you, though. You’re the dearest friend and I treasure you.”

  “Thank me after you’ve succeeded. When you’re thoroughly loved, sated and exhausted from lovemaking.” Amelia winked, aware her words would evoke an audacious reaction.

  “Amelia, please. Someone will hear you.” More likely, any passerby would notice Charlotte’s vehement objection.

  “Oh, posh. You worry about the silliest things. Now, let’s talk of another important subject, your darling kitten. What shall we name her and how is the little imp getting along? I’m sure she’s not nearly as much trouble as you’d anticipated.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dearing reread the investment contract on the desk in front of him, though he comprehended not a word, his attention divided. One portion of consideration awaited the melodic notes of the pianoforte. It neared Charlotte’s regular practice schedule, and despite the correspondence he had to accomplish and the papers from his solicitor to attend to, he kept a watchful eye on the clock. In a daring move, he’d affected a change in the music room, and he wondered how it would be received. An amused grin begged freedom whenever he considered it, but he tamped down anticipation and refocused on his work.

  In truth, all was for naught.

  While the larger portion of his mental capacity strained to hear a sonata or waltz, a more-demanding physical part of his body recalled the lacy white pantalets he’d seen atop the mattress in Charlotte’s bedchambers.

  He’d been reduced to the basest level of depravity, panting after his wife’s undergarments, but he couldn’t stop the inevitable. He already craved her nearness, her affection and admiration. That dainty silk scrap proved an incendiary flame to his lust.

  “Excuse me, milord.” Faxman came around the writing table and approached as he cut a diagonal across the room. “I’ve discovered an unexplainable ambiguity within the ledger’s third-quarter calculations and need a word of clarification.”

  Dearing snapped to alertness, discarded his romantic musings and forced himself to rights with a strong throat clearing. He stood and offered his attention. “Let’s have a look.”

  “At the end of last year, you purchased controlling interest in several companies at a swift pace. I recall drafting the contracts as quickly as possible, sometimes three in a day.” Faxman indicated a page in the ledger as he angled nearer with a clear view of the figures.

  “I recall.” Indeed, he did. “To your point, Faxman.” This was not a subject Dearing wished to explore.

  “Soon after, you consolidated the companies and sold them off without profit in what seems an exercise in maximum effort and little return. For what reason would anyone undertake the endeavor when clearly there were other means to obtain the companies without significant loss or expenditure of time? It seems an odd series of transactions, with sparse margin for gain, and I wonder if something is amiss. The numbers don’t quite sum to equivalence.”

  “Not every transaction is perpetrated for monetary advantage.” Even as he spoke the words, Dearing knew his astute secretary would not be deterred. Had anyone offered Dearing the nonchalant and nonsensical explanation, he would have rebuffed it in no uncertain terms. Now he drummed his fingers against his leg with impatience, pondering just how far Faxman would pursue the subject.

  “Of course, milord. Excuse my inquiry. I only meant to affirm my calculations were correct. I fall victim to eager curiosity at times, though Father often said one must embrace any opportunity to learn. With your superior insight, I’d despise squandering such an ideal moment.”

  “I see.” Dearing watched Faxman closely and hedged further. “A commendable trait. I can list several reasons why transactions occur other than for profit. Influence, status or an invigorated interest could prompt me to acquire a new holding.” Surely an affliction as debilitating as love should be on the list, but Dearing ignored that revelation. “Mark the page and leave the register atop my desk. I’ll review your findings later this evening.”

  Faxman retrieved his pencil, made a few notations in the margin of the ledger and set it on the corner, in the same place Dearing once kept a black leather box to which he’d lost the key.

  Thankfully, the conversation proceeded no further, and Faxman returned to work. Stalled only momentarily, Dearing did the same, although it was nary a few breaths later that the initial chords of music broke through the silence. He resisted the temptation to abandon responsibility and seek Charlotte straightaway. Instead, he forced himself to continue staring at the papers in front of him, all the while wondering how she had perceived his gift. Would she be delighted or dismayed?

  After what seemed an interminably long stretch of nothingness, Faxman gathered his things and with a brief word departed for the day, leaving Dearing alone at last.

  * * *

  Charlotte walked into the music room, her mind busy with contemplations gained from her morning shopping excursion. Amelia may be an unconventional duchess, but she was a most cherished friend. Charlotte valued her opinion and suggestions and, with few people to take into confidence, considered each shared conversation a dozen times over.

  Lost in thought, she approached the bench and drew back in surprise. Atop the pianoforte, basking in late-day sunlight, a crystal vase filled with lavender roses glistened in welcome. Vibrant and extravagant, the roses evoked an immediate smile. Mrs. Hubbles, the housekeeper, must have arranged for this thoughtful addition. Charlotte turned to seek the woman out in gratitude, her slipper heels tapping a cadence across the tiles.

  She found Mrs. Hubbles near the linen closet abovestairs, instructing the lower maids in a reorganization of fresh-pressed sheets and folded towels. The interior of the large closet smelled of starch, and Charlotte noted the ring of keys in the older woman’s hand, none of which were bronze.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Hubbles.”

  “Yes, milady.” The housekeeper stepped away from her task. She was a pleasant woman, well rounded over the years, who ran the household with efficient authority, and though Charlotte had not interfered in the routine of domestic keeping, she found Mrs. Hubbles open to suggestion and agreeable to change whenever a small request was made.

  “Thank you for the lovely flower arrangement atop the pianoforte. It’s quite unexpected and brightens the room considerably. How very thoughtful.” Charlotte enjoyed fresh flowers in her bedchambers, and a modest arrangement adorned the foyer’s chiffonier, but other than that, she hadn’t assigned flora and ornamental plants through the house. She wasn’t certain whether Dearing enjoyed nature or considered the cost a wasteful indulgence. The financial impact of his reconstitution of her family’s solvency was never far from her mind.

  Sadly, there was too much she didn’t know about her husband. Now armed with Amelia’s instructions and confidence, Charlotte was bent on change.

  “I’m glad the roses please you, milady, but ’twas not my doing. Lord Dearing sent one of the footman to the hothouse in Covent Garden to fetch that particular shade. He was quite emphatic, and I daresay all of us in the servants’ quarters were hopeful the roses were available, as his lordship doesn’t often instruct us to specifics concerning personal matters.” Mrs. Hubbles’s kind eyes twinkled with what could only be delighted approval.

  “I see.” An unexpected tremor of hope skittered down her spine upon hearing Mrs. Hubbles’s explanation. Dearing had chosen the flowers for her? He’d sent a footman out specifically? This was no random errand or slapdash decision?

  Dinah, Charlotte’s sister, favored horticulture and routinely educated the family with an assortment of botanical facts, including the language of roses. Lavender roses represented enchantment and fascination. Had she perceived the color co
rrectly? Charlotte hurriedly returned to the music room to admire the flowers more closely. They were lovely, their pale blooms fragrant and lush. A heady rush of anticipation caused her pulse to race in such a fashion, she almost couldn’t stand still.

  Her husband’s gesture touched her heart. They hadn’t exchanged wedding presents, and he’d only given her an obligatory gold band for her finger, and yet this quiet, unforeseen gift, personal and romantic, meant the world to her.

  Could it be Dearing suffered from anxiety or shyness? Painfully unable to express his feelings? Did he worry, as she did, that by not having a normal courtship, she would find him lacking? She wondered at this theory. She knew from her father and other tales overheard that Dearing was a fierce, if not vicious, negotiator in all business dealings. For a viscount with minor recognition in aristocratic circles, he’d made his mark through shrewd insight and the ability to capitalize on opportunity. In the same manner, he’d accumulated sizable wealth and the respect of his peers, but that was in the business world. Could a powerful and progressive man be victim to inhibition and insecurity in his personal affairs? This brought with it a sense of understanding, though it still didn’t explain his changeable nature whenever she mentioned his timely fiscal rescue. She mourned the lack of knowledge she possessed concerning her husband in any other situation than their sparse interactions.

  And perhaps it didn’t matter. As of late, their relationship had changed. She touched her fingers to her chest, where beneath several layers of silk and cotton, the key remained pinned to her corset. She needed to lure her husband back into her bedchambers. Indeed, the suggestion instigated a plan. She had no idea how all these separate parts would add up to a whole, but the possibility her husband cared for her, enough to wish to please and gift her with roses, invigorated her music as she set her fingers to the ivories moments later.

  She chose a selection from Beethoven, a piece entitled “Appassionata,” filled with complicated chords and intense mounting emotion, an outlet to the burgeoning hope and sensual wishes of her soul. When she finished, she sat quietly and huffed a breath of satisfaction, the complicated arrangement newly mastered. Before she calmed her sprinting heartbeat, though, a solitary round of applause entered the room.

  Excitement spiked through her, red hot and piercing. She knew it was Dearing before he neared the piano, and her lips trembled, her mind in a flurry to arrange words in a coherent sequence. She twisted on the bench to glance over her shoulder, and there her husband stood, not less than three strides away, his expression unreadable, though something seemed different. Her breath caught, a confident expression of desire and command aligned with dark possessiveness in his eyes.

  “Have I interrupted you?” Faxman’s suggestion that her music disrupted Dearing’s concentration had stayed with her, though she knew better to dismiss it.

  “Not at all. Have I?”

  He watched her, his penetrating gaze warming her from the inside out.

  She stood and moved aside from the bench. “Of course not.” She reached up and traced a finger over one of the flowers. The petals were soft and velvety, the color unmatched. “Thank you. How did you know I adore roses?”

  “I didn’t. I merely thought them fitting.” He paused the briefest moment, a wary look in his eyes, though a trace of a smile curled his lips. “You like them, then?” He spoke as if the words were being pulled from within him, one by one.

  “Very much so.” How fragile their conversation, as if both were aware they walked on ice, the smallest misstep able to crack the delicate attenuation of their newfound words.

  “I hope to learn your likes and dislikes.” He’d moved closer, his shadow cast across the ivory keys. “I want to know you, Charlotte.”

  “You do?” She swallowed past a dozen questions and tilted her face toward his. What had brought about this change? After weeks and months of nothing more than congeniality, their communication limited and stilted. How could he doubt she wanted anything less than a loving relationship? Any minuscule indication he desired more from their marriage than cohabitation and strained amiability would be received with accolades, but this—this, expressed a far more potent sentiment. Within her soul, a wild, maddening joy bubbled to life. “I wish to know you as well.”

  His eyes darted away and back again. Had she not watched him so closely, she might have missed it. He half-smiled, as if unsure whether to reveal a secret, and for a moment, she felt caught, uncertainty once again taunting.

  “Milord—”

  “Jeremy.” He closed the distance between them with a single stride. “You should only call me Jeremy.”

  His voice dropped low, perhaps meant for himself more than her, and she remembered a moment during their vows when he’d looked at her with unabashed adoration, when there was no mistaking the emotion in his eyes or voice. She hadn’t seen anything remotely similar until now. How sad their relationship had undergone such change.

  She’d been granted permission to use his Christian name, and yet the occasion slipped away with unremarkable passing.

  He paused for less than an exhalation and time seemed to slow.

  “Come closer, Charlotte.”

  The warmth of his words moved over her like a caress. Was that desire thrumming through his voice? She didn’t know. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Emotions clanged like cymbals. The air in the room became thick, heated, overfilled with every nuance and notice of him.

  It was what she wanted, longed for, but now, with the moment upon her, she could hardly hold a thought long enough to answer. He moved nearer, his tempting mouth only inches from hers, while puzzling conjecture prodded her mind. She forced all questions into the past, where they belonged, and with a whispered gasp leaned into him.

  He’d never kissed her on the lips. Never shown an inclination to do so. But if the agonizing torture of all those days and months resulted in the divine pressure of his kiss at this moment, she’d never complain. To want and wait for something for so very long, and then to achieve it, was a miracle of sorts.

  * * *

  Dearing groaned into the kiss, some low, primal sound, barely able to keep a leash on desire, and at the same time desperate not to bring ruin to an opportunity so finespun and late in coming, it could only be a figment of his imagination.

  But no, her soft, sweet mouth was warm and responsive beneath his, and he wondered for a fleeting moment if his heart beat so hard, it might break from his chest. He breathed her name, and a fragrant perfume drenched his senses, already fraught with constrained passion. How he yearned, the feeling deep within, beneath pride and fear, behind his heart hidden in shadow. He wouldn’t waste this precious moment.

  She’d never been kissed.

  He knew as soon as he brought his mouth down on hers. The tentative pressure of her mouth against his was definitive confirmation. Her lips trembled, and the subtle innocent resonance reverberated in his soul before a swell of masculine satisfaction and possessiveness, some antiquated sense of cupidity, gained control. He slid his hands from her upper arms to her cheeks to frame her face and hold her as he deepened the kiss. She gasped, and he plundered her mouth in answer, licking into her, sweet and delectable, hot and wet. Much to his pleasure, she held her ground, and when her tongue caught with his, inexperienced and at the same time curious, the kiss turned lazy, lush and indulgent.

  Her hands clasped his forearms. Her fingers pressed through the linen of his shirt to sear her touch upon his soul, until by degree her grip lightened, her body relaxed against him, soft and delicate.

  Oh, but she proved a quick study. The same intensity and finesse she applied to the mastery of a demanding orchestral concerti, she now dedicated to the lesson at hand. How easily he could unleash his long-restrained ardor. With nary an effort. Still wisdom willed out, and he ended the kiss lest he ravish her, frighten her, so he raised his head though he barely withdrew.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she watched him, lips dark pink and kiss-swollen, a hin
t of wonder alive in her expression.

  “We’ve never kissed like that.” The confession whispered over his lips. “It was pleasant.”

  “Pleasant?” He suffered a slight clearing of the throat before he canted his head and spoke directly into her ear. “Then I haven’t done it correctly.”

  He didn’t wait for her reply and captured her mouth with precise control this time. Previous apprehension dissipated in a heartbeat. He brought her tight into the circle of his arms and threaded his fingers through her neatly coifed hair. Finding the laced braids, he tugged a little, just hard enough to hint at forbidden sensations, as his baser needs overrode all other considerations. He’d like nothing more than to unravel the lengths here in the music room beneath the buffered candlelight, lower her to the thick Aubusson carpet and explore every inch of her body. His mind sped with erotic images as his tongue slid against hers, their breathing caught in perfect rhythm. She moaned into his mouth, a soft, entrancing sound, and he broke away to list kisses across her cheek, higher, against the delicate whorl of her ear.

  “Charlotte.”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice sounded breathless, though she tensed within his hold. Why did she brace herself? Whatever the reason, it was his doing.

  “You tempt me in a hundred ways.” Her face smoothed against his as she turned, but he would not relinquish the moment and so brushed kisses across her throat, below her ear, his own voice a rumble against her petal-soft skin, pale, tender and lovely. “A thousand, actually.”

  Chapter Eight

  Charlotte bit her lower lip while her husband, her husband, nipped a path along the slope of her neck, his words an unexpected incantation. What had brought about this drastic change? This intense acknowledgment that was so unlike all the weeks and months of nothingness? And dare she believe the alteration permanent, or would hope be cleaved in two tomorrow when once again Dearing abandoned her at breakfast or locked himself away for the majority of the day?