The glum note in Charlotte's voice touched at Hugh's heart; Miss Drew was in a constant battle against a world which did not wish for her to be herself.
"Society does not like women to hold opinions and they like it even less when they voice them," Charlotte continued, plucking at the skirts of her dress with restless hands.
Against his better judgement, Hugh reached out and placed his hand over hers. He had merely been seeking to offer comfort, but he was shocked by a stirring of something else within him, as he felt the warmth of her hand in his.
One gloved hand touching another was hardly the height of eroticism, especially for a man of Hugh's experience, but the jolt of desire that coursed through him was so strong that Hugh forced himself to take his hand away.
"Thank heavens there are some women who do not heed society's diktats," he whispered, "For I fear the world would be a much duller place if they did."
There, he thought, as he settled back into his chair, he had offered comfort with his words. As for touching Miss Drew—he would not attempt that again.
Unless of course she required rescuing of some sort.
As the actors ploughed on through the play, Hugh happily daydreamed about various scenarios in which Miss Drew might require a knight in shining armour to come to her aid. He had just rescued her from drowning in a lake, when the gas-lamps flickered and illuminated the theatre once more.
"Jolly good performance," Hugh muttered, to no one in particular.
"Did you think so?" his mother queried, as she rose from her seat, "Because I could have sworn I heard you snoring during the final act."
"I do not snore." Hugh retorted, before ushering the quartet from the box.
Downstairs in the foyer the crowds' scrutiny was ten-times what it had been earlier. People openly turned their heads to stare as Hugh, flanking Miss Drew and tailed by his mother and Mr Drew, made his way toward the door.
"I have never witnessed so many people smiling at me," Charlotte whispered, with a wry laugh, "Usually people prefer to take no notice."
"I find it difficult to believe that anyone could fail to notice a woman of your beauty."
Hugh had not meant his words to sound quite so loaded, but his idle compliment had left his mouth sounding almost like a growl. That Miss Drew was able to inspire spontaneous flirtation and joking was something of a worry to him; as a rule, Hugh despised spontaneity.
Still, as he escorted her out the door and waited alongside her for the Drew's carriage to arrive, another impulse came over Hugh.
"I shall call on you tomorrow," he said, quite aware that his words sounded almost like an order.
"Oh, you will, will you?"
An irritated eyebrow arched in reply to his commanding tone. Miss Drew was not a lady who liked to be ordered about.
"I will," Hugh held her gaze a moment, hoping that his eyes mirrored the burning intensity of his desire.
Thankfully, the carriage arrived before Miss Drew had a chance to rebuff his declaration, and Hugh took her hand to assist her up into the compartment.
"Until tomorrow, Miss Drew," he said, offering her a slight bow, before he turned and bid goodbye to Brandon Drew.
At the beginning of the evening, all Hugh had wished for was to make amends with Miss Drew, so that Dubarry's plan might succeed. Now, as he watched the Drew's carriage manoeuvre itself into the traffic on Drury Lane, Hugh realised that he did not give a fig for his cousin's desires.
It was his desires which consumed him; he wanted Miss Drew. And when Hugh wanted something, he always got it, and the only thing standing in his path was Miss Drew's refusal to admit how attracted to him she was.
But that could be easily remedied, he thought with a smile.
Chapter Nine
"He really is most infuriating," Charlotte sighed, placing her cup of tea down upon the table.
"Yes, you've said that three times already," Julia replied, attempting to hide a smile behind her own cup.
"Actually, it's four times by my count," Violet piped up, from her position by the window.
Charlotte scowled at her two friends; honestly, they were supposed to be on her side. She had recounted the tale of her argument with Penrith—much edited, she had to admit—and the duke's apology that evening. Both ladies had agreed that Penrith had been a boor, but for some reason her recounting of Penrith's stiff apology had left her two friends doe-eyed.
"He practically commanded me to wait at home for him all morning," Charlotte repeated, still irritated by the duke's toplofty manner, "As though I had nothing else to do."
"Yes, we know," Julia replied, still wearing a secretive smile which Charlotte found infuriating, "And he will know you wait for no man, once he calls upon you to find you not at home."
"I am not only here because I wish to infuriate Penrith," Charlotte made haste to clarify, "We had already agreed to take tea and view Violet's new painting."
"Which neither of you have yet viewed," Violet pointed out. She did not sound angry though, just glum, and her eyes were narrowed with distaste at the canvas she was working on. "Not that you are missing out on anything. I can't seem to make any progress. If I am ever to improve, I shall need proper tutelage in Paris or Florence..."
Violet gave a heaving sigh and placed her palette down.
"I'm sure it's wonderful," Charlotte argued, hopping from her perch on the lopsided sofa to inspect her friend's work. Julia followed suit, gracefully navigating her way through the piles of books to make her way to the easel.
"Why, Violet, it's genius," Charlotte pronounced, as she took in her friend's depiction of a domestic scene, which featured Aunt Phoebe seated upon a chaise, with the faithful Fifi at her feet. "You're well on your way to becoming the next Marguerite Gérard."
"Marguerite Gérard had residence in the Louvre, and was surrounded by artists and great masterpieces," Violet grumbled in response, though her ears had turned pink with pleasure at Charlotte's compliment, "I can never hope to emulate her, when all I am surrounded by is piles of books and stuffed dogs."
Violet poked poor Fifi despondently with the end of her paintbrush. The rigid terrier toppled over onto her side, her glass eyes staring up sadly at the trio of young ladies.
"You are not only surrounded by dead dogs," Julia replied bracingly, "You have two friends who think you are a marvellous painter. And you have Sebastian, a true connoisseur of the arts. Where is he? Perhaps he can offer a word of encouragement?"
"Sebastian?" Violet jumped nervously at the mention of her twin brother's name, "Why should we need to call Sebastian? The two of you have supplied me with all the encouragement I need. Come, let us forget the painting for a moment and focus on the real issue at hand; Charlotte's love for Penrith."
"I beg your pardon?" Charlotte squawked, as Violet corralled her friends back to the table where the tea and cakes had been set out.
"It's quite obvious that you are infatuated by him," her friend replied, as she poured three fresh cups of tea, "You have talked of nothing else since you arrived."
"I have not!" Charlotte argued, taking the cup that Violet proffered.
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks," Julia said with a smile, as she settled herself back onto the sofa.
"If I was bleating about His Grace, it is only because I find him so annoying," Charlotte was quick to defend herself; she did not love Penrith, she could barely stand him. True, she had relived the moment he had taken her hand in his umpteen times, and when she thought of his cool blue eyes holding hers in that intense gaze, she felt a shiver of desire. But that did not mean that she loved him, she told herself firmly.
And if his apology had been touching, it was only because she knew how much it had taken for a man of his pride to admit to any wrong. And his play-acting and joking had been endearing, but then so was the play-acting of Julia's nieces, and she did not love any of them.
And—and—and—
"Love me or hate me, both are in my favour. If you love me
, I'll always be in your heart...If you hate me, I'll always be in your mind."
"Can we please stop quoting Shakespeare," Charlotte sighed in reply to Violet's teasing verse, "I had quite enough of him last night. I do not love the Duke of Penrith; he is merely the hammer which will break the shackles which bind Bianca."
"A very handsome hammer," Julia observed wryly.
"Yes," Charlotte sighed, "Yes, he is exceptionally handsome, but he is still just a hammer. Now, enough about Penrith. What did you both think of Evelina?"
Silence greeted Charlotte's enquiry and her two friends shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
"Well, I was going to read it, but—"
"I had every intention of starting it last night..."
Charlotte gave a happy sigh; some things never changed. Which was lucky, because when she thought on Penrith, Charlotte had the nervous feeling that her life might change completely, if she allowed the duke to get his way.
When Charlotte had set out that morning, a ceiling of grey cloud had hung over the city. Now, as she peered out the window of the carriage as it wound its way through Mayfair toward Grosvenor Square, Charlotte saw that the benign clouds of earlier had turned almost black.
A storm was coming and, indeed, the vehicle began to sway as the wind picked up outside. The streets were near empty of pedestrians for such a busy time of day, though the traffic was heavier than usual. It took a good half-hour to reach Ashfield House, and by the time that the footman helped her down from the compartment, heavy drops of rain had begun to fall.
Inside, the entrance hall bustled with servants, running this way and that as they attempted to close the shutters, lest any damage be done by the wind.
Helga took Charlotte's pelisse and disappeared; no doubt to steam it over the bath and rid it of any trace of bad influence it might have picked up in Lady Havisham's. Poor Helga abhorred accompanying Charlotte on her trips to Violet's, given that she was forced to wait in the kitchens making small talk with Lady Havisham's eccentric maid Dorothy. Helga was not suited to talk of stuffed animals inhabited by the spirit of their former owners, nor did she approve of the keeping of any animal inside the house—dead or alive. The poor woman thought the residents of Havisham House fit for Bedlam.
Still, owing to the fact that Bianca had declared Ethel completely off-limits, Charlotte had been forced to subject her to the ordeal. At least she knew that Helga would be kept busy for the next few hours, scrubbing away the stains of eccentricity from Charlotte's pelisse, which left Charlotte free to enjoy the coming storm.
As she passed through the entrance hall, the silver-tray which held the calling-cards of any visitors to the house caught her eye. There at the top, lay a plain card of cream stock, bearing the Duke of Penrith's name.
He had called, as he had said he would. And Charlotte had not been "at home" to him.
For a moment, Charlotte felt a pang of regret for her stubbornness. Why was she the type of girl who always did the opposite of what was asked of her? If she had remained at home, as Penrith had assumed she would, would they have spent a pleasant hour together?
You don't want to spend a pleasant hour with the stuffy Duke of Penrith, Charlotte reminded herself, as she raced up the stairs. She took the runners two at a time, in her haste to get to her bedchamber. Once there, she took a heavy cloak from the wardrobe, and made her way back downstairs.
Mercifully, the entrance hall was now empty, allowing Charlotte to slip outside unseen. While she wasn't up to her usual schemes and tricks, she knew that someone would try to stop her if they realised what she was about.
Charlotte escaped through the front door, pulling up the hood of her cloak against the lashing rain, and tripped down the steps and across the road to the park at the centre of the square. The park was typical of most private squares; a simple garden surrounded by black railings, with gentle lawns and a few trees dotted here and there. It was a place where elderly men took their morning perambulations, or where governesses brought their charges to play. Today though it was empty as Charlotte darted along the gravel path toward a towering oak.
Once there, she leaned her back against its knotty trunk, lowered her hood, and turned her face up toward the sky.
Charlotte adored storms; she loved the feel of the rain on her face, the wind whipping her hair, and the sense of her own insignificance when compared to the vastness of the sky. Faraway, thunder rumbled and Charlotte opened her eyes to catch a streak of lightning as it flashed across the sky.
How marvellous. How thrilling. How—
"Miss Drew, might I ask why you are standing under the tallest tree you could find, in the middle of a lightning storm?"
Charlotte startled at the sound of that familiar voice and turned around to find the Duke of Penrith standing a few feet away. The rain had soaked his riding coat and his breeches clung to his thighs in a most scandalous manner. He had also lost his hat—Charlotte presumed to the raging wind—and tendrils of black, damp curls hung over his forehead, concealing his eyes.
"I am enjoying the storm, Your Grace," she replied, hoping to sound tart, but instead finding that her voice had come out sounding rather husky and entirely unlike her.
Penrith arched his eyebrow, in that manner that Charlotte found both infuriating and beguiling. He remained silent, as he watched her, patiently waiting for her to explain herself further.
"I am a pluviophile," Charlotte answered hotly to the arched eyebrow, glad that she sounded a little more like herself.
"Good gracious, is that contagious?"
It took Charlotte a moment to realise that Penrith was teasing her, and in that time he somehow managed to cross the gap between them, so that he was now standing before her, his tall frame blocking Charlotte's view of the storm.
"I called on you, but you were not at home," he said lightly, as he dipped his head to gaze down at her. Raindrops trickled down his forehead and ran the length of his aristocratic nose, but Charlotte paid no mind. Her attention was focused solely on Penrith's eyes, which were now as dark and stormy as the sky above them.
"I was making calls of my own, Your Grace," Charlotte replied, refusing to allow herself to be intimidated.
"You are not a lady who ever does what is expected of her, are you, Miss Drew?"
"N-no," Charlotte stuttered, unsure if her answer was the right one. What did Penrith want from her? He knew from outset that she was no biddable green-girl. Had he honestly expected her to kowtow to his orders and remain pining for him by the window?
"I am not usually a man who enjoys the unexpected," Penrith replied, a smile playing at the corners of his lush lips, "But I have to say, Miss Drew, you have given me a new appreciation for it."
"Oh?"
Now it was Charlotte's turn to raise an eyebrow, as her breath hitched in her chest. There was no mistaking the meaning of Penrith's words, his smouldering gaze, or his body, which had moved even closer to hers.
"Yes," the duke gave a smile that could only be described as wicked, "In fact, you've inspired me to follow your lead."
Charlotte was about to ask him just how he was going to do this, but Penrith captured her mouth with his own before she had a chance to form the question. His lips pressed against hers, while his arms moved to encircle her body, pulling Charlotte against the hardness of her chest.
Well, this was unexpected, Charlotte thought, as she allowed herself to melt against him. Not to mention exquisitely pleasurable, sensually delightful, and very risqué.
So overwhelmed was she by the duke's passionate embrace, that Charlotte clear forgot that she was standing in the rain in the middle of the park. Her senses were delighted by the feel of Penrith's lush lips, by his masculine scent of sandalwood and tobacco, and by her own giddy feelings of longing and desire. The storm which raged around them was nothing in comparison to the tumultuous passion and desire which filled her at Penrith's touch.
He was the storm, Charlotte thought dazedly, as her arms encircled Penrith's
neck drawing him closer to her. He was a tempest which threatened to wreak havoc on her very existence—and who was she to fight him, for had she not already declared herself a lover of storms?
It was only when a crash of thunder sounded above them and the sky illuminated with a crack of lightning that the two broke apart.
"Well," Penrith ran a hand through his hair, looking perfectly discombobulated, "I should probably apologise for that, but I'm afraid I'm not actually sorry. That was..."
The duke paused and looked at Charlotte, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. His breath, Charlotte could see from the rise and fall of his chest, was as laboured as her own. It gave her something of a thrill to realise that the duke—for all his worldly experience—was every bit as affected by their kiss as Charlotte.
"That was unexpected," Charlotte finished for him, unable to resist teasing him despite all that had transpired.
"Quite," Penrith's lips quirked with amusement at the same time as another crash of thunder echoed across the sky. He cast a worried glance at the clouds, before reaching for Charlotte's hand.
"Come," he ordered, once again assuming an air of ducal authority, "While you might enjoy storms, I doubt even an enthusiast like yourself would relish being struck by lightning."
Charlotte allowed herself to be led by the duke from the park. Penrith shielded her from the worst of the wind with his body, before depositing her at the steps of Ashfield House.
"What about you, your Grace?" Charlotte queried, nervous that he might take off into the storm alone and on foot.
"Unfortunately, after I called on you to find you not at home, my horse then lost a shoe," Penrith grinned, "And I had the humbling experience of having to beg assistance from your father's stables. Everything should, I hope, be mended by now."
Oh dear. How it must have rankled Penrith's pride to have been forced to linger at a home he had been refused at.
"I am sorry, that I did not wait for you," Charlotte offered, feeling genuine remorse for her treatment of him.
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 10