by Susanne Lord
The second waltz already? Should he have known that? Was there an order to these things?
Charlotte looked about. “Where are Ben and Lucy?”
“I’ve not seen them since supper.”
Will didn’t miss the droop of her shoulders, the small pout of her lips. He crossed his arms and refused to look at her disappointed face. She could sit out one bloody dance, especially if it only offered another manhandling by some fresh lecher.
“I suppose it would be improper for us to go alone,” she said.
Damn it all, the second waltz. Where the devil was Ben Paxton?
“It’s warm,” he muttered, his vision full of all the men who’d touched her this evening. His complaint hung in the air but damned if he knew how to break the silence. The fact that she’d be dancing with nearly every man but him stung deeper than he cared to admit.
She started as if remembering something. “Oh! We might take some air on the terrace.”
The terrace? Charlotte’s hand slid around his elbow and her upturned face wore a look of expectation.
Right. Charlotte Baker wouldn’t stand about like a wallflower. It was humbling enough for a lady like her to be paired with him. He led her toward the doors before her embarrassment grew any more acute.
The terrace was cool and dark after the heated ballroom and its blazing chandeliers. From their vantage point, the milky glasshouse rose behind the black form of a hedge. Stone steps led to the garden below, replete with twinkling fireflies and glowing lanterns strung in the trees. Ironically, peonies with their petals blown wide perfumed the air.
A jealous man might mention how easily Spencer could deliver her a bouquet. But the fact wouldn’t be lost on clever Charlotte anyway. Besides, he needed to keep his mouth shut or she’d ask—
“How did you know peonies were my favorite?”
Damn.
“I have never told anyone.”
He brushed an invisible leaf off the stone railing. “I don’t know. They match you.”
“Match me?” She frowned, appearing to consider this. “They are stupidly provoking flowers. They drop their petals if you so much as look at them, and their blooms are too big for their own stems.”
“Yet they’re adored. And flamboyant and messy, but so charming no one minds.” He looked at her, his gaze roaming her exquisite face. “A stunning beauty. So voluptuous and impossibly pretty, all others pale beside her.”
She stared and, hearing his own words, he cringed. Hell, it was nearly a declaration.
He looked out over the lawn. The conservatory stood far from the house. “I, uh…I suppose we shouldn’t venture down there without a chaperone.”
“I suppose not,” she whispered.
He slumped on the stone railing and prepared for the next silence. She’d leave him soon enough. She’d pretend fatigue or thirst or a loose bit or bob from her dress—
“Perhaps Ben and Lucy are at the glasshouse.”
He kicked the balustrade, not caring if he scuffed the new leather. “Perhaps.”
She looked at the ballroom, then the lawn, then at him. “Well then. Shall we?”
He blinked. “Shall we what?”
“Join them, of course.” She slipped her hand round his arm and pulled him off the railing. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder and started down the stairs with his carcass in tow. “For all we know, they are waiting for us, Mr. Repton. Now that I think on it, it is just the sort of thing they might do, do you not agree?”
He didn’t at all but his heart rallied, some mad excitement fluttering there. “Are you sure this is proper, Miss Baker? Your leading me down a moonlit garden?”
“Hush, I most certainly am not.” Her lips pressed against a smile. “Quickly, please.”
They hurried down the steps, and so she wouldn’t feel his limp, he bore the pain of bending his knee deep. Reaching the lawn, Will’s ache eased quickly. It was getting stronger every day. Surely by August—
Charlotte tugged him forward. An arched gate was carved into an ancient yew hedge and the glasshouse was framed within its entrance. Their approach should have been dignified and reverent, but Charlotte dropped his hand and ran ahead, stretching her neck a time or two to check no one saw from the house.
No, this wasn’t proper at all.
Chuckling, he jogged after her, admiring the grace of her slender back and flouncing skirts. It was nonsense. It was, without a doubt, a horrible idea.
And it was damn fun.
God, what a strange night this was. He’d not felt this in years. In forever. Right now, and across the dinner table, and in the carriage, she pulled back the curtain and flooded his cold world with sun.
She made him happy, she made him want.
God help him, she made him forget.
Charlotte slowed to a stop before the conservatory, panting lightly from the run. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
He’d rather study the way the moonlight glossed the ringlets of her hair and transformed the blue of her eyes into something electric, but he obligingly took in the large conservatory.
Paxton’s design was a miracle of curved glass encased within a delicate filigree of scrolled ironwork. With the perfumed garden and Charlotte beside him, a fairy-tale landscape if ever there was one. “Very, but Ben’s stoves are foremost functional. See the plants flourishing within?”
She groaned, but it was a very ladylike groan. “What an obscenely practical thing to say.”
He bit back a smile. “It’s why I chose Ben. A plant finder is only as good as his cultivator back home.”
She frowned a little as she studied him—perhaps she wondered at this new thaw between them, as he did.
To his surprise, she reached for the door. Automatically, he stretched an arm across the threshold to block her entry. The move brought him close and the scent of jasmine heated him in the cool night air.
Did she think him too large for her?
It was a stupid, errant thought…but he was as muscled as he’d ever been, and the top of her head only reached his chin. That made her taller than most ladies, yet everything about Charlotte was delicate as a flower.
And the difference in their sizes was stirring something dangerous in him.
She tilted her head and her eyes were questioning. It took him a moment to speak. “I can’t let you enter in that white frock. You’ll brush against a muddy pot.”
She smiled and released the door. “This gown will never do for exploring.”
Granted permission of a sort, he studied the body and to hell with the dress. This close, he could almost feel that satiny skin and the pressure of her corset on her round breasts, forming that glorious valley between. The perfection of her shoulders. The delicate line of her collarbone. The impossibly small waist and glorious curves of her hips. Good God, Charlotte.
He swallowed, his mouth dry as the Tibetan high plain. “You’re very beautiful in it.”
A blush rose on her cheeks. And even in the dark, he could see the blue of her eyes.
“Did Wallace send you to his dressmaker, too?” he joked weakly.
Her eyes sharpened, searching and strangely indignant. He was rubbish at compliments—but still surprised when she started down the long avenue of lawn. He hurried to walk abreast of her. “It’s a pretty dress is what I mean to say.”
Her steps slowed. “You speak with my brother often.”
Confused, he nodded.
“What do you two speak of?”
“Many things. Books, industry—and tailors. He recommended the man who made this suit.”
“You look very fine in it,” she said softly.
He barely kept the stupid grin off his face. He’d taken pains with his clothes since meeting her, and never more so than tonight. It was sheer vanity, but he wanted her to see him in something as smart as what her viscount might don.
Idiot. What was the point of new clothes? The bouquet of rare jasmine? The rush for roses for Lucy to distract from the ge
sture? He might have used those funds in Tibet to loosen a tongue or open a door.
“I am glad you are friends. Wally cannot—he attends few assemblies.” She paused. “Did you know of his trial?”
Everyone knew of the trial, of the accusation that Wallace and the late earl were lovers. What made the moment awkward was that he knew the charge to be true.
His father had learned the truth from Ben. Wallace’s inclinations were to men and while he lived a chaste life to avoid drawing further scandal to the family, the gossip never died. The sodomy trial had ensured that.
“I knew,” he said.
“You do not seem disturbed by it. Everyone else is.”
Her voice was sad, and though this was the incomparable Charlotte Baker, he nearly buckled from the tenderness flooding him. That hurt her. Of course that hurt her. She loved her family, she was full of love for—
Stop it.
The voice was familiar. The same voice every time he thought too long on Charlotte. Enough, it said when his eyes lingered. Focus, when her steps passed in the hall. Faster, harder, when he slowed his hand to imagine making love to her rather than jerking to reach a swift release.
He tried to shrug off the tenderness. “Those men are only disgruntled their bespoke suits aren’t half as elegant as his.”
She stared straight ahead. “We should return.”
Damn. “No, I…I’m not disturbed by it.” Christ, she looked so sad. “When I was a lad, my father impressed upon me that there’s almost infinite diversity in nature. In flora and fauna. My cousin raises sheep, and every odd season there’s one ram that refuses to breed with the females and mates only with males. In Asia, I saw snow monkeys do the same.”
She stood still—to better hear how he would bungle this, no doubt. “I don’t mean to speak of sheep…but there is purpose in nature. And if something exists in nature, I think we must at least try to understand any animal acting upon his nature, including man, cannot be seen as unnatural. My father believed as much and so do I.”
She looked at him steadily and he prepared to be chastised for his philosophizing. Or worse.
But then her face transformed with happiness and…something more. Something—
Stop it, STOP IT—
Something so vulnerable that he ignored that stupid, hated voice. Because all he wanted, in all the world, was just to hold her and tell her everything would be all right.
“I think I will like your father very much,” she said quietly.
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief and nearly chuckled, imagining his father meeting Charlotte. He’d have to warn Mum to lay out his clothes or he’d be meeting her in a clashing suit.
They walked deeper into the garden.
“Ben says your father is a brilliant botanist,” she said.
“He’s certainly that. And distractible and utterly dependent on my mother. And she on him, I suppose.”
“They’re friends?”
“The best of friends.”
“That’s lovely. Lucy and Ben are like that. I think we are fortunate, Mr. Repton, to know what to aspire to in marriage.”
“Is that what you aspire to?”
“Of course.”
How sure she was. And yet Spencer, bloody Spencer, with his smirk and tulips…
“So you know it’s not just friendship. It’s passion, connection, wanting to do anything for the other’s happiness. Like my parents do for each other. Like—” This was none of his business.
None at all.
He shrugged. “As you’re of a mind to marry, it’s good you don’t find the prospect of finding such a companion as daunting as I.”
* * *
Now Mr. Repton thought her naive as well as silly. Well. She should have known better than to speak of such things. The man did not strike her as romantic.
And when had she suggested that she and Hugh shared such a love? There were other matters to consider in choosing a marriage partner, and love could grow. Now who was the naive one?
But she and Mr. Repton were endeavoring toward something like friendship, so she kept her ruminations to herself.
The faint strains of waltz music floated from the house and Mr. Repton closed his eyes to listen.
Charlotte stilled at the sight. The blue light of the moon bleached his golden hair of color, and he looked flawless as the alabaster statues of gods that lined the avenue at Windmere.
Did he wish to dance? With his injury, was he embarrassed to? So often, she had dreamed of dancing with him and yet…dream men were altogether more complicated in real life.
But she would never have another chance.
“Have you ever waltzed, Mr. Repton?”
He didn’t move except to open his eyes. “I’ve learned, yes.”
She frowned slightly at the reemergence of the man’s most annoying trait of silence. “I see.”
Should she ask? Would he frown at her?
He raked a hand through his hair. And then she saw it—a small twist of his lips that could only be disappointment. Excitement fluttered in her chest. He did wish to dance! He just needed a partner. A friend.
What a strange, wonderful night this was!
“We might dance here,” she said as lightly as she could. “If you wish.”
She could not discern if he was intrigued by the idea or found it absurd. He scanned the square of lawn surrounded by dense yews, the lanterns illuminating their grassy dance floor. The night air was still and the music carried easily to them. The jasmine perfumed the air and the peonies…
Pained by the romance of it all, she hurried on. “Or perhaps you are fatigued? I would not wish to tax you, though the waltz does not have to be strenuous. I have danced even with Jacob.”
His brow quirked. “You must think me a complete invalid.”
“Oh, I would never—” At the teasing light in his eyes, she blushed hotly. It was the nearest thing to a smile he had ever given her.
He stepped closer and his breath stirred the hair at the crown of her head. A warm hand molded to the small of her back and she could no longer draw air into her body.
“Am I standing too close?” His low voice sent a shiver to her toes.
Indecently so. “Not—not at all.” She closed her eyes. This is Will Repton and he is an accomplished, world-traveling hero, who is entirely unimpressed with you and must be a little disguised to even allow you this close.
She really ought to walk away and she would. She absolutely would.
Later.
Eyes trained on the folds of his necktie, she placed her hand on the broad shoulder she loved and relaxed the other in his light clasp. And they were dancing. And rather well. Mr. Repton moved with only the smallest hitch to his leg, and she felt his intended direction with the slightest pressure of his hands.
And he was not cold alabaster at all, but warm and strong.
The hand on her back made no demands, but she had to hold herself away. His shoulder would be heaven to rest her head upon. Just as she had dreamed so often.
It was traitorous to Hugh and hopeless to think…but how perfect Mr. Repton would have been, if only he’d been someone quite different. Someone who would stay, who wished to marry, who did not think her all things silly and frivolous and unworthy of the attention he granted everyone else.
She quieted her mind. This was their first dance—their only dance. In the dark, she could read no expression in the shadows of his eyes so she imagined them warm and gentle and brimming with affection. A sweet fantasy…
At least she would always have the power to imagine that.
Too soon, the music came to an end. Mr. Repton stopped short and she bumped against the hard wall of his body. The flex of his hand on her waist distracted her a moment, but then she realized parts of her were pressing more brazenly against him than the rest of her. Blushing, she stepped back, but he held her close. She relented instantly, enjoying the iron brace of his arm against her back. Enjoying the look in his eyes—still
shadowed—but in her imagination, still warm and gentle and brimming with affection.
The excitement and rapture and hope of the dance bubbled through her. “I think that was the nicest dance of my life.”
The thump of his heart against her breast was the only response he gave. And then a breeze stirred the treetops, a lantern swayed to throw its light, and his face was revealed.
And his eyes were nothing like she imagined.
“I would think it was merely the nicest dance of the last half hour,” he said.
Her joy withered, the cool words recalling her to the distance early in the evening, to the distance of their entire acquaintance. Whatever reprieve the night had granted was at an end.
And above that, above shattering her hope again, shame threaded its heated fingers over her scalp. He had seen how the men of the ton treated her—gripping her too tight, ogling her, smiling in ways that suggested she might do anything to secure her place in Society. Anything.
Her right hand was still captured in his and his hand hadn’t dropped from her waist. But he didn’t speak.
Of course he didn’t.
A rare anger boiled through her body. What matter if Mr. Repton was the very picture of her perfect man? Appearances deceived. And she would not credit him for tonight’s agreeableness as it was likely some strategy to pry open the purse strings of her acquaintance.
And the lovely things he’d said of Wally…
“I do not understand why you dislike me, Mr. Repton.”
“You think I dislike you?”
She scoffed at his bewildered tone. “Of course you dislike me. You never speak unless I speak first, and then you never say more than is necessary. You share nothing at all, which is even more infuriating after tonight, as you have revealed you have many stories to tell.
“You seem even to dislike my friends. You eye Hugh with disapproval each time he calls at the house, and perhaps he is not so worldly as you, but he is usually kind—”
“Usually?”
“—and gentlemanlike and yet you delight in playing the harbinger of foul weather any time I venture outdoors with him.”