by Cecilia Gray
She had begun this madness with a single thought: This would be her only chance. Not her only chance to be kissed. While she was plump, she was also rich beyond measure and there would be someone who wanted to marry her. No, this was her only chance to feel desired, however fleeting. For whatever else there was in Lord Savage’s eyes, there was a deep, dark desire.
Not that she should have felt flattered. She was sure he desired anything and everything. He was a rake, after all.
But the look he’d given her had made her quake, and now there was this, and all the rationalizations in her head were replaced with a pleasant hum that became an insistent roar through her blood.
He pulled back and ran his hand across her temple and into her hair. With a gentle squeeze of the hand still on her neck, he tilted her head further so that she might look up at him.
“I didn’t—” she said.
“Didn’t what?”
“Expect this.”
His grin set her insides somersaulting. “I should hope you didn’t expect it. I am known for my ability to shock and awe.”
She shook her head clear of the fog and turned. “Is that all?”
“All of what?” He cocked his head.
“Is that all there is of… kissing?” She had felt there should be more. She had wanted more. She wanted it again. Now.
He laughed. The other accounts of meeting Lord Savage did not mention that he was so easily merry. “No, there is much more, but I’m afraid I cannot show you.”
“But… why not?” She tried to cover the petulant tone in her voice, like a child who has been forbidden sweets.
The groove in his brow deepened. Even with that, he was beautiful. “Because kissing you is not my purpose here. If I am to be honest… and we should be honest with each other. Can we promise that, Miss Charlotte?”
“Are you often dishonest?”
“Yes, I am. See? An honest answer regarding my dishonesty. I will pledge you my honesty in all things, if you promise it in return.”
She nodded, sitting straighter, feeling infinitely more adult and important now than she had in her entire life. “Honesty in all things.” Saying it felt important and, most of all, like the beginning of a relationship instead of the end of a brief moment. The beginning of something that she was sure no one else had—a secret, something special, all to herself. She squinted, as though she might see into him, see beyond the pretty face.
“What are you doing?” he asked as she leaned in and furrowed her brow.
“Looking at you,” she said.
“But you have seen me.”
“Looking more deeply. Despite your claim that you are often dishonest, I believe you to be an honest man. An honorable man.”
He chuckled. “And are you a woman of your word?”
“Most women are,” she said tartly. “At least as much as men can be.”
The slightest of smiles lit his lips. “Then let us begin. I kissed you because I felt like it, and also because I believed it would make you more amenable to what I am about to ask of you. That is to say, I am taking advantage of my reputation as well as your innocence. My purpose here is to recruit you to my cause, a mission of the Crown, of utmost importance.”
Her father had once warned her against men, especially those with pretty faces. They will tell you what you want to hear, my sweet, because you have something they want. A fortune. They will turn your head and make you promises they cannot keep. Beware of these men, Charlotte.
Could it be that Lord Savage was such a man? Yet he had not made her promises, not attempted to turn her head. Instead, he promised her meaning and importance.
“Why me?” she asked. “And what cause?”
“To see your sisters married to Englishmen, primarily because there is fear in some circles that your father may move his business interests to Boston.”
“But we are English!”
“Currency, alas, knows very little citizenship. The fact remains that it is in the vested interest of the Crown to see your sisters married well, and fortune aside, the latest jilting of your youngest sister by the Duke of Rivington’s son does not bode well for your family’s reputation. We must act quickly to reestablish Miss Seraphina’s ties to the dukedom, and to ensure the rest of your sisters are similarly matched.”
“Dinah does not want to marry.”
“Ah, you see, this is exactly the intelligence I need,” he said. “But we will come to that in time. It is likely worth knowing why she does not want to marry in order to overcome it.”
Charlotte worried her lip. See her sisters married? Of course, if they wanted to be married, she would gladly assist, whether the Crown requested it or not. But there remained a nagging question. “Am I not to be married?”
“Of course you are.”
“Then why me?” she repeated.
His elbows rested on his knees as he rubbed his hands together in the cold. “I hesitate to tell you, and yet I did promise you honesty, did I not?” He glanced at the sky and let out a sigh, as if he could not believe the situation. “I gave you my word, and I shall keep it, no matter what you might think of me. I had believed I could exert control over you more easily than your sisters. Not because you are less intelligent, but because you are the middle child. You have neither the obstinacy of the eldest nor the privilege of the youngest. You are a peacekeeper, a mediator. You are the most likely to go unnoticed. That makes you very, very valuable.”
She snorted, mostly because she had just been thinking that very thing. “But you noticed me,” she said.
His green eyes, visible in the moonlight, seemed to twinkle, or perhaps she imagined it. “I notice everything.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Primarily intelligence gathering about your sisters. Possibly also scouting missions. We may need to meet, possibly alone. I would not compromise your reputation, but you must realize the meetings will thoroughly compromise you if we are caught, because you must leave behind your chaperone.”
“And what if we are caught?”
“It would be unfortunate. I would likely have to marry you, which would do neither of us any good. I suppose I must marry—such is the burden of the title—but you won’t do.”
She hadn’t thought she would, but still, the remark smarted, and for one brief moment she envisioned kicking him off the roof. For only a moment, of course. But she allowed herself the pleasure of the image anyway.
“Why ever not?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t love you. It is nothing personal. I’ve found no use for the emotion, but if there’s one thing I know of a girl who lies on the roof looking up at the sky, it is that she wants to be loved.”
Charlotte did want to be loved. Very much so. But at the moment, having been seen, having been noticed… Well, that seemed enough.
Chapter Three
Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1822
Woodbury, England
Damon seethed as he watched Reece Crawford twirl Charlotte in his arms between the figures, which dictated that he guide her through the steps in a straight line. Damon was not a man who enjoyed being thwarted. Not that he believed Lottie would make good on her cavalier promise to marry the next man who asked her to dance. But he had been breaking down her defenses against marrying him, and now he would have to begin his campaign anew.
And what had that expression been on her face when she’d given him that sham excuse?
Love?
She couldn’t be serious. While he had originally considered her a romantic upon first meeting, they had planned the engagements of all four of her sisters, debating the merits of each relationship, and not once had love ever come up in their discussions. Oh no, as they had debated the choice of partner, she had focused on other accomplishments, such as education, generosity, and family affection.
He had thought her like him in this regard. Or was she hoping to scare him off with her use of the word because of that night so long ago? A
nd if so, why didn’t she want to marry him?
Prowling around the dance floor, he kept an eye on her while affecting a languid disinterest in all around him. Crawford was a competent dancer. He supposed that if there was anything to be said about him, about his looks, manners, relations, it was that they were competent. Which, to Damon, could be interpreted as the greatest insult ever.
Why strive for mediocrity in anything?
Still, Lottie did not look up at Crawford as if he were simply competent. She laughed as though he were funny and smiled as though he were charming. Which Damon knew was not the case. Robert’s brothers were good for the occasional game of bowling, but they lacked his good friend’s’ charisma. How infuriatingly polite she was. Damon much preferred her as he knew her to be: true and honest and without the facade that society forced upon ladies.
His friend Benjamin, the Duke of Rivington, caught his eye with a hand motion indicating that Damon should join him and Robert Crawford as they stood beneath a palm. He loved Robert, had served under him in the war, but at the moment, he was made testy by his presence. Perhaps that was why he dragged his feet as he made his way toward them.
Besides, his shoes felt uncommonly tight. As did the cravat pressed to his throat. It was too warm in the ballroom as well, with the swell of bodies. What could Lottie’s father have been thinking, arranging for fire breathers before the toasts?
“Savage, were you there for it?” Robert asked.
What nonsense could they be going on about? “Must I guess at this momentous occasion to which you allude?”
“My brother’s asking Charlotte to dance. Do you see them there, on the floor? I could have sworn she was speaking to you during the toasts.”
He must have seen white behind his eyes. “Oh, is she dancing?” he said, turning in every direction as if he could not possibly spot her auburn hair or the generous, pale swell of her breasts straining at the low-cut neckline of her pale olive dress.
“Ah, so you missed it.” Benjamin rested his chin on his fist. He flicked a glance at Robert. “Is this a new interest?”
“It must be,” Robert said. “They have only recently been introduced, although Alice speaks so fondly of Charlotte at home that perhaps she has grown high in his affections on that alone.”
“Since when do we harp upon the romantic entanglements of Charlotte Belle?” Damon winced at the snappish nature of his tone, especially given the irony that he had done nothing much these past years besides maneuver the Belle family’s romantic entanglements for the interests of England.
“Since Charlotte’s unmarried state is the new obsession of our wives,” Benjamin reasoned. “Graham is the only one who escapes such chatter, since Dinah accepts her sister’s continued spinsterhood.”
“Being two and twenty hardly makes her a spinster,” Damon said. “Robert married Mrs. Crawford when she was the same age Charlotte is now, for example.” Just as he was hoping to extricate himself from the conversation or turn the topic away from matchmaking, Bridget barreled toward them, her gray eyes wide with excitement, as she all but pointed at the couple on the dance floor.
“Robert! I could kiss you,” she said as she approached.
“Best not to,” Benjamin growled playfully as he rested a possessive arm around his wife’s waist and cast a warning glare, not to Robert, but to Damon. While he was secure in their relationship, he likely had not forgotten that for an embarrassingly long period, Bridget had fancied herself enamored with Damon.
Bridget slapped her husband on the entrapping arm. “It’s an expression. But you’re such a dear, Robert, asking Mr. Crawford to dance with Charlotte. They’re delightful together, and it’s so nice to see her smile.”
Damon frowned as he sought a glimpse of Lottie out on the floor. Yes, she was grinning, but was it really worth commenting on? Lottie smiled all the time.
With a dramatic sigh, Bridget pulled her husband close. “I just want the best for Charlotte. I don’t know why potential suitors have fallen away from her in the past few years.”
“While I would love to accept your praise for arranging this interaction,” Robert said, “I am happy to report that my brother engaged her for a dance on his own.”
Bridget gasped in delight and clapped her hands. “This is wonderful news. I cannot wait to tell my sisters. Lord Savage, pray tell, what has you so foul in the face? Not the champagne, I trust. I tasted a bottle myself, but it’s so hard to know if all the crates are up to scratch. Should I send for someone from the kitchen to remove the flutes?”
“Mine tasted perfectly well,” Benjamin said. “Don’t let Damon be the judge of all that is worthy in our lives.”
Damon was hardly listening. Lottie did seem to be enjoying herself. She had accidentally turned in the wrong direction, and Crawford had deftly spun her back to his side. With the back of her palm hiding her mouth, she laughed, her gray eyes lighting up the room.
“Lord Savage?”
Bridget’s prodding intruded on his musings. Good God, was his hostess speaking about champagne? Who cared?
“Your Grace could serve your guests dirt and they would swear it was the finest meal of their lives,” he said. “I would not concern yourself with any opinion at this fete but your own.”
The last note faded away on the violin, and Lottie curtseyed to her dance partner as Damon strode away from the others to claim her for the waltz before anyone else got any ideas about asking her for the next dance. They had unfinished business, and he was far too busy a man to let excessive birthday festivities get in the way of his mission.
By the time he reached her, Crawford had walked her to the picture window overlooking the pond. He overheard him attempting to engage her for a walk, perhaps a picnic meal, and would she consider partnering him in the sack races later?
“Are you attempting to monopolize our guest of honor?” Damon asked, steel in his voice.
Crawford cast his Lottie a wide grin. “Decidedly so.”
“While I would gladly surrender the prize, I’m afraid I’m promised to her for this waltz. Miss Belle, if I may?”
He held out his arm, which she accepted with a saucy arch of her eyebrow, but she insisted on thanking Crawford for the dance and promised to partner him in the sack races. Crawford then thanked her profusely for thanking him and for accepting his offer. Good God, they would still be thanking each other with one foot in the grave if he didn’t put a stop to it.
Before anyone else could say a word, Damon deftly drew her against him and turned her back to the dance floor.
“That was quite rude,” she said.
“I agree. Subjecting me to such maudlin conversation was in incredibly poor taste. You are forgiven. Such is the magnanimous nature of my character.”
She narrowed her eyes, but he also noticed how the corners of her lips quirked up in amusement.
And where was Bridget now to remark upon her sister’s smiles? Bridget had been exaggerating. Bridget was, by nature, inclined to the dramatic.
“In return for my forgiveness, I must insist we draw to a close the conversation we initiated earlier. You seem to fancy yourself a modern woman, but that doesn’t mean you shrink from tradition. Shall I call on your father with my suit?”
She abruptly stopped and dropped her arms to her sides, but with great skill, he maneuvered her back into the rotation. She moved with grace on the dance floor—and most anywhere else. It only took the slightest press of his hand to guide her. She responded to his body as though it were second nature. Why did they not dance together more often?
“You’ll catch flies with that open mouth,” he said.
She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes with a dramatic exhale. When she looked at him again, a storm had gathered in them. “Earlier, you threw our vow of honesty in my face, and I answered you honestly. We cannot marry and would be ill advised to do so given our conflicting opinions on the existence of love. Now you must abide by your vow. What has brought on this sudden
resolution?”
“Is that what bothers you? Not having received enough notice? I wouldn’t say it was sudden. I’ve been considering it for a while. Likely from the beginning.”
“That cannot be true.”
“Can it not? We have been engaged in this business for years now. Have I not had ample opportunity to see you wed? To encourage you to take a suitor?”
Her eyes narrowed further in suspicion. “I assumed you needed my full devotion to the task at hand. Were I to marry, my husband’s needs would become paramount, and I would no longer be available to serve your mission.”
If he wanted to usurp whatever authority some damned fictional husband had over her, then he would damned well do so. But it wasn’t true, not so much because of the husband but because her entire participation in this arrangement had been possible because of her willingness.
She had been an even better asset than he’d hoped. With his other informants the promise of something in exchange had been necessary—money, political gain, an unsavory favor in the future. But Charlotte had done it because she loved her sisters, and that had made her very amenable to his cause. Not that she was a doormat. They had enjoyed more than their fair share of passionate disagreements. But when it came to the cause of seeing the Belles married to Englishmen, she was always focused on the benefit of the mission. So why was she being so stubborn now?
“Let us go somewhere private to speak.”
“I’m afraid I cannot,” she said loftily. “I have an engagement for sack races and a picnic.” She pulled back the moment the music allowed and curtseyed to him, then turned away and left him alone on the dance floor before he could even manage a bow.
Why, that infuriating—
He returned to the perimeter of the ballroom, a groove of annoyance etched into his forehead so deeply he could feel it. He was so lost in contemplation of what had got into Lottie that he did not notice Bridget’s approach until she appeared beside him, giggling.
“That was amazing.”
Where was Benjamin now to drag away his wife and her senseless prattling?