by Cecilia Gray
“Is it over, then?” she asked. “Three of my sisters engaged. One widowed. We have concluded our mission, have we not?”
He was gripped by a sort of panic. “Of course not. You are not yet married. And until your three sisters have signed the parish register, I do not believe we can consider the matter closed, given our past brushes with runaway brides and husbands.”
“Ah, I see. And what of my marriage? To whom do you see me married?”
He had given the matter much thought over the years. Lottie needed someone who would appreciate her unique sense of adventure. She was often overshadowed by her sisters—their beauty, their bossiness, their popularity, their genius—when, in fact, she was a rare combination of them all, the best of all worlds.
“I had hoped for Percival,” he said, “but he engaged himself last month. Fitzwilliam was a close second but he, too, is now spoken for. Chin up. We’ll find the right man at the right time. We have before.”
“And until then?”
“Until then, we finalize your sisters’ arrangements.”
She rose from the sofa, and he followed, standing close. She asked, “Do you have accommodations for the night?”
“Yes, but I find I’m unwilling to risk my horse in my condition.”
“Are you drunk?” she asked, tilting her head up to study his face.
“I’m something far more dangerous than drunk.” He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her deeply and suddenly. He hadn’t planned on doing so, not when he’d asked her to meet him at the cottage, not when he’d given her the champagne, not when he’d touched her ankle. In fact, he had sworn he would not kiss her at all ever again. He had gone rather a long time since doing so, but there was something about denying oneself what one wanted. Its pull became all the more magnetic.
Her hands crept up his chest.
To Damon, women were contrary creatures. The shy ballroom virgins inevitably ripped his buttons while the widows and experienced harlots wanted to mewl and bat their lashes. What astonished him about Charlotte was that when he kissed her, he had the sensation he was kissing Charlotte. She was what she was. She didn’t know how to be any different. And when he kissed her, he was himself, too.
She drew her hands down to his waist, and he felt the slightest pressure, enough to make him pull back.
“A kiss seems premature in celebration.” Her breath came in quick rasps. “After all, there is still one of us unmarried, as you said.”
“Not for long, I trust.” It was odd for him to plot a woman’s marriage even as he considered his own seduction of her. Even for a man with slippery morals. He seated himself on the sofa, rested his arm along its back, and crossed an ankle over a knee. He considered her as she took a seat opposite. She was still flushed from the kiss, and her red hair had come undone at one of the pins where he’d thrust his fingers into the knotted arrangement. He rather liked the look of her.
“Is it… paramount that I marry?” she asked. “To your mission?”
He raised a brow and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose there is no risk of your father defecting, not with his current attachments, but I rather like the look of a full hand. Why, do you not wish to marry?”
She reached for her flute of champagne and downed the remaining liquid in a quick swallow. “Might I confess something?”
“Is that not the nature of our arrangement?” He leaned close. “You are obligated to tell me the truth, as am I with you.”
“I find marriage terrifying.”
“Ah, as do I,” he said. “You would have done well to be born male and a rake.”
She smirked and drew her legs up under her, tucking her skirt around them. It was a familiar pose, one she often struck before a serious conversation. A slow pulse of anxiety thrummed through him, although he did not know why. There was no situation he could not plan for, was that not so?
“Why have you not married?” she asked. “Surely not from lack of opportunity.”
“Perhaps from an abundance of opportunity,” he answered.
She tapped her fingers against her knee, awaiting his real answer.
He sighed and sank deeper into the sofa. It was a question his father had asked him many times. One of his friends had confronted him with, as well. He knew he had to marry and knew that he would. These were duties and obligations, and Damon was a man who honored duty and obligation, if nothing else.
“You find marriage terrifying? I do, as well,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Not the act of marriage. Not the pledge to another, nor the idea of breeding. I find it terrifying that I would connect myself so permanently, so intimately, with someone who may never know me.”
“That’s a morbid thought,” she said. “Why wouldn’t your wife know you?”
He gestured around the room. “These matters? What wife would want to know them? To be privy to the knowledge of her husband’s actions for the Crown in something as distasteful as intelligence, the very art of deceit?”
“But you’ve been honest with me,” she said.
“So I have.” He cocked his head. “Surely this conversation did not begin in earnest about my marital intentions?”
“No,” she admitted. “I suppose I have not yet reconciled myself to the idea of marriage.”
“You prefer spinsterhood?”
“No.” She glanced off into the distance, past him through the kitchen window. The faraway look in her eyes caught him off guard, as did the intensity of her expression when she met his eyes again. “I prefer marriage. I prefer the devotion that my parents had for each other. But that’s also my greatest fear, Damon. That I might experience such a thing—and then, just as they did—lose it.”
Chapter Nine
Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1822
Woodbury, England
He had won. He had won before he’d started. Dinah had seen to that. The horsemanship, the pugilism. Now this? Dinah had known he would know. He doubted Dinah understood the depth of his connection with Charlotte, nor the exact nature of their relationship, but somehow Dinah knew that he and her sister had forged a connection, and that of all the remaining contestants, he would be the one to win.
Damon had to swallow a sickened laugh. Lottie’s greatest fear? He knew easily. She had confessed it to him two years ago. Their relationship had shifted that night into murky territory, dark waters in which they moved the same way but with more caution than before. Even at the close, she had sworn him to secrecy, half in jest, but he knew the depth of her request. Even if he hadn’t, he would have known when she approached him the next day, begging him to forget that the previous night had ever happened. She had shared too much and felt silly, but he had empathized because he had shared too much as well.
Even now, she would not look at him… or could not bring herself to do so. She had not glanced his way, even casually, since his confession to her that he thought of her as his and likely always had. Was that worth nothing to her? Had the past years been nothing more than a way to amuse herself?
He didn’t believe it, but why wouldn’t she admit to herself that their partnership had gone beyond professional? Did she see a true future for herself with Crawford, when he would never know all the hidden parts of her? Crawford lived in Leeds, where she would be close to her eldest sister, so perhaps that was what she thought. Damon’s own holdings were several days’ ride away, but surely she knew he could buy up whatever accommodations she desired—as could she, rich as Croesus in her own right.
God, his fortune was nothing to her—nor his title—and she’d grown inured to his face. His stomach soured at the thought.
He looked at Crawford, really studied him. Handsome enough features. Nice enough family. The type of sap who would spout love from his lips as easily as breaths of air. Crawford would try to make Charlotte happy, but that did not mean he would succeed. Damon knew this with every ounce of his being.
Montcrief stepped forward to answer first. He rested on bended knee and
raised a hand in the air, in the dramatic fashion of stage actors. A complete preening idiot. Damon almost felt sorry for him.
“I have made a great study of Miss Belle and have noticed that she has never stayed past sundown at any of her birthday fetes. Miss Belle, could it be that you are afraid of the dark?”
Damon, never one to roll his eyes, could not help but send them heavenward at the completely asinine attempt. He had to bite his tongue. Charlotte’s absences were often due to their own shenanigans, not that she could admit it. She enjoyed the dark, wore it like a mask to give her impunity from the mischiefs they pursued.
She was saved from having to address him by Dinah, who interrupted with a wag of her finger. “We cannot know if you are correct until every gentleman has had the opportunity to render his guess. Suspense is part and parcel of my games, after all.”
Montcrief shrugged his shoulders with good nature and rose to his feet. “Then I shall be in suspense until I know whether I am right. You give away little in your expression, Miss Belle.”
Was the man an idiot? Lottie’s expression was one of dread and anxiety. He could see it in the flattening of her lips, the slight flaring of her nostrils as she sought air to calm herself, the way she crossed her arms over her chest and cradled her elbows in her hands.
He wanted to soothe away that worry as he had in years past. But she’d brought this upon herself. There would be no need to engage in this spectacle had she accepted his proposal and the inevitability of their relationship.
“I should like to offer a counter opinion,” Crawford said, his voice soft. He stepped forward with his hands clasped behind him. He offered Charlotte a smile from the front of the crowd, which she returned.
It was out of politeness, he knew. Her stomach was still churning.
Crawford cleared his throat. Somehow the unassuming gentleman had commanded the attention of the entire ballroom. The quieter he became, the more the others leaned in to hear him.
“I have had the pleasure of knowing Miss Charlotte for several years,” he began, “and have always held her in high esteem.”
He was using the opportunity to shower her with compliments? The sneaky bastard.
“I have always been impressed,” Crawford continued, “by the regard and affection between the Belle sisters. Thus, I believe her greatest fear is to be parted from them.”
The ballroom met his answer with murmurs and nods, followed by applause. Even Charlotte’s gaze softened. Her hands ceased their nervous clutching of elbows and her fingers touched her throat, as if in thought.
Damon bristled at the notion that he’d been entirely too dismissive of the man. Crawford’s answer had been thoughtful and insightful, and he had prepared it in such a way that made her fear a strength.
Charlotte seemed comfortable enough with him, but he would never know what she was capable of, never know the true depths of her, mainly because he lacked the imagination to consider it. But still, she was considering the man, Damon could tell. Considering him quite seriously.
Crawford was safe for Charlotte, thus he was incredibly dangerous to Damon.
Dinah held up her arms to silence the crowd and stepped forward after granting Crawford an approving nod. Montcrief, at least, seemed to understand that he was out of the running and had stepped aside, grumbling, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“A very thoughtful answer,” Dinah allowed. “And while I would love to hear my sister’s assessment, we have but one more in contention.” She met Damon’s gaze and cocked her head. “A very difficult act to follow, would you not agree, Lord Savage?”
Damon did not answer, for it wasn’t a question meant for the crowd’s benefit.
Turning back to the audience, Dinah smiled. “Let us remind everyone what is at stake. My favor. A heady gift, indeed.”
She ceded the floor to Damon, and he walked four steps. In the hush of the ballroom, his heels clicked against the parquet floor. Charlotte watched him warily, her fists clenching.
She knew him capable of revealing her intimate confession. He had done worse in his pursuits. “Are you so resigned, Miss Belle?” he asked.
With a slight smile, she shrugged. “My sister is welcome to her opinions, which I greatly respect.”
He didn’t know which was more annoying, the idea that she might choose Crawford to avoid her greatest fear, or that she might convince herself that she had been forced to choose Damon because her sister had demanded it.
Neither appealed.
Something needy and demanding flared within him. He wanted Lottie, but he wanted her to want him, to know she wanted him, to admit she wanted him. He wanted their pairing to be as it had always been: uniquely intimate and necessary.
He ignored the crowd. This had nothing to do with them. Instead, he held Lottie’s gaze as he gave his answer. “Your greatest fear is of no concern to the crowd, and neither is your sister’s opinion of me. At the risk of being overly bold, I fully admit that I am in pursuit of your hand, but if you accept my suit, it will be of your choosing, of your will, and nothing else.”
Gasps ran through the crowd like wildfire, but he only had eyes for her, the way her lips parted in surprise. Good. He could still surprise her, then.
It was often said he was one for the dramatic, so perhaps that was why he chose to turn on his heel and walk out of the ballroom. He would chase Lottie willingly around the world if he thought it would do any good, but he knew her better than Montcrief, who thought she wanted a savior in the dark, and even better than Crawford, who understood her attachment to her family.
Charlotte was her own woman, who would make her own choices, and she if wanted him, by God, she would be the one to chase him.
Even women as rich as the Belles knew society’s truest currency was connection and information—gossip—and it was being spent freely and with great relish across Woodbury Hall. The events of the evening were repeated, discussed, and debated, each time more fantastic. Those who had been involved since the first event of the pentathlon were much sought after and commanded greater audiences, their opinions being decidedly the most seriously considered.
With all the key parties involved having disappeared from the ballroom, anyone claiming to know their thoughts was regarded as an authority.
Lord Savage’s abrupt departure had led to Crawford being declared the victor. Yet there was no way Lord Savage had ever been serious in his pursuit, Charlotte told herself. He had no need of money, his title was quite shiny, and he was… Well, he was Damon Cade, Lord Savage. A friend of the family, just having some fun. Why else would he make such a strange declaration, except to show he was not really playing?
Crawford would be a fine match. Everyone agreed he was a charming man. Besides, the Belles already had more than their fair share of advantageous titles for what essentially amounted to a merchant family. No need to add more to the mix.
Fortunately for Charlotte, she’d been spared the gossip. Upon Damon’s bold declaration, he had quit the ballroom and she had followed. Not to go after him, but to escape to the gardener’s cottage, where she was currently seated on the sofa, a glass of wine in hand. Which was precisely how her sisters discovered her thirty minutes later—although by then, the glass had been refilled several times.
They were quite the sight, all four of them standing in a row.
Dinah spoke first, a guarded look to her eyes. “Are you quite all right?”
“The laughingstock of all England?” Charlotte set down her glass. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The effect was immediate. Her sisters fluttered to her side, sitting beside her and kneeling before her, with insistent claims.
“You are not a laughingstock! Certainly not of all England. We’re quite selective in our invitation list.”
“I should have put a stop to it.”
“Didn’t you enjoy it, even a little bit?”
She silenced them with one raised hand. “It will be all right. I shall remain in the cottage. T
he gossips will eventually find something else to occupy them, and we can go on as before.”
Her sisters gasped, but it was Alice—of course, Alice was always taking charge—who said, “Are you mad?”
“That’s nonsense,” Dinah agreed. “Lord Savage effectively declared in front of king and country that he is in love with you.”
“No, he didn’t!” Charlotte said. “That’s the whole point. He doesn’t love me at all. He just wants to marry me because he wants a full set.”
Bridget leaned forward, her expression enraptured as she cupped her chin in her hands. “A full set? That merits explanation.”
“I shall explain all, but do not be cross,” Charlotte said. She briefly described the past six years of her association with Damon and how they had conspired to see them all married, while leaving out that he had been on a mission for the Crown. Instead, she allowed them to draw the natural conclusion that she had instigated the matter.
“I knew it!” Dinah slapped her knee. “I knew it. Oh, Graham shall eat crow for this. He didn’t believe me at all. He kept insisting Lord Savage would never… But I knew there was something afoot.”
“You must be discreet in your discussions,” Charlotte said.
Ever the practical one, Alice laid a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Of course. There is your reputation to consider. Did he compromise you?”
“No, of course not,” Charlotte said. She had not felt compelled to share the minor detail of their previous kisses. She remembered each one, each time. She held each memory close and turned them over in her head at night. Whereas she was sure he did not give them a second thought. “Lord Savage has never shown any interest in me, which is why his proposal is balderdash. He merely needs to see me married in order to declare victory in this… this quest we began.”
“Then why not let you marry Mr. Crawford?” Dinah said. “That would be the logical conclusion.”
“He just wants to be right,” Charlotte said.
“Right about what?” Sera asked.
“About… me, about everything. It’s a great failing of his.”