by Anne Mallory
“Fine, fine.”
“I was dreadful,” her sister uttered darkly after their fourth such visit a few hours later.
“You were wonderful. No one noticed,” Charlotte assured her, as they eased into the well-trod shopping lanes, unabated tension thrumming through her.
No one had given Charlotte any odd or satisfied looks. And one person had even gossiped that John Clark had suddenly decided that very morning to visit the Continent.
Charlotte prayed his accommodations didn’t include a wooden box.
“My cup hit my saucer so loudly it was as if I’d tossed her prized plates through the display glass.”
“No one noticed.” Everyone had noticed.
“Everyone noticed. I might as well have thrown the plates. I’m doomed.”
“You aren’t doomed.” She wouldn’t let her be.
“I’ll never secure a husband.”
“Because your cup hit your saucer a tad forcefully? It was of no consequence,” she said as lightly as she could.
Emily gave her a disbelieving look. “Don’t try and convince me that you weren’t noticing such things about the other girls.”
“You will hardly find such harsh scrutiny elsewhere. It is in the dance of the older women where such a thing is required. And you are young. You did well.”
“I couldn’t answer a single question without babbling. And you were nice enough not to incline your head when I’d already put my foot in it. Damn tongue might as well be a straight toboggan on a sharply curved path for all of the grace it possesses.”
“Language. And you did a fine job.”
“I probably ruined your bloody chances too. You should put me out. To pasture.”
“If you don’t watch your language, I’ll consider it.”
“Father will be so angry.”
“At your language?” Charlotte looked down her nose. “Undoubtedly.”
“No, at my lack of skill.”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “You have plenty of skill. And Father will say nothing.”
“He will. He’s always going on about how . . . well, he just will,” she finished lamely. The words whispered between them anyway.
He’s always going on about how I have no beauty or grace to claim. How I will have to rely on you to make a good match. Or for someone to take pity upon me.
Charlotte stopped suddenly, Emily coming to rest next to her as the crowd moved around them. The tension pulsed. She put a forceful hand on her sister’s shoulder. “If the fools can’t notice what is in front of them, then you don’t need them,” she said, somewhat savagely.
Emily blinked in shock.
“You are the prettiest girl in England.” Bright eyes and cherried cheeks, so full of life. “And better than that, the smartest.”
Emily raised a brow, the lingering hurt retreating back. “I think you have gone blind.”
“And I think it’s those other fools who are.” Charlotte squeezed her shoulder and urged her back into motion, tension still throbbing. “Pay them no attention. We will change them. Force them to our will.”
“We will?”
“Yes.”
Her sister didn’t respond for a long moment.
“What happened?” Emily asked quietly as they crossed the street.
Charlotte tried to pretend ignorance. “They don’t know true beauty when they see it.”
“No. That isn’t what I was asking, and you know it. Don’t . . . don’t leave me out. You’ve been so happy in your letters—though infrequent and vague, don’t think I didn’t notice—but I assumed it meant this season was good. Yet, today, at the stops, you seemed . . . angered.”
Charlotte tried to smile. “I told you that I would make up for any uptight nonverbal reminders I might give.”
“No, not those. I appreciate those, as idiotic as it all is. I mean, who cares if you take a sip of your tea? Maybe someone is thirsty.”
“Emily—”
“No, don’t distract me. I’m not sure what to make of it. You don’t seem to enjoy socializing or the ton. I remember the bubbling excitement when you were set to debut. The notes and thrilled words. And I thought you had recaptured that . . . but you haven’t, have you?”
No. She had been ignoring the pit. Filling it with Roman, Roman, Roman. But the cavity still remained, deadly, patiently waiting. Waiting for her return like an old friend.
She didn’t wish to lie to Emily. But she also wanted her sister to look forward to her first season, unhindered. Full of anxiety about her success, undoubtedly—there was little to calm those types of nerves—but with all of her optimistic illusions still in place. She could walk through the ballrooms and feel the lively air and dance the night away without a care. What the young were supposed to feel. What many of the young women enjoyed.
If Charlotte made a grand match, she could ensure that Emily wouldn’t be a puppet on their father’s string. She could have all the time she needed, could revel in the parties and fun. Emily wouldn’t even have to marry should she choose not to. Charlotte had always planned to work it out with her future husband. On the side, away from their father.
That was what she had always planned—where she had concentrated her efforts. But now other possibilities bloomed, disjointed and new. Tenuous and dangerous.
. . . as long as Emily was happy . . . as long as Charlotte could make it so.
“Just a rough night, is all, nothing to worry over.”
Emily said nothing, but Charlotte knew her sister didn’t believe her.
“You said you wanted to go to Grubbins’.” Charlotte pointed at the milliner’s ahead, and Emily’s eyes lit up. “And we are here.”
“Oh! Margaret Smith will be over-the-moon jealous.” Emily tore from her side the last few steps through the crowd and slipped inside.
Charlotte clutched her reticule.
Perfection. It was what she had clung to all her life.
If she could marry perfectly. If she could be perfect. Surely, she could make everything well for Emily.
For herself.
She hadn’t believed in fairy tales and white and black knights come to save her. She was their white knight. Emily’s white knight.
She had drifted so far from the path of perfection, though. And into an unknown, exciting, frightening place. One full of all of her fears—ones which keenly whispered that one day she would look into icy eyes and see nothing there but disinterest. Murmuring wary commands to her to control that disinterest by conquering or rejecting it before it appeared.
So much easier and safer surely to be a perfect portrait, unblemished and still. Coldly calculating. Rebellious thoughts crushed to marble.
Warmer, softer thoughts plunged into the hollow under her fear.
Perfect.
Someone bumped her elbow and her grip involuntarily opened, popping the bag from her hand. A thief’s tactic. She hurriedly bent down to retrieve it and her fingers met strong golden ones already clasped around the fabric.
She suddenly couldn’t remember how to breathe.
She stared at the long, strong fingers. Ones that could handle a knife or the delicate ivory of an expensive queen.
The fingers brushed hers, and shivers spread through her limbs. Out and about during the day so rarely, but somehow always running into her whenever her thoughts strayed . . .
Her eyes rose slowly, halting at his lips, staring at them, pulling her own between her teeth. Knowing how they felt. On hers, against her neck, pulling perfectly across her skin.
“Well, this is an unexpected surprise,” those lips murmured.
The way his mouth curved she knew it wasn’t a surprise in the least. She couldn’t pull her eyes away.
“If you keep looking at me like that,” he whispered, his lips moving slowly over the words, savoring them, “I may give in to my urge to do something very undisciplined.”
That snapped her eyes straight up, along with her body. He seemed to anticipate the movement and gr
acefully rose with her, the bag still clutched between them.
She stared into eyes the perfect shade of frost over a clear blue lake. Frost that was violently melting under the searing look he was giving her.
“Let me go,” she whispered, words unable to separate from her breath. The hard edge of propriety that she always crowned herself with in public disappeared like so much fog under the blazing sun.
“I don’t think I can.” His words held the edge of her whisper. “Unless you wish it.”
She needed to spare a look to the passing crowd, to see if anyone was watching, but she couldn’t look away. The faceless crowd sifted around him, bodies, both male and female, drawing toward her companion, then subtly shifting away. Something about him still both pulling people to him and pushing them away, on edge. A deadly predator wrapped in an entrancing hide.
The thought that she was just as susceptible to his lure as anyone else on the street made her uneasy. Any feigned perfection disappearing like mist. He always made her feel raw.
And with that rawness, stripping away all the artifice she had carefully cloaked about her over the years, was the fear that there would be nothing left on which to cling.
“Are you well, Miss?” he asked loudly, his previously intimate look and question replaced with a stranger’s propriety. “Let me help you to the side.” He slipped his warm palm beneath her elbow, steering her out of the path of the people passing by and into the vacant area in front of the shop. His dangerous aura pocketed them from stray limbs.
She set her chin. Trying to push away the sly, undermining thoughts that she could give away her control.
“It’s the middle of the day. You aren’t supposed to exist,” she murmured, then, for the benefit of anyone listening, said loudly, “Thank you, sir.”
“Of course, Miss.” He handed her the bag, bending toward her as he did. “Afraid that I will take over your waking hours as well?” Slippery graveled words full of promise.
She had no illusions that she would control all of her fate, but she could forge a large part of it behind the scenes once settled. Subtly manipulating, coldly crafting, hiding her warmer feelings under a carefully wrought veneer only broached by a chosen few. The clear path toward a ruling matron written like a recipe on a page.
She had long sought that recipe, had worked hard to divine the perfect ingredients. She knew exactly what needed to be done.
And that was the danger of predators at the top of the chain. They tended to destroy the best of plans.
That deep voice promised things she couldn’t even comprehend, even after weeks of knowledge. Whispering over her skin. Shuddering through her veins. “I may just do so.”
Splayed on bedsheets or across a garden bench or in a back room. Forgetting where and who she was.
Emily burst from the door. “Charlotte!” She waved something pink.
Charlotte scrambled in front of him, pushing him behind her in some crazy, idiotic gesture of secrecy.
Someday, God, someday, she had to believe she could have something wild and free. Unrestrained. Something warm and alive. Something dangerous and out of control. Something like the man behind her.
That she could have him.
But not today . . . in the bright light of the sun, with Emily waving and her thoughts going in too many directions . . .
She had to hold it together today. The perfect statue, cracking irrevocably, pieces falling even as she scrambled to glue them back in place. Or to tear them off herself.
“Charlotte,” Emily breathed as she skirted the crowd between them. “What is taking you so long? Look at this.” She held up a pink bonnet—the light color the very hue of innocence.
Get back in the store!
“That will look divine on you, Emily.” She thrust her bag toward her. “Why don’t you purchase it.”
Get back in the store!
Her sister cocked her head to the side, eyes drifting past Charlotte. “I say. Are you a friend of Charlotte?” There was something odd and penetrating in her gaze.
“Miss Emily, is it?” he asked from behind.
Charlotte stiffened so abruptly that it had to be excruciatingly noticeable.
Roman appeared at her side and smiled charmingly at her sister, the deadly aura retreating a space and making him seem almost safe. But it lingered about him, as if unable to dissipate completely. “That bonnet will look quite striking with your hair, Miss Emily.”
“Really? Do you think so?” Emily’s rosy cheeks grew redder. Attention caught sufficiently that she didn’t seem to realize they had not actually been introduced.
“Definitely. A rose in spring.”
Charlotte stepped between them again. “Emily, go buy the thing.” She shoved a few notes to her sister and forced her to back up a pace.
Charlotte didn’t spare more than a glance at her sister’s eyebrows, which were now nearly touching her hairline before turning to him.
“Thank you for your help, sir. Good day.” She nodded at him tightly, pointedly.
“Perhaps in return you might help me find a bonnet for my aunt?” He smiled, a much-less-polite smile than he had given Emily, the danger all but cloaking him again.
“I don’t think so.”
“She has been sick. I am hoping this will lift her spirits.”
She’d eat Emily’s new bonnet if he had an ill aunt. “I’m sure you will make a splendid purchase.”
“But I would love to have your gifted opinion. Perhaps Miss Emily’s too.”
“No. Go away,” she whispered harshly. “You are making a scene.”
“Am I?” The edges of his mouth curved. “And here I thought it was you making it.”
Two women stood a few paces away, bent heads together, whispering.
Panic rushed through her, all coolness completely gone. Her breath caught. If someone identified him, there would be talk of her connected to Roman Merrick, which would lead to other things. Last night had proven that. The maelstrom surged. She tried to draw breath, but it became difficult for a moment.
His eyes narrowed and wandered over her face. At the moment, she couldn’t even pull forth the calm veneer she usually hid behind in public. He tipped his head to her. “Actually, I just remembered an urgent appointment. Thank you, Miss.”
“No.” She reached out a hand before she could stop herself. “I . . . I’m sorry. I can help you with your purchase if you still wish it.”
He examined her for a long moment. Why couldn’t he be a man of the ton? Someone she could have a yearning flirtation with. Able to freely express that lift of a butterfly’s wings in her stomach. Able to marry him and live in stunned wonder, chained to her bed, the rest of her life.
His lazy smile suddenly appeared. “Perhaps I might take you up on that offer in the future then. Good day, Miss.”
He turned, and she watched as he slipped into the crowd and disappeared. She stared after him for long moments, trying to corral her chaotic thoughts.
Beyond his unsuitability to her world, and hers to his, Roman Merrick was not the marrying kind. Even if he suddenly became a prince, he’d probably thumb his nose at them all.
Charlotte turned to see Emily examining her and pulled up a forced smile.
“Who was that man?” Emily asked.
“I have no idea.” Charlotte gestured toward the shop. “Shall we purchase your bonnet?”
Emily held up a bag. “I already did.” A sly smile appeared. “While you were staring off into space. Bit distracted, Charlotte?”
“No. Gunter’s?” She briskly started walking in that direction.
“Charlotte, you can’t fool me with an ice.” Emily called behind her, obviously hurrying to catch up. “Well, I suppose you can,” she huffed, pulling alongside her. “And I’ll have you know that I want one now, but you knew him.”
“Fine. He is an acquaintance of Father’s. No one of import.”
“I think he might be the nicest-looking man I’ve ever seen.” Emil
y cocked her head. “Downing has serious competition. I think I will develop mad tendres for them both now.”
Charlotte stopped abruptly. “You will not.”
Emily raised a brow. “Really? Gotten under your skin that far, has he? Sounds like a bloody fine bloke to me. What’s his name?”
“Language! And stop speaking of him.”
“Strange name, Language. What is his first name? Handsome?” Emily cocked her head. “No, wait, that is probably his second name. First name, Incredibly, then?”
“Emily.”
“Really? I don’t think Emily does him justice.”
The yearning, the want, the defeat, all mangled together and knotted violently. “Emily,” she said, her voice cold and clipped, “I’m going to kill you in a matter of seconds.” She pinned her sister with an ice-covered look. “Out of the love I once felt for you, I will give you a choice as to what method I will employ. Carriage wheel or strangulation?”
Emily raised her hands in surrender. “Fine. Buy me an ice then.”
Charlotte started moving again.
“But,” her sister’s voice called from behind, “I think you should know that Incredibly Handsome looks at you as if you are the only person in the world too.”
Charlotte pushed away the elation, the terror, and wondered if she could strangle her sister and throw her under a carriage at the same time.
As he leaned against the bricks of the alley, Roman watched them pass: the younger one nipping at the elder’s heels. Charlotte turned and said something deadly to her sister, who threw up her hands.
But the mischievous grin on the younger girl’s face as she called out, then chased after her sister, who was once again striding forward, spoke to their relationship.
Charlotte’s pleasure in the younger girl was obvious.
He wondered what Charlotte would do if she ever discovered that her father had tried to exchange one sister for the other. To have the younger one, barely out of leading strings, take her place in his bed. A sacrifice to keep his trophy from scandal.
He reached in his pocket and turned the clip between his fingers, leaning his shoulders farther into the edged bricks. That warm protectiveness was going to cost her.
He’d exploit it himself, if needed. He found that lately he was feeling the urge to use everything at his disposal.