“Who would have to abandon the horses and carriage to see to your welfare,” he said, unable to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. It was one thing for Serena to visit that part of town. She often visited questionable neighborhoods, despite William’s frequently expressed displeasure at her careless lack of regard for her own safety. But it was quite another for her to put Charlotte in jeopardy as well. “Now, just what were you doing in Red Lion Square?” he asked again.
“You needn’t go all glaring eyes and clenched jaw on me. Serena and I met Lady Beasley at a home she owns there.”
“Beasley’s love nest,” he said flatly. “Not an entirely appropriate destination for a lady.”
“You know of it?”
“It was hardly a secret. Everyone knew he kept his mistresses there. Even his wife.”
“Well, it’s acquired a better purpose these days.”
“And that would be…?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I did,” he replied, wondering what Serena was getting her involved in.
“They’re turning it into a home for women left destitute when their husbands died fighting Napoleon’s armies.”
“And while you were there, you ran into Pemberton,” he said, somewhat relieved. He knew when it came to Serena, her desire to help the less fortunate wasn’t tempered with prudence for her own safety. Or her reputation. Which was the reason she wasn’t invited into the houses of society’s highest sticklers, although her family’s standing protected her from outright ostracism.
“We didn’t run into him precisely. He was there, in the vicinity, and the way he watched us struck me as odd at the time. I don’t think Serena noticed him though, and I didn’t give him another thought until just now when I saw him staring at us. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but…” She gave a little shake of her head. “It just seems odd that I’ve caught him staring at me twice in one day.”
It struck William as a little odd, too, though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “If he pesters you, let me know, and I’ll take care of it,” William assured her. “But you should know he is a long shot to head the reforms commission. That might explain his interest in you. In us, especially if…”
He didn’t articulate the rest of his thought, but Charlotte’s eyes widened as she caught the implications of this statement.
“You think he…?”
“I didn’t before tonight. His style is more along the lines of insinuating himself into people’s good graces by flattery, not underhanded tricks. But I can’t say I’d put it”—he gave her a significant look—“past him.”
“Do you think he’s plotting something else? Something that could hurt your chances?”
“I doubt he’s the type to quit the field quietly just because his first plan failed. Assuming he is the culprit. I’ll have my investigator look into it. In the meantime, must we ruin a perfectly good waltz talking about Pemberton?” Etiquette dictated they dance together only twice in one evening. He didn’t want Pemberton to intrude on this one any longer.
“If he’s plotting to take away your chance for that chairmanship, then yes,” she said, her eyes snapping with indignation. Oh, but he wanted to kiss her just then. He loved to watch her eyes flash with emotion, and the fact that she was riled on his behalf was damned appealing.
“What are you smiling about?” she demanded. “I don’t see how you can find it amusing this man could be undermining you.”
“If I’m smiling, it’s because you look adorable right now.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It’s true,” he insisted. “I find you utterly adorable. Not to mention, temptingly kissable, though there’s nothing I can do about that at the moment.”
Her gaze faltered and cut away. When it met his again, he saw she’d erected that wall of reserve once more. Why did she insist on holding him at arm’s length? In the figurative sense, naturally, because he held her as closely as he dared. Any closer, and they’d set tongues wagging.
Somehow he managed to breach the wall when he kissed her. Afterward, she’d summon that cool reserve and lock it back into place, but not during. During she was warm and pliant, seeking and passionate. His blood began to heat just thinking of it.
The string quartet began playing the closing bars of the waltz. He wasn’t ready to relinquish his time with her, but he’d have to unless…
When the music stopped, he clasped her elbow, but instead of leading her back to her place at the perimeter of the room where another man could swoop in to claim her for the next dance, he kept right on going to a doorway in the back corner of the room.
“Where are—” she began, her steps faltering as they reached the threshold of the open door.
“The library,” he said curtly. This hadn’t been his original intention. His original destination had been a quiet alcove, one that could provide the necessary privacy to steal a kiss or two. Or, given the desire coursing through his veins, a few dozen kisses. But he was afraid her hesitation at leaving the ballroom could turn into a flat-out refusal if he didn’t provide her with a bit of motivation, as she’d once put it.
Evidently a visit to the Vandevere library was motivation enough, because she exited the ballroom at his side without protest. Well-acquainted with his godmother’s residence, he led her down the narrow hall, past the secluded alcove, shadowy and empty, perfect for trysting.
“Why are we going to the library?” she asked. “Is there something else you wished to tell me about Pemberton? Something you didn’t want others to hear?”
“I’ve simply had enough of the ballroom.” And not enough of you. “Since you like books, I thought you’d like to explore my godmother’s library.” He stopped before a paneled door and opened it. “After you.”
She gave him an appraising look before entering. He followed, closing the door behind him, which earned him another close look, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she walked to the center of the room and slowly turned in a full circle, studying the shelf-lined walls, her lips curved in a slight smile of pleasure. The sight of her taking in the contents of the library did nothing to quell the desire roaring through his veins. Who knew watching a girl survey a room filled with books could be so arousing?
She turned back to him, one brow raised impudently. “I don’t suppose the Vandeveres own some fine Shakespeare folios you wish to show me.”
“I’m sure they do, but I didn’t bring you here to show you any folios.” Still, he made no move to proceed with the reason he’d brought her here, instead maintaining a circumspect distance between them.
“Then why are we here?” she asked. “The real reason why we’re here”—her gaze flicked to the closed door—“alone.”
He gave a careless shrug. “Isn’t it obvious? Our dance was ending, and I wanted more time with you. Why did you come?”
There was a hint of self-mockery in her eyes. “Because you offered to show me the library.”
“Then let me point out the fine Turner over the fireplace,” he said. “And over in that alcove is a Vermeer that Lord Vandevere gave his wife as a wedding present.”
She walked over to the Vermeer, leaning forward as she examined them. “I’ve never been a great fan of the Dutch masters,” she said at last. “Although I admire their skill, they’ve never held any appeal for me.”
“I’m rather partial to Italian paintings myself.”
“For me, it depends upon the Italian. I like Botticelli, but I find some of the Caravaggios quite nightmarish.” She crossed the room to take a closer look at the Turner. It was bucolic in nature, a river wending through a path of tall, almost languid trees. “I like this. It’s very restful.”
He came to stand beside her. “It is that.” He breathed in her scent—a mix of roses and the clean lemony scent of soap. He ignored the inclination to draw her into his arms, strong though it was. Instead, he let himself study her as she studied the painting.
His eyes traced t
he slender curve of her neck, the graceful slope of her shoulders. He imagined kissing the spot where a curly tendril of her hair rested against her shoulder just below her ear. He allowed his gaze to linger on the creamy pearls resting against her skin, warmed by her body. He felt his own body tighten in response.
But still he didn’t reach for her. He was waiting for a sign from her, for some indication that she ached for him the same way he ached for her.
Or was he simply ignoring her signals? This was Charlotte. The fact that she’d come here with him, that she hadn’t moved out of his reach… Given how she stubbornly tried to maintain an emotional aloofness, that might be all the sign she was willing to give.
She sighed, and turned to him. “Is that the end of the library tour, or is there something else you wish to show me?”
“What would you like to see?” he murmured.
She blushed prettily. “I thought there might be some books you intended to point out.”
“Well…” he said, trying to remember the more interesting items contained in the Vandeveres’ library, and not coming up with much, mainly because he was distracted by the pulse in her throat, which caused her pearls to jump and shift slightly with each heartbeat. “Umm…my godmother has a selection of novels you might like to browse. They’re over here.”
He led her to an area of the room that had a decidedly more feminine flavor. The winged armchairs were upholstered in a pale blue damask and a large vase of cut flowers sat on an end table, next to a pair of reading spectacles.
“Here,” he said, gesturing to the bookcase in front of them. “In addition to novels, there are some books on household management, horticulture, and, well, you can see for yourself what else she has.”
“You must be close with your godmother to know precisely where her books are located in the library,” she said.
He shrugged. “I am. She was my mother’s dearest friend. When my father died, Lord Huntington stepped into that role, providing much needed guidance for the green boy I was then. When my mother died only a year after Papa, Lady V took me under her wing. She oversaw Lydia’s come-out three years ago since, as a twenty-two-year-old bachelor, I was hardly qualified to do so.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said. She knew he’d lost his father when he was eighteen, and then to lose his mother so soon after that… She laid a hand on his arm. “You never quit missing them. I know I haven’t.”
“When?” he asked, his tone gentle. Just one word, but she knew what he meant.
She drew in a deep breath. “Mama died a year and a half ago. She was in ill health the last few years of her life. It’s the reason I never had a London Season. She urged me to come to London when I turned eighteen, had even arranged for a school friend of hers to sponsor my come-out, but I refused to leave her.”
“And your father?” he said.
“Papa died when I was sixteen,” she said. “He caught a severe cold that turned into an inflammation of the lungs.”
“I’m sorry.” His eyes were kind and filled with concern. They didn’t say anything more. They didn’t need to. Each understood the other’s sense of loss.
She wasn’t sure when he drew her into the shelter of his arms. It wasn’t until her mind registered the sound of his heartbeat that she realized he held her cradled against him, one side of her face resting on his chest, the smooth fabric of his evening jacket touching her cheek.
His chin brushed her forehead, and she felt the faint scrape of whisker stubble against her skin, the stirring of her bangs with his every exhalation. She hadn’t known until this very moment how deeply she’d been wanting to be held just this way, hadn’t realized how she craved this sort of closeness with another human being.
With him.
Why was she fighting this?
He seemed to like her, to find her amusing. Unquestionably, he liked kissing her.
Lust isn’t the same as love, Charlotte. Don’t confuse the two.
With a little encouragement on her part, could it turn to love?
If she stopped tamping down her emotions every time they tried to stray outside the boundaries she deemed acceptable, she could very easily fall in love with him.
And what if you did? she asked herself. What if he did? What then?
But then again, what if he didn’t? Did she really want to be that pathetic girl pining over a man she couldn’t have?
“Are you all right?” he asked. “That was a very heavy sigh.”
She lifted her head. “Yes, of course. Just lost in my thoughts.”
“You can stay lost in them as long as you wish.” He leaned his head back to smile down at her. “I’m in no hurry.”
She mustered her resolve. “We’ve been absent from the ballroom too long. And there’s no Serena here to mitigate the damage if we’re discovered together.”
“And what if we are caught?” She could feel his chuckle rumbling in his chest. “What can they do to us? We’re already betrothed.”
“Yes, but you’re forgetting one crucial detail. My reputation will be in tatters if I cry off after being caught in a compromising position with you.” She brought her hands up and gave his chest a light push. “It’s time to get back.”
He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, and if he’d told her that he no longer wanted her to jilt him, she might have been tempted to consider changing their agreement, even though she had grave doubts about the wisdom of choosing such a course.
But all he said was “I suppose you’re right.” His arms fell away and he stepped back, running a hand through his hair, mussing it adorably. “You know I intended to kiss you. Thoroughly, so that when we returned to the ballroom anyone paying attention would know I’d kissed you. I don’t want Miltner or Farrars or any other gentleman to get ideas about stealing you away.”
“I don’t think you have any reason to worry about that,” she said.
“As I’ve told you, you rate yourself too lightly. Maybe gentlemen didn’t notice you before, but they’re noticing you now, and I assure you, they like what they see. Now, let’s go before I forget my good intentions.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. Her heart rather wished he’d chuck his good intentions out the window, but her head knew every stolen kiss was a dangerous mistake. No matter how much she wanted his kisses—and she craved them, desperately, fiercely—in the end she needed to be able to walk away, to free him from their betrothal. And she preferred to do it with her heart intact. Or as intact as it could possibly be.
To her mingled relief and disappointment, he remained true to his word, and they left the library, retracing their steps back to the ballroom. They’d nearly reached it when she asked, “What if Pemberton approaches me tonight? Should I talk with him, subtly question him to see if there’s any reason to think he’s the culprit?”
“If he tries to interact with you, and it’s possible he will, just let any conversation with him unfold naturally; don’t try to force the issue. If he’s the one behind that false betrothal announcement, we’ll leave it to my investigator to find evidence of his involvement. If he says anything you think is important, send a footman to find me, and I’ll come to you.”
“Where will you be?” she asked, confused by his statement. Was he leaving the ball?
His mouth twisted into a rueful grin. “I intend to visit the card room for a while. I’ll rejoin you in time for the supper dance, so don’t be promising that to anyone else.”
“Won’t you be disappointing the ladies? Absenting yourself from the ballroom?”
“I shouldn’t think so. As far as they’re concerned, I’m taken.”
He clasped her elbow and they made their way back to the ballroom, where they met Lydia and her husband, who were just finishing some flavored ices supplied by Gunter’s for the occasion. When William inquired if Charlotte would like one, she nodded.
“Lemon flavored, like the last time?” he asked.
“If they have
lemon, yes,” she said, pleased that he remembered. The same day they’d spotted that awful caricature in the artist’s shop. “If not, I’ll be happy with whatever you choose for me.”
He soon returned with a dish of lemon ice, which he presented to her with a flourish.
“Didn’t you want any?” Lydia asked, looking surprised. “It’s so stuffy in here. James has already had three.”
“I’m off to the card room for a bit. Keep an eye on Charlotte for me,” William said, giving his sister a wink. He turned to Charlotte. “Don’t forget. The supper dance is mine.” He leaned in, and said in a low voice meant only for her, “Save all your enchanting smiles for our dance.”
Then he was gone.
* * *
The card room was predominantly occupied by men, although a couple of tables were composed of ladies, mostly older women, to whom a round of cards held greater appeal than capering about a dance floor.
William joined a group of gentlemen playing vingt-et-un. He took an empty seat next to Charles Townshend. “You’re not dancing?” he asked.
“I did for a bit.” Townshend nodded to the dealer to deal him another card, before giving William an oblique glance. “I don’t have my own girl to dance with.”
William made a sound of impatience. “I can only dance with her twice in an evening.”
“I reckon that explains your presence in here,” Townshend said. He made a face and pushed his cards away. He’d gone over twenty-one. “You won’t be constrained by those unwritten rules once you’re married, provided you still want to dance more than two dances with her in an evening.”
William’s cards added to nineteen, but the hand was won by a man seated across from them who smugly laid out his hand so all could see it totaled twenty-one. The dealer gathered the cards, the man gathered his winnings, and bets were offered for another round.
The players at the table weren’t a chatty bunch, which suited William’s mood. In his mind, he turned over what Charlotte had told him about Pemberton’s odd regard of her.
It might mean nothing. Pemberton was an opportunist. It was possible he planned to strike up an acquaintance with her as a way to curry favor with William. On the other hand, if Pemberton was the party behind the false betrothal announcement, it could explain his fixation with Charlotte. He had to be wondering why they’d carried on with the engagement, since William was fairly sure the culprit, whoever he was, had expected him to disavow any connection to Charlotte.
Not the Kind of Earl You Marry Page 20