“I expect this rain will put a crimp in the festivities at Lansdowne House tonight,” he remarked. “When the weather cooperates, the gardens are lit with torches and the guests are free to circulate between them and the house. If this rain keeps up, it will drive everything indoors. A shame, since the gardens are lovely in the evening.”
“I looked forward to seeing them,” Charlotte said.
“And perhaps you will. If it doesn’t get any worse, and if it stops soon.” Though he sounded doubtful this would be the case. “But if the weather doesn’t cooperate, you can see them another time. The Marquess of Lansdowne often holds large gatherings.”
She knew, however, if she didn’t see the gardens tonight, it was almost certain she wouldn’t in the future. Once she jilted him, her social life would return to its former state, and that had never included invitations from the marquess. She pushed back a stab of sadness at the thought.
The rain began to fall with more insistence, changing from intermittent fat raindrops to a light sprinkle.
“Can you run in your dress?” William asked. They were still more than a block away from the north end of Berkeley Square.
“I could,” Charlotte replied. “But rain or no rain, I don’t wish to make a spectacle of myself running through the streets of Mayfair.”
“If it’s any consolation, I expect we’ll have company.” He cast a glance heavenward. “I don’t have achy joints like my aunt, but I have a feeling the skies are about to open up on us.”
No doubt he was right. There were still a number of people making their way with urgency as the rain continued to come down. It was on the tip of her tongue to suggest they return to the carriage, when it struck her that this rain could be the answer to the question of how to get them to William’s town house.
“Let’s try to make it to your residence, at least. We could wait it out there.”
“A practical, if not entirely proper suggestion,” he replied. “However, I’m willing to skirt the bounds of propriety if you are.”
“It seems the best course at the moment,” she said, inwardly rejoicing that her plan was falling into place so neatly.
“Come on,” he said, grasping her elbow. “Pick up your skirts. We’ll make a run for it.”
To the credit of William’s household staff, they didn’t bat an eyelash when they entered through the servants’ back entrance of his town house. Not one eye crinkled in amusement at the sight of them, dripping onto the floorboards after their dash through the rain. Rather, a maid grabbed some toweling from a cupboard to clean the puddles, while the unflappable butler ordered another maid to build up the fire in the sitting room.
“I’ll have a tea tray prepared and sent to the sitting room,” the butler said, addressing William. “And towels for you both to dry off. Right now we should get you and the lady out of those wet outer garments.”
“Thank you, Coates,” William replied.
A maid bustled over to help Charlotte out of her sodden cloak and a footman helped peel the jacket off William. There was nothing to be done about his wet trousers at the moment. Surprisingly, his shirt and waistcoat appeared dry everywhere but the very front, as did her gown.
William turned to Charlotte. “Let’s get warmed up, and then we can decide whether we want to try to attend the soirée.”
“I think it’s more a question of can we,” Charlotte said. “During our dash here, I couldn’t hold up the hem of my gown and keep my hood in place.” She was sure her hair was beyond hope of repair.
William studied her a moment. “All isn’t lost, though we need to get you dried off. I don’t want you taking a chill.”
“But what about your aunt?” Charlotte asked, suddenly remembering that Aunt Florence had been left behind.
“Coates, send a footman to find the carriage. When we left it, we were on Duke Street, a block away from Grosvenor Square. Unless the traffic has cleared significantly, I expect it’s still north of Berkeley somewhere.”
“There’s no need, my lord,” Coates informed him. “Your aunt dispatched a lad to relay a message here that she’d instructed your coachman to take her home. She seemed to believe, since you’d gone off on foot, that the rain would put an end to your plans for the evening, and that you’d possibly make your way here. A hackney can be hailed if you wish to leave before the coach returns for you.”
“Well, that solves that then,” William said. He took Charlotte’s arm and led her up a set of stairs that in turn led to a grand entrance foyer.
As she entered this part of the house, her nerves threatened to get the best of her. Her knees went weak and her hands trembled ever so slightly. She was breathless and her cheeks warmed at the thought of the seduction she’d planned.
In the sitting room, they went over to the fireplace and stood before it, warming themselves. A maid brought in a stack of towels, and fast on her heels was another maid carrying a tea tray, which she placed on the sideboard. William dismissed them, and both maids offered a curtsey before hurrying from the room.
William moved an armchair before the fire. “Here.” He indicated she should take a seat. “Let’s see to that damp hair of yours.” As she settled herself in the chair, he fetched her a towel. “For your hair,” he said. “I’ll pour you a cup of tea to warm you from the inside as well.”
The funny thing was she felt quite warm already. They were the only two in the room, and her mind was well aware of the possibilities this presented. The possibilities she intended to set into motion. So while she appreciated his solicitude, she rather wished he were less focused on her welfare, and more focused on…well, just her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t realize earls were versed in the art of pouring tea.”
He sent her a wry glance as he went about preparing her cup. “I’ve never learned the intricacies of serving tea with grace and elegance. Although I daresay my sisters know precisely how to cock their wrists just so while pouring, and how to stir in the milk and sugar to produce a musical tinkling of spoon against cup.” He grinned at her. “But even if I don’t do it prettily, I know how to create a drinkable cup. So what’s your preference: Milk, sugar, or both?”
“A splash of milk, please, and one small lump of sugar.”
“As you wish.”
As he prepared her tea, she dabbed at her hair with the towel, but without unpinning it, her efforts were ineffectual at best. The warm fire would probably do the best job of drying it for now. She laid aside the towel to take the cup William brought over to her.
Taking a sip, she gave him a questioning glance as he continued to hover beside her chair.
“I’m just waiting to take your cup,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “I can set it on the mantel and whenever you want another sip, all you need do is ask.”
“Much as I enjoy having an earl at my beck and call,” she said, with a teasing smile, “it isn’t necessary. I’ll just finish my cup while I sit here by the fire.”
He frowned. “I really think you need to work on drying that hair of yours. I meant it when I said I didn’t want you to take a chill.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “We should get you out of those wet trousers.”
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, a fiery blush swept across her face, making it impossible to coolly ignore her poorly worded reply. “That is to say, we can’t have you taking a chill either.”
A more sophisticated woman would have made better use of that suggestive remark, but Charlotte lacked both the sophistication and the nerve.
His mouth quirked in amusement. “I was afraid that’s what you meant. I’m fine. I can change later, while a maid attends to you, provided you still wish to attend the soirée.”
“It’s nice being here actually,” she said. Not a bold declaration, by any means, and yet his gaze locked on hers with a questioning intensity that warmed and excited her, and ignited a certain hope deep within her. It was as if he asked, and she answere
d, and an unspoken understanding was formed between them. Familiar flutterings began to dance in her stomach.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said at last. “But we still need to do something about drying your hair.”
“We?”
“Yes, we,” he said firmly. “Now, have some more tea, if you wish, and then I’ll be your temporary lady’s maid.”
Before she could reply, Coates entered the room. “Is there anything else you or the lady require, my lord?”
“No, thank you, Coates. Tell the servants we’ll ring if we need anything. In the meantime, I’m capable of seeing to Miss Hurst’s needs.”
Oh, I hope so, she thought, apparently able to be brazen in the privacy of her own mind.
He turned back to Charlotte, reaching out, as if waiting to take her cup. She took a sip to ease the dryness of her mouth, and handed it to him. He placed it on the mantel, and then surprised her by grabbing a cushioned footstool and bringing it over. He set it down beside her chair, and then, surprising her even further, took a seat on it.
“Now then,” he said. “The only way your hair is going to dry properly is if you undo what remains of that lovely coiffure your maid created. I’ll hold the hairpins for you.”
“Is this what you meant by playing lady’s maid?”
“For now, yes.”
For now. What did he mean by that? Had he divined her intentions, or did he have intentions of his own?
She swallowed and reached up, slowly pulling out a hairpin and then another. Followed by a third and a fourth. His eyes, dark and unreadable, tracked her movements. Though she was only unpinning her hair, it felt a great deal like she was undressing before him.
* * *
William had never burned for a woman the way he burned for her just then. All she was doing was taking her hair down, but heaven help him, he wanted her, and she knew it. The knowledge was in her eyes, in the way she watched him watching her slowly pull out pin after pin, releasing section after section.
And yet, she wasn’t drawing away from him, wasn’t erecting that aloof wall of reserve that she always hid behind whenever he signaled any romantic desire.
As Charlotte handed him hairpins, the light touch of her fingers against his skin sent jolts of desire through him that were wholly out of proportion to the stimulus. But his passion was like a spring coiled too tightly, straining to be released and poised to be by the smallest change in force.
She placed another hairpin on his palm, and another, then another. One by one she pulled them out, and as she did, more of her damp hair came unmoored, unfurling in a brown curtain down her back.
Occasionally she ran her fingers through it, working to free the coils and plaits her maid had used to concoct the coiffure in the first place. The scent of roses wafted through the room. The pile of pins grew in his hand.
She worked silently, and he watched silently, but even so, he recognized a sort of unspoken communication between them. Perhaps it was his imagination, but she seemed to imbue the task with a sensuous quality, as if she deliberately wanted to stir up his desire. Intentional or not, she was doing an excellent job of it.
She reached for the towel and began drying her hair with it. Such a mundane task, but one that set his body aflame. He continued to watch her, too mesmerized to do anything else as she used her fingers to work out the tangles. When she finally finished, William’s body thrummed from unreleased tension.
“I…I suppose that’s the best I can do for now.” She swallowed, and he followed the movement of her throat with his eyes, saw the pulse beating at the base of her neck. “Do I look a complete fright?” She worked her fingers through the long strands. “If I could borrow a comb, I could make myself more presentable.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Lately every time I’m with you, I seem to need to put myself to rights.”
“You look beautiful. I’ve wondered what your hair would look like unbound and loose. It’s lovely. You’re lovely, Charlotte. Don’t ever believe I think otherwise.”
She swallowed again. She was nervous. He didn’t want to scare her off, to see her once again mount those emotional barriers she always threw up whenever he expressed an interest in her.
“I don’t—”
“Please don’t,’ he said, coming to his feet. He reached for her hand and gently pulled her from the chair so they stood facing each other. He smoothed back some wayward tendrils of her hair. “Please don’t do what you always do and shut me out. I think you’re beautiful, Charlotte, and I want to be able to tell you how I feel without worrying that you’ll withdraw within yourself.”
“You know why I do,” she said.
“Because you think we’re too different to make a successful match.”
She nodded.
“But we’re not that different,” he insisted, ever so slightly closing the gap between them. “Not in the ways that truly count.” He dropped his gaze to her mouth. “And not in other ways either. You can’t deny when it comes to kissing we are very, very well matched.”
Her lips twisted into a wistful half smile. “No, I can’t deny that.”
“Then let’s discuss turning this pretend engagement into a re—”
She placed a finger on his lips to silence him. “Not now,” she whispered. “Just kiss me. Sometimes you talk too much.”
He drew her into his arms. “As you wish,” he murmured.
He kissed her then, a slow, deep kiss that involved open mouths, and their tongues tangling together in a frantic dance of unleashed passion. He tasted the familiar sweetness of her, and knew he’d never tire of feasting on the exquisite taste of her mouth, but he wanted more. Tonight he wanted to kiss and nibble and explore her body, from her head to her toes, all the curves and valleys, and the hidden places in between, as far as she’d allow.
He pulled his lips from hers to trail kisses down her jaw, nibbling her skin as he moved on to her neck. A half-laugh, half-whimper interrupted the ragged sound of her breathing as he found a sensitive spot.
“Like that, do you?” he murmured. He nibbled, and kissed, and licked her skin before moving lower to the edge of her bodice. His hand cupped her breast as he placed a trail of kisses along the lacy edge, lingering at the shadowy vee of her cleavage. He pulled away, and she gave a little sound of protest, her hands gripping his shoulders now.
“There are so many ways I want to pleasure you,” he whispered. “But I’ll stop right now if you want me to.” His eyes burned into hers. “Just tell me to stop.”
She gave a jerky shake of her head. He reached out, and cupped her chin with his hand. “Say it, Charlotte. Tell me what you want. I don’t want to misinterpret your desires.”
Chapter Twenty
What did she desire? Her desire was for him to do every wicked thing he wished to do with her. Her desire was to spend this night with him, to make the sort of memories she could carry with her when she ended their engagement.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered.
A slow, sensual smile crossed his lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He brushed her hair back from her temple and placed a soft kiss there. “But are you absolutely sure? I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
“I won’t.” She wouldn’t regret tonight. She wouldn’t wish her virginity back in the morning. There was no reason to keep it when she’d already lost her heart to him.
“Then let’s not waste another minute.” He kissed her again, then swiftly bent and hooked an arm behind her knees, and swept her into his arms. His hard muscles encircled her, and the warmth of his body enveloped her as he tucked her against him. She slipped her arm around his neck, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. For a second, he buried his face in her hair.
“Do you have any idea how that scent of roses has driven me mad?” he asked, walking toward the doorway. “Filling my mind with all sorts of naughty ideas, usually at the most inopportune times.”
“Really? I’d no idea of the rogue you were hiding
behind that staid, rather dull, exterior,” she teased, twining her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.
He began to climb the stairs now. “Staid and dull, am I?” he growled, then nipped the ticklish spot on her neck, drawing a small shriek of surprise from her. “I take that as a personal challenge, my darling Charlotte. Let’s see if you revise your opinion of me once I’ve…” He tightened his arms around her and gave her a kiss that left her breathless. “Once I’ve had my wicked way with you,” he said, his voice husky with passion.
His broad strides were now taking them down a hallway with several closed doors that Charlotte assumed led to bedrooms. They stopped before a paneled mahogany door. Charlotte thought he had never looked so handsome as he did right then, his hair tousled, his eyes dark blue and heavy-lidded. He looked as if he wanted to devour her right there in the hallway. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and a hot flush swept over her as she pictured his sensual mouth exploring her body.
“Here’s my bedroom, Charlotte. If this is what you want, reach for the doorknob and open the door. But if you have any doubts, tell me now and I’ll take you right back down the stairs.”
They studied each other for a moment, the sound of their unsteady breathing abnormally loud in the otherwise silent hall.
“Why would I have doubts?” she whispered, turning the knob with a decisive twist. The door swung open, and for one brief second, while he held her poised on the threshold, she wished that everything could be different. That tonight could mark the beginning of their future together, not the beginning of the end of their charade.
Once inside, he pushed the door shut with his foot and carried her to his bed, gently lowering her legs so she stood beside him. “One moment,” he murmured, then he moved toward the fireplace, adding coal to the grate so the flames burned brightly and hot.
She admired the movements of his tall, lean body as he attended to this task, was mesmerized by the sight of him unbuttoning his waistcoat as he came back to her side. He tossed it over a chair back, then loosened his cravat before his nimble fingers made short work of untying it. She swallowed hard as the thought of those fingers doing things—intimate things—to her sent a jolt of desire through her entire body. He sent the linen neckcloth over the chair back as well, but made no attempt to remove any more of his clothing. Instead, he bracketed her face in his hands, his thumbs softly brushing against her cheeks as he looked at her with an expression of wonder, as if he were amazed she was here, with him, in the privacy of his bedroom.
Not the Kind of Earl You Marry Page 27