Moon and Stars
Page 1
Moon and Stars
Elizabeth Johns
For those who do not fit the mold
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Elizabeth Johns
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Johns
Cover Design by Wilette Youkey
Edited by Heather King
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter 1
It is quite liberating. I have reached an age when I am not mooning for romance and can be my own person. I can safely pronounce I am in no danger of making myself ridiculous for the elusive emotion called love.—Lady Charlotte 21 Dec
It was always someone else’s wedding, Lady Charlotte Stanton thought as she stood alone on the terrace, looking up at the dark, starry night. She had reached the age where she could be as improper as she liked and people would only shake their heads and call her eccentric. Part of her wished it were true. In reality, she spent most of her evenings in front of a warm fire, curled up with a Minerva Press novel and a few cats to keep her company. It was not a bad life. It was often preferable to having to engage superficially with humans who expected witty repartee.
Nevertheless, there were those times when even she craved touch—human touch—and wondered what it would feel like to be kissed and held in adoration by someone she loved. Jealousy was not the precise emotion she felt, but there had been scores of love matches amongst her family and friends, and she was perhaps, on occasion, envious. It did not lessen her joy and delight for them by any means.
Earlier that day she had witnessed the union of the Duke of Cavenray to Maili Craig. She was not directly related, but she had formed a friendship with the bride on a visit to London in the spring. Maili, too, had always felt an outsider but had managed to find love. Charlotte stared up at the stars and could not help but wonder if there was more for her, somewhere out there.
“Sometimes I think I have more in common with the moon and the stars than Polite Society,” a deep, baritone voice said from behind her, as if the man had heard her thoughts.
Charlotte managed not to flinch. She was unused to anyone seeking her company in dark places.
“Yes, I was brought up amongst the ton, yet it is not often comfortable,” she replied, still looking at the night sky.
“That is the last word I would use for it,” he said as he came to stand next to her. He was so close she felt warmth radiating from him and smelt his scent of spice and pine. She was afraid to turn and look. She did not wish to ruin the moment with reality, yet the arm of his coat appeared to be well made, and his hands appeared to be strong.
They stood there in silent kinship, listening to the sounds of laughter and dancing coming from the ballroom.
“Would you care to dance?”
Charlotte did not answer. This man must be someone new in Town, someone who knew not who she was, or could not see her clearly in the moonlight. What did it matter? It was only a dance. One dance would change nothing.
She held her hand out to him and finally allowed herself to look up.
“Have we been introduced?” she asked, annoyed at her inanity. She had never before seen this man, of that she was certain.
His light grey eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and they were looking at her—her!—flirtatiously. Crinkles formed at the edges of his eyes, indicating an experience and maturity that made him more handsome when he smiled. It was devilish cruel that men became more striking with age.
“You know very well we have not,” he answered.
He pulled her close—too close—and began to twirl her around. The moment was too intimate for mere words. Charlotte felt light and dainty for the first time ever as this man spun her in his arms. She must be dreaming. It was a heady, delicious feeling as her pulse raced and her insides quivered.
When the music ceased, they stood there still, retaining the position of the dance as their breathing slowed. Charlotte grew self-conscious as the man studied her.
“Am I to know your name?” she whispered.
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, sending shivers through her.
“Some things are better left unspoken, my lady.” He looked down at her, a hint of self-derision etched in the features of his face. She wanted to capture everything about this moment, for surely she would soon wake, and she wished to remember it: The clear midnight sky twinkling with stars, the crescent moon, the sound of horses clopping by intermingled with crickets chirping, his unusual scent wafting on the warm breeze…
“You have the advantage of me, sir. That is not very gentlemanly.” Their eyes met and she could not look away. The icy grey eyes hinted at danger, yet she felt safe in his arms.
“Ah, but I am no gentleman.”
“I do not believe you.”
“What gentleman would approach a lady alone on a dark terrace?” As if his words made him realize he was still holding her, he took a step back and released her.
Immediately, she felt the loss of warmth and the chill night air. “I could state any number of instances I have observed over the past decade. Unfortunately, none of them included myself,” Charlotte retorted, wondering why she was being so bold. She could see his lips twitch, then break into a smile, at her reply. If he was attractive before, he was sinfully handsome when he smiled. “However, if you were not a gentleman you would not be here amongst my friends. You are familiar yet why do I not know you?”
“I am not surprised you do not remember me. I have lived abroad for some time. I longed for my homeland, but now that I am here I do not know if it is possible for me to belong again.”
“I am the last person to give advice on belonging,” she whispered while simultaneously searching her memories for this man.
His face looked up with interest. “Do you have regrets, my lady?”
“Nothing so delicious as to be called regrets—more like disappointments,” she added.
“And I would hesitate to call mine regrets—more like dishonour and disgrace.”
“It cannot be so horrid, or you would not be standing here a free man,” she argued.
He hesitated as church bells sounded in the distance. “Unfortunately, I may not be so for long. I should leave you before my presence taints your good name.”
“There is little you could do to hurt my reputation, I am afraid.”
He stepped closer and ran the back of his hand gently down her face. “If only it were true.”
A shiver went down her spine. His dark, bold looks tempted her to abandon all good sense. “I was long ago relegated to the hopeless list, sir. No one notices when I escape for fresh air. I seldom dance—I am allowed to chaperone, for goodness sake!” Her fists balled at her sides and she longed to pound them against something to relieve her frustration.
“You are anything but hopeless,” he murmured in husky tones, making her heart skip a beat.
“Why did you do that? You need not indulge my self-pity,” she chastised without heat when she came to her senses, turning sharply to hide her mortification.
“I never indulge pity. A kiss is the only thing I have to offer you.”
“I refuse to believe you.” She felt an instant connection to him that she did not understand. Never before could she have spoken to someone so openly. Normally she had to repress a babbling, silly tongue around people for whom she felt attraction. She could not countenance the idea her intuition would misguide her so. “I still cannot understand what you think so awful it would be unforgivable. You do have a bit of the look of a rogue about you, but so do half of the men beyond those doors.” She indicated the terrace doors with a flick of her wrist.
“Rogue is one word that has been used to describe me.”
“I can also imagine you were a bit of a rapscallion in your youth, pilfering fresh biscuits and apple tarts from Cook.”
“I did not have to pilfer them,” he said with a twinkle in his eye from the moonlight.
“I can also envision you as a rake-hell just down from University. Again, a trait most of the gentleman in the ballroom share.” She waved her hand dismissively.
“Ah, my lady, but should you put all of those together, with the arrogance and pride of youth combined with lack of title or estates, and you come up with a very dangerous equation.” He looked at her with what she could only term as regret as he bowed over her hand and pressed his lips to her palm in one final intimate caress. “Take care, my lady.”
“Please do not leave me,” she whispered, but he did not hear.
He walked away, his boots echoing on the flagstones, leaving her behind on the terrace to stare longingly after him. Her lips were still warm from his. She felt like the prince left behind at the stroke of midnight, except she had no glass slipper with which to trace him.
David cursed himself as he escaped from Lady Charlotte Stanton and the ball. The rogue in him had toyed with throwing her over his shoulder and abducting her. How could he forget himself so? He had admired her from afar, and his feet had followed her seemingly of their own volition onto the terrace. Remarkably, she was still unwed. Had the bucks in London no sense? Or did she have too much intelligence to accept any of them? In all likelihood, it was the latter, he decided. Lady Charlotte was beautiful, but she had a confidence about her which made her irresistible. There was something decidedly more appealing about a woman who knew her own mind and was at ease with herself. Her thick blonde locks threatening to burst from their pins, her voluptuous curves in all the right places, and a touch of irreverence in her manner, tempted him as no other of the fair sex had done. Then those large, green eyes had looked at him pleadingly—he found he could not resist her. For that reason alone, he should board a ship and return to the West Indies—if he was still a free man when the King had finished with him.
Stepping out onto Grafton Street with one last glance at the luxurious town house alight with the private celebration of the Cavenray wedding, he shook his head at his audacity. He was happy to see his niece, Maili, find happiness with the Duke, but being here was a sharp reminder of how far he had fallen—not that he had ever been lofty enough for a Duke’s daughter. He was only the prodigal younger son of a baronet.
There was wretched irony in that he had returned to England a wealthy man, and it was to be forever shadowed by his past. Lord Brennan had resumed his threats the moment David had set foot back in England. Fortunately the truth had won out and Brennan had paid the ultimate price for his sins, but it did not mean there would be no more punishment for his own youthful follies.
His future was at the mercy of Prinny, now King George IV. Cavenray said he was certain the King would pardon David when he learned all the sordid details of Brennan’s involvement in the exposed smuggling scheme. David was not so confident. Over a decade ago, he had not minded his self-imposed exile. Now, he longed to settle and grow old in his native land. No longer Sir David—he never actually was the legitimate baronet—he had only acted as steward over that land from afar for his nephew, Seamus. The power and title he had once envied enough to betray his honourable name was no longer enticing, but Lady Charlotte was. He was not for the likes of her.
Even if he received a pardon, he would never be accepted by Polite Society or as her equal. Rumours abounded of his involvement in Brennan’s smuggling ring; even if half of them were true, he had been given credit for all of it. It was time to retreat to the shadows for good, where he belonged.
Yardley watched the doors until the unknown gentleman reappeared after quite a lengthy time outside, alone with Charlotte. The man then escaped from Cavenray House as though the hounds of hell were at his feet—as if he had known Yardley was waiting to confront him.
“Who was the gentleman I espied dancing on the terrace with my sister?” Yardley asked Cavenray discreetly when he finally reached that gentleman’s side amongst the crowd. He had noticed Charlotte slipping from the ballroom, but by the time he made to join her outside, he had found her waltzing in the arms of an unknown man. Quashing his initial response to throttle the gentleman, he realized it behoved him to discover his identity rather than place his sister in scandal’s path. He had remained inside the door to make certain no one else discovered the couple.
“I did not see anyone on the terrace, I am afraid,” Cavenray said, his amusement betrayed by the light in his eyes.
“While I appreciate your discretion, I do not wish for my sister to be hurt. She is more sensitive than her careless manner would suggest,” Yardley said with feeling.
“Then I suppose we should find a more private place for this discussion.” He led him to his private study in the back corner of the house, and handed him a drink before they settled in armchairs near the fire.
Yardley was not pleased when Cavenray explained his history with David Douglas—Captain Deuce—and his plan to plead for pardon from the King on Douglas’ behalf. The man had been a smuggler, kidnapper and murderer by repute, regardless of the why of it. Douglas was related to the Craig family, who was Yardley's family by marriage. Yet he could not abide the idea of his sister becoming involved with a criminal. He would have to determine a way to keep this man from Charlotte, even if she had looked beautiful and happy for the first time he could remember since her come out. He would have to make certain she never found out.
Chapter 2
The world stood still for me last evening, although I still do not know whether I imagined the whole. Tall, dark and handsome goes the saying, but what is never mentioned are the sensations and fragrances. I shall forever remember the strange scent of spice mixed with pine, and the feel of his strong, warm hands on me. Was there ever more pleasure on earth than when two pairs of lips first meet? Suddenly I feel as though I have tasted the forbidden fruit.—22 Dec
Charlotte felt changed. If she had known what a kiss would feel like, she might have exerted herself more when she was younger. It had been nothing like those she had dreamed about, and she had imagined kisses with several gentlemen. She had never been comfortable when gentleman drew close.
It would not have been so simple to steal kisses, of course. Chaperones guarded a girl’s every move when she was just out, but somehow, once she neared the ripe old age of eight and twenty, no one worried for her virtue any longer. Apparently, age was i
ts own chaperone.
Not that she had ever found anyone worth exerting herself for, she reminded herself. The only interested parties had been either too old, wanted her wealth and family name, or were too fashionable for her comfort. No one had really wanted her.
She was certain everyone would know by looking at her what she had been doing on the terrace the night before but, as usual, no one had even noticed her absence. Her heart beat faster this morning, and she felt different. Knowing. Educated. Mature. Feeling her cheeks burn while recalling her own boldness, she let a laugh escape. It felt glorious.
Throwing back the coverlet, she was excited to begin her new life as she placed her feet on the lush carpet. She felt giddy about her future... until she sat down at her dressing table and looked at her reflection. Then the doubts crept in. Ridiculous and self-pitying, she remembered she did not even know the handsome stranger’s name. Who could he be? He seemed to know her, but she was quite, quite certain she would not have forgotten him.
Picking up her grandmother’s old hairbrush, she ran it through her locks mindlessly as she reflected. She was well beyond her first bloom, if she had ever had one, and polite people referred to her as healthy—certainly not the latest mode of wispy and thin. Once, her friend Lady Olivia had given her hope of being attractive enough to make a match, but Charlotte’s figure had made her much too shy to entice anyone except the desperate. Before she had overcome her shyness, she was firmly on the shelf. Collecting dust.