The butler opened the door, and Lord Jeffcoat — Charles, as she now knew him to be — held out his arm to her. She placed hers through his and let him escort her down the two steps and along the short path to the awaiting carriage.
“After all,” he continued, “it’s not as if I went out to the mews to harness the mounts and put bits in their mouths.”
She hoped she hadn’t offended the viscount by inferring he had to do any menial work, but when he helped her into his clarence, which was lit inside and out, she could see that wasn’t the case.
He gave her his slight smile and added, “Although I do love riding and everything about horses. I am as happy in the stables as in the courtroom. More so, in fact. We have an estate in Wiltshire where I raise them. It’s a joy. And I don’t mind brushing them or cleaning their hoofs or any of that, by the way.”
He had surprised her. “We have a country house, too,” she told him. “But we don’t raise anything there except flowers and some chickens.”
They both chuckled. Then, as the carriage started to roll, he said, “I’m going to pull down the shades, because with the interior lamps lit, we are on display like actors on the stage.”
“Of course.” She wasn’t alarmed in the least. “I don’t want to be taken as a doxy again, do I?” Charlotte meant it in jest, but his expression turned serious.
“I am an idiot,” he said. “I should have brought one of the maids with us. Again, we are risking your reputation.”
She shrugged. “No matter, my lord. I will put my hood up when I get out. Will that help?”
His eyes widened. “You take your reputation too lightly, Miss Rare-Foure. And I became complacent because, in truth, you are so easy to talk to and such a good companion, even with my father, that I felt as if I were in fact taking a friend home. Not a woman.”
Not a woman! She sat back in her seat feeling a little deflated.
He shook his head, looking chagrinned. “That did not come out as intended at all. Obviously, you are a woman. And a lovely one. And I did invite you out before,” he reminded her.
“But not twice,” she said quietly, deciding in the security of the carriage when they could talk privately to determine the reason. After all, if she had made a bad impression on a man, making it easy for him to forget about her, as had now occurred with both Lionel and Charles, then she had best find out why.
“I had a splendid time,” she confessed, “and then I never saw you afterward. You must not have had such a good evening.”
“I did,” he said quickly, then sighed, “Except....”
When he left her hanging, Charlotte leaned forward, the edges of the two volumes pushing into her ribs. What was the exception? Her laughter? The way she drank her champagne too quickly at the intermission? Perhaps how she’d clapped too long at the end of the play?
“You whistled before the play started,” Lord Jeffcoat said. “It was ... unsettling. And it wasn’t the first time I’ve heard it. You did it that day in your shop, the day you hired young Edward.”
“I whistled,” she repeated, recalling how many times her mother had warned her not to do so in public. Felicity Rare-Foure was always right.
“Everyone in the theatre heard it,” Lord Jeffcoat continued, “and looked at us.”
“Oh,” she said, her glance falling to her lap. She’d humiliated the viscount, and now she was mortified. Charlotte blinked, sitting back against the squabs and feeling close to tears.
“And then you invited your sister and her husband to join us. First, at the intermission and then into my box. If Mr. Carson hadn’t had his own carriage, I’m certain you would have had them drive back with us, too.”
Her gaze snapped up to his when she realized the import of his words. “You don’t like my sister?”
“No!” he exclaimed.
She recoiled from the man who didn’t appreciate a member of her family.
He waved his hands at her expression. “I mean, no, you are incorrect. It is not that at all. Although, to be fair, of the three of you, she is by far and away the most direct in manner, some might even say short-tempered.”
Her anger started to boil. “Beatrice is the smartest person I know, and a good judge of character, which you, apparently, are not! She simply has a low tolerance for fools. And while you are reading Ainsworth,” she plopped the books onto the leather seat beside her, no longer interested in borrowing them, “my sister is reading the works of Homer in the original Greek, and the History of Britain in ... in Anglo-Saxon dialect, or whatever it is.”
“Probably Latin,” he provided.
Undaunted by his helpful interruption, she added, “Your father would surely approve of her!”
“Miss Rare-Foure,” Lord Jeffcoat began. This time, he was the one to lean forward since she was still angling away from him. “I believe you misunderstood me. I do not know your sister well enough to dislike her, nor was I meaning to cast aspersions upon her character. She does seem bright, indeed, and beloved by you and the duchess each time I’ve seen you all together.”
Suddenly, he reached out and took her hand in his. “However, on the night in question, I was hoping to get to know you better and to have time alone with you, despite the presence of your maid. Yet you seemed to have no interest in doing the same with me. Thus, I decided, if I did not merit your curiosity, nor your attention, then I would not put you through another evening with me.”
“Oh!” She blinked at him, and he slowly drew her forward again, her hand clasped in his.
“Tonight, was enjoyable. I would say it was fun,” he added, as the mood between them shifted. “Both before my father interrupted us and even, surprisingly, afterward.”
She nodded. Charlotte couldn’t deny she’d enjoyed her time alone with him at dinner and also in conversation with the earl. She’d been at ease the entire time. More than that, she’d been interested ... and attracted, each time Charles gave her a thoughtful look or his not-quite-there smile.
His thumb stroked the bare section of her wrist, just above her glove, making her shiver. Their gazes locked again.
“Are you interested in me, Miss Rare-Foure?”
She didn’t hesitate, not when faced with Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat gazing into her eyes. Nor was she one to prevaricate. “Yes.”
He pulled her another inch or two closer and closed the space between them by scooting to the edge of his seat. In the next instant, he claimed her lips. Releasing her hands, he placed his upon her shoulders, holding her in place, while he cocked his head and fitted his mouth against hers.
His warm lips tasted faintly of strawberries and wine. His broad hands on her shoulders branded her through the fabric of her cloak and gown. His mouth covered hers, pressing gently but firmly.
She thought it would end as soon as it began, but it didn’t. To her delight, Charles began a slow examination of her lips, nibbling on her lower one, dropping kisses on the left corner, and then the right. Then she felt his tongue touch her upper lip, and she opened her mouth.
His body shifted closer, and she could feel his legs widen to encompass her skirts, his thighs pressing along the outside of hers.
When she gasped softly, unable to stop the trembling in her limbs and the flutter in her stomach, he slid his tongue inside her mouth.
With her lungs burning, she took a quick breath through her nose. A languorous kiss was, she decided, the perfect type of kiss once one got used to it. Then she could form no other coherent thought, aware only of how her body sizzled and her tongue wickedly stroked his in return, and how the man before her smelled divinely of rum and spice.
Heaven help her!
She heard the driver call to the horses just before the carriage stopped, continuing to rock for a few moments. Charles released her, not hastily, but gently, easing back and allowing her to do the same.
Oh my!
They stared at one another, both breathing heavily.
“I would like to ask you out again, Miss
Rare-Foure.”
“I would like you to,” she responded, unable to keep herself from putting her gloved hand to her lips, which felt as if they were pulsing with heat.
“I also think we should have a chaperone in the future,” he added, watching her movements. “I believe now you can see why one is deemed necessary.”
She nodded, but she couldn’t help smiling. “Honestly, I’m glad we didn’t have one tonight.”
His mouth spread in a delightful grin, and his dimple appeared. “I must agree with you on that point.”
He tapped on the roof, and the next instant, the door opened and the footman pulled down the step. Charles climbed out first, then turned back to offer her his hand.
“Don’t forget the books.”
Scooping them up with her free hand, Charlotte alit from the carriage, landing on the pavement beside him, the length of her body swaying momentarily against his. She sighed. What a magical evening!
“You forgot to put up your hood,” he reminded her.
“Oh!” Charlotte started to fumble, since she didn’t have a free hand.
“Never mind,” he said, sounding half-exasperated, half-amused. “Let’s get you inside.” Lord Jeffcoat walked her to the door, which didn’t open at their approach. He looked surprised by such an insubordinate infraction, something she was certain never happened with his capable Mr. Phelps.
“Undoubtedly it’s unlocked,” Charlotte told him and tried the handle. Sure enough, the door pushed open.
The viscount frowned, his dark brows drawing together. “Will you lock it as soon as you enter?”
“I shall,” she promised. “Thank you for reading over the lease.” It was safely tucked in her bag, ready for her to sign.
“My pleasure. The entire evening was a pleasure, in fact, and I will not be remiss this time in sending you an invitation for another outing. That is, if you’re willing.”
“I am. That would be lovely. And thank you for the books. If I don’t fall asleep right away, I’ll start one tonight.”
He nodded, looking hesitant to leave her, and if they weren’t standing on her doorstep in plain view of the windows across the street, she could imagine rolling up onto the tips of her toes and planting a kiss on his attractive mouth.
“Good night,” she said before stepping indoors to keep from doing anything stupid.
“Good night,” he said and departed to his waiting carriage.
She hadn’t expected such a turn of events. And then it dawned on her. She hadn’t thought of Lionel, not once, when she was kissing the viscount. What a blessing!
Shrugging out of her mantle and leaving it in the front hall, she dashed up the stairs, got halfway up, and ran back down to lock the front door, rolling her eyes at her own forgetfulness. Then she climbed the stairs more slowly, still clutching the two volumes with Charles’s name scrawled on their bookplates. Such an intimate thing, to have his own handwriting in her hands.
Their few servants had all gone to bed, which was a relief as she feared Delia might want to help her get ready for bed. Normally, that was an extraordinary circumstance, done only if she were trussed up in a fussy ballgown. However, their long-time maid would think nothing of offering to brush her hair in order to wheedle tidbits of gossip out of her. And with neither of her sisters around in whom she could confide, Charlotte feared she would tell Delia something indecorous or embarrassing.
In another minute, Charlotte had gained the solitude of her bedroom, where the fire had been lit earlier and the lamps turned on.
Glancing at herself in the mirror as she removed the pins from her hair, Charlotte thought her face plainly revealed that she’d had a long and satisfying kiss. At least to her eyes, it was obvious by her happy expression and her lips being a little redder than usual. She wouldn’t want Delia to see the same.
And soon, maybe even tomorrow, she was going to receive another invitation for an evening with the viscount.
Picking up her boar-bristle brush, she started smoothing her hair, reminding herself the viscount wasn’t supposed to be the thought uppermost in her mind. After all, the very next day, she was expanding Rare Confectionery for the first time in twenty years!
Everything would be perfect!
Chapter Nine
Why did it seem nothing was going smoothly? From the moment Charlotte entered the shop, feeling a little tired from her exciting evening and having read Ainsworth’s The Star Chamber for half the night, little things began to go wrong.
Edward, who was always punctual if not early, was late. Since Bea was back to coming in at noon, Charlotte had to quickly clean and then start packaging up the delivery orders. As she was turning the sign to open, Edward appeared looking as grim as the rain clouds that had blown in, but refusing to say anything more than an abject apology. She had no right to pry.
“If you need my help with anything, please know you can always ask,” she assured him.
With a grown-up nod of his head, he went in the back to don his apron and grab trays to restock the display case, which he was still doing when the first customer entered.
Charlotte thought she’d had plenty of small change to start the day, but didn’t have the right amount for the first customer, and ended up having to give some of the confectionery away.
“I must run to the bank,” she told the boy, “or we shall go broke. I should have done it yesterday or first thing. My head is not screwed on correctly today.”
“What about the customers?” he asked, eyes wide.
For a second, she considered turning the sign to “Closed.” Then thought better of it. “If you know them, then tell them we’re putting their purchases on their account for today. Just make note of their name and the cost. All right? Unless they have the exact amount, and then ... well, you know, you can handle it. I shall be back as soon as possible.”
She ripped off her apron and ran out the door before recalling the landlord.
“Edward,” she said, re-entering on a chilly gust of air that was blowing the tree branches and sending raindrops skittering across the sky in a horizontal direction. “If Mr. Richardson shows up, a man with a bushy moustache, please keep him here and tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s important. Don’t let him leave.”
“Yes, miss.”
The boy looked terrified, which spurred Charlotte to run without any decorum down the street through the downpour. Luckily, she didn’t have to go any farther than Lothbury Street, straight down the end of Old Bond Street. If it had been any other time, she would have continued on to Amity’s as she was a mere few streets away from St. James’s Place.
There was no line at one clerk’s window at The Imperial Bank, and within five minutes, Charlotte was lifting her skirts with one hand so she could sprint down the street back to the shop, clutching her purse and the leather satchel in which they kept money for transport. In her panic, she’d neglected her cloak with its protective hood and her umbrella.
Pushing open the door, feeling like a drowned rat, she didn’t see an impatient landlord waiting for her as she’d feared, but four customers and one frazzled boy.
“Excuse me, please,” she said, pushing through them so she could get to the break between the counters. “I’m happy to help whoever is next.”
For the next few minutes, she served the customers, dismissing Edward to the back. And then, even though another came into the shop, Charlotte had to ask her to wait so she could get Edward out the door with the deliveries. It took her a few minutes to load him up with the proper sweets before he hurried out with bags bursting.
“Go easy,” Charlotte told him. “Don’t drop anything.” Closing the door behind her, she took in the smartly dressed customer. “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” she said to the woman who’d been circling the shop, picking up tins, looking at everything in both display cases.
“Do you normally have more help?” she asked.
It was an annoying question. Charlotte prided herself
on how well she ran the front of the shop, usually with everything under tight control. At the same time, she always felt relaxed and able to brush off little problems, even able to make her marzipan at the same time. In any case, she didn’t think the brief delay in getting the deliveries out the door warranted her explaining about a pregnant sister or another one who didn’t like to come in before noon, or her mother being away. It was none of this woman’s business.
“I apologize about the wait,” Charlotte repeated. “May I help you?”
“Is it common practice to serve without an apron?” the customer demanded.
Charlotte looked down, having forgotten she’d removed it. Before she could answer, the woman continued.
“And with your hair dripping onto your shoulders? You would make a better impression if you were tidier and wearing a clean white apron. Also, did you know the floor is particularly filthy? Most unappealing in a confectionery.”
Charlotte had come in trailing dirty water from the street. Normally, on such a day with rain falling, she or Edward would kick a towel around between customers to keep the floor looking presentable and not slippery. Today, neither had had a chance.
“Would you like to wait while I don an apron, dry my hair, and wash the floors?” Charlotte asked and then bit her tongue on her sour remark, much more suited to Beatrice than to herself. She needed to begin again.
Offering a pleasant smile, she said, “I apologize. That was ill-said of me. To tell you the truth, our confectionery is normally spotless and well-staffed, but today—”
“Where is your staff?” the woman asked. “I heard you have a duchess working here. May I speak with her?”
Charlotte hesitated. For the first time, she saw a hint of malice flickering in the customer’s eyes. “Not today, no.”
“Not today. Of course not. Maybe not any day,” the woman said. “It hardly seems like a place for nobility. It seems like the type of rumor a shop would put out to increase its patronage.”
“Would you like to buy something?” Charlotte asked, attempting to keep her tone neutral rather than sharp as she wanted, ready as she was to toss this woman out into the rain.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 10