Still. People had been very complimentary—more complimentary than usual, thinking about it. There was an ease to their compliments now, a security. It had to come from being taken off the marriage market, even if it was in name only, and Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure if she liked it.
Who was she if people weren’t mildly scared of her? Someone different. Someone who she was quite frightened of becoming, if she were entirely honest with herself.
She turned away from Dorothea with a smile, suddenly doubtful that an archery competition had been the best idea. Oh, how she hated doubting herself. It was only when she caught sight of a deeply recognisable figure striding over the grass that Charlotte felt, with a wave of dizziness, as if she had truly woken up.
Robert was dressed as he always was, his elegant plainness of dress quite different from the colourful gaiety around her. If anything, his modest garments made the best match for the gown she had so reluctantly worn today. Charlotte ran across the grass to him, smiling with pleasure, only noting at the last moment that such spontaneous enthusiasm could only help her pretence.
Robert bowed. Charlotte felt his eyes on her as she curtseyed; she stood with a little more awkwardness, aware that she’d never really cared for any man’s judgement of what she wore. Now, looking at the marvelling stare on Robert’s face as he took in the sight of her, the gown felt infinitely better on her than it had before.
‘Miss Pembroke. You look—’
‘Practically matronly.’
‘Ravishing.’
‘My goodness.’ Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t real, this open display of attraction, but it felt delightful. Not least because everyone else on the lawn was staring at the two of them, ready for another display. ‘Such immodest language.’
‘Forgive me.’ Robert’s mouth curved into a slow, deeply attractive smile. Charlotte blinked, her composure weakening. ‘Such beauty overcomes modesty. Overcomes reason.’
‘I say, Mr. Duke. We shall cause the most atrocious gossip.’ Charlotte moved closer, allowing herself the luxury of a knowing smile as she murmured to him. ‘You’re doing terribly well, you know.’
Robert blinked. For a moment he looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he’d been caught out. Before the confusion cleared, his usual look of aloof arrogance returning, Charlotte felt the same deep discomfort flower in her breast.
Was he remembering the kiss? She couldn’t help but recall it now, looking at his mouth. That long, delicious kiss, that false kiss… just as this conversation was false now, no matter how vividly real it felt to stare at him. To move closer to him, the wagging tongues of the people around them slowly dissolving into nothingness as she searched for the next thing to say.
‘Well. I’m a good actor.’ Robert spoke quietly, his smile fading. ‘I could have taken the stage.’
‘I’m sure you could have.’ If he wasn’t going to admit any weakness, neither was she. ‘But you never would have played to an audience quite this large, with the stakes quite this high.’
They turned as one to look at the assembled guests. The targets had been placed securely, shining in the sun, the bows distributed to the gentlemen and ladies who wished to take part. A piece of sporting fun, a light jape—and the perfect opportunity to show her father that there was no reason, absolutely none at all, to whittle her allowance away to nothing.
‘Well then.’ Robert’s voice felt so intimate when he spoke quietly to her. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I was born ready, Mr. Duke.’ Charlotte smiled. ‘I only hope that you’ll be able to keep up.’
A hot, furious hour later, she was regretting her smug words. Regretting every trace of smugness she’d ever shown with regard to Robert Duke—Robert Bloody Duke, who’d turned out to be one of the best archers she’d ever seen. One of the best archers anyone in the ton had ever seen, from the gasps and exclamations that accompanied every arrow the man shot. He could match her stroke for stroke, leaving other competitors in the dust, and didn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat.
It was wonderful. Intoxicating to compete against someone exactly as good as she was, and unashamed about hiding it. Watching him, trying to anticipate where he’d strike, getting lost in the way his shoulders and back moved as he aligned his arrow… it lit something in her, something that burned high and wild as she furiously tried to gain any sort of lead.
People were beginning to talk, sly smiles vanishing behind their hands. Their competitiveness was being mistaken for flirtation. But would mistaken really be the word, when she couldn’t take her eyes off the infuriating man in question?
‘If you keep looking at me, Miss Pembroke, you’ll get a crick in your neck.’ Robert aimed and fired, a shower of applause following. ‘I’d concentrate on your target.’
‘I can’t help but look at such a staggering display of poor sportsmanship. Peacocks are more subtle in their demonstrations.’ Charlotte followed his arrow with an arrow of her own, a millimetre closer to the target. The applause that followed was smaller, with most of it coming from Dorothea. ‘You really are an intolerable show-off.’
‘You, calling me a show-off. Astonishing.’ Robert’s raised eyebrow only made his face more intriguing to look at. ‘The least subtle woman alive.’
‘You presume to note my lack of subtlety? I didn’t realise you’d dedicated yourself to improving the morality of women who have never asked you for your opinion.’
‘Stop talking.’
‘Why? Because you know you’re losing?’
‘Because if you don’t stop, I’m going to kiss you in front of all these people.’ Robert’s voice had lowered to a soft, wicked murmur. ‘And then you’ll be in even more trouble than you already are.’
He’d spoken too low to let the crowd know what he had said, but it was evident to all that he’d said something scandalous. Charlotte, staring at him with flushed cheeks and a wildly beating heart, was shocked by the potency of her own sentiments.
A part of her wanted him to kiss her in front of all these people. Was excited by the very thought of it. Not to make the romance more convincing to onlookers, or surprise her father even more than she already had. She wanted Robert to kiss her because… well, because…
… because she desperately wanted to kiss him back.
She turned away from Robert, suddenly breathless. She rose her bow and aimed, aware of his eyes on her, her skin prickling intensely. The rush of applause from the crowd at her hit, very close indeed to the bullseye, did very little to restore her composure as she selected another arrow.
‘Now, now. It’s my turn.’ Robert winked. ‘Let’s make this interesting.’
‘I don’t see how it can be interesting if you’re directly involved.’
‘You wound me, Miss Pembroke. You force me to be as mischievous as yourself.’
‘You know very little of how mischievous I can be.’
‘No.’ Now it was Robert’s composure that flickered. Something new shone in his eyes, a strange tenderness. ‘I wouldn’t mind finding out.’
Charlotte lowered her voice, waiting until he’d made his shot. A shot as good as hers, but with louder applause. ‘If you found out even a tenth of it, Mr. Duke, you’d think it impossible.’
‘I like impossible things. I like them very much.’
There was an urgency to his reply. A rawness beneath the polish of his response. Charlotte did nothing more than smile, her core quivering as she raised her bow.
Bullseye. Perfect. This time the crowd couldn’t ignore her skill; the applause and shouted compliments were immediate and excessive. Charlotte curtseyed, an appropriately beatific smile on her face…
… a smile that faded as Robert shot his arrow.
A puff of dust and wood-shavings leapt up from the target. He couldn’t have split her arrow—impossible! She ran over to the target, her dress dragging on the grass as she bent down to look at the pockmarked, arrow-laden circle.
No. He hadn’t split it down the m
iddle—he’d grazed it. She’d won. A considerably more triumphant smile spread over Charlotte’s face as she looked at the approaching audience, the ladies and gentlemen excitedly gesturing to the target.
‘I say, look!’ Lord Whitt, an avuncular elderly gentleman who kept spaniels, pointed to Charlotte’s arrow. ‘She almost had it, what?’
‘Oh yes. Almost.’ Another gentleman smiled. ‘What a spirited girl. She must have been taking lessons from her brother.’
‘Gentlemen?’ Charlotte felt her smile hardening on her face. ‘Perhaps you’ve mistaken my arrow for—’
‘She almost managed it! What a charming little creature!’ Lord Whitt picked the target up over his head, showing it to the clapping crowd as he bellowed. ‘But he split her arrow in the end!’
As the crowd either laughed at or pretended to ignore the bawdy double reference, Charlotte’s smile faded completely. Her cheeks began to burn as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, making a mockery of the depth of her disappointment.
She was never going to be declared the winner with a score that close. She knew that. Ladies didn’t win, they weren’t meant to want to win, the rules were different. But perhaps if Robert went to Lord Whitt now, went and told him firmly that he had made a mistake, things could be clarified?
She turned. A great wave of relief washed over her as she saw Robert approaching Lord Whitt, his eyes hard, his mouth a grim line. Yes, he was tapping the man on the shoulder—he would right it!
‘My lord. I believe you’ve—’
‘Now, now. Don’t play the lovestruck swain. You can’t let them have their head all the time, you know—you’ll be henpecked once the banns are read.’ Lord Whitt patted Robert on the shoulder. ‘Take your victory, Mr. Duke—you’ve earned it!’
Earned it. Earned it by virtue of his manhood. Just as William has earned leniency over his gambling habits. Charlotte’s fists clenched as she turned away from Robert, relief transforming abruptly into rage.
Hang everyone. The lot of them. She’d do her best to be civil until she could slip away, and then she’d lock herself in her bedroom and break things. And if Robert came to her, tried to reason with her, tried to do anything… well, then she’d tell him exactly what she thought of him.
After midnight, Pembroke Manor slumbered. Even the most chaotic guests finished their last dances and games of whist, and more often than not could be found sleeping in the shrubbery. The lawns stretched out in front of the house, black as the sky above, the moon and stars doing their best to illuminate the view.
Robert stared out of his window at the lawns, trying to count the leaves on the silhouetted trees. His bed was still pristinely made, with sleep so far away it felt like a distant land.
She had avoided him all evening—but oh, why hadn’t he insisted? Why hadn’t he made sure he sat next to her at dinner, instead of having her glare at him from soup to nuts? Why hadn’t he tried to make her stay for dancing, stay for games and laughter and gossip, rather than ineffectually watch as she made her way to her bedroom with a presumably feigned headache?
People were gossiping, of course. Her father seemed immune to it all, or simply unaware, but the more scurrilous whispers that commonly circulated in the ballroom had begun again with a vengeance. Robert tried to care about what it would mean for the arrangement, for Charlotte’s continued funds—but as much as he wanted to feel concerned about money, it was concern for Charlotte as a person that filled his soul.
He couldn’t sleep. He always slept, even when the world appeared to be crashing down around him. But the memory of Charlotte’s wounded gaze, the steely pride with which she had put down her bow and vanished into the house, had Robert staring out of the window long after midnight.
If only there was someone to speak to. He had never been one for self-examination; he always needed another voice to verbalise his thoughts. Thomas was good for stern advice, John for gentleness, Edward for making him laugh. Henry never seemed to listen, even when the dilemma was very great—but he would look at you as you were about to leave, and say something of great clarity.
He needed clarity now, and gentleness, and sternness. Even a bit of laughter. But his brothers were sleeping, and Robert was loath to wake any of them. Especially as it would involve explaining the whole pretence, or half-pretence, or…
… what he had felt looking at her today had been no pretence. That deep groundswell of attraction, elemental, potent. That tenderness when he had touched her, that sheer admiration of her skill with a bow—all of it had been as real as anything he’d ever known.
But he’d ruined it. He’d ruined it by playing the part of a typical suitor, happy to let his favoured lady come second place to himself, rather than the man who really was. The man who knew a better archer when he saw one, even if the better archer was the most irritating, beautiful, exciting woman of his acquaintance.
The woman he had the privilege of courting in the open, even if the courtship was a sham.
The shadows edging the lawn moved. Robert blinked as a tall, gown-clad figure stamped across the lawns, a bundle of objects in their moonlit hands. Objects which revealed themselves, after several moments of hard staring, to be a bow, some arrows, and a target dragged behind.
Charlotte. It was Charlotte and no other. A great spear of excitement shot through Robert’s core, making him breathless as he gripped the windowsill in his fists. Just like her to not accept defeat—just like her to do whatever the hell she wanted, sleep and the night be damned. Just like her to still be wearing the gown that had enchanted him that afternoon, its silken splendour evident even in darkness.
Hang sleep. He’d never be able to close his eyes now that she knew she was down there, ready to compete against her own self-doubt. Ready to let loose all the rage that must have built in her since that stupid assignment of points.
He’d go to her. He’d go to her now, before he could think better of it, and comfort her in any way he knew how.
If you began to believe what the world said about you, you would go mad. Charlotte had always privately believed that maxim, but had never been so sorely tested before. She had lain in bed for as long as she possibly could, frantically considering everything that could make her sleep, before throwing her pillow into the corner of the room with a cry through gritted teeth.
Laudanum. She needed laudanum. She’d never tried it—never wanted to—but then, she’d never been so angry. So frustrated at the futility of everything, the unfairness of it all, that all she wanted was oblivion.
No. She’d never run away from a frightening thing in her life, and wasn’t about to start. Even if she couldn’t have made a public fuss today without risking her reputation in the most severe way, she could win the private war against her own fear.
She had winced at the cold of the floor as she got out of bed. Her dress lay flung across her armchair where she had thrown it; no maids had come to disturb her, knowing all too well that she hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Charlotte had looked doubtfully at herself in the large mirror opposite her bed, knowing that her nightgown would be unacceptable if she came across someone else awake at so late an hour.
It had taken very little time to change into it. She couldn’t have stayed in that room any longer. Her muscles ached with nervous energy that needed exercising. And once she was out in the inky grandeur of the night, the house no longer a prison and the moonlit air on her skin, she felt better than before.
Marginally better. She felt better still once she had opened the door of the battered shed that held the archery equipment, breaching its confines with a swift kick, and dragged the target out to a place on the lawn where the stars shone brightest. Much, much better once she had the bow in her hands again, her chosen arrow practically quivering as she aimed.
Thwack. A perfect bullseye, as always. As it bloody had been that afternoon, which everyone had decided to ignore. Charlotte stomped over to the target, pulling the arrow out with such force she hurt her fingers.
Only Robert had attempted to rectify the discrepancy. Not enough, not in the way she would have wanted him to—but really, where had that desire come from? He didn’t have to defend her victory, even as a suitor. If anything, fighting on her behalf would have looked unseemly.
But she wanted him to fight for her. Wanted it on a deep, irrational level that almost scared her. Best to not think of it—best to shoot her arrows now, try and expel every last trace of anger, and attempt to be pleasant at breakfast-time.
She focused so hard on the target, on shooting every arrow to the absolute best of her ability, that at first she didn’t notice the figure standing behind her. When she finally became aware of the presence, her fingers gave a quick, reflexive shiver.
Robert. She’d know him anywhere by now, even in the dark.
‘You’re going to get that beautiful gown muddy.’
‘I don’t care.’ Charlotte aimed again, firing. Just off-centre; her hands were still shaking. ‘I don’t care if it’s torn to shreds.’
‘It’s also the middle of the night.’
‘I’m fully aware of the hour. At least no-one will see my torn dress.’
‘I think they’d be too busy avoiding the arrows.’
‘Why are you here, Robert?’
‘Because it was dreadfully unfair, what they did today, and I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it.’
He was always honest. A devastating trait when he insulted someone, but… but welcome now, very welcome. Too welcome. ‘So you decided to come and inform me that it was wrong now, with no-one else to see you do it.’
‘You saw me try.’
‘Not hard enough.’
‘Hard enough for a false union.’ When had Robert’s voice grown so gentle? Thwack went another arrow, hitting the dead centre of the target. ‘Both you and I know that.’
Blushing in Blue: The Brothers Duke: Book Two Page 4
