London's Best Kept Secret

by Anabelle Bryant

  “Milord.”

  “Shall I assist you?” It was a humbling offer, and one he gladly made. The opportunity to touch her could lead to a great many things if only he could push past the risk of rejection. His pulse beat hard in wait.

  “Thank you.”

  He swallowed audibly when she extended her arm, turned over in graceful rotation to reveal the snag of threads and embroidery at her wrist, one mother-of-pearl button decisively tangled. His fingers were hardly as nimble as hers, but he wouldn’t squander the opportunity now that he’d thrust himself into it.

  When was the last time he’d touched his wife? A swift, unsatisfying peck on the cheek weeks ago? A chance graze of his forearm against hers as they left the dinner table? They’d never consummated the vows recited ten months’ past. How long would Charlotte endure their arrangement without seeking an annulment, or worse, abandoning him altogether? Did she know of the many conditions he’d set into writing when the betrothal contract and debt quittance were signed? And when had he allowed guilt to consume him to such an extent he couldn’t take what he so sorely wanted? Bloody hell, he’d become paralytic.

  She cleared her throat, as if demanding attention, and he realized she stood with her arm extended, his hands motionless at his sides. Her eyes, impatient and rich with some other condition he could not label, provoked him into action.

  Cradling her palm in his, he went to work at the task. The initial brush of his fingertips against the delicate skin of her wrist shot a visceral thrill, sharper than an arrow, to pierce his chest. She may have experienced the same, for he noticed she tensed, and again, that same unexpected gasp whispered between them. He inched closer, his head bowed over her arm, his touch exquisitely gentle, while hot blood pounded in his veins and myriad carnal demands intertwined with sensual suggestions to bombard his brain.

  She exhaled, obviously enduring him more than anything else, but he noticed the light fragrance of gardenia, the prim cleanliness of starch and linen and the scent, begging him to breathe her in more. His fingers stalled on the button, unwilling to succeed and end what had only just begun. He’d waited so long. He tightened his hand on hers with subtle insistence and spoke, though he didn’t look away from the task. “One minute more, please.”

  There it was again, the unbearable cordiality. It stifled every impulsive passionate desire barely contained within him. It was more than crippling shyness and the guilty knowledge of manipulative misdeeds.

  Bloody hell, it was utter madness.

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte held her breath until her lungs objected, the ache of indecision and uncertainty commingled with the very air needed to sustain life. When she exhaled, she prayed it didn’t sound as loud to her husband as it was perceived by her own ears. The foyer stood in ambient sunlight and absolute quiet, though she detected the imposing tick of the regulator clock in Dearing’s study three rooms away. Or perhaps it was her heartbeat in her ears. There was no way for her to know. In truth, it was a wonder she could process any thought, shocked and more than a little nervous at Dearing’s startling gesture.

  When she’d offered her hand, desperate to conceal the tremble, she never expected him to draw so close. Yet here they stood with a scant six inches separating their persons, his body nearer than ever before. Her mind sped through the catalog of intimacies, though they couldn’t be considered thus by definition. A chaste kiss at the altar upon the conclusion of their wedding ceremony, a few pecks on the forehead and cheek or the occasional rare brush against the shoulder when pulling out a chair or rising from the table at mealtime. These did little to slack the true interest her husband held for her.

  As if drawn by a force she couldn’t control, she swept her eyes over his tall, lean form. His head remained bent over her glove as if it needed complicated decoding, the same manner in which he concentrated on all things, whether a complex business agreement or a perplexing bit of the cartography he enjoyed as a challenge. Always impeccably dressed, his broad shoulders filled his jacket handsomely, yet there existed so much more than appearance to her husband, and she yearned to know it all. She admired his intense intelligence, his dedication to success, the personal sacrifice in saving her family by taking her to wife.

  Now his lovely brown eyes were set to untangling a bit of loose string at her wrist in the most endearingly domestic and intimate gesture of their relationship yet. Did he feel the nervous flutter of her hand in his? Lord, her pulse hammered at such a pace, how could he not detect her ardent response?

  The first stroke of his fingertip across her wrist nearly caused her heart to expire. Accidental, perhaps. Although the second stroke proved his curiosity survived. Or did she look for any excuse to believe he considered her attractive? Her father’s assertion that her husband held her in high regard tempted her toward optimism.

  Dearing’s handsomeness was a feast for admiration. Thick wavy hair, the color of fresh-cut hay streaked with amber brown, begged to be touched. How she wished to pass her fingers over his jaw, feel the shadow of new whiskers, learn the angles and slant of his chin. His lips, so often held tight in rebuke or polite reply, were full and tempting, yet wasted on speech and other mundane tasks.

  When he’d leaned forward to first examine the button snagged within the threads, it was all she could do not to sway into his embrace, learn his scent, absorb his warmth and force the issue. Why couldn’t she take that final step? Fear of his criticism? Rejection? Perhaps, in truth, he found her lacking. Best she admire him now in this isolated, cherished moment.

  She angled her head the slightest bit and gained a better view. Surely he was not unaffected. His jaw tensed. A muscle on the side twitched with hard-pressed patience. She refused to believe the action was caused by the unruly buttonhole.

  Every inch of her accelerated to high alert. Her heartbeat quickened. Her pulse rushed. All sensitivity seemed to gather and collect in that sensitized patch of skin where her husband focused his attention. Without effort, this profound awareness traveled to all parts of her body. Her knees lacked their usual integrity, and beneath several layers of linen and silk, her breasts grew heavy and tight. An ache began in her belly that had nothing to do with hunger or discomfort and everything to do with need and eager interest.

  He made a sound of triumph then, a small grunt of approval, as if somehow, he’d divined her thinking and congratulated himself with masculine bravado, and the inane thought almost prompted her to laughter. But that in itself proved how ridiculous she’d become, to imagine her husband might desire her as she longed for him, just by the exposure of her wrist.

  “That does it.”

  Did she hear a discordant note in his voice?

  He stepped away before she could formulate an objection, and she watched as he combed his fingers through his hair much as she had wished to do only moments before. All the well-meant plans proposed during the six-mile ride to Dearing House abandoned her. She matched his eyes and waited as time stretched. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, and her attention lowered to study the habit. He cut a fine figure in his buckskin breeches, tightly fit over hard, muscular legs. Her gaze strayed a tad higher and she shot her attention to his face, alarmed at the wanton path of her exploration.

  “Thank you.” Was it wishful thinking, or had something changed in his demeanor, infinitesimal as it may be? More importantly, why would the successful, intelligent man before her offer marriage, proclaim to her father of a prolonged infatuation and then rightly disregard her after accomplishing the goal? Attempting to understand the quandary caused her head to ache as much as her heart.

  While he remained silent, she forged ahead, desperate to end the awkward silence and retire to her room. Perhaps there she could sort her feelings and regain equilibrium. She would go abovestairs, change clothes and return to the music room. If luck held, she would invite her husband to join her. She dared an abrupt smile, satisfied with this new motivation as she moved past him to the stairs.

 
“Charlotte.”

  He couldn’t see her face, so she allowed her lids to fall closed. He only addressed her as Lady Dearing or, at times, milady. Her Christian name on his tongue caused her soul to dance with immeasurable joy. She turned to face him, the pressure of her smile held back by sheer will. She didn’t dare breathe.

  “I plan to dine at the club this evening. I’ll be leaving straightaway.”

  He didn’t say more and brushed by her so quickly, her skirt hems ruffled in the air, stirred by his departure.

  * * *

  The clubs of St. James’s were popular havens of male dominance; influential establishments of exclusivity and secrecy that served the wealthiest of London while providing sanctuary. Within their protected walls, the elite escaped the daily struggles of life, if their pampered existence could be described in such terms.

  As a viscount with a quiet title, the irony was not lost on Dearing, who gladly paid the twelve guineas for each yearly subscription. The opportunity to converse with the crème of London’s select echelon and perpetuate advantage afforded him through membership, outweighed the inflated initiation fee and subsequent renewals. Dearing belonged to three of the four most prestigious establishments: Boodle’s, Brooks’s and his preferred place of leisure, White’s. It wasn’t gambling or sport that demanded his frequent attendance but brilliant enterprise. Here one found capital and revenue commingled with cigar smoke and deceptive, sometimes astucious business, concealed by velvet drapery.

  And it was within these clubs Dearing escaped his personal struggle of heart and intellect. The same that caused an unrelenting ache in his groin at the moment.

  Tonight, behind the pale stone and ornamental wrought-iron fencing of White’s, he ordered imported brandy, sank into a plush wing chair beside the hearth and executed shrewd transactions that would otherwise melt the constitution of the less stalwart. Undoubtedly, no one in London could manipulate, negotiate or devise a more advantageous business deal, and with that knowledge came reputation and a fair degree of quiet power.

  Decidedly, it distracted from emotional distress.

  He signaled to a lanky footman near the wall, who delivered his brandy two beats before Lindsey settled into the opposite chair. Jonathan Cromford, Earl of Lindsey, was the singular gentleman drawing air on the planet who knew of Dearing’s clandestine indiscretion. Fortunately, Dearing considered the man a friend despite Lindsey enjoying the outrageous and somewhat foolish wagers of White’s infamous betting book.

  “Out for an evening of rabble-rousing, or is it business as usual?” Lindsey quirked a lopsided grin and signaled for his standard libation. “I honestly don’t know why I ask. Wishful thinking, perhaps.”

  Dearing nodded in greeting and waited for Lindsey to continue. The earl possessed the rare talent of one-sided conversationalist. As expected, Lindsey fulfilled the preconception.

  “Nothing scandalous brewing at the club tonight for a bachelor such as I, but wouldn’t you rather stay home this evening with your lady wife? Considering the obstacles you’ve cleared to achieve the arrangement, one would think you weren’t pleased with the outcome.” Lindsey accepted his drink and settled deeper into the upholstery, that same crooked smile traced across his mouth.

  “I’ve no desire to discuss domestic affairs. I’d much rather pursue financial security.” Like a rusty needle, Lindsey knew how to prick and infect with disconcerting persistence. “The stockbrokers at Capel Court are agog over the Caribbean tobacco industry. Imports from the islands rather than America seem a lucrative investment for the future.”

  “One must wonder what drives you, Dearing. You’ve more wealth than Croesus and are newly settled with a lovely bride. Why not leave a bit of profit for the rest of us?” Lindsey took a long swallow from his glass, but this time remained quiet.

  “Wealth is a living, breathing animal, one that must be tended and fed or it will wither and die. Only a fool would neglect his coffers.” Dearing settled his glass on the table near his elbow, comfortable with a subject more concrete than metaphysical.

  Lindsey didn’t remain silent for long. “Only a fool would near bankrupt himself to pay off another’s debt.”

  This was said in an undertone, though Dearing tensed nevertheless, his eyes fixed on his friend as Lindsey continued.

  “Granted you’ve likely recouped your loss in the ten months passed, but was it worth it? Duplicitous subterfuge and deceptive machination are nasty endeavors. From the looks of your expression, I’d think not. It must be that competitive nature of yours.”

  “Perhaps.” Of late, Dearing considered that same quality a blessing and a curse. Had he not possessed a double share of determination, he might have pursued Charlotte in a different manner. All he knew was that he wanted her, regardless of his tactics.

  “By now, I would have hoped you’d enjoyed the plentiful spoils.”

  Whether cryptic meandering or bald accusation, Dearing wanted no part of Lindsey’s provoking conversation. He’d come to the club for distraction, not further frustration, yet he found himself defending his position despite owing no one explanations. Well, mayhap a few people. “Things are complicated.”

  “I would think so.” Lindsey threw back whatever remained in his glass. “If you ask me—”

  “I haven’t.”

  “It all came upon you too fast. Seeing the girl and deciding your future, while that subsequent endeavor posed a risky business at best. Never mind the fervent gossip afterward, I imagined it wouldn’t go smoothly. You shouldn’t have allowed Adams to provoke you. And you needn’t deny his avid attention toward the lady in question didn’t set the situation on fire. Once you learned Adams held an interest in Charlotte, your focus became singular in nature.”

  “Thank you for imparting your brilliant insight.” Only a buffoon would misinterpret Dearing’s sarcasm. The quick remembrance of the times he’d thought to approach Charlotte and then hesitated, backing away while others filled the space he’d left, that he ran the risk of destroying everything if he didn’t overcome his insecurity. Fired by the thought, he snapped out an answer. “No one, not one man who walks this earth, would deny I accomplished one of the smartest and most profitable acquisitions in obtaining the majority share in Middleton Railway. The rack-and-pinion locomotive will soon be the most efficient transport across England.”

  Yet it was more, so much more that drove him to his reckless pursuit of Charlotte’s hand. Society viewed his hasty proposal as just another of his judicious business deals, but it was decidedly more complicated than that, and at the center of it all lay his heart, an organ he depended on to pump blood and perpetuate life, nothing other than that until Charlotte, when his heart had turned over in his chest and, in an instant, he knew she was meant to be his. Adams’s involvement might have set a flame beneath his boots, but it only hurried him along the path he’d intended regardless. How society interpreted the swift series of events helped conveniently bury a secret that should never be revealed.

  “I concur, although marrying the chit to gain her father’s single share was a most daring move, even for you. Granted, it did provide you the principal.”

  “I’m not ruthless. You misinterpreted the facts, as usual.” His tone went sharp. Let Lindsey believe whatever he liked, whether that be an insightful investment or unspoken rivalry with Lord Adams. As long as no one discovered the truth, conjecture and idle gossip served his purpose.

  “No need to clutter the room with objections and explanations,” Lindsey replied, his mood unaffected.

  “One has nothing to do with the other. I saw Charlotte Notley and wanted her. I always get what I want, unless it’s peace and quiet when you’re in the room.” The security of their lasting friendship ensured no offense would be taken, and with a curl of the lips, Dearing enjoyed the gibe.

  “I’ll disregard the insult with the understanding you’re unhappy from your lack of progress in the relationship area.” Lindsey angled in as if disclosing a guarded secret.
“What you need, my friend, is a courtship. Ladies prefer to be wooed, not bought and certainly not bartered.”

  Dearing took this under momentary consideration. At times, he despised Lindsey’s forthright input, but in this, a valid suggestion was made. No one could disagree that last year Charlotte was one of the most sought-after women of the Season. Men vied for her attention, taken by her beauty and in awe of her skillful musical ability.

  Who wouldn’t seek a wife not just lovely of face and well-bred but talented and clever to boot? A man riddled with self-doubt and devoid of conversational skills around the fairer sex, that’s who. The same assertive confidence that served at the club or led him through shrewd financial dealings evaporated when faced with meaningful affairs of the heart, and any notion of interaction with Charlotte fell in the latter category. Self-recrimination was a loathsome trait, so a more effective method proved necessary before another gentleman, Adams, claimed the prize. But the devious plan he’d employed to win her was another subject altogether. He answered Lindsey with noncommittal contrariness. “Possibly.”

  “Most definitely. Attempt to win her favor. Use the same merciless tactics you enacted to undercut Hurns in that venture with the copper mines. Solidify your relationship with similar fortitude as your bank account. It’s rather elementary.” Lindsey’s voice adopted a droll tone. “Garner her esteemed affection in the clever manner you master those boring banking meetings over on Threadneedle Street. Accumulate wealth of the heart, not of the pocket.” Satisfied with his bestowed advisement, Lindsey finally stopped speaking.

  “That’s ludicrous.” Dearing looked to the earl’s empty glass. “How much have you imbibed?” Then he took a long sip of his own brandy.

  “Hear me out. It might work.” Though Lindsey’s words held a hint of amusement.

  “You’ve oversimplified the matter.” Dearing darted a sidelong glance to the room’s interior to confirm no one stood close enough to overhear their conversation. “Matters of the heart are not so easily accomplished.” He spoke in a stern tone, one that would dissuade most people from furthering the conversation.