by Susanne Lord
“Uh…is she…?” Will studied the man. Charlotte would like this Seth Mayhew. The man wasn’t ugly. And he was well-traveled and friendly and, unlike Will, his only ghosts flowered in the Amazon. “A bit, yes,” he mumbled.
Seth sighed, linking his fingers atop his head. “Has no one claimed her yet?”
“Uh—”
“Is she dark or fair? Or redheaded? Is she clever? Quiet women, or ones too severe, don’t like me much. When might she be coming down? I can see her myself.”
The hell! “She’s a lady,” he bit out, before remembering he needed the man’s help.
Seth barked a laugh. “Then she’ll have no truck with the likes of me! The women in Brazil didn’t, either. Said I was too damn big for ’em, and I suppose they was right.” He winked. “Not that it stopped me from trying.”
Will stared. Perhaps he and Seth weren’t exactly the same.
Seth rubbed his hands together, the mirth in his eyes giving way to a bit of gravity. “Write up your letter to George, but don’t count on a reply.” He grinned. “But hell, we’re plant hunters. We’re accustomed to disappointment, aren’t we?”
Will stopped his gaze from angling to the ceiling separating him from Charlotte. “Yes. I’d say we are.”
* * *
The debate over Charlotte’s coiffure was two hours old and passions were escalating now that the carriage was being prepared to convey her to the Harlowes’ dinner. Charlotte already struggled to feign an iota of pleasure over the evening. She hardly required her maid battling her now.
“Patty, surely you are not serious. Pearls will quite overwhelm the arrangement.” Seated at her dressing table, she argued with Patty’s reflection in the mirror.
“And you think plumes better?”
“Well, something must be done with these sausages you curled into my hair.”
Her maid crossed her arms. “With all respect, Charlotte…”
And at that point, Charlotte ceased to listen. Once Patty uttered “with all respect,” the woman’s position was intractable and the argument was over.
Pearls it would be.
And they would be appalling.
The evening should have been the highlight of the season. Hugh’s family home boasted a magnificent ballroom and all her acquaintance would be there, and best of all, Ben and Lucy, who were never invited to assemblies. And even though it was not quite proper for Lucy to be attending so close to her lying-in, Hugh had insisted.
If only Mr. Repton were not attending…
Wally’s frowning head appeared from around the door. “Charlotte, why are you not ready? Will is downstairs.”
“I know!” Charlotte snatched her gloves off the table to twist them in her hands. “Why did Ben offer him a seat in our carriage, anyway?”
Wally leaned against the door jamb, raised a brow, and she was ten years old again. “As you are aware, Will doesn’t even keep a horse.”
“He will not enjoy the company. We are far too silly for him,” Charlotte said balefully, hoping to be contradicted.
But Wally only squinted at her head. “Pearls?”
She slumped in her chair. “Is he…did Mr. Repton dress properly?”
At this, Wally’s eyes brightened. “Actually, Will did not own an evening kit. But he does now and looks very smart, if I say so myself.”
“And why would you say so yourself?”
Wally stroked his impeccably cut coat. “I sent him to my own man, Zegnorelli. The Italians know how to suit a man.”
A bouquet of miniature white trumpet-shaped blossoms was thrust beneath her nose and she startled upright. “Oh…how pretty!”
Jacob hopped in excitement beside her, the flowers in his tiny grip. “Mr. Repton brought them for you.”
The words were an arrow to her heart. That wasn’t true. He would have brought them as a gift to the house. “Are you sure they aren’t meant for your mother?” She raised her brows in gentle question.
Jacob shook his head, the joy leeching from his face at her doubt. “Mr. Repton told me to bring them to you. And he brought sweets, but he said those were mine.”
“All right, sweetest.” She’d not interrogate her nephew further. She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
Patty took a closer look. “Goodness, aren’t those fine?” She turned to her with a grin. “I have an idea.”
Moments later, her hair was divested of pearls and dressed with a few sprigs of the white blossoms, and both maid and fastidious brother agreed Mr. Repton’s flowers were the perfect complement to her ivory ball gown.
She really was the most fortunate of ladies. Her family was so generous in her clothing allowance that she was always la mode. The silk was light as air, and delicate seed pearls sewn along the edge of her bodice glinted at her bosom. And even if the neckline was low and the waist tightly cinched, she had no doubt of its propriety.
She looked rather well this evening and pulled a face at the irony of it all. Mr. Repton did not notice any dress she wore. Ever. Unless it was to judge them entirely unsuitable against London’s many monsoons and gale-force winds.
She straightened a pearl on her beautiful gown. And it was a terribly beautiful gown.
Perhaps he will notice tonight…
Frowning at her own foolishness, she pulled on her gloves, and walked down the stairs with Wally and Jacob.
Mr. Repton would not speak to her. She must not hope or allow him to depress her. Arranging her face into a mask of placidity, she entered the front parlor. Mr. Repton faced the door and she couldn’t avoid his eye upon entering. She looked away quickly.
Or as quickly as she could.
Goodness but the man was fine in black. So this is how the man of her dreams appeared by lamplight. His hair gleamed low and rich as antique gold, and the suit clung to his powerful shoulders and hugged his lean hips.
She’d never seen a man so blatantly handsome. And so…disconcerting. Transformed into the sort of seductive rake ruinous to a woman’s heart—yet not at all suited to the role, serious as death as he always was.
But tonight he was different. Very different. He’d never kept his gaze on her this long before.
Or her bosom.
Carefully keeping her chin level rather than check her décolletage for what else might be drawing Mr. Repton’s focus, she sat on the divan.
Men could not help but assuage their curiosity, she supposed. Day dresses covered a lady with all modesty, but evening gowns were another matter. She did credit him for his discretion; his eyes bounced right back up and away. And he was a man, after all, and a man might look.
She just had not expected—well, male attention from Mr. Repton.
Oh dear. He was looking at them again.
“Another?” Wally asked, indicating Will’s glass of whiskey.
“Uh, yes. Thank you,” he said.
“I see Mr. Mayhew is gone,” Wally said.
Will replied that, yes, this mysterious Mr. Mayhew had come and gone and nothing more. Surely it was not polite to reply in so abbreviated a manner? Not while she sat stewing in curiosity.
Reminded she had not yet greeted him, she waited for Wally to see to Mr. Repton’s drink. Always, always, she was the first to speak. They might not speak at all if not for her overtures. “Good evening, Mr. Repton.”
He bowed, his eyes catching on the jasmine in her hair.
“Thank you for our bouquet.” She checked one of the delicate flowers in her hair, and aware the gesture might appear coquettish, dropped her hand. “I have never seen such flowers, and was so charmed, I wore them in my hair.”
He looked into his whiskey. “I’m sure I’ve never seen jasmine in a lovelier setting.”
She laughed with surprise, the sound harder than she intended. “Pretty words, Mr. Repton.”
His eyes swung to hers.
“Charlotte.” Wally lowered his brows in censure. “You are usually much more accepting of compliments. Mr. Repton will be shy of you in future.�
��
Shy, indeed. But her heart was already sinking. Mr. Repton would welcome any excuse to avoid her tonight. And she had given him one.
She could not help that she did not possess the gravitas he preferred. And she would not be made to feel gauche, or silly, or—bother it all—lower than she already felt.
She flashed what she hoped was an unconcerned smile. “I am sorry, Mr. Repton, but you must be cautious with such a declaration. If you recall, you wrote of your encounters with night-blooming jasmine in the valley of the Li River. How that was the most magnificent landscape of your life. That there was not a sight on earth to rival it.”
Mr. Repton held her gaze silently and she returned it with studied naiveté.
“That passage was among the volumes forbidden for my reading, of course. But you will pardon my transgression, won’t you?”
Mr. Repton’s hand flexed on his glass but he said nothing.
Of course he didn’t.
With his near-daily presence in Ben’s study, she had approached him a dozen times—out of the demands of politeness, out of sincere curiosity, out of a pathetic need just to be near him.
And each time he begged her pardon and sent her off. He shared nothing of himself.
Even when he shared his artifacts, it was not as if he invited her to listen.
“Do I not have it right, Mr. Repton?” she pressed, a strange desperation rising in her. “A few blossoms wilting in a woman’s coiffure would hardly compare to such a view. And while the ladies’ magazines like to assure us a man in love may hold the sight of his beloved above any of God’s creations, that is hardly the case between us. Not that I am at all convinced that sort of emotion is even possible among the English. The Italians, yes, but—”
“I don’t know this style of fashionable conversation, Miss Baker.” Mr. Repton looked away, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “You’ll forgive me.”
The mild rebuke sent heat rushing to her cheeks.
What was the matter with her? She, who had always been so adept at conversation, at pretty behavior, could not put a step right with him. Even Jacob pouted reproachfully at her.
“In any case, the flowers are lovely,” she said quietly. “And Hugh has never done half so well.”
“Why hasn’t he?” Mr. Repton set his glass down hard on the mantel.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Spencer. Why hasn’t he learned your favorite flowers?”
“Well…”
“He brings you tulips and roses and carnations. Never snowdrops or narcissus or lily of the valley, not that those are your favorites. Neither is jasmine, but I thought you’d like how the perfume changes at night. Never once have I seen him bring you peonies.”
She could only stare back.
“White peonies, right?” He considered her, his voice gentling. “No—cream. With a pink blush at its heart, marked by stripes of raspberry and a tangle of gold stamens within, revealed only in bloom.” He blinked and diverted his stare. “That is your favorite, I think.”
“Yes. How did—?”
“Mr. Repton, how dashing you look!” Lucy exclaimed as she entered with Ben.
To her relief, Mr. Repton moved to greet them. Already feeling bruised, a flare of jealousy stabbed her as he sketched a bow to Lucy and rose with a smile.
Mr. Repton took Lucy’s hand. “Mrs. Paxton, you’re looking extremely well this evening.”
“Are you going to give Mama her flowers?” Jacob piped from his chair.
“We received the flowers, Jacob,” Wally said. “The jasmine, remember?”
But Mr. Repton moved toward the window seat and produced a bouquet of long-stemmed roses that had been hidden from view. “My apologies. I should have sent these up earlier. They’re from my father’s garden.”
Lucy clasped her hands in delight. Ben must have told him yellow roses were her favorite.
So he had intended the jasmine for her alone…
The first time Mr. Repton offered her a kindness and she’d dashed his efforts to the ground and stomped on it like a child. No lady of sense or breeding would act as she had done.
Tonight was going to be interminable.
Lucy smiled at her. “Charlotte, what beautiful flowers in your hair.”
Miserable, she pasted on her smile. “Yes, Mr. Repton brought them.”
Ben stepped closer. “Madagascar jasmine? How in the world did you manage these, Will? They’re rare flowers.”
Mr. Repton crossed his arms and his eyes skimmed hers before traveling to the drapes, the ceiling, the mantel where his whiskey waited. He made for the drink. “The, uh…Chiswick cultivates several varieties and Cavendish allowed me—”
“The Duke of Devonshire?” Ben asked.
“Right.” Will picked up his glass and held it.
The room fell silent, contemplating this rather impressive connection to one of England’s most powerful men. Until the contemplation pivoted to her head—and undoubtedly the presumption of beheading a duke’s prized flowers to ornament one’s hair.
A clearing of the throat sounded from the door, and Mr. Goodley announced the carriage was ready.
Ben helped Lucy into her mantle and Wally hoisted Jacob into his arms to walk them to the door. Charlotte followed, and stood on tiptoe to kiss her brother good night. “I wish you were coming with us,” she whispered.
And Wally answered as he always did. “Next time, dear heart.”
“Miss Baker?” Mr. Repton signaled her to precede him from the room. Of course the man would not offer his arm.
Ben and Lucy settled in the carriage and, as always, Ben leaned across the carriage to speak close with his wife.
“Ben, do please sit beside Lucy,” Charlotte said. “It will pain me to watch you bent at that angle for our entire journey.”
Ben grinned his thanks and complied, and Charlotte slid over as far as she could on the bench as Mr. Repton took his seat beside her.
“You must see the Harlowes’ hothouse this evening, Mr. Repton,” Lucy said as the carriage rolled into motion. “It is one of Ben’s designs and perfectly exquisite.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Mr. Repton said.
“Let’s see it together,” Lucy added. “Charlotte, leave the second waltz open to join us.”
* * *
Will sensed Charlotte’s body stiffen. She would resent not dancing with her beau to entertain him.
It was his aim, wasn’t it? And the task was accomplished. Charlotte Baker was thoroughly disenchanted with Chinese Will.
And she’d laughed at his compliment.
Across the carriage, Mrs. Paxton put a hand to her back. She was increasing, and no matter how luxurious and well-sprung the vehicle, it was obvious she was uncomfortable. Ben was immediately solicitous, murmuring into her ear and rubbing her back. And preoccupied as they were, the silence between Charlotte and himself grew heavy.
Will crossed his arms and flicked a surreptitious glance at her. The discretion wasn’t necessary. She was looking out her window.
There was a sight to rival the Li River Valley, and that was Charlotte in her angel’s gown, with jasmine in her hair. If he somehow lived to be old and past dreaming, he’d always have that to remember.
God, she was a beauty. Why was it the sight of her unleashed some new temptation? He was not a man who indulged in anything, yet at this moment, he was tempted to pluck a blossom from her hair to crush against his lips, to release those silken curls from their pins and watch them pool on her shoulders, to touch her…
All of her was temptation. He stole another look at her breasts. He’d always known they were ample—any man would guess that from the shape of her in her day dresses—but he wasn’t prepared to be rendered speechless by the flesh. The creamy perfection of that skin. The proud, magnificent shape of them.
How had he missed those before? He’d seen her leave for balls. Countless times. But then, there’d only been the sound of slippers from the hall to alert him. And
by the time he raised his head, she would sweep by in a blur, a fluttering hem the only clue of what she wore.
It was better he hadn’t seen.
So damn beautiful. And yet she wasn’t self-admiring. Or maybe she just wasn’t coy with him. At least not since the day in the study. He grimaced at the memory. Hadn’t he buggered that one good? They might have been friendly. Even friends.
Now all he had were the moments he dangled some trinket from his travels to lure her close. The jade amulets, the prayer wheel, the rosary of amber beads—he must have brought two dozen artifacts by now. Those exchanges were safe. An acceptable level of involvement.
And completely pathetic.
He took a deep breath. Somehow he would make peace with Charlotte Baker. He needed more peace in his life. It was bad enough to wake each day to a nightmare, to the knowledge he still had hundreds of pounds to raise, to the reality his letters hadn’t persuaded one soul to search for Aimee Bourianne.
His thoughts were turning down a dark path. He looked out the window. At nothing. Ben and his wife were speaking low, and Charlotte hadn’t stopped staring out her window.
He might try to speak with her to…well, because…
Hell, just because.
“Forgive me if I don’t ask you to dance this evening,” Will said to draw Charlotte’s attention.
She blinked with what appeared to be surprise. “Of course, Mr. Repton. You are under no obligation.”
“That’s not—I won’t be dancing with anyone.”
She was wearing the same thin smile she always wore with him these days. “I see.” She turned away.
A pain cramped his heart. He stiffened his jaw and stared at the back of her head. At the row of pearl buttons down her back. Out his bloody window again. That went as well as he expected—
“Did you…did you dance before?” Charlotte asked.
Jesus, thank you. He swiveled his head back. “Before?”
“Before your injury?”
“Yes. But never at a ball. Public dances only.”
“And you enjoyed dancing?”
He shrugged. “I suppose, but I wasn’t skilled. Even my mum, who indulges me in everything, begged me not to dance and shame the family name. And this from a woman whose husband scolds the aphids on rose bushes.”
