by Susanne Lord
She searched his eyes a quiet moment, then, to his astonishment, a real smile softened her lips. Cresting Mount Everest couldn’t have been more satisfying.
“I suppose I will forgive you so long as I do not see you dancing the Portland Polka with all the other ladies in the room.”
Will lifted his gaze from her smiling lips and nodded mutely. How quickly would he muck this up?
“Though you may change your mind once you see Lady Sybil.” Her cheek dimpled. “You will fall hopelessly in love with her. Everyone does.”
God, he’d missed that dimple. “I wonder,” he murmured. “Will she have jasmine in her hair, too?”
That chased her smile away.
Ah, hell. Stupid, stupid thing to say.
She checked the jasmine in her hair, and if she were anyone but the incomparable Charlotte Baker, he might have thought her shy.
“I—well…these are rare, aren’t they?” she said.
“Extremely,” he said huskily.
And the way she dropped her eyes, she must have guessed he wasn’t speaking of the flowers.
She folded her hands in her lap. “Have you tried to dance? I see you walk gracefully when you are not used up by the day. Your leg seems to pain you more in the evening.”
So she’d taken a study of him? But then, he never limped as bad as he might when she was near. “I’ve not tried, no. You’ll be committed for every dance, I imagine. Lord Spencer might claim them all.”
“Oh, no. It is not good ton to reveal partiality to any one lady.”
“Right…good ton.” He flexed his fingers inside his new kidskin gloves. Damn things barely kept his hands warm on a May night. “I don’t know Lord Spencer. Is he deserving of you, then?”
“Deserving of me?” Charlotte leaned on her arm to speak close, granting him a breathtaking view of her breasts. “He is far above me in rank and consequence. You mustn’t say such things aloud this evening, Mr. Repton, and presume upon the good graces of our betters.”
God, her smile was adorable. If she were his, she’d not get away with that. Not without a kiss.
A kiss flat on her back.
“But I suppose you will be forgiven a great deal,” she said. “After all, you are the intrepid explorer, leaving sighing females and applauding aristocrats in your wake.”
He raised a brow. “That’s one of the more ridiculous things I’ve ever heard.”
Her eyes, at last unguarded and curious, roamed his face. She’d not looked at him like that for weeks, for an eternity.
“We shall see, Mr. Repton. Would you care to wager upon the level of excitement your presence will inspire?”
“That sounds a humiliating wager. Would you require ladies faint straight away upon meeting me? Or the men hoist me atop their shoulders and march me around the ballroom?”
She laughed, and his stomach—and parts lower—tightened pleasurably in response.
“You will be the most sought-after man this evening, I’m afraid. Trust a veteran of three seasons and three hundred soirees, fetes, and flower shows.” She fixed her big blue eyes on him, and by the dim light of the carriage lamps, he could have sworn they looked sad. “There is no one like you. You are a hero.”
Before he could puzzle out her quiet words, she continued more brightly. “You cannot hope to avoid attention tonight. But if you do not wish to wager…” She shrugged, a small smile on her lips.
He leaned toward that smile. “I’ll take your wager, Miss Baker, because I’m sure to be ignored.”
“You cannot really think so?”
“I can and I really do,” he murmured. “I only hope I can keep from slurping my soup at dinner. And speaking endlessly of the challenge of cleaning my linens at camp. And I pray I don’t find Lord Spencer’s mum irresistible and try to steal a kiss in a darkened alcove.”
Her eyes widened in amused horror. “That is not fair. You cannot pretend to be dull or boorish or…just odd.”
“Now you’re confusing me. You know I won’t have to pretend. And I’ve always been drawn to matronly women.”
Laughter burst from her, before her gloved hands stifled that pleasing sound.
Will couldn’t stop looking at her happy face. He’d never made her laugh before. And he liked it far more than he should. “What do you forfeit when I win, Miss Baker?”
“I do not wish to wager anymore,” she said, her eyes bright with mirth.
Here was the genuine Charlotte Baker—unguarded, full of joy, irresistible. He’d recognized that in the first seconds of meeting her.
And he’d fled her ever since.
He sat back. “No wager…you concede I am dull then?”
“I concede no such thing, but you are contrary enough to spoil this challenge for me. So no wager and no excuse not to charm the beau monde with tales of adventure.”
Charlotte leaned close to whisper a great secret, which amused him, as there was only the two of them on that carriage bench. “And I daresay, Mr. Repton, you may make several conquests this evening.”
“Conquests?”
“Of investors in your next expedition.”
“Ah, right, investors. When would you suggest I rattle the tin cup?”
“Mock me if you wish, but many gentlemen are keen to speak with you. Marquis Palmerton and Lord Russell have already asked my account of you and—”
“And what was your account of me?”
Her beautiful eyes shied from his, but he angled his head to look into her face. Because he desperately needed to know.
“The house looks lovely, Charlotte.”
Will started at Lucy’s voice. He’d forgotten the Paxtons were there. Just like his father—too engrossed in his wife to pay attention to the world around him.
Just like his besotted father…the idea rendered him speechless.
The carriage slowed. Through the window, the earl’s house loomed. Flickering torchlight dramatized the stone facade, and the white-frocked ladies twirling beyond the glazed windows reminded him of bubbling champagne.
A sparkling home.
It suited Charlotte.
The footman opened the carriage door and Will stepped out, turning to help Charlotte alight. But before he could hand her down, Spencer appeared and claimed the right.
The magic carriage ride was over.
The entry hall was ablaze with candlelight. The sparkling crystal drops from the chandelier above reflected rainbow shards of light onto Charlotte’s gown, and her skin shimmered like a pearl as she moved into the crowded ballroom.
The ceiling soared and massive canvasses of pastoral landscapes covered the walls. Candlesticks circled the ballroom and bouquets of lilies and hydrangeas perfumed the air.
It was all so…exuberant. Like Charlotte herself.
Yes, it suited her.
They’d laughed and spoken easily in the carriage. They might have even flirted, but he was no fool. Even if he were free to court her, she’d not belong in his world.
She belonged in this one.
Good. He tried to force some conviction behind the thought. It was good. A married woman was not a distraction and the sooner Charlotte was married, the better.
Now where was this Earl of Harlowe and his deep pockets?
Six
The Earl of Harlowe’s dining room wasn’t so much a room as a hall, and not so much a hall as an arena. An army of footmen lined the walls to begin the dinner service, and instead of one long banqueting table, there were two dozen tables arranged about the room.
All very impressive. All excessively grand. But the splendor of the room was nothing compared to the carriage ride.
Mr. Repton had spoken to her! Of his own volition. Without frowning much at all. She must do nothing to derail this fragile friendship.
She took her seat, but how would she sit still?
Her family and Mr. Repton were seated with Hugh, his parents, and twin sisters, Helen and Hester.
Oh dear. The table was set for dinner
served à la russe, with nine utensils and five glasses at the ready. He had joked, but what if Mr. Repton did slurp his soup? Would he know which glass to use for the champagne, the sherry, and the hock? She’d only ever seen him drink tea and gobble a few biscuits at the house. After all, what use would a plantsman have for table etiquette?
A little faith, Charlotte. Mr. Repton would not flounder. Besides, in this intimate seating arrangement, he need only acquaint himself with Hugh’s parents and the golden-haired twins who flanked him.
And it appeared Mr. Repton had made fast work of acquainting himself with the twins.
“How ever did you bear those long months at sea, Mr. Repton?” Hester asked.
“You are terribly brave,” Helen cried, “to travel to such an uncivilized land.”
The twins were posed on either side of Mr. Repton, their hands clutched to their bosoms, pushing their breasts into a decidedly vulgar display. Charlotte thinned her lips in disapproval at the spectacle. Not that the man didn’t appear entirely pleased with the novelty of two matched females.
She was tempted to throw her finger bowl straight at their pointy little heads, but she was a lady. And it was certainly no concern of hers if Mr. Repton’s gaze was more occupied with cleavage than consommé.
Which was cold and far too salty.
“Yes, enlighten us of the Orientals, Mr. Repton.” Hugh’s father, Lord Harlowe, was a red-faced, blustery walrus of a man who saved his conversation exclusively for men. His heavily bagged eyes would linger indecently on female flesh—the younger the better—but evidently he found them useless for intellectual stimulation. “Were the coolies difficult to manage?”
“Not at all. The native people purchased our supplies and procured our shelter—things Englishmen could not do outside the port cities. And they were immune to many fevers plaguing the Englishmen. They were strong and hardy, though they did not stand even as tall as Miss Baker.”
Lord Harlowe laughed his wheezing laugh. “As small as a woman? They must have been useless carrying supplies.”
Mr. Repton paused in lifting his spoon from his soup at the words. He met her gaze and looked pointedly at his spoon with a quirk of his brow before lifting it to his lips and drinking. Without a slurp.
Cheeky. She hid her smile behind her napkin.
In that second, in the lock of their eyes, a shared laugh passed between them. And it unnerved her how wonderful that felt.
“On the contrary, my lord,” Mr. Repton continued placidly, “when I fell ill with fever in the jungle, the men fashioned a sort of palanquin out of bamboo and canvas and carried me for hours to make our camp.”
The twins gasped in horror and pity, breasts squeezed into sympathetic service again.
“They saved my life on more than one occasion,” Mr. Repton said. “Though when they carried me uphill in that palanquin like a baby in a sling, their revenge was not allowing me the comfort of riding backward, so my feet were always higher than my head.”
The table burst into laughter and when Mr. Repton’s eyes sought hers, she was spun with a giddy, whirling delight.
The next course came, and the next, and Mr. Repton was a great success. Lord and Lady Harlowe appeared delighted with his fascinating stories and were not once diverted by his table manners, which were perfectly correct. The twins were breathlessly in love, and there were a number of women who were casting far too deliberate glances his way—the cattle.
And with each passing course, she grew more depressed. Mr. Repton had not let her know anything of him for weeks now. She knew his face and fame would awe. She knew, had he loved her, they would have Society at their feet and her family would have friends in their future. But she had not known how clever and charming and humble he was. Until tonight.
The truth barreled over her, crushing her and her precious jasmine blossoms into the Chippendale chair—he shared nothing because he had no real wish to know her. Tonight, he had no choice but to be amiable to all her wealthy acquaintance. Tomorrow, all would be as before.
Why else would his eyes linger as they did on the silver ice baths chilling their champagne glasses? Or flicker over the diamond bracelets on Hester’s wrists? Or rest on her with that strange distance? It was as though he were witnessing the evening as a spectator.
Or, as he would take their money, a speculator.
“Hugh, why did you not tell us of Mr. Repton’s travels?” Hester scolded her brother.
“Yes, I want to go to Asia now,” Helen said. “Would that not be romantic, Charlotte?”
She startled at having a question from either twin directed at her. The sisters tended to ignore other females if there was a bachelor within ten paces. “Yes, Asia would be the adventure of a lifetime, would it not?”
Lord Harlowe barked a rude laugh. Goodness, how the man could be Hugh’s father…
“But there are adventures to be had right here in England. In Snowdonia. Or Cumbria.” She smiled at Hugh. “I hope to explore myself someday.”
Hugh laughed. “Oh, my dear. I am imagining the number of porters required to carry your hatboxes.”
“Are you imagining an escort for her as well?” Lord Harlowe sneered. “Everyone knows you are no adventurer, boy.”
Charlotte tensed and the table fell silent. Hugh’s fingers curled around his knife. Oh dear…
She touched Hugh’s arm and smiled. “I think I could limit my wardrobe, my lord. There are just so many wonderful reports published by the Geographical Society—”
“But women are still banned from the club,” Lord Harlowe hastily assured the table.
She looked at Harlowe while he looked at her bosom.
“The north of England is hardly exotic, Charlotte,” Hester said.
“Quiet, girl,” Lord Harlowe said. “The north can test a man. When I was your age, I summited Cross Fell in the Pennines. But I possess a constitution like Repton here. Vigorous, keen for a challenge. Some men wallow in their infirmities”—he eyed Hugh—“others rise to every hardship they accept.”
The knife in Hugh’s fist quaked.
“I would agree with Lady Hester, I fear.” She hurried to speak in the silence. “Cumbria is not exotic in comparison to Mr. Repton’s travels.”
She knew her eyes lingered too often on Mr. Repton, so she started with guilt when Hugh touched her hand beneath the table. He was always attentive, always a gentleman. And so clearly of late her gentleman. But tonight there was an anger coursing through him that she could only attribute to his boor of a father.
“It will pain me to dance with anyone but you,” Hugh whispered. “Do not forget to save me the first two waltzes.”
“Oh, but I am committed for the second,” she said. “We are to show Mr. Repton your mother’s conservatory.”
“Indeed?”
“I would much rather dance.”
“Well…we mustn’t be uncharitable, my dear. The man is lame. A stroll in the garden may be the highlight of Mr. Repton’s evening.”
Charlotte stiffened but could not search Hugh’s eyes for cruelty, as his lips were at her ear. Across the table, Mr. Repton watched her with a hooded stare. As if he had heard.
Helen lured his attention back with a touch of his arm and he smiled at her.
Honestly. She could not be jealous, she would not be.
All this time, Mr. Repton had painted himself the most aloof man in London to her alone. She could not let one night—one uncharacteristic night—lower the wall she’d erected around her heart. No one made a fool of Charlotte Baker twice.
Well…she was far beyond twice at this point, but never again.
For one evening, Mr. Repton had extended an olive branch and she would not let this rare opportunity pass.
How ridiculous she was. But she could not deny how much she wanted to know him a little.
Let’s just see Mr. Repton avoid her friendship tonight.
* * *
Charlotte Baker never sat down.
Of course the e
vening would play like this. Will had prepared for it. He was just surprised at how little he liked watching her dance.
Spencer had waltzed nicely with her—and that was fine, he supposed. But she’d never dance again with that bastard she had to wrestle to keep at a proper distance. And the short one with the fading hairline peered too often down her dress.
Off the floor, the men were no better. They touched her too freely—her arm, her shoulder, the small of her back. They bent too close. They leaned. And the bloody Earl of Harlowe—he wanted to smash in the man’s face at the way he leered. Much more of this and he’d—
He ground his teeth. He’d not do a damn thing. He had no claim on her. And Harlowe had all but promised three hundred pounds—double the ask he’d intended to make.
Did these bastards know nothing? She was a lady—anyone could see that. The best in the room. Damn them all, the Quality did treat her different, just as Ben said. She was popular but she wasn’t one of them. Not yet. But once she married Spencer—
He snorted. Spencer. Who never brought her white flowers. Whose father was an upright ape.
He shook the thought aside. Where was Ben, anyway? She was his sister-in-law. He ought to be in the card room, pitching his expedition into every open ear. Instead he was playing chaperone so some gent wouldn’t drag Charlotte down a darkened hall.
The dance ended and Charlotte gestured for her partner to deliver her to him. What was this? He looked left and right to see if she’d intended someone else.
She curtsied to her dance partner. “Thank you, my lord. You are the loveliest dancer.”
The man pitched forward in his haste to bow. Will didn’t even try to muster a nod for the beaming, red-faced man even though this one had behaved. Dazzled as the gent was, he staggered a half-dozen steps and predictably plowed into a passing couple.
Will turned back to a glowing Charlotte. Her smile faded and only then did he realize he was still wearing the narrow-eyed glare he’d trained on the lummox with her.
“No need to look so set upon, Mr. Repton,” she teased, but her voice sounded strained for the effect. “I have not come to wrestle you onto the floor. This is the second waltz, and we are to gaze rapturously at Lady Harlowe’s glasshouse.”
