In Search of Scandal (London Explorers #1)

by Susanne Lord

  And she’d married him instead.

  He didn’t care that this was just a formality. He wrapped his arms around her, crushing her veil in his hug. “You wore jasmine in your hair,” he whispered.

  Her fingers tightened on the back of his coat. “You noticed.”

  “On you, I notice.”

  She stepped out of his embrace, smiling one of her brilliant, dimpled smiles even as she wiped a tear from her cheek. The woman never behaved the way he thought she would.

  “Are you ready to celebrate our marriage?” she asked.

  Bemused, he turned to the grinning faces all around them. “I’d not object to a small gathering, no.”

  A twinkle lit her eye. “And would you be terribly disappointed if it were a slightly larger party?”

  * * *

  Each inhabitant of the village of Highthorpe made every effort to attend the wedding breakfast of Mr. and Mrs. William Repton and wish the couple joy. This preponderance of goodwill and gaiety extended through luncheon, and then dinner, and was interspersed with bouts of impromptu dancing, music, and a race about the empire fountain in the gardens for the children and more than a few inebriated adults.

  Charlotte was fawned over and squeezed affectionately by every reveler and effectively removed from the orbit of her husband for the better part of the day.

  Going on eight hours and forty-three minutes now, according to Will’s timepiece.

  “How is my son, the neglected groom?” His father’s cheeks glowed from too much punch, so it must have been a mighty twinge of pity to draw him from his merry table.

  Will shrugged. “Wasn’t the purpose of this party to convince everyone of my impetuous, irrepressible love? I’ve not been able to get near her all day.”

  His father beamed proudly at Charlotte across the crush of well-wishers that circled her. “You knew she was popular.”

  Charlotte smiled at him from across the room and he stifled the grin threatening to stretch over his face. Those little smiles were the only balm to his resentment of, apparently, the entire village of Highthorpe.

  Feeling more charitable, he grinned at his father. “She’s not popular. She’s loved.” His jealousy was ridiculous. To imagine he had any sort of claim. Especially when everyone had a claim on Charlotte, it seemed. So much rendered her irresistible—her curiosity, her vivacity, her beauty.

  Charlotte smiled at him again.

  He couldn’t quite make those out. Was she afraid he’d inadvertently expose their marriage as a charade? True, he was dead on his feet, but his fatigue only left him wandering from room to crowded room in a sort of stupor.

  “She has no fear of talking to anyone, does she?” his father said. “No one’s afraid to speak to her, either. That is the greater talent.”

  “She’s not spoken much to me today.”

  His father ignored his petulant tone. “Absolutely charming. You’ll not find another like her.”

  Not exactly subtle. “Nonetheless, I must release Miss Baker at the end of August.”

  “She’s Mrs. Repton now, Son.”

  “How much of that punch have you had?”

  “Not as much as you think. You’ve never needed any advice I had to give—you knew your mind long before your mother or I could guide you—but if you let her go, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”

  He scrubbed his hand over his face. “What would you have me do? Pack her in my trunk and take her with me?”

  “In all your plotting and calculating, had you not allowed a contingency for a wife?”

  “Charlotte, on a ship with two dozen men? The journey to Africa alone is dangerous. And in Asia, I couldn’t make any camp secure enough. I’d never leave her in any of the port cities. Shameen Island and Ningbo are out of the question. In Fuzhou, the locals are protesting the Protestants. Xiamen has an outbreak of typhoid every season. The wives seem miserable there. Even if I could find French-speaking servants in Shanghai, I don’t have the money to—” He couldn’t go over this again. Not again. “It’s impossible.”

  His father was suddenly sober. “I see. I’m sorry, Son.”

  Christ, he was tired. He rubbed his eyes. “Where’s Mum?” His ploy of distraction worked. His father was uneasy in any party without his wife to decipher all the social nuances.

  “I thought she was after those little sandwiches she likes so well,” his father said, his eyes scanning the crowded room.

  “I see her at the refreshment table. Shall we?”

  But his father was already on his way.

  Will could isolate Charlotte’s laugh over the din. She was still surrounded, but she caught his eye as he followed his father, and his heart tripped like a schoolboy.

  He left his parents on a settee with a fresh plate of cake and sandwiches and turned to find Charlotte’s Irish maid, Patty, with a narrow-eyed stare screwed on him.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Repton,” she said dryly.

  Despite the woman’s tone, he nodded his thanks. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Passably.”

  “Good.” He started to cross his arms and shoved them in his pockets instead. “Good. Charlotte looks beautiful. Her hair is, uh—not that she doesn’t look beautiful every day.”

  “Humph.”

  He cleared his throat. “She seems happy.”

  “Never been natural to see her unhappy.”

  He couldn’t tell if her words felt accusatory or if that was his guilt, but he stiffened at them. More neutral territory was needed. “How long have you been with the family?”

  “Fifteen years.” Patty planted her hands on her hips. “Charlotte seems happy, Mr. Repton, because she usually is happy. But that don’t mean she can’t be made unhappy. Don’t think you know her in all her silk and satin. Family’s what she treasures. And you’re family now, no matter how little you like the circumstances. She’s been excited for today, even if this isn’t exactly the wedding of your dreams.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever had a notion of a dream wedding.”

  “You made that clear enough by arriving near midnight yesterday.”

  He dropped his gaze. “Right, I suppose I did.”

  The woman was protective of Charlotte. Loyal. Unafraid of giving her lady’s husband a dressing-down if she deemed it necessary.

  He decided he liked Patty after all.

  Their attention was drawn by Charlotte being led to a corner by a gaggle of giggling women who kept casting sly glances at him. God only knew what they were saying. Charlotte’s cheeks were pink and growing pinker.

  Patty sighed and gave him a somewhat friendlier shove on his arm. “You might go on and get her then. Before they commence undressing you with their eyes.”

  Will frowned uncertainly at the mob of women. Charlotte squealed at something one woman said, nearly falling from her chair in her laughter.

  “Perhaps you might retrieve her for me, Patty?”

  She snorted and grinned. “If you want her away from their corrupting influence, you collect her yourself.”

  “Yes. Well.” He checked his buttons. All appeared in order. With a hasty smoothing of his hair, he marched toward the women.

  Charlotte sighted him drawing near and bit her lip to stifle her laughter. All the ladies turned toward him in unison, and he stalled in his approach. Feigning a desire for a drink, he angled from them, but Charlotte rose and glided to him in her impossibly graceful way.

  “I promise we were not laughing at you,” Charlotte said.

  “I was after a glass of water.”

  She pressed her lips against a smile and tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow. “You looked rather alarmed at my laughter.”

  “I assumed you were in your cups.”

  “The ladies think you a fine-looking gentleman.”

  “So they’re in their cups, too?”

  Charlotte’s eyes roamed over his face. “You did not sleep last night. Did you have a nightmare, or were you tormented by the thought of
marrying me?”

  He quirked a brow at her and lifted her hand a bit to look at her wedding rings. “Are you all right? A little depressed, maybe?”

  “Not at all.” She smiled. “My reputation is saved and Jacob has a new uncle.”

  He scanned her face for the truth but she was the picture of a blooming bride, the apples of her cheeks glowing pink and her eyes sparkling.

  Charlotte hugged his arm against her. “Thank you for marrying me.”

  He straightened one of the jasmine blossoms in her hair, too tired to puzzle out her joyful mood. “You’re welcome.” Then he remembered.

  He pulled out the leather box he’d been carrying all day in his pocket and handed it to her.

  Her eyes widened. “Is this—?”

  “Your jade necklace.”

  He didn’t think it possible, but her smile grew brighter. And those delphinium eyes were suspiciously shiny.

  “It’s proper now, isn’t it?” he murmured. “And you have that green dress.”

  She nodded, and gave him the kiss he’d been hoping for. Even if it was only on the cheek.

  Her eyes roamed his face with concern. “Would you like to lie down?”

  “I won’t take you from your party.” His words were meant to be selfless, but selfishly he wished she would insist they leave.

  “Everyone is too merry to notice our absence. Besides, we have not been alone all day.”

  “No, we haven’t,” he murmured. With Charlotte near, his body sank deeper into relaxation, edged with a pleasant awareness of their new bond. He didn’t even feel the least bit shy.

  Until she spoke her next words.

  “Let’s go upstairs, Will. It is time I put you to bed.”

  * * *

  Lucy had assured her Michael was an efficient valet, but Charlotte hadn’t thought to press her sister for other assurances, such as whether a half hour was a proper amount of time to allow a man to prepare for bed. Or if a gentleman’s evening ablution would include a shave. Or if a wife might wander freely into her husband’s chamber while he was being attended to, rather than wait an interminable amount of time in her bedroom as she was doing now.

  Honestly, her sister really should have foreseen her need for several assurances.

  What would a husband don as sleeping attire? A banyan, certainly. Would he wear a nightcap? She’d never pictured Will in a nightcap. Not in all the sleeping ensembles in all the imaginary wardrobes she had daydreamed through the years. She tried now to place a sleeping cap on his head—one with a tassel or a knit stripe, a biggin that tied under his chin, a satin turban or—oh heavens, surely not a fez?

  No, she would not like him in a sleeping cap.

  Perched on the edge of her bed, she tapped her feet on the carpet and smoothed the fine lawn of her nightrail over her lap. A few minutes more. She must not rush him. A premature arrival into her bedroom would only heighten the awkwardness of the situation. But then, a certain amount of shyness would only be natural and appropriate in this case, wouldn’t it?

  She must try to remember to be moderately shy then, and not unnaturally, immodestly excited as she actually was.

  Please, please, do not wear a sleeping cap.

  Will’s deep voice emerged from the bedroom and she hurried to the connecting door to listen.

  Only his thanking Michael and then the sound of the door to the outer hall opening and closing. Would he come now? Or another minute more?

  Michael’s service was done. Surely Will would be presentable. Again she inspected her nightrail, satisfied it was both pretty and sufficiently modest. Tying her peignoir tightly about her, she bent her ear to the keyhole. Nothing. With a deep breath—moderately shy, Charlotte—she knocked on the door.

  “Yes?” Will’s voice sounded from behind the door.

  She opened the door and found Will by the fireplace, occupied with the belt of his banyan. No sleeping cap on his perfectly handsome head—excellent. A husband. Her husband. How wonderful to have him here, in such an intimate, matrimonial setting. She could remember him there, forever, looking masculine and unshaven. And tangling his belt into a knot.

  The click of the door closing reclaimed his attention and he flicked a glance over her. “You’re dressed for bed.”

  “Yes.” Unaccustomed to cursory glances, she looked down at her dressing gown.

  “It’s early yet,” he murmured. “Don’t let me upset your routine.”

  “I retire early in the country.”

  Will was grumbling under his breath, his attention on the knot at his waist.

  Oh, but this was fun! So fun and so wonderful and her heart would leap from her body any moment. “Is there something wrong?”

  “The valet tied this oddly. I’m not used to them as it is.”

  “Valets?”

  “Robes. And yes, valets, too.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t usually wear them, but considering our arrangement…”

  “Oh. Just a nightshirt, then?”

  His fingers stilled. “Not exactly.”

  Her tongue felt glued to the top of her mouth. “Oh.”

  Intent on his belt, he worked the tangle apart and let the ends dangle, crossing his arms to hold his banyan closed. The breadth of his shoulders stretched the fabric taut over the cording of muscle beneath. “Michael seems a nice lad, but I don’t need help undressing.”

  She wrenched her gaze off his shoulders. “You mustn’t think you will offend if you forego his service. You might choose your own valet.”

  “Hm.”

  Will’s noncommittal answer was oddly sinking. But then, the poor man was exhausted—she must not read into his answers.

  He walked toward her and she tensed with anticipation, but with a polite duck of his head, he reached behind her to open the door to her bedroom and continued in. She followed, until he stopped to stare at the bed. He raked a hand through his hair, causing his dressing gown to gape open. The start of a smooth, strong shoulder gleamed in the wide V of his nightshirt.

  “A large bed,” he said.

  Stop ogling the man! “Yes.”

  His jaw tensed, but he kept his eyes locked on the coverlet. “You might want to reconsider, Charlotte. Sharing the bed. I don’t want to frighten you. When I dream, sometimes I cry out. My parents tell me it can be alarming.”

  “You will not frighten me.”

  “And I thrash about. My blankets are usually on the rug by morning.”

  “All right.”

  “Likely I snore.”

  “I don’t believe you do, actually.”

  “And I’m hot. My temperature. That can’t be pleasant.”

  She waited, fidgeting with the cuffs of her nightrail. It was not as if the man could dissuade her from sharing the bed.

  At last he looked full at her, from tip to toe, and his lips quirked in a small, almost reluctant smile. But he appeared rather more amused than enticed. Her toes curled in her slippers. There was nothing wrong with her gown. It was modest, buttoned at her chin and hanging to her ankles. And as usual, her hair was braided to keep the strands from her face. Did he not like her hair this way? Did he expect her to wear it loose? Did married women not braid their hair? Surely they must. Sleeping with her hair unbound would strangle them both.

  With an abrupt clearing of his throat that made her jump, Will made for the bed. “Well, good night.”

  “Oh. Did…did you wish for anything before you retire? Are you hungry or thirsty? There is water but if you wanted—”

  “I only want for sleep. Which side of the bed is yours?”

  “I sleep on the side nearest the fire.”

  He ignored her smile and sat on the bed, as if this were an everyday occurrence. She took a hesitant step toward him. Nothing was to happen, as tired as he was, but she so hoped for her kiss good night, even on the cheek. One loving gesture. Just so she might feel a little more of a bride’s happiness.

  And he had promised. But it seemed rath
er unkind to remind him of the prenuptial requirement when his lids were sinking.

  “Remember, Charlotte, if you feel me thrash about, take yourself away.”

  “I will.”

  He hesitated a moment more, then shrugged out of his dressing gown. The nightshirt only reached his knees. She caught a glimpse of muscled calves before he slid his legs under the covers.

  It was not kind to bother the man. Not only had he been forced to marry a completely superfluous woman, he was utterly exhausted. But could she—should she ask him for her good-night kiss? Would she ever be able to ask him again? “Will?”

  “Good night,” he mumbled from his pillow.

  “I—good night.”

  Will answered with a grunt that was either agreement or a snore. She turned down the lamps around the room until only the faint light from the fire remained.

  What now? It was early yet. She might read. Or write in her journal. Today was historic, after all—

  She flinched at a stab of pain behind her eye and rubbed her temple. Her eyes were wet.

  She might knit. Edward’s blanket was not yet done. She might read. She might…

  In her indecision, she stood still and waited for an answer to reveal itself. Will’s even breathing told her he was asleep. Tenderness flooded her at seeing his taut features relax, the whiskered edge of his jaw, the fine blue veins on his eyelids, dark with exhaustion.

  Her husband…her wedding night.

  He had not kissed her good night.

  She twisted the rings on her finger, then quickly removed them to her jewelry case. She would not think on it tonight. Very likely she would, later. Later there would be hours to understand. She would not think on it and allow herself to become depressed. This was what she had wanted, after all. Will as her husband. For a time.

  She hurried to her side of the bed and slid under the covers. Had she stretched her arm, she still would not have been able to touch him. He was nearly on the edge of the mattress.

  The fire crackled, the party continued downstairs, and Charlotte waited for the practicality of sleep to erase her foolish hope.

  Fifteen