One Night Is Never Enough

by Anne Mallory

She sealed her lips together and managed a bored, somewhat aloof expression, trying to look uninterested. She wanted to leave the group and distance herself from the conversation yet was unable to do so because she might miss what was said. She had to hear what was said.

  She was beginning to understand what emotions might go through her father’s head when spirits were placed in front of him after a long day without.

  “Such a sweet girl,” Mrs. Tapping smiled, a sneer beneath her curved lips, at the girl’s question. “He is only one of the richest and blackest people in the city.”

  Mrs. Johnson looked excited, intrigued, and perturbed, in equal measures, as her eyes narrowed in his direction. “Are you sure it is he?”

  Mrs. Tapping nodded, more than pleased by the group’s response and delighted at being the center of the attention. “I’m quite sure. He met with Mr. Tapping a few weeks ago, and I observed his entrance.”

  Mrs. Tapping preened under the admission. As if having one’s menfolk on the edge of danger was a good thing, desirable and nervy, even as speaking to that danger, as a woman, would be disastrous.

  “And?” The younger girl gritted her teeth at the response she had received.

  “And Mrs. Johnson will be cut something fierce if she engages with him, you silly twit. No matter how handsome and angelic he looks.”

  “Why?” The girl gazed in his direction, her features showing her displeasure with the conversation, taking it out on the subject. “He looks completely at ease and in control speaking to Mr. Delaney. And Mr. Delaney looks eager.”

  “Money, you twit. He has money. Of course Mr. Delaney is speaking to him eagerly. Where that money comes from is the issue.”

  Mrs. Tapping was in her element. None of the older matrons who would squash the conversation were in their vicinity. She was setting herself up as the lady who knew things.

  The young woman stared mutinously for a moment before giving in, asking the question her more timid friends obviously wanted to know as well. “Where?”

  “Hells, debts, prostitutes, crime, underground and back-alley slaves. They say if you don’t watch yourself around the Merrick brothers, you can disappear from the streets—just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “And wake up in a brothel, chained to the hold of a ship, or worse.”

  Charlotte caught her tongue between her teeth, hard. She wanted to ask what exactly would be worse to wake up to. To see if Mrs. Tapping even had anything in mind, or if she was just making things up as she went.

  She shook her head. Fiction mixed with fact was often the most engaging. Where the two separated in the accusations surrounding the blond man was the question.

  “You have something to add, Miss Chatsworth?” Mrs. Tapping’s eyes narrowed upon her at the shake of her head.

  Charlotte continued her cool look. “I don’t believe even a king’s ransom would buy entry into an event like this if one dealt in slave traffic—especially of the kind you are implying. Otherwise, the Delaneys, and all of the rest of us by our compliance, potentially would be providing bodies for their use, would we not?”

  She felt amusement sift over her. Amusement that was not her own—nor that of any of the women in the circle. She tried to push it away and flicked the petal caught between her fingers to the ground as well.

  “I doubt the Delaneys would begin this venture with such a taint.” She was defending the Delaneys, not him.

  “Why don’t you put your considerable reputation on the line, Miss Chatsworth, and introduce yourself and ask him in order to make sure?” Mrs. Tapping said sweetly. “Go to his lair and see if you make it out unscathed.”

  The amusement curled again, seeping within her this time. She would cause the entire circle an apoplectic fit should she reveal that she had already visited his lair and survived, thank you very much.

  “I do not remember expressing interest in meeting him, Mrs. Tapping.” She smiled calmly. She hoped that Miranda too was feeling absurd amusement that there was no need for Charlotte to meet him. “I was merely expressing doubt about the aspersions on a man attending an event such as this. You insinuate we are in moral and physical peril, yet the man is here on a mission to assist the very people you claim he violates.”

  She tried to rein the feeling in, but the amusement remained, coiling and entreating her to open herself to more. Aloof, cool Charlotte Chatsworth—laughing? People would run screaming.

  “Bah, Miss Chatsworth. Money. And the ability to whitewash it.”

  “Just need to wash the chaff away, is that it?” she asked lightly.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, I still think—” Mrs. Johnson started.

  “I think you should, Mrs. Johnson.” Mrs. Tapping smiled unpleasantly at her once and still-current rival, irritation that she had lost partial control of the conversation apparent. “Introduce yourself to him, please, and engage his interest.”

  Mrs. Johnson pinched her lips together. “Watch your tone, Mrs. Tapping. I am off to speak with Mrs. Delaney.”

  And likely to see if she could figure out a way to meet and seduce Roman Merrick without scandal. Mrs. Johnson didn’t have the social cachet to pull it off though, or the sense to remain quiet about it.

  Someone who stood above the social fray could do most anything she wanted, but the members of the presently formed circle were all unfortunately in the social fray. Except Miranda, but Charlotte didn’t think Downing would be too chuffed to sanction his wife having an affair, and Downing was the reason she was above the fray.

  Charlotte shook her head at the ridiculous thoughts.

  The circle shifted to close Mrs. Johnson’s vacated space. Mrs. Tapping looked marginally more pleased at the interested looks on the remaining faces.

  “You said brothers? There are more?” One of the younger women was looking a little nervous, suddenly seeing pitfalls she hadn’t expected. “Are the others here?”

  Mrs. Tapping tossed her head and leaned forward. “There is just one other. He doesn’t enter society, though. You’d have to venture into one of the hells or—have something happen to you—to see him.”

  Which meant the woman had no idea what Andreas Merrick looked like. Charlotte nearly smiled, thinking about the reaction if she were to suddenly describe him.

  Why the devil am I even thinking such thoughts?

  What she should really be examining is how much more dire the news that she had spent the night with Roman Merrick would be if discovered. Her amusement vanished. And even if it looked as if she was going to get away with last night’s adventure . . . a vision of a white crown flashed. Her reputation was far from safe.

  The conversation continued and moved to parallel topics, but Charlotte was having trouble paying attention. She wondered which was worse—the old, distended, empty balloon inside her or the new, uncontrollable, uncomfortable maelstrom of excitement and fear?

  Miranda skillfully shifted and excused them so that they were walking toward a refreshment table a few minutes later.

  “Well, that explains your rather stilted entry,” Miranda said in a low voice, trying to keep her eyes forward. Obviously trying to fight the urge to stare at a particular person on the periphery of the yard path. She was rather a circumspect woman usually, not taken to watching others. And Charlotte knew that the urge to stare would be springing from Miranda’s curiosity and protectiveness, not from the revolting, sweet, or excited (in the dangerous man in our midst kind of way) glances the other women had cast.

  “And that explains Georgette’s physical description of him,” Miranda muttered.

  Charlotte looked at her. “I thought you knew who he was,” she murmured.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Heard of him, yes. But putting faces to names is Georgette’s hobby, not mine,” she said, speaking of her friend.

  “Where is Georgette, by the way? I thought she’d be here,” Charlotte asked, trying to change the subject as they neared the area where Roman stood, the hair on the back of her neck lift
ing on end as they passed within a breadth of him. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead.

  Charlotte swallowed and forced other thoughts. Miranda’s friend, Georgette, was a wealthy merchant’s daughter. Charlotte hadn’t thought on her absence yet, as they weren’t friends outside of knowing Miranda, but they got on well enough.

  “No. She is in Dover helping her father. Nearly had apoplexy when she realized her schedule would prevent her from returning for this.” Miranda let silence fall until they were safely past him. “So . . . so that is he?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte answered almost unwillingly.

  A paused beat. “I must say that if you did give in to—”

  “Miranda!” she hissed.

  “Well, he is incredible-looking.” She tapped her chin, feet moving steadily forward. “Not as handsome as Maxim, of course, but an unattached girl would be left to wonder—”

  “Miranda!”

  A sound emerged from Miranda, a sound which quickly turned into a small giggle before she coughed into her hand. Her friend grabbed two cups and led them into a less-populated area. She was unsuccessfully trying to hide her grin.

  Charlotte felt the urge—inexplicable, horrific, and uncharacteristic—to cross her arms in public. “Just because he is pretty doesn’t mean anything for his character.”

  The humor immediately wiped from Miranda’s face. “Oh, Charlotte. You are too right. Forgive me?”

  Charlotte took one of the cups from her and looked to the men again. “There is nothing to forgive. I’m just having a little trouble with everything at the moment.”

  Great. Roman Merrick seemed to have permanently loosened her floodgates. Admissions kept slipping through.

  A small hand slipped over her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Of course you are. And I was only jesting with you because you seem far from scared of the man. You defended him, in fact, and seemed amused.” She looked as if she was going to say something else but was thankfully cut off by their host.

  “Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen.” Mr. Delaney clapped his hands. “We want to welcome you to our small gathering, and we hope to welcome your time and pocketbooks as well.”

  A genial round of laughter followed.

  “If you could gather round, Mrs. Delaney would like to outline our plans.”

  The various groups gathered more closely together, though separations remained. Charlotte could feel Roman standing no more than a dozen paces away, the bodies in between them no more than shifting mist.

  It was fortunate that she knew of the plans already as she couldn’t concentrate a whit on what was being said.

  “And I can’t help but notice,” Miranda whispered, a smile about her lips again as she pretended to be paying attention to their hostess, “that he shifts his body every time you move. Always keeping you in view.”

  “Stop watching him,” she hissed back.

  Mrs. Delaney spoke for a good fifteen minutes about their plans to allocate resources. Though her father would reluctantly fork over the minimum amount to keep up appearances, gambling or borrowing it from somewhere, Charlotte always volunteered her time instead to these endeavors.

  Charity work made her feel useful and alive. Not so empty and on display.

  Other people would be far more generous with their pocketbooks, some because they truly cared and others in order to make public their act of generosity.

  People like Roman Merrick . . . he’d probably donate a substantial amount, then use the fact later either to gain favors or leniency, when needed.

  She narrowed her eyes. Like buying off patrolmen.

  Another fifteen minutes of questions and answers, and the gathering drew to a close, people having other appointments and gatherings to attend.

  Throughout it all, Roman had been surrounded by people, yet somehow still occupied his own place. Attracting and repelling.

  She walked with Miranda to the open doors, prepared to leave.

  A hand brushed her waist.

  “Pardon me, ladies.” His voice slipped over her, just as his hand brushed her sleeve, over the handle of her bag, almost connecting to the fabric covering the inside of her elbow.

  She could see in her periphery that Miranda had tilted her head to him, watching him with a slight pull of the right side of her lips. But Charlotte couldn’t look. No good would come from it. She could feel the pull of his eyes, just as she had in the Hunsdens’ shop, or sitting across from him, lying across from him, his eyes pulling her to him, brushing his lips across hers as his fingers wrapped hers around an ivory claim.

  Absolutely no good would come of meeting his eyes.

  She looked directly into eyes that seemed to reflect the sky today. The edges creased in pleasure, then he was gone, disappearing into the belly of the house.

  If only he were a man of the ton. This man who could so easily stir emotion in her. Emotions that had been steadily deadening, pocketed only for Emily, then opening to include Miranda as well.

  But he wasn’t a man of the ton. And she wasn’t a silly young girl.

  Miranda looked at her speculatively as they walked down the drive.

  “Yes, Lady Downing?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking that you looked much as I probably did two years past,” she uttered nonchalantly.

  Charlotte’s brows drew into a frown. “What do you mean?”

  Miranda shrugged, the smile still about her lips. “Charlotte, it’s hard to tell with you much of the time, but that didn’t look like fear on your face when he brushed past you. In fact, I distinctly remember Georgette commenting on my expressions when Maxim and I were first getting to know each other, and I would bet ten pounds that many of them looked just like that one.”

  Charlotte’s feet stuck to the ground for a full ten beats, and laughter spilled from her friend, who continued to walk jauntily down the drive, a smug smile about her lips.

  Her friend who believed in eternally happy endings, when Charlotte knew that life rarely provided them. That one wasn’t likely in store for her.

  But she couldn’t stop her heart from racing minutes later when she reached into her reticule for her handkerchief and withdrew a note. There was only one word upon the page.

  Soon.

  Chapter 9

  The Lancaster soiree was in full swing. Music spilled through the open doors and onto the patio beyond. People laughed gaily or talked in low, charged tones—forming ties—social and political.

  Bethany Case pretended not to notice Charlotte as she and her group of followers cut directly in front of Charlotte’s path. Charlotte simply waited for them to pass before continuing on.

  “Look at her. Far prettier than any of the other girls. Carries herself like a duchess too.”

  Charlotte kept the stiff smile firmly in place as she passed her father holding “court.” She nodded to the group and fought the bile that twisted up her throat. The swirling feelings had been colliding against each other all day.

  “Can you imagine the heirs?” A broodmare. “Stock like that . . . you can see it.” A porcelain vase. “Brought her up right too. Knows her position.” A mannered hostess who would turn the other cheek to indiscretions without comment or messy emotion. Her father had had an indiscretion for nearly all her lifetime.

  She felt the chill invade, a chill that never seemed to dissipate anymore at these events. Her father’s behavior had mortified her once, but she was well used to it now. He used her future stock, her promise in the eyes of the ton, to get away with increasingly bad behavior.

  She thought on Roman Merrick’s words to her instead. His words about beauty—that there was something far more interesting about her than her form and face.

  Her smile tightened. Plagued by thoughts of him, even now, even here, in a place he couldn’t touch.

  She kept her feet moving toward the refreshment table, wishing she could find a beverage spiked with whatever concoction he had poured. The drink had curled down her throat and coated her insid
es, allowing her nerves to settle without making her drunk.

  “Miss Chatsworth.” Mr. Trant stepped before her, lifting her hand. “A pleasure to see you this eve looking so well.”

  She tilted her head, keeping her breathing even. “Mr. Trant.”

  He surveyed her, as if he could determine from the perusal whether she had been ruined the night before. Ruined, sullied, despoiled. A favorite crystal vase blemished by muddied hands.

  He held up an arm and set her hand on it. “If you would do me the honor?”

  She hesitated, but Trant’s arm tightened under her loose fingers. She nodded, and he swiftly moved them into the natural lanes around the floor where people had been treading paths all night. She felt odd holding on to his arm. Which was strange, since it was a natural gesture and position. Indeed, there were at least ten other couples engaged in a similar stroll. But she felt heated eyes watching her from somewhere, and her instinct was to push Trant away.

  Ridiculous. She tried to shake off the thought. There were always eyes on one during an event. Even the least-watched wallflower was observed some of the time. It was the gossipmonger’s way to pick out even the most insignificant tidbit. And walking a path with a gentleman wasn’t insignificant. Nothing extreme, no, but worthy of comment all the same.

  “You look beautiful tonight, Miss Chatsworth.” Unspoiled.

  She thought of the conversation in the night regarding the state of a woman’s virginity. Roman Merrick had said . . . Her free fingers caught the skirt of her dress, clutching the fabric.

  Stop thinking of him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Trant. You look handsome as well.” And he did. Though his eyes were sharp and glittering. Always trying to find the flaw he had yet to discover.

  She couldn’t imagine relaxing around a chessboard with this man. Oh, she had a feeling chess was a game he relished. Not for the pleasure of the game but to destroy his opponent.

  Roman played to win as well, and was by far the more dangerous man overall. Still, there was an ease she had found with him, despite, or maybe between, the cracks of danger. Bewildering.