One Night Is Never Enough

by Anne Mallory

  “Like a frog. Without those . . . those flippers!” the man next to her said.

  She could feel the slip of paper she had found that afternoon after her chat with her father. A bit of parchment tied around another spiked, red-veined flower. She could feel it as if it were still in her fingers—bare digits crinkling the page—instead of tucked inside her gown, next to her breast. The feel of something exotic and forbidden in the scrawl.

  She swallowed and turned to Marquess Binchley, whose eyes were already reddened in drink. A familiar sight. “My apologies, my lord,” she said softly. “What were you saying?”

  She could feel those other eyes on her though. Amused. Possessive. Forbidden and desired. Stripping her bare. Pausing on the line of her neck and the underside of her chin.

  “Wash it,” the marquess said, startling her, waving his arms—a whirligig motion that caused her to pull back lest she be whacked. “Then when it finds the worm it drowns in the puddle. Like a toad.”

  “How true, my lord.”

  For the crowd, she had made sure to react for the last thirty minutes as if every utterance concerning toads and frogs had the makings of a glorious sonnet.

  The moment Roman Merrick disappeared from the crowd, though, her smile started cracking. She knew he had disappeared because she couldn’t feel him anymore. The thought made her slightly hysterical.

  But the shadows of the gardens reached toward her all the same. Whispering of escape. Of finding him.

  There was no easy way to extricate herself from Binchley, though. Even if, drunk as he was, he would take no notice of her leaving, others would. And there were definitely people watching. Avidly. She had carefully cultivated it to appear as if the two of them were having an involved conversation. She’d seen her father’s pleased nod and Trant’s narrowed eyes.

  Binchley took another drink. “Can’t find toads in the sky.”

  “It is not known to be their natural habitat,” she answered, trying to keep her attention on Binchley instead of searching the crowd—or thinking on the repercussions of the always full glass in the marquess’s hand.

  And it only made the whisper of words uttered in the dark of night that much more potent. That Roman read her desires so correctly and said all of the right things.

  But were his words true?

  She could stay here, on this path, or she could embrace the opportunity to find out. So when Miranda peeked into the box, she grasped onto her like a dying woman given a last request. “Lady Downing!”

  Miranda’s brows shot straight up. Which meant that Charlotte had successfully convinced her friend that they were having a grand time as well.

  “Lord Binchley. Miss Chatsworth.” Miranda ducked inside. “I hope you don’t mind the interruption.”

  “No, not at all.” Charlotte hoped her tangled emotions weren’t as obvious as the sucking whirlpool pushing them out from within.

  “Leeady Downing. Pleasant.” Then Binchley frowned. “Frogs.”

  Miranda opened her mouth for a second before the words emerged. “A pleasure, yes, Lord Binchley. I say, let me grab Downing. I believe he wished to speak with you.”

  Miranda disappeared, and Charlotte smiled more genuinely at the man next to her, wild anticipation squeezing her belly, mixed with the heady relief of escape and the fear of the uncertain.

  He muttered something unintelligible, and when Downing ducked inside, looking first to Charlotte, then her companion, Binchley gave a sloppy salutation.

  Downing shifted from the shadows and into the light, dark clothing and hair making him look like a demon sweeping up an appalling minion. “Binchley. Your mother is searching for you. Said something about an appointment.”

  “Dragon,” he muttered, but shakily stood. “Worse than frog puddles.”

  Downing’s face gave away nothing as he stepped into Binchley. But suddenly Binchley was closer to Charlotte, his arm in front of her. Binchley stared at his limb as if unsure how it came to be there.

  Charlotte wrapped her hand around it and conveyed wordless gratitude to Downing. He gave a tiny nod and propelled Binchley forward.

  They walked out. Downing bowed to Miranda, which caused Binchley to mirror the action to Charlotte, then Downing was leading the stumbling man away.

  Miranda claimed Binchley’s abandoned spot, hooking her arm with Charlotte’s as they walked through the crowd behind the boxes.

  Miranda bit her lip. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

  Charlotte nodded at the question, unable to part her lips. Why was she anxious now? Because the end was imminent? A timetable finally in place? She was no more or less than any of the other girls in society, no matter what her father said. She knew her fate.

  But she suddenly couldn’t open her mouth.

  “Oh dear.” Miranda worried her lip, but Charlotte said nothing, still unable. “Your father gave you—”

  “I don’t wish to speak of him.” The words rushed out. A light, feathery breeze brushed her skin. No golden hair in sight, but she could feel him somewhere, again, out there on the grounds.

  “Very well.” Neither said anything for a long moment. “Separate Binchley from his mother, and I think he could be up to snuff,” Miranda said tentatively.

  Life with Marquess Binchley stretched before her—easy to manage if she could unpin him from his mother’s thumb, but drowning in whiskey and gin. And eventual debt, again. The peerage ran under a different set of rules though, which meant they could get into even deeper debt than the rest of society.

  “He is an eighth-generation title,” Miranda continued in an upbeat voice. “Proper. And he’s young. Room to grow.”

  Far younger than Tewksbury, who was old enough to be her grandfather.

  Maybe she should run away to the country seat of the Duke of Knowles. Throw herself upon his mercy. A recluse she’d never have to see. Or continue running, straight out of England.

  Or straight into the alleys behind an east-side hell.

  Her heart sped unnaturally and she missed a step, out of rhythm.

  “We were going to take a stroll when two boys walked by saying that you looked like you needed an escape,” Miranda said. “I thought it odd but decided to check. I’m glad I did.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Charlotte murmured, paying attention to Miranda’s emotional support instead of her words, trying to dam her inner turmoil. She should stay and seek out Tewksbury. Listen to the rumors concerning Knowles. Find her father and put herself forward for the slaughter.

  She had never expected a different life. She was bred for this. She was Charlotte Chatsworth.

  Yet her feelings continually betrayed that cool pride. The two very different needs pressing against her.

  “Do you wish to walk with us? I’ll warn you that we will likely find trouble with that lot.” Miranda pointed to a group gathered along the side of the main walk.

  The smart choice was to stay.

  She gripped Miranda’s arm in hers and walked from the trapping society crowd and toward the maelstrom instead.

  The group, comprised mostly of Downing’s relatives and friends of said relatives, called out lively greetings. She always enjoyed standing near them, soaking in their excitement and innocence—even the innocence of the more mischievous ones. Free-spirited and delighted with life. A chance for Charlotte to watch a lovely, vibrant play even through her immovable pane of glass.

  Cracking glass. She let loose a breath, trying to free some of her swirling emotions with it. Downing rejoined them, which set the boisterous group in motion. Charlotte walked alongside—not looking for her father or one of her suitors.

  Trying not to look for him. Though she knew he was there, somewhere. Could feel the charge of charmed danger.

  She concentrated on listening to the younger ones gossip and laugh. Admiring the lights and well-trimmed gardenscapes.

  Trying to pretend that she was someone else.

  That was the beauty of Vauxhall. The ever-present whisper of escape
. There was something in the clinging shadows that whispered of freedom—something even the well-lit paths couldn’t banish. It would be so easy to slip away.

  And many took the opportunity. Though with each passing year, as the collars grew higher and the undergarments grew more restrictive, so too did it seem that society pinched its legs and mouths more firmly together. It had been far easier to slip away without soiling one’s reputation in her first year than it was now. She wondered what it would be like in ten. Would simply stepping a foot into the shadows constitute a breach?

  But many couples vanished for a few moments here and there. The ones who had an easier road. Or were more reckless.

  Or who had an urge that could not be denied. A stirring that needed outlet. A distention that needed ease.

  Relief.

  She nodded at something Miranda said, and the group walked down the main corridor. Downing’s youngest brother whispered something—undoubtedly wicked—and pulled the younger males, groaning, with him toward the lake. Up to no good, that lot.

  Downing looked after them with narrowed eyes, but Miranda nudged him hard in the ribs, and, with a grunt, he continued moving forward. There was a set of well-used paths to the right. Crowned in half-light, they led to darker areas, but also looped around to the main road. Perfectly safe to travel in a group. They veered off. Downing’s sister and her two friends took the fountain path, chattering about men and bonnets.

  That left Charlotte with Miranda and Downing, who were sharing some personal amusement over the split path in front of them. Downing’s brows cocked, Miranda blushed. Charlotte felt a thread inside of her tighten and stretch. The shadows whispered giddily around her.

  A draft of wind lifted a leaf from the hedgerow and set it swirling into the air, a fluttering voice whispering of other things. Wicked suggestions in the dark.

  Light laughter brought her musings back to her surroundings—and her present company. Two wonderful people who had found each other across a barrier she had thought insurmountable.

  Charlotte looked at the fork and took a step away from the Downings. She stopped, but the urge pushed at her, some reckless need lifting within her, pushing from the pit.

  It was folly to leave the Downings’ company. Especially with Trant, her father, and Bethany prowling the grounds. Who knew what she would find—or who would find her—if she ventured off on her own for a few minutes.

  She wasn’t an idiot. Nor a girl green from the country.

  And yet she heard her voice murmuring—“I think I will examine the vines around the corner. Shall we meet at the statue of Venus?”

  Miranda gave her a look of complete adoration for giving them a few private moments, then looked back at her husband.

  Charlotte didn’t wait for a verbal response, or a sensible denial, but stepped around the hedged path, moving into the shadows. She took a few quick strides before she stopped, breathing more heavily than her pace required.

  She wished she could lean her head against the coiling bindweed, but it would snag her hair and ruin her coiffure. What was alarming was her urge to do so anyway. She closed her eyes momentarily, curled her fingers around the creased paper she had hidden, and gave a shaky laugh.

  She examined the area. It was darker here, of course. She had never trod this path in the night, but she knew it well enough from daytime strolls. It would reconnect with the path the Downings were taking. It would provide seclusion and a way back to her companions.

  A giggle rose behind the hedge. It pulled at her wishes and pushed her resolve. She strode forward along the path. If she were discovered here alone, the Downings would cover for her. The proverbial carriage wheel would skip right over them. And her own reputation allowed enough stretch that she could talk her way out of a first infraction as long as she wasn’t caught with her skirts over her head. Life would be more difficult afterward, especially with her father, but then too she might not even be caught at all.

  Such was the risk of a gamble. Corruption coating perfect thoughts.

  She approached a deep alcove and unoccupied bench—the only bench along this path. She touched the stone before sitting, as a wet bum would do her little good. Music penetrated the thick branches with the distant sound of merriment—but didn’t drown the sound of the crickets and other night critters, whose chirping increased as she relaxed.

  The sounds of foliage brushing and bending suddenly met her ears. Flurries lifted in her stomach. Heavy footsteps crunched along the path.

  She tensed. The heaviness of the sounds indicated the approaching person possessed little stealth. And it was one set of footsteps, not two, which ruled out the Downings.

  She positioned her body to swing around the bench. To hide behind it in stupid panic. But the footsteps stopped and abruptly changed paths, echoing away. She clenched the stone. What was she doing, truly doing, here in the dark?

  The path to Venus. It had been written in a quick and scratchy scrawl.

  And here she was. Sitting amongst the hedges, waiting. Waiting. Just like any other boffleheaded chit hoping for a lover. The reckless urge reached up and pushed against everything she knew to be right.

  The urge had been pushing hard and fast ever since she’d met him.

  “Damn you, Roman Merrick,” she muttered, a tad bitterly, too low for anyone to hear, should they be near.

  “What did I do now?”

  She shot off the bench and whirled around, looking wildly about her, one hand clutched at her throat in terror and shock. Not seeing anyone standing, she wrenched her gaze back to the bench to see an arm propped on the stone, his bottom half hidden behind the bench.

  Lying back there the entire time.

  She did the only thing that occurred to her in her flurry of wild emotion. She moved forward and kicked him in what she assumed was his backside, cloaked in the shadows as he was. Incongruously, he started to laugh. She lifted her foot to kick him again, but he grasped her ankle. Heated fingers pierced through her stockings, touching her bare flesh through the netting as they wrapped around.

  “Don’t make me ruin your lovely dress in the grass.” Amusement laced his voice as he lifted her leg, pulling her off-balance and causing her to hop on the other. “Or do. It would greatly simplify matters, don’t you think?”

  “What the bloody hell are you doing back there?”

  “My goodness. Such gutter language on a lady so fine.” One finger stroked the underside of her calf. Up, up. She tried to pull her limb back, hopping more fiercely, arms whirling around to keep herself upright. “I hope you know other such words because there is simply nothing more divine than the idea of such a classy woman speaking foully as I thrust into her.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. “What?” she asked, her voice faint. Just like it always was when he uttered such things. Such promises. Making her think things that proper ladies didn’t.

  “I will, you know.” His fingers moved farther up, skimming the underside of her knees, reaching around her garters, dipping beneath the straps.

  She shivered as he put her foot on the top of the bench, pinning it with his other hand and rising to his knees, running his fingers farther up her leg, over her thigh. My God, he was so close, nothing to stop his fingers from reaching right into her. Her hands slapped down on his, and she could see him smile, his teeth catching the gleam of moonlight.

  “But you do know, don’t you, Charlotte?” He might as well have slithered onto the bench, pulling her to him, sliding her over his lap and pressing her down. “You came here—all on your own, knowing.”

  It was the simple truth. She had come, and he had found her.

  His hands were around her neck, and their bodies were pressed together everywhere. She couldn’t remember feeling such a tight-wound thrill—it emanated from the very core of her.

  “How did you do it?” she whispered.

  “Do what?” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and worked one leg around to the front of the bench, locking them
together fully so that she was riding his thigh.

  “Get behind me,” she breathed.

  “Mmmm . . . is that a request?”

  She didn’t answer, unable to respond as the firm feel of his muscular thigh gripped between hers. But against her neck she felt his lips open into a smile.

  “How do you know I wasn’t here before you? Waiting?” he asked, moving just the slightest bit so that she slid an inch farther down his thigh, pulling her slowly into place.

  “You weren’t.” Her voice barely emerged.

  “So you were daydreaming so intently that I managed to slip behind you? Why not simply slip up your skirts instead? Take you while you were thinking of other things.” His lips touched her ear, whispering, “Thinking of me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of you.” She tried not to think of his thigh, which was already up her skirts and burning her below.

  She felt his smile again, tracing the curve of her neck, knowing her lie. “I will have to change that then.”

  “Why do you care? Truly?” she whispered. Some men liked to collect beautiful things, she knew. And his personal space had spoken to a taste for the expensive, but he seemed particular in his acquisitions. Or perhaps she just wished such. Dangerous thoughts were ever present around this man.

  “Let me ask you this instead, Charlotte—why did you come here? To this spot?”

  “I was walking with Mir—”

  Her breath caught as his hand trailed up one bent leg, beneath her dress, fingertips kneading the flesh of her thigh above the thin barrier of fabric that remained, so near to where her undergarments parted above him.

  “Let’s try that question again with a more truthful response, shall we?”

  “It is the truth.” She gripped his shoulders, staring over his shoulder, eyes unseeing, breath catching, wanting. “We were walking.”

  He drew a pattern up her thigh, long, sloping curves of figure eights that had to brush his thigh as well. “I want you to admit it. Again. Knowing that we are on even ground.”

  “Why?”