“Charlotte.” He spoke louder this time, moving one hand to caress her bare breast.
“Ooh,” she squeaked, awake at last. She moved to rise up onto one elbow, but he pulled her atop him.
“We can’t be doing this,” she said, obviously noticing his renewed desire. “What time is it? I’ve got to get dressed.”
“There’s no need to be hasty. It’s only a little after eleven. That soirée we were supposed to attend will go until three o’clock, at least, so your brother is unlikely to expect you home anytime soon. Besides, I like your current state of undress.”
“Stop that.” She batted at his hand where it caressed her bare bottom. “Behave. I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“About how much longer I can stay here without raising suspicion.” She frowned and chewed her lip as she considered this.
“We have a few hours yet,” he coaxed. “I promise to get you home in good time.”
She still looked uncertain, so he decided to try a different method of persuasion. He rolled them over together so that he was now on top. In a swift motion, he lightly pinned both her wrists above her head with one hand, then ducked his head down so he could suckle her breast.
With a sigh, she surrendered to his plundering mouth, and soon, as he continued to lavish attention to the taut tip, she began to writhe as a soft moan escaped her. Finally satisfied that she was sufficiently distracted from thoughts of leaving, he slipped a hand between her legs, stroking her as he’d learned she liked. It didn’t take her long this time to make the climb toward ecstasy, but just before she got there she grasped his wrist tightly, pushing it away.
“No,” she gasped. “I want you now. Now.”
He needed no further invitation, entering her in one swift movement, then pausing to give her time to adjust to him, even though it taxed every ounce of his willpower. She, however, had other ideas—much better ideas—because she immediately began to move with a steady rhythm beneath him.
“Charlotte.”
The single word came out rough and raspy, but he hoped she could hear in it everything that was beyond his power to say just then.
I want you so badly…You feel so, so, sooo good…Oh my God, I’m in heaven…Oh. My. God.
He matched her movements, and it wasn’t long before they came together in the sweet oblivion of la petite mort.
They lay there for several minutes, bodies entangled in the aftermath of their lovemaking until, to his surprise, Charlotte began a curious exploration of his body.
“You’ve touched me everywhere, but I haven’t had the chance to do the same to you,” she said, running a slim finger across his chest, lightly teasing one of his nipples. “And since turnabout is fair play…”
He rolled onto his back, allowing her unfettered access to whatever part of him she wished to explore, which she did, slowly and deliberately, driving him mad with her touch.
Then when she’d taken him almost to the brink, and he was just about to flip her on her back and make love to her once more, she murmured, “I once saw this illustrated in a book, and I’ve always been curious…”
Before he could divine her intentions, she straddled him, taking him inside her as she smiled down at him with the look of a woman enjoying the ability to exercise her feminine power.
“Have I ever told you how much I appreciate those bluestocking tendencies of yours? And incidentally, I heartily approve of your choice of naughty reading material,” he managed to say, so aroused by this unexpected side of her that he could only speak the words as a series of breathless pants.
“I don’t believe you have,” she replied, her eyes studying him with a glint of supreme satisfaction. Then with a wicked smile, she added, “But I like the way you show your…appreciation.”
He’d thought their lovemaking couldn’t get any better, but the third time, with Charlotte acting as the aggressor, had taken them both to greater heights of passion than before.
“You’re a revelation, Charlotte,” he murmured against her neck. “But I’m not sure I can move from this bed anytime soon. Not for a week, at least.”
“I know how you feel,” she said, stirring from where she’d collapsed atop him. “But it’s getting late.”
“I know.” Reluctantly, he withdrew and moved to lie by her side, his head propped up on one hand. “I’ll go to Doctors’ Commons first thing tomorrow for a special license. We can be married by the end of the week.”
“What? No!” She struggled to sit up, drawing the sheet up to cover herself in a gesture of belated modesty. “You don’t need to do that. Nothing’s changed. I didn’t come to your bed expecting you to marry me.”
“I didn’t bring you to my bed expecting anything else,” he said, sitting up himself. “Surely you didn’t think I’d make love to you and then send you on your merry way.”
She bit her lip and avoided his eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated,” she said.
“Not feel obligated? What kind of dishonorable cur do you take me for?” he demanded. “One without a conscience?”
“I don’t think you’re dishonorable at all,” she said. “But the fact that we…did what we did doesn’t change our agreement in any way.”
“We made love, Charlotte, even though you can’t bring yourself to say it. And it changed our agreement in every way,” he shot back. “How can you think it doesn’t? What if you’re carrying my child?”
She stared at him a long moment, and he wondered if this possibility had even occurred to her. She swallowed. “If I’m carrying a child, then, of course, we must marry. But the possibility of that is slim. My own parents were married five years before my mother conceived Phillip. What are the chances it would happen after only one night?”
“I don’t know what the chances are, but I’ll tell you what I do know. We are getting married.”
Her chin jutted out defiantly. “No, we are not.”
He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. This was ludicrous. They were naked together, in his bed, after a glorious session of lovemaking, and they were fighting over whether or not they would marry. It was laughable, and yet the humor completely escaped him. At this point, a marriage between them shouldn’t be a question, it should be an inevitability. And yet it clearly wasn’t. Not to her, at least.
“Charlotte,” he said, trying to sound calm and reasonable, “I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this. If it’s some sort of postcoital regret, it doesn’t make much sense to me. I’m willing to marry you. I want to marry you. Why—” But he didn’t finish the question because she’d gathered the sheet about her and climbed out of the bed. She made her way over to her chemise where it lay on the untidy jumble of his own clothes on the floor.
She scooped it up, and turning her back to him, dropped the sheet before jerking the garment over her head. Then she walked over to the chair and donned her petticoat. She grabbed the stays and tried to fasten them, but failed.
She looked close to tears, and though he was frustrated himself, he said, “Hang on a moment, and I’ll help you.” Without attempting to cover himself—because really, after what they’d done together, what was the point?—he picked up his shirt and drew it over his head, then located his trousers and put them on.
He did up her stays, then helped her don her dress. She tied the tapes, but was helpless to button it without his assistance. She turned to him, “Please,” she said.
He buttoned her up and then they finished dressing in silence.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” he asked. “Why you’re so opposed to marrying me after what we just shared?” He stopped and closed his eyes, trying to contain his growing anger and hurt. “Is there something you haven’t told me? Did I do something to offend you?”
She stared at him and it was obvious she was on the brink of tears, but he refused to drop the matter. He wanted answers. “Because I don’t understand your
response, and if it’s something I did, tell me, so I can make it right.”
She just shook her head sadly. “It’s nothing you did. I didn’t mean to mislead you when I agreed to come to your room with you.”
“Then what was this about? Surely marriage is the obvious conclusion to what happened here. In my bedroom. In my bed.”
“It was never about marriage. It was only about tonight,” she said. “You know we’re ill-suited—”
“Oh, that won’t wash, Charlotte.” He raked a hand through his hair. “That won’t wash at all.” He came to stand before her. “We are so well-suited, that as angry as I am right now, I want nothing more than to spend the rest of the night in that bed”—he flung his arm up and pointed to that particular piece of furniture to emphasize his point—“making love to you over and over and over until the morning comes, but I can’t do that because we aren’t married. Yet. Now if you’re not willing to marry me, I think I deserve an explanation.”
“I don’t have one beyond what I already offered,” she said, her voice soft and miserable. “But you refuse to accept it.”
“Because I know it’s not true, and I know that you know it, too. Whatever you believe makes us so ill-suited for one another can’t be so insurmountable that it rules out a marriage between us. Surely you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make this work. To make us work.” She didn’t respond, just continued to stand there, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He threw up his hands and began to pace around the room “I don’t know what is going on with you, why you’re being so stubborn and obstinate. If it’s some crazy notion about sexual freedom planted in your head by Serena, or if it’s something else, I wish you’d tell me, but I can see there’s no reasoning with you tonight. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. Tomorrow,” he repeated, “right after I visit Doctors’ Commons and get a special license.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Surprisingly, Charlotte didn’t cry that entire night. She didn’t shed a single tear, even though she felt constantly on the verge of turning into a complete watering pot. For some reason, the tears refused to come, even when she was back home and Sally helped her out of her evening gown and she was finally alone in the privacy of her own room. She wished she could have cried, that she could have sobbed out all the heartbreak that had threatened to overwhelm her from the moment she told William she wouldn’t marry him.
When Pemberton’s threat of ruin had forced her hand, somehow she’d convinced herself it would be easy to end things between them. Or if not easy, precisely, at least not this hard. Not this painful.
She tried not to think of the hurt she’d seen in William’s eyes, heard in his voice as he demanded she explain her refusal to marry him. Would it have made him feel any better if he’d known her heart was breaking into a thousand pieces? Would he have understood why she refused him in spite of that?
Sitting on her bed, her knees drawn up before her, her back resting against a nest of pillows, she closed her eyes and recalled the ghastly ride home from Berkeley Square. Neither had spoken to the other during that awful drive. William had sat stiff and angry, and she’d been seated across from him, remaining silent, since she knew there was nothing she could say to make him feel better. Not without telling him the truth, which she simply wouldn’t do. Not when she knew he’d sacrifice his political ambitions to save her. Still it had been horrible, knowing she was the cause of his anger, knowing it was justified, knowing that she didn’t blame him one bit for feeling it.
She’d been certain he’d offer to marry her, had expected him to insist upon it, because it was William and he would always do the right thing. But what she hadn’t anticipated was how hurt he’d be at her refusal to accept his offer of marriage. Not that it had been much of an offer, just an off-handed remark that he’d get a special license the next morning. But after all that had preceded that moment, it would have been silly for him to go down on one knee.
Nonetheless, he’d been hurt by her repeated refusals. Deeply, deeply hurt. And that had surprised her. Shocked her, really, because he’d never—not once in all the times they’d kissed or when he’d brought up the possibility of considering a real engagement or tonight when they’d made love—not once had he ever mentioned the word love. Not once.
If he had, maybe she’d have chosen to handle Pemberton’s blackmail differently. Or maybe not. She honestly didn’t know, but speculation was pointless now. She’d set a course and she must see it through.
She just hoped that in the coming days at Chartwell she could find a way to despise herself less. Perhaps if William received the chairmanship, she would feel her actions had been justified. If he didn’t…well…she had to believe this was still the best course for both of them in the long run.
One good thing about being unable to cry out her misery and heartbreak in those wee hours of the night was that the notes she wrote to Serena, Phillip, Elizabeth, Lydia, and finally, to William, remained free of teary ink splotches. In them, she explained as best she could that she’d decided to end the engagement, but since she could hardly offer the truth, she justified it with the reservations she’d expressed to William earlier in their charade.
William and his sisters would surely be disgusted by her decision to end it so abruptly. Phillip would be puzzled and disappointed, but she’d give him the true explanation someday. Not now though, for fear he’d tell William the truth, and then William would insist on protecting her rather than himself.
For the same reason, she didn’t reveal the whole truth to Serena, but she did ask Serena to break the news to Edwina and the Duchess of Rochester. Given the ripple effects of gossip, word of her broken engagement would likely be all over town by this evening, though she would be well away from London by then. She planned to leave for Chartwell at first light this morning.
It was cowardly of her to bolt like this, but it had taken every ounce of her resolve to maintain her refusal to marry William to his face. She wouldn’t be able to repeat the process with her friends and family, much less the rest of the ton. She simply couldn’t.
She piled the finished notes on her dressing table. It was nearly five o’clock. Dawn wasn’t far off and she needed to choose some outfits to take with her to Chartwell. She pulled a valise from the bottom of the wardrobe and threw in some garments, not particularly caring what. Soon she’d rouse Sally to help her dress, and she wanted to have everything ready for her escape.
* * *
Arriving at the Hurst home the next morning, William was met by Hopkins, who, after giving William the briefest of narrow-eyed glares in response to his request to speak with Miss Hurst, led him to the sitting room. Left to cool his heels, William paced about the room, wondering what had roused Hopkins’s animosity.
Had Charlotte appeared at the breakfast table red-eyed from crying? Guilt pinched at him. She’d appeared on the brink of tears during their argument, but later, in the carriage, she’d been composed enough sitting across from him, holding herself so stiffly she might have been a statue save for the unavoidable movement of her body in response to the usual jouncing caused by rough pavement or the coach’s turnings.
What a ghastly ride it had been. Even the memory of it pained him greatly. He wanted nothing more than to make things right between them—whatever it took—to bridge the emotional gulf that had existed between them on that ride. The ride had been all the more wrenching because of its stark contrast to all the other rides they’d been on together.
But to make things right, he had to know what lay behind her refusal to marry him after she’d come so willingly to his bed. On the face of it, it made no sense.
She was holding something back.
She had to be, because he was well aware of her resistance to the idea they could have a future together. She’d expressed her objections often enough. So why had she exhibited no reluctance to going upstairs to his bedroom, knowing what was about
to happen? Knowing it must presage a marriage between them? She couldn’t have misjudged him so badly that she didn’t expect him to insist upon it, could she?
Surely not. So where was the logic of her actions? He couldn’t see it. Couldn’t grasp how one got from point A—they were too ill-suited to marry, and then arrive at point B—his bed, where she was an enthusiastic participant in the most intimate of acts between a man and a woman.
Which was why he didn’t intend to leave this room until she told him—truthfully—why she refused to have him as her husband, but was perfectly amenable to accepting him as her lover.
He went to the window and stared out at the street below. The sun shone brightly now, glinting diamond-like off the few puddles left from last night’s rain. If not for that rain, there would have been no quarrel between them, because there would have been no need to seek shelter in his residence.
Water under the bridge, he thought with bitter irony.
But the truth was, the only thing he regretted about last night was that it had led to this schism between them.
“Hopkins said you were looking for Charlotte.”
William whirled around. Phillip Hurst stood in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically somber.
“Yes. I need to speak with her, and if she’s asked you to dismiss me, I must insist—”
“She’s not here, Norwood.” Hurst walked farther into the room. “She’s up and left.”
William could only stare at the other man. A strange buzzing began in his ears and for a moment, he felt as if the floor tipped sideways. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he struggled to draw in a breath. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when the words refused to come, and opened it again, this time to inhale a ragged breath.
“So you didn’t know,” Hurst said, a look of concern coming over his face. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean ‘she’s up and left’? Left for where?” he demanded.
Not the Kind of Earl You Marry Page 29
