Startled, Charity almost dropped her fan. “W-why, yes,” she stammered. “Sitting quietly for a few moments was just the thing.” She had a moment of inspiration and handed him her empty glass. “And the lemonade really helped, I think.” She smiled at him as brightly as she could. “I don’t suppose you’d be a darling and go get me some more?”
The coquettish little smile and attempt to make sure they were in separate parts of the ballroom gave Lachlan even more reason to trust his instincts. He took the glass from her and smiled disarmingly. “Of course,” he replied, but drew her hand through his arm. “Walk with me. I do so enjoy your company.”
Charity kept the smile pinned to her face but looked away, pretending an absorbing interest in the other guests. She nodded at one or two acquaintances, then flipped open her fan and beat the air with it until they reached the refreshments table.
Securing two more glasses of lemonade, Lachlan guided her toward a small curtained alcove near the dance floor. Instant alarm set in. “Where are we going?” she asked, but then forced herself to calm down when she heard the breathy, urgent tone of her words.
“I thought it would be nice to sit and talk a few minutes,” Lachlan replied. “Unless you’d rather dance?” He turned as though looking for a place to set down their glasses.
“No, the alcove is fine, my lord,” she said. Numb, she wondered how early she could safely ask him to take her home without running the risk of encountering Faith and Gareth before they went to bed.
Lachlan made sure Charity was comfortably situated on a red brocade-upholstered sofa, and then handed her the lemonade. He sat beside her and sipped his own, watching her over the rim of his glass. Her misery was plain, despite the polite expression she was trying to maintain. He hid a smile, almost feeling sorry for her, then decided it was a perfect time to step up his game. “You seem . . . different.”
Charity looked down and forced herself to count to ten. “Perhaps it is the headache, my lord.”
He injected a note of worry into his voice. “Some air might do you good. Shall we take a turn on the terrace?”
“No!” Charity looked up, only to become lost in his inscrutable gray gaze. Her resolve softened, and she fought to keep her responses light. “I mean, no, thank you, my lord. I think a few moments of total silence would help me more than anything else.”
“Total silence? At a ball?” His eyes turned teasing. “You ask much of me, Miss Ackerly. That sounds like something your sister would ask of an escort.” He watched her closely. Charity’s lips twitched, but she showed no other outward reaction to his words. Lachlan found himself grudgingly admiring the way she held up under assault.
Inside, Charity was seething with anger at his second negative reference to her that evening. She stood, abruptly deciding that if he was going to insist on remaining at her side the dance floor would be a much better place to be. At least there she could pretend not to hear anything he said.
She opened her mouth to belatedly accept his request for a dance but closed it again in horror when she heard the butler bellow out the very last two titles she wanted to hear announced as arrivals to the ball: “The Earl and Countess of Huntwick!”
Charity’s eyes widened. In a near panic, she stepped over to the curtained opening and glanced at the curved staircase. Grace and Trevor were just descending, smiling and waving to friends and acquaintances. She turned back to Lachlan and smiled brightly. “You know, actually, I do think a walk on the terrace would be lovely.”
Fourteen
Forcing herself to keep her eyes straight ahead, Charity strolled out onto the terrace with Lachlan, wishing he would pick up the pace a bit so that they would be away from the wall of windows and doors that afforded anyone who cared to glance in that direction a splendid view of those guests taking advantage of the temperate London evening. When he moved to the railing and seemed rather inclined to stay, she cast desperately about in her mind for an excuse to get him to go to one end of the terrace or the other. At the same time, she wondered if Lachlan had heard the butler announce the names of her sister and brother-in-law. She slanted a sideways glance up at him but couldn’t tell from his profile as he stared out into the dark gardens.
She followed his gaze. The darkened gardens? Perfect.
Charity glanced back into the ballroom, hoping Grace would be waylaid by some of her many friends, and decided that spending some time alone with Lachlan was lesser of the two evils; her sister would discover her charade in a heartbeat. She let her hand slide from Lachlan’s arm and backed toward the three shallow stairs that led to a dimly lit pathway. “Let’s walk,” she suggested. “We can get a bit farther away from the noise and heat of the crowd.”
Lachlan almost smiled. And from your sister, he thought to himself. “Aren’t you concerned about what people might think if they see you disappearing into the night with me?”
Clearly not grasping his meaning, Charity shook her head and chanced another glance into the ballroom, checking if Grace’s distinctive red-gold head was anywhere in sight. “Lots of people are going,” she insisted, pointing at a couple descending before her. The furtive way they did so told Lachlan their intentions were definitely not chaste. Another perusal of Charity promised she had no idea why couples were slipping away.
He swept the terrace with a quick look. Few pairs remained outside, and those that did were engaged in conversation. If he was careful, he could shield Charity from them with his body until they reached the turn in the path that put them out of sight of the house. And then, while he had her alone, he could take the opportunity to shake her out of her charade.
“All right,” he said, and moved around to her right side to quickly usher her down the steps and onto the cobbled path.
Charity was surprised but grateful at how quickly he was suddenly moving. Lachlan led her around a curve and shrugged out of his jacket. “The air is a bit chilly,” he explained as he draped it over her shoulders. Instantly, his distinctive scent, an incredible, very male combination of leather, tobacco, and some elusive outdoorsy aroma she decided could only have come from Scotland, engulfed her. In one breath, Charity was carried back to that morning in the garden when he kissed her.
Lachlan didn’t even notice the sudden dreamy look on her face. He’d covered her with his jacket, his main intention to hide as much of her pale green dress as possible, but voices were coming toward them down the path. For the moment the couple was absorbed with each other, but he knew if they walked past there would be no way to hide Charity’s identity. Or, more correctly, Amity’s, since she was the twin everyone assumed he’d escorted to the ball.
Quickly he tugged Charity off the walkway and behind a hedge, then stepped around and positioned himself so the only thing any passersby could see was his back.
“What are you doing?” Charity demanded.
“Shhh,” said Lachlan, glancing over his shoulder.
“Don’t shush me,” she returned, and then gasped when he, realizing there was only one expeditious way to make her stop talking, pulled her suddenly against his chest. Without warning his lips descended on hers, stealing not only her words but her breath. Her eyes widened in shock for a moment, and she froze in his arms, desperately attempting to keep a firm grip on a reality quickly slipping from her grasp. His arms tightened around her, gathering her closer still. With a small surrendering whimper, she closed her eyes and melted against him.
Lachlan felt a strange surge of male triumph. Without thinking, he pressed his advantage and deepened the kiss, quite forgetting both his intention to keep her quiet and his earlier intention to force an admission that she was masquerading as her twin. He slanted his lips across hers and traced his mouth across her cheek to her earlobe, reveling in the sweetness of her ardor when she tilted her head to allow him access.
For Charity, at this moment in time, there was nothing else in the world except the two of them. Lachlan’s hands, large, long-fingered, and strong, pressed into her back, c
radling her against him. She felt safe, secure, and treasured. She felt the heat of his grip like a brand, even through the thick fabric of his coat and the thinner layers of her own garments, and she arched closer still, pressing her length against him, innocently stoking a fire entirely new to her.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely into the shell of her ear, stirring the tendrils of hair that curled there. “Just . . . like . . . that.”
Before she could respond, he took her mouth again, drawing the plump morsel of her lower lip between his teeth and bearing lightly down until she caught her breath. Laughing softly, he turned so that his back was to the hedge, protecting her from the discomfort of the leaves and branches. His hand moved up her back to slide into the silky mass of her hair, each strand gliding through his fingers like liquid gold. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in those fragrant tresses.
Utterly unable to form a coherent thought, Charity slid her palm up his torso to cup his cheek, opening her lips slightly in naive imitation of his actions. Her fingers followed the chiseled line of his jaw to the place their lips met. Lachlan growled and released her mouth, capturing her smallest finger between his teeth and then closing his lips around it to suckle gently before releasing it with a soft pop.
Charity buried her face in his chest, her humid breath escaping to bathe with warmth that hollow place between the twin planes of muscle. His fingers spread to cup her head and hold her there, his heart pounding against her cheek. With a tiny, whimpering sigh, she slipped both arms around his waist and stilled, more content than she’d ever felt in her entire life.
Lachlan, on the other hand, was coming to a swift, sobering realization. There was no doubt in his mind that the girl he’d just kissed was the same girl he’d kissed that morning at the Lloyd town house. There was also no doubt that this was Charity. Not her sister.
He closed his eyes a moment and then reached for Charity’s shoulders, grasped them, and moved her so that a measure of space opened between them. Shaken from the spell that engulfed her, she raised passion-drunk eyes to Lachlan’s. Her mouth fell open an instant before she allowed her face to fall into her hands.
“Oh my God,” she muttered into her palms.
Lachlan waited for her to raise her head, searching for the words to tell her he knew the truth, that she didn’t have to pretend anymore, but they wouldn’t come. Warring with his need to protect and comfort her was the knowledge that she was likely just as upset by the fact that she’d melted into the arms of a man she didn’t like as she was by the fact that she thought he didn’t know her true identity. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally asked.
She looked up. “Tell you what?”
The last thing he wanted was to accuse her and be wrong, so he kept silent, just looked at her steadily and waited for her to say something, anything, to help him out. She at last lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders and eyed him with the distant, regal hauteur he’d come to recognize. It was the way she looked each time they clashed, just before she shut down completely and froze him, and everybody else, out.
“I’d like to go home, please,” she said.
The ride home was even more silent and awkward than the ride to the ball. Charity, instead of looking out the window this time, sat quietly and stared at her hands, unable to risk meeting his eyes, even momentarily. She was torn between anger with herself for again falling willingly into his arms when he thought she was his sister, and a heart-wrenching pain she didn’t even begin to comprehend.
When the coach came to a stop before the Lloyd town house, she finally spoke. “I can see myself to the door, my lord.”
Lachlan felt something twist in him at the flat quality of her voice. Everything about Charity was typically so vital, so alive; sometimes uncomfortably so. “I’m sure you can, but—”
She interrupted. “Please just let me go.”
Utterly defeated by her distance, he sat back and watched. She climbed down with the assistance of his footman and then walked, head high, up the steps to the front door, and disappeared inside.
Charity flipped onto her stomach in Amity’s bed and punched her pillow angrily as if it were at fault for her inability to find sleep. Unsatisfyingly, the pillow didn’t fight back at all, not even when she completely lost patience and threw it across the room. It landed against the wall with a soft friendly thud that did nothing to quell her frustration. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his hands upon her, saw his face descending toward hers, passionate intent smoldering in those silver eyes.
She finally sat up, swung her feet over the side of the bed, and padded across the room to pick up the pillow. No more, she decided. In the morning, after she’d dealt with the family learning of Amity’s elopement, she would go back to Grace and Trevor’s and embrace the Season properly. No more games, no more deception. Above all, no more Marquess of Asheburton.
Her mind made up, she climbed back into bed, rolled over, closed her eyes and finally fell into a fitful sleep.
Several blocks away, in his cousin’s bed, Lachlan was having just as much trouble, but not because he couldn’t get his feelings under control. Quite the contrary. He was trying to figure out how to stop seeing one twin and begin seeing the other—a daunting undertaking, indeed, since the sister he preferred couldn’t stand being in the same room with him.
He linked his fingers behind his head and stretched out, smiling illogically up into the darkness. Twice now he’d kissed Charity Ackerly. Twice she’d shown a natural passion and sweet vulnerability that evoked protective feelings in him he hadn’t anticipated. He didn’t merely desire Charity. He wanted to take care of her. Forever.
His mind made up, he rolled over, closed his eyes, and finally fell into a blissful slumber.
Fifteen
Good morning, my lord.”
Gareth flicked a glance up at Charity before returning his attention to the newspaper he was reading while he ate his breakfast. “Good morning, Amity,” he returned.
Charity took a deep breath. Matthew and her sister had been gone overnight now, and should now be well on their way to Scotland, so it was time to end the deception. “I’m not Amity,” she said.
“Oh. Good morning, then, Charity.” She watched her brother-in-law reach out, feel for his plate, and secure a slice of bacon. It disappeared behind the newspaper. “I didn’t realize you were spending the night. Help yourself to some breakfast.” His other hand popped out from behind the paper and pointed to the sideboard covered with breakfast dishes.
Charity filled a plate and sat down, feeling awkward. She buttered a piece of toast and regarded the open newspaper at the other end of the table, knowing she couldn’t have a real conversation with her brother-in-law until he’d finished his meal and morning perusal of the Times. “Where’s Faith?”
“Imogen had her up for feedings several times in the night. She’s sleeping late.”
They both fell silent, the only noises the occasional clinking of Charity’s fork on her plate and the rustling of Gareth’s newspaper. The longer they sat, the more nervous and miserable Charity became. She’d been prepared to face the music regarding Amity’s elopement when she came down, and the waiting now felt interminable. She folded and placed her napkin on her nearly untouched plate of food and prepared to stand, intending to go wake Faith so she could tell her sister and get it over with, when they were interrupted by a sharp rapping on the door, followed immediately by excited voices.
Gareth laid his paper down in surprise. Charity, recognizing the nearly shrill voices of Aunt Cleo and Grace, gripped the edges of her chair. Belatedly she remembered that, in her agitation and subsequent preoccupation with Lachlan the evening before, she had completely forgotten to send word to the Huntwick town house that she wouldn’t be returning home.
Grace swept into the room ahead of Cleo, Trevor, and Desmond, the butler chasing her at nearly a most undignified run. “My lady,” he said in a labored, affronted voice, “you really must allow me
to announce your entirely unexpected visit at this more than ridiculously early hour. You simply cannot be both unexpected and unannounced!”
Grace ignored him and came straight over. “Where’s Charity?” she asked Charity.
“Relax,” Gareth said in an amused drawl. “You’re talking to her. I take it you didn’t know she was spending the night.”
Grace’s face turned red, and she looked as though she might burst. Too angry to speak, she threw up her hands and turned to her husband, who, for once, looked grim instead of amused.
“No,” Trevor said shortly. “She didn’t tell us, nor did she bother sending a note around to keep us from worrying.”
Cleo thunked her cane loudly on the floor and pointed it at Charity. “Someone should turn you over his knee, young lady.”
That particular phrase only reminded her that Lachlan had said much the same thing. She pressed her lips together and counted to ten, then took a deep breath and said evenly, “I can explain everything.”
“I certainly hope so,” Grace burst out, finally finding her voice.
“What’s all the commotion?” Faith stood in the wide doorway, looking confused by the presence of nearly her entire London family in her breakfast room before ten o’clock in the morning. Her eyes settled on the one twin in the room. “Where’s Charity?” she asked.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Charity muttered. She’d finally had enough. “Why doesn’t anyone ever ask where Amity is?”
“Because Amity is a dear sweet girl who would never stay out all night without letting someone know where she would be,” said Cleo. She tilted her head to the side and watched Charity closely. “Or . . . would she?”
“She’s probably sleeping late,” said Trevor. “We saw her leaving a ball last night with Ashe not long after we arrived, and she didn’t look as though she felt terribly well.”
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