Gentleman of Her Dreams

by Jen Turano

  Right then and there, something snapped.

  He folded his arms over his chest, tilted his head and then shook it. “We’re not going anywhere until you change out of that completely inappropriate frock.”

  If anything, Charlotte’s eyes blazed hotter.

  “I like this frock. It’s different, and since I’ve been considering trying to encourage other ladies to purchase one for themselves, I’ve decided that tonight will be the perfect opportunity for me to solicit interest in the design.” She smiled. “My friend, Penny, the lady who stitched this together, thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Well, Penny, whoever she may be, doesn’t have to be seen with you tonight. I do, so you will march right back upstairs and change,” Henry said.

  “Forgive me, but I’m pressed for time,” Mrs. Wilson said before she turned and practically bolted down the hallway, her shoulders suspiciously shaking.

  Mrs. Wilson had obviously lost her mind, much like her daughter.

  Henry waited until Mrs. Wilson disappeared and then switched his attention back to Charlotte. “If you’re not ready within the next ten minutes, I won’t escort you.”

  Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest much in the same manner he’d crossed his and smiled a smile that was less than amused. “I’ll go by myself.”

  This was what always got them into trouble. She’d turn stubborn and he’d give in. He couldn’t let her go by herself. She would attract entirely too much attention dressed as she was, and when Charlotte attracted attention . . . disaster normally followed.

  How she’d survived during the two years he’d been gone was beyond him.

  “Don’t push me tonight, Charlotte,” he said. “I’m in a foul mood.”

  “Then you should be pleased you don’t have to escort me to the Watsons’,” Charlotte said. “You can go home and do whatever it is you do when you’re not with me.”

  “I relax when I’m not with you,” he said between gritted teeth.

  “Then go relax.”

  It suddenly occurred to him that she was furious about something. He had no idea what that something was, but her attitude was so out of character that he found his temper fizzling away and replaced with concern.

  “Did your mother tell you that Mrs. Watson invited Mr. Beckett because she’s hopeful of an alliance?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s what I’ve heard, and I thought maybe you’re out of sorts because you’re acquainted with Miss Agatha Watson and don’t want to compete with her over the same gentleman.”

  Charlotte let out a grunt that sounded a bit disgusted, turned around, and stalked away from him, swiveling her head when she reached the steps. “I’ll be back. I’m going to change.”

  He watched as she stomped up the steps and then smiled when her heavy footsteps sounded through the ceiling as she traveled the length of the hallway.

  He’d forgotten how adorable she could be when she was in a snit.

  “Is she changing?”

  Henry jumped and turned to find Mrs. Wilson right beside him. “She is changing,” he finally admitted.

  Mrs. Wilson looked absolutely delighted. “You do realize this is probably the first time she’s ever not gotten her way with you. I think your plan is working.”

  “Mrs. Wilson . . . I don’t have a plan.”

  Mrs. Wilson rolled her eyes and then grinned as she waltzed away. “Keep at it, my dear, you’ll rule the night in the end.”

  He’d been right; Mrs. Wilson really had lost her mind.

  He took a few minutes to wander around the hallway, unable to help but wonder if Charlotte was actually changing or if she was up to another one of her dastardly plans. He was just about to ring for a maid to check on her when the sound of someone descending the steps met his ears. He looked up and felt his mouth drop open once again. Charlotte had changed, much to his amazement, into the lovely gown he’d picked out for her the day before, the one she’d left behind.

  “You went back to the store,” he managed to say.

  Charlotte shrugged. “It would have been churlish of me not to go back. I’d forgotten what impeccable taste you possess, and I absolutely adore this gown.”

  Henry forced his feet to move and he stepped closer to her, having the insane urge to pull her into his arms and never let her go. Resisting that urge was torture for him. Instead, he allowed his hand to move up and tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “You look wonderful. I’m sure you’re going to sweep Mr. Beckett right off his feet.”

  Her grin disappeared. “I wish you wouldn’t say that. It makes me . . . nervous.”

  For some reason, he knew that “nervous” wasn’t what she’d been about to say, but he didn’t let himself dwell on it. “You have no reason to be nervous. You’ll be the most beautiful woman in attendance tonight.”

  Charlotte released a snort. “I’m hardly beautiful, Henry. You and I both know that, and Mr. Beckett’s first wife was stunning. I can’t compare to her, and I’ve decided I don’t want to compare to her. Mr. Beckett is far from my reach, and I realize that now.”

  Her words caused annoyance to flash through him. “Hamilton Beckett would be lucky to receive your affections. You’ve always been reluctant to accept that you’re a beautiful woman, something I’ve never understood. Do you not recall how your attention was demanded from numerous gentlemen every single time I escorted you to a society event?”

  Charlotte’s eyes began to shoot sparks. “Yes, I’m so sought after that I suppose I’ve neglected to remember all of the numerous proposals I’ve had to turn down from eager suitors.”

  Her words brought him up short. Why hadn’t she elicited offers of marriage? He remembered all too well the fact that she had been most sought after. Before he could think about that further, she took his arm and began pushing him towards the door.

  “We’re running behind schedule,” she said.

  He blinked. There was a definite edge to her tone, as if he’d done something yet again to annoy her, but really, all he’d done was tell her she looked beautiful, and what woman would take issue with that?

  “Enjoy your evening, Mr. St. James, Miss Wilson,” Mr. Lewis said as he opened the door and ushered them through it.

  Henry helped Charlotte into the carriage and then followed, tapping on the roof to let his driver know they were ready to proceed. Silence settled over them as the carriage began to move, and he couldn’t seem to keep his gaze from Charlotte’s face.

  What was she thinking?

  Why was she so disgruntled?

  He didn’t like seeing her disgruntled. He liked seeing her laughing and joking and driving him to distraction.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been rude,” she suddenly said.

  He smiled. Charlotte had never been a lady who could remain silent long. “Do you want to tell me what’s gotten you in such an evil temper?”

  “Do you want to tell me why you claimed to be in a foul mood?”

  This conversation was certain to turn dangerous.

  He had no intention of admitting to her his mood had been foul ever since he’d come to the conclusion she was not meant to be his.

  He shifted on the seat and felt the small box that had been his constant companion ever since he’d returned home press against his leg.

  He should have left the ring at home.

  He never should have purchased it in the first place, but the gypsy woman who’d been hawking her wares had shown it to him, cautioning him against buying it. She told him the ring had been the possession of a daring princess who’d fought convention a hundred years before and taken flight to marry, not a prince, but a commoner with whom she’d fallen in love and didn’t want to live without. The gypsy said the ring should only go to a woman who was wild and free and wouldn’t conform to society dictates, and he’d known that such a ring was destined for Charlotte. She was the love of his life and the untamed spirit he wanted to have by his side forever.

  Why he�
��d been lugging the ring around with him every time he’d been with Charlotte, he really couldn’t say, especially since he’d decided to leave her to Hamilton and go his own way.

  “What is the matter?”

  He blinked out of his thoughts, stuck his hand in his pocket to readjust the box to a more comfortable position, and then froze when he noticed her gaze on his movements.

  “What is that?”

  For a second, just a second, he considered pulling out the ring and presenting it to her. Sanity returned as he retrieved his empty hand and shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte said, “I thought it might be something you picked up on your travels, something unusual.”

  The ring was unusual all right. It would suit her perfectly.

  Maybe he should just give it to her, not as an engagement ring, but as a ring to remind her of their friendship after he’d gone.

  His fingers twitched as he moved them toward his pocket, but then stilled when she looked out the window and back at him.

  “We’re here.”

  Mr. Hamilton Beckett would certainly find it hard to resist Charlotte as she looked now, absolutely beautiful even with the slight trace of sadness in her eyes. Knowing that tonight would have her firmly out of his life, Henry sent her a smile and waited while the carriage rolled to a stop. He moved to the door, stepped to the ground, and turned to offer her his hand.

  As they moved into the Watsons’ house, the thought came to him that he hadn’t bothered to inquire about the sadness lingering in her eyes.

  5

  Henry was an idiot.

  There was absolutely no other way to describe him at the moment.

  Charlotte exchanged the expected pleasantries with Mr. and Mrs. Watson at the door, absently noticed that Mrs. Watson seemed more rattled than usual. She had no time to dwell on that, however, because Mrs. Watson practically shoved her aside as her expression turned crafty and she set her sights on Henry.

  “Mr. St. James, you have no idea how wonderful it is for me to see you,” Mrs. Watson gushed. “I was thrilled—thrilled I tell you—to speak with your mother and learn you wanted to come to my humble gathering. Why I . . .”

  Charlotte tuned out the rest of Mrs. Watson’s speech as her sadness turned to temper. She’d been furious when, after going home to change out of his wet clothing, Henry had arrived at her house yesterday only to present her with a coveted invitation to the Watson’s dinner party. She couldn’t believe he was so oblivious to her true feelings. He obviously was, though, considering he’d been so thrilled to admit that he’d gotten them invited to the dinner so she could continue with her plans regarding Mr. Beckett.

  Maybe he’d been so keen to come this evening not to help her with her plan, but because he’d heard that Agatha, a truly beautiful and delightful lady, was in the market for a husband.

  Mrs. Watson was certainly doing her best to make him aware of that fact.

  “And I do apologize, Mr. St. James, but . . .” Mrs. Watson’s voice lowered to a mere whisper, “I’m afraid to admit that my darling Agatha is indisposed this evening and won’t be in attendance.”

  Charlotte’s temper went from simmering to seething when, for some odd reason, Henry sent her a wink, as if he thought she’d be completely delighted by the fact Miss Agatha Watson was indisposed.

  Did he think that information would please her? That she’d relish the idea her friend was obviously suffering from some type of illness? That her competition was suddenly out of the running?

  She lifted her chin and stalked away, shaking off Henry’s arm when he caught up with her.

  “What is wrong with you?” he asked.

  Oh, there was a barrage of answers she’d love to throw at him, but her pride made her keep her words to herself.

  “I’m going to check my hair,” she said, spinning on her heel and striding away from him, only to release a frustrated huff when he captured her arm once again.

  “Your hair looks lovely.”

  “Wonderful,” she said between gritted teeth, “then I’ll check my dress. I wouldn’t want Mr. Beckett to see me looking anything other than my best.”

  Charlotte twisted her arm out of his grasp, ignored the confusion now evident in his eyes, and set her sights on the far side of the room, hoping she’d find somewhere to be alone with her thoughts if only for a brief moment. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, and her temper flared even hotter.

  Henry was already surrounded by a group of young ladies who seemed to be attempting to outdo each other as they tried to capture his attention.

  She narrowed her eyes and couldn’t help but notice that he still seemed to have a tiny touch of confusion on his face.

  Good. She was happy he was confused, because she certainly was and had been ever since he’d pulled her from a horrible death.

  He’d called her “love.” She’d heard him. Granted, she’d almost been unconscious, but he’d said the word, and, she thought, meant it too. But then . . . he’d gotten strange.

  He hadn’t even come to check on her welfare after she’d almost been knocked out of the boat again by that dreadful sail. He seemed perfectly content to let Mr. Beckett hover over her, and while Mr. Beckett was certainly a considerate and comforting gentleman, Charlotte hadn’t wanted his comfort; she’d wanted Henry’s.

  She’d been so sure his feelings for her had changed, but apparently she’d been wrong.

  She’d misread his shortness with her regarding her plan, his soothing of her when she’d first almost drowned, and . . . the times she’d caught his lingering gaze on her.

  He’d refused to allow her to travel to the Watsons’ dinner garbed in her bicycle gown.

  She’d thought he’d refused because he was testing her because he’d decided he wanted to keep her safe, even if only her reputation. Now, well, it seemed the more likely explanation was because he really didn’t care for her, wanted to pawn her off on Mr. Beckett, and truly had been concerned she would embarrass him.

  And wouldn’t that have put a damper on all the attention he was now receiving from entirely too many young ladies?

  “Henry’s not the idiot, you are,” she muttered under her breath as she reached the retiring room, stepped inside, and swallowed a groan. The room was fit to bursting with beautiful young ladies, young ladies who turned as one and set their sights on her.

  “Miss Wilson,” a lady by the name of Miss Sprockett exclaimed, “we were just talking about that divine Mr. St. James you brought with you.” Miss Sprockett advanced. “Tell me, darling, do the two of you have an understanding, or would it be permissible for some of us to seek out his company?”

  She felt her hands ball into fists, forced a smile, unclenched her fingers, and gave an airy wave. “Mr. St. James and I are strictly friends, Miss Sprockett. By all means, seek him out.”

  If nothing else, her words caused the room to clear in a split second. Taking the peace and quiet as an opportunity to collect her thoughts, she moved to the mirror, stuck her tongue out at her reflection, and plopped down in a delicate chair sitting off to the side of the room.

  She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, turning to God for answers.

  “I think I might have misunderstood, Lord,” she whispered. “Mr. Beckett, while a truly wonderful gentleman, is not for me, is he?”

  She opened her eyes, blinked, and then grinned.

  “Agatha, what are you doing here? I thought you were indisposed.”

  Miss Agatha Watson slipped out from behind a curtain and returned the grin. “I’ve developed spots.”

  Charlotte tilted her head even as her grin widened. “You’re perfectly fine, as you very well know, and there is not one spot to be found on your lovely face.”

  “Hmm, I must have experienced a miracle then,” Agatha muttered. “I swear I was covered in them just a few minutes ago.”

  “You were probably covered in guilt,” Charlotte said. “So, what’s the reas
oning behind your refusal to attend your mother’s dinner party?”

  Agatha dropped down on the matching chair right next to Charlotte’s and looked around before she lowered her voice. “I don’t have much time to explain, but I wanted to check on Miss Sumner, the poor woman my mother forced to take my place.” She cleared her throat. “You see, Mother has decided I’m well suited for Mr. Hamilton Beckett, and I just couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear being paraded around yet again as if I’m some horse up for auction.” She tilted her head. “I heard your prayer, heard you mention Mr. Beckett, and I must tell you, I don’t think he’s your match.”

  “I know . . . he’s not.”

  “Why then, if you’ve come to this conclusion, do you look so glum?”

  “The gentleman I really desire doesn’t see me in the same light. At the moment, he’s outside this room, flirting with other ladies. In fact, his flirting has probably increased, seeing as how a good ten ladies darted out of here the moment I admitted that Mr. St. James and I are nothing more than friends.”

  Agatha eyed her for a long minute and then nodded. “I’ve always believed that if you want to learn the true measure of a gentleman’s feelings, you need to do something to attract his attention, engage his emotions if you will. For you, well, I think a bit of tit for tat is in order.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “He’s flirting, so give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how to flirt; I’ve seen you do it. Pick out a few gentlemen, smile, and see what happens.”

  “I bet he won’t even notice.”

  Charlotte blinked when Agatha suddenly jumped up from her chair and dashed behind the long curtain just as the door opened and two ladies walked in, both of them nodding to Charlotte as they eyed her somewhat warily.

  “Were you talking to someone just now?” one of the ladies asked.

  Charlotte summoned up a smile. “I have the horrible habit of speaking to myself.”

  That cleared the room in less than a minute.

  “Good one,” Agatha said, “but it reminded me that I have to go back upstairs. Would you do me a favor? If you see Miss Eliza Sumner, a strangely dressed lady with a wonderful English accent, tell her I’m really, really sorry, and I promise to make it up to her, would you?”