Suddenly

by Candace Camp

  But something sparked in his dark eyes at her words, and he said in a low voice, “Yes, I will be happy to teach you…many things.”

  Charity wasn’t sure why, but his words, and the timbre of his voice, sent a shiver through her abdomen. “Thank you.” She was suddenly a little breathless, and she wished again that she did not have to wear her corset so tight.

  “Ah, there is someone I would like you to meet.” Simon angled across to where a tall, lovely dark woman stood beside a man even taller than she, and as blond as she was dark. “Venetia…”

  The couple turned at his voice and smiled at him. The woman he had called Venetia came toward Simon, holding her hands out and catching his. She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “How are you, dear?”

  “Splendid,” Simon responded. “No need to ask you the same question. You look radiant.”

  The blond man joined them, nodding to Simon, and Simon went on, “Venetia, Ashford, I would like you to meet my fiancée, Miss Charity Emerson. Charity, this is my sister Venetia, Lady Ashford, and her husband, Lord Ashford.”

  Venetia’s eyes widened, and she looked from Simon to Charity, then back, as if she hardly knew which to stare at. “Are you jesting? Simon, you’ve never—” She smiled warmly at Charity then, and stepped forward to kiss her cheek. “My dear Miss Emerson, welcome to our family. Please forgive my shock. My brother had remained such an obdurate bachelor that I had given up all hope of his marrying again.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Lord Ashford said, smiling pleasantly. He was a nice-looking, placid man, one who looked as if worry or any other very strong emotion never ruffled his expression. He stepped forward to bow over Charity’s hand. “Welcome to the family.” He turned to Dure. “Congratulations, old fellow.”

  Charity smiled and made an appropriate response. She liked Lady Ashford’s smile and warm eyes. She had worried that an earl’s relatives might be stuffy and as apt to disapprove of her ways as her own mother—or even more so! But, looking at Venetia, Charity was sure that the woman would not scold or condemn her.

  Venetia came over to Charity, suggesting a little shyly that they sit and talk. “I want to get to know you much better,” she explained. “I’m sure you must be very special for Simon to have chosen to marry you.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked over to an open window where there were, thankfully, two empty chairs. Venetia was a quiet woman, even a little timid, and when they first sat down, their conversation was a trifle awkward. But Charity rarely had trouble talking, and, once she got over her initial anxiety over making a good impression on a member of Lord Dure’s family, she began to comment and question in her usual cheerful way. Before long, Venetia was relaxed, too, and the two of them were chatting like old friends. They discussed their sisters, then made plans to go shopping together one day the next week. Charity confessed that she had been forced to wear her sister’s dress that evening, and Venetia chuckled over Charity’s description of being tightened into her corset.

  Venetia leaned closer and clasped Charity’s hand warmly. “I’m glad that you are marrying Simon. He deserves to be happy, and I can tell that he will find that with you.”

  Charity wondered uneasily if Venetia thought that theirs was a love match. “I shall do my best to make him a good wife.”

  “I know you will. Simon is a good man, and he will be a good husband. He’s had…some sorrows, and I know that sometimes he may seem a bit distant. But, please, don’t let that dismay you. He has a good heart.”

  Charity nodded. “I know.”

  Venetia smiled. “Good. I hoped you would.”

  The two women rose. They caught no sight of Simon, so they strolled toward Caroline Emerson, who sat across the ballroom, talking with another woman her age. As they walked, Charity had the distinct feeling that someone was watching her, not idly or in mild curiosity, but intently. She glanced around, and her gaze fell upon a woman who stood near the windows, chatting with a tall, brown-haired man who sported a neatly clipped brown beard. It was this woman who was staring at her, Charity realized. Even when Charity looked at her, the woman did not turn her eyes away, but continued to watch her.

  Charity gazed back at her with equal curiosity. The woman was beautiful: dark and faintly mysterious, with a lushly rounded figure and creamy pale skin. Her hair was dark, almost black. She wore a deep maroon satin gown that set off her white skin and exposed an ample amount of bosom; there were jewels in her ears, and around her throat and wrist.

  “Venetia, who is that woman?” Charity asked in an urgent undertone.

  “Who? Where?” Venetia followed the direction of Charity’s eyes. She stopped dead when she saw the woman, and a flush spread up her throat and across her face. “Uh…uh, it’s no one. I mean, I don’t know her.”

  Charity glanced at Lady Ashford in astonishment. It was obvious that Venetia had recognized the woman. But why would Venetia disclaim all knowledge of her? Charity took another look at the woman before Venetia firmly steered her over to Mrs. Emerson’s chair.

  Charity danced with several other young men after that, then once again with Simon. Afterward, he escorted her downstairs to partake of the light supper, as well. Charity barely ate, too excited—as well as too tightly cinched—to want food.

  “You enjoy the ball,” Dure said, faintly smiling as he watched her, his words more statement than question.

  “Oh, yes! Don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I am always welcome, for my name. But I have little liking for the whispers.”

  “Oh.”

  “You do not ask me, ‘What whispers?’”

  “No. I have heard them.”

  “And having heard them, you still wish to marry me?”

  “I don’t believe them,” Charity replied simply.

  “Indeed? So easily?”

  Charity shrugged. “My father told me what really happened, and Papa would not lie to me.”

  “Your father might not know what really happened,” he pointed out.

  “That’s true. But I wouldn’t have believed them in any case, once I met you. You are not a murderer.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Why do you not simply tell them the truth, and shut their mouths?” Charity wondered.

  A corner of Dure’s mouth quirked up sardonically. “What am I to do? Walk into a party and say, ‘I am not a murderer’? Cry out that when I lost my brother, it was like losing a part of myself?”

  Charity’s ready sympathy went out to him. “I’m sorry.” She laid her gloved hand on his wrist and looked up earnestly into his eyes. “I did not think. I’m afraid it is one of my besetting sins. Of course you cannot deny where no one directly accuses. Rumors are the hardest to fight. But why do they follow you so?”

  Simon’s expression hardened, and he looked away from her. “I have enemies. Besides, some of the rumors are true. I have gambled and drunk to excess.”

  “And taken mistresses,” Charity added candidly.

  His dark expression was surprised into a smile. “You should not know of such things,” he scolded her teasingly.

  “How could I not? I’ve heard it from all sides, ever since you started calling on Serena.” She paused, frowning. “Are you really a libertine?”

  Dure’s eyes widened, and he let out a chuckle. “This is a highly improper conversation for us to be having, Miss Emerson.”

  “No doubt it is,” she agreed, then prodded him further. “Well, are you?”

  Simon gazed down at her. He wondered if she had any idea how his blood stirred at talking about such things with her. Though she had withdrawn her hand from his wrist, he could still feel it where she had touched him. He looked at her bare white arms above the long evening gloves and thought of sliding his hands up the smooth flesh until he touched the froth of tulle at the neckline. He could imagine the faint scratchiness of the net beneath his fingers, contrasting with the supreme softness of her skin.

  “I…am fond
of women,” he said carefully.

  Charity dimpled. “Thank heavens for that. I should hate to marry a man who was not.”

  “I have had mistresses, and I have eschewed the company of ‘good’ women.”

  Charity hazarded a guess. “Because they bored you?”

  He chuckled. “Sometimes. Lord knows I cannot say that about the ‘good’ woman I am about to marry.”

  Charity smiled. “Good. I shall always endeavor to amuse you, my lord.”

  It surprised Simon how intensely he wanted this woman under his roof—to see that bright, sunny smile across the breakfast table from him, to hear her laughter rippling down the hallways of his home, to have her in his bed, white and sweet and welcoming his touch. He wondered if that spark of passion he had felt in her kiss would prove true—if she would not, as Sybilla had, remain cold and stiff in his arms, but would indeed awaken to him and take pleasure in their coupling. And not the jaded pretense of passion that he had sometimes seen in his mistresses, but a true, sweet hunger.

  He turned his head away, shaken by the wave of desire that had surged through him. It was dangerous to spend much time with Charity; he was all too easily aroused by her. When he had thought of taking a wife, he had assumed that their engagement would last the customary year; he had felt no urgency about marrying. But now the idea chafed him; he realized that anything but a short engagement could prove to be torture for him.

  “My lord?” Charity leaned forward and laid a hand on his arm in concern. “Have I spoken amiss? My mother says I have a lamentable tendency to frivolity. I should not have made light of—”

  “No.” He swung his head back to her, his eyes bright and intense. “Never lose your sense of frivolity. There is nothing amiss with you.”

  She chuckled. “There are those who would disagree with you.”

  “There may be. But, remember, you no longer need to please any of them.”

  “Only my husband.”

  “Yes.” His eyes darkened. “Only me.”

  Charity stared at him, her eyes caught by his, her lips slightly apart. A strange warmth crept through her as he looked at her, and she felt breathless and tingling. She wished that he would kiss her again, as he had that day at his house. She knew that such a thought was probably scandalous and unladylike, but she could not help it. She wanted to taste his mouth again, to feel his hard body pressed against hers, all the way up and down. Would he be shocked if he knew? Charity supposed that he would.

  Finally Simon tore his eyes away and said hoarsely, “I should take you back to your mother.”

  That was the last place Charity wanted to go. What she really would like would be to slip outside with this man, into some dark corner of Lady Rotterham’s garden, and ask him to kiss her. However, she knew that would be unconscionably bold, and he would probably be repelled by her. So she said only, “All right, my lord,” and rose with him to go back upstairs to the ballroom.

  She reached down to pick up her fan from the table where she had laid it, and as she did so, a small square of paper toppled off. Surprised, she picked up the little square and unfolded it. Written on it were the words Do not marry Dure, or you will regret it.

  She froze, staring at the words. For a moment, the words made no sense, and then, with a wave of hot anger, she understood them. Someone was warning her away from Lord Dure, implying, no doubt, that he would cause her death, too. She went pale, then flushed, and was swept with a fury so intense it startled her.

  “Charity? What’s the matter? What is that?”

  “What? Oh.” Charity looked up at Dure, recalled to where she was. Quickly she crumpled the paper in her palm and dropped it into the glass she had used, where it soaked up the remaining punch. She wasn’t about to burden her fiancé with the malicious contents of this note, not after the conversation they’d just had about the rumors that plagued him. “It was nothing, just a scrap of paper.”

  “But you looked—”

  “I stood up too fast,” she lied glibly, “and it made me feel a trifle dizzy. Or perhaps there was something too strong for me in the punch.” She smiled brightly and took his arm.

  When Simon left her with her mother, Charity sat down and lapsed into an unaccustomed silence. Two young men asked her to dance, and she politely did so, but she found that her mind was distracted. She could not stop thinking about that note and wondering who had written it. Many people had strolled past where she and Dure were sitting in the refreshment room; anyone could have dropped the little piece of paper onto her fan, where she would be sure to notice it later. But who had thought it necessary to warn her against her future husband?

  She supposed it could be someone who believed the rumors and was genuinely concerned about a young woman marrying a “murderer.” But Charity did not think so. She detected the hand of malice here, and she was sure it was directed against Dure. After all, she did not know anyone here—how could anyone wish her harm? No, someone wanted to throw a spoke in Dure’s wheels. It made Charity furious; she wished the attack had come openly, so that she could answer it.

  “Charity…Charity!”

  Charity jumped a little, startled, and turned back to her mother.

  “Goodness, child, where has your mind been?”

  “Sorry, Mama.” She wasn’t about to reveal to her mother that she had been dwelling on Lord Dure. “Did you want something?”

  “Only to introduce you to Mr. Faraday Reed.” Mrs. Emerson waved her fan toward the tall, slimly elegant man standing before them. “Mr Reed, this is my daughter, Charity.”

  “Miss Emerson.” The man bowed expertly over her hand. “It is indeed a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Charity smiled politely up at him. Faraday Reed was slender and tall, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and a small, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was handsome—though of course, Charity thought, his rather monotone attractiveness could not begin to compare with Dure’s powerful build and fiercely compelling face. Then she realized, with a start, that this was the man whom she had seen earlier in conversation with the stunning beauty who had stared at her.

  Her curiosity was piqued. She wanted to know who that woman was; there was a certain mystery that hovered about her dark beauty. And Charity could not fathom why the woman would have been looking so intently at her. Venetia’s odd reaction had aroused her curiosity even more.

  However, she could think of no way to ask Mr. Reed about the woman, not with her mother sitting right there listening to every word that was spoken. “Mr. Reed is married to Lady Frances Reed. I met her at the Athertons’,” Caroline was saying. “You remember Lady Atherton, my dear. She is my second cousin.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Charity murmured, her brain furiously working on a way to work the dark woman into the conversation.

  “I was hoping that you would allow me the honor of dancing with you, Miss Emerson,” the man ventured. “I have already asked your mother’s permission.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Reed.” Charity seized on the excuse to get away from her mother, where she could question Mr. Reed about the mystery woman. She put her hand on his arm and let him lead her onto the floor.

  Faraday Reed, she found, was almost as a good a dancer as Lord Dure, though she felt nothing of the excitement with him that had bubbled up when she was in Dure’s arms.

  “I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before tonight,” Reed said, smiling down at her, his eyes warm. “I cannot believe that I could have missed such a glowing beauty as yours.”

  Charity arched a brow at his effusive compliment. She could not think of any way to answer it. Hadn’t her mother just said that Reed was a married man? It seemed strange to her that a married man would flirt like that, but she didn’t know how people acted in London. Perhaps it was commonplace here.

  “Tonight is my first party,” she admitted, deciding to ignore the compliment altogether.

  “And are the rumors which I have been hearing true? Has Dure stolen a march on al
l the rest of London and already seized you for himself?”

  “I would hardly say he seized me,” Charity replied thoughtfully. “However, he did offer for me, and I accepted. If that is what the rumors say, then they are true.”

  Reed assumed a sad expression. “There will be many a heartbroken man in the company tonight, then.”

  Charity smiled thinly. “But not you, surely, Mr. Reed. After all, you are already taken.”

  “Ah, but, Miss Emerson, a man cannot keep from looking when a woman is as lovely as you.” He smiled down at her, his brown eyes glowing.

  Charity giggled. She was sure that he charmed many women, but his exaggerated comments, and the soulful looks that accompanied them, seemed comical to her. She left the topic of conversation, which did not interest her, and plunged into the subject uppermost in her mind. “I saw you with a very beautiful woman earlier. She had black hair and fair skin.”

  When Charity did not respond to his flirtatious bantering, irritation had flitted across Reed’s features, but at her question, his eyes began to twinkle. “Ah,” he said with a secret smile, “that must have been Mrs. Graves.”

  “I had the oddest sensation that she was staring at me.”

  “But you must have felt that many times tonight. You are lovely and young and new to everyone here. Why should people not stare at you?”

  Charity drew breath to reply, but she looked past Reed and saw, to her astonishment, that Lord Dure was stalking through the whirling dancers, straight toward her, his face dark and set in grim lines. She stared, faltering in her steps, and Reed’s arms tightened to steady her.

  Then Dure was beside them, and his hand lashed out, taking Charity’s arm in an iron grip and pulling her from Reed’s grasp. They stumbled to a halt, and Charity gaped at her fiancé in amazement. His face was furious, his eyes dark and glittering.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he barked at Charity. He fixed the other man with a deadly gaze. “Leave Miss Emerson alone.”