by Anne Stuart
Page 4
Author: Anne Stuart
She knew it couldn't last. Rohan had returned unexpectedly as Europe once again braced for war. Charlotte's peace of mind was destroyed. She had no doubt that Lina would marry again, and despite her inability to give Whitmore an heir, Charlotte was certain a second, happier marriage would provide offspring. Perhaps she could become a helpful honorary aunt, if Lina's new husband would tolerate her.
She looked down at the ballroom for the last time. Adrian Rohan had already moved on, forgetting her, as he leaned over a buxom young beauty. Forgetting her, as he always did. Which was the only consolation her pride could find. She hated the thought of appearing ridiculous or needy. Rohan's attention was elsewhere, and she didn't have to worry about being mocked.
She moved slowly up the back stairs, ignoring the curious looks of the servants as they passed her. She reached the lavish apartments Lina had insisted she use and began to undress herself. There was no telling where Meggie had gotten herself to, but it didn't matter. Charlotte had made certain she had clothes that she could do and undo herself—the advent of a lady's maid had been a recently reacquired luxury. Though whether Meggie's rough ministrations could be called a luxury was something worth debating.
She let down her long, thick hair and brushed it, then fastened it in a braid to keep it from tangling too badly as she slept. The water in the basin was cool, blessedly cool, against her flushed face.
The sheets were cool as well as she slid beneath them. The spring air had been chilly, and a fire had been laid but not lit. She blew out the candle and burrowed deep under the covers, pulling the blankets up to her nose.
She could still feel his hand on her arm, strong, restraining her. She was a woman who couldn't bear to be forced, bullied, cowed. So why was she tenderly stroking the place where he'd held her?
She was moon-mad. Calf-brained, addlepated.
But in this one matter her formidable intellect was no match for the dismal, unpalatable truth. She was in love with Adrian Rohan, and had been for years, and nothing, not his rudeness nor tales of his outrageous excess, nor all her own rational self-discourse, could change her.
And once more castigating herself as an idiot, she fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
Adrian Alastair Rohan stared down the dress of the exquisitely beautiful, exquisitely silly Miss Leonard, bored beyond belief even as he said all the right things. Usually an amiable flirtation was as good a way to spend an interminable evening. He would gel no more than a kiss from Miss Leonard, and while kissing had long ago lost its charm, he had it on good authority that Miss Leonard had had a great deal of practice at it and was considered something of an expert. It could be entertaining to see if he could manage to teach her something new.
He'd rather be teaching the nervous and thoroughly delicious Charlotte Spenser, though he wasn't quite certain why. Her clothes were atrocious, her manner less than cordial, and whenever he happened to see her she acted as if he'd committed some foul crime. Yes, his reputation was terrible, but in his experience most women found it irresistible.
It was the rest of the time that interested him. Because the honorable Miss Charlotte Spenser couldn't keep her eyes off him, a fact he found amusing. Despite her avowed disapproval of him and everything he stood for, he was fully aware she watched him whenever she thought no one would notice.
As a poor relation and a spinster of no particular beauty she tended to hang back at the edges of the crowds, where she thought she could remain unnoticed while she stared at him. As far as he could tell, she paid no particular attention to anyone else.
He was fully accustomed to having women watch him with appreciation and even longing. He was wealthy, heir to a title and possessed of more than average good looks, all thanks to his parents. His height, his pretty face, his deep blue eyes, so like his father's, had nothing to do with any accomplishment on his part, and he accepted the blessings of fortune with no particular vanity. Those blessings enabled him to indulge his varied appetites and interests, and for that he was casually grateful.
But he wasn't the prettiest young man in society— Montague held that particular office. Nor the wealthiest, and he was a mere viscount, not a duke or even a marquess, though that would come once his father died. And as the honorable Miss Spenser could attest, he was far from the most charming. He had a nasty tongue and was never known to suffer fools gladly.
And yet still she watched him when he danced with the newest beauty, when he laughed with his friends, when he snubbed upstarts and drank too much and occasionally made an ass of himself. And he wondered why.
One possibility, and by far his favorite, was that she was planning his murder. The poor relation, snubbed once too often, was out for revenge, and he might very well find his next glass of negus poisoned, or a knife between his shoulder blades.
It was nothing more than he deserved, but he doubted she had that in mind. In truth, he knew exactly why she watched him, and it was for the same reason half the women in society, young and old, married and single, plain and beautiful, watched him. She fancied herself in love with him.
If she ever allowed herself to hold a civil conversation with him he would have been more than happy to explain that it was no such thing. Society would have it that women were pure and romantical and men filthy, lusting beasts. To his immense pleasure, he knew otherwise.
Miss Spenser wanted him. Oh, she wanted it wrapped up in posies and flattery and the marriage bed, but she wanted his hands on her starched-up body, stripping those ugly clothes away from her.
And he'd be more than happy to oblige, except that he never touched well-bred virgins. The very thought of finding himself leg-shackled to a scowling, disapproving creature like Miss Spenser was horrifying. And his hypocritical father would see to it that he did the right thing, entirely ignoring his own degenerate past.
Miss Spenser would just have to watch him covertly and sigh. And he'd have to resist the impulse to see if he could make those stern lips soften, and where he could make her place them. He'd be willing to wager that he could have her putting them anywhere he wanted, and he could think of several friends who'd be willing to take up that wager.
Bui he had a mistress for that sort of thing, or would have, as soon as he found someone to replace the divine Maria, who'd decided she'd rather have a fat old man with an even fatter pocket.
At least there was the gathering of the Heavenly Host. He was looking forward to seeing Montague again, looking forward to indulging his more base appetites. Perhaps he could persuade one of the ladies present to dress in something unflattering and lecture him like Miss Spenser. And then he could proceed to give her exactly what he wasn't allowed to give Charlotte.
The perfect name for her. Charlotte—such a prim, disapproving word. He couldn't imagine why he was interested, apart from the novelty of it all.
He heard Lady Whitmore's trill of laughter from across the room, and he smiled wickedly. Perhaps he would have to make do with Miss Spenser's exquisite cousin. A noble compromise on his part, one he'd make quite easily. And by the time he returned to London he'd probably forget all about Miss Spenser and her longing eyes.
Because he couldn't just play with the virgin, not if he valued his freedom. But he could have her cousin, and that would more than suffice.
“My dear boy, I have been looking for you everywhere. " His cousin's heavily accented voice greeted him as he finished the dance and relinquished Miss Leonard and her impressive bosom to her next partner.
Adrian glanced at Etienne de Giverney. Actually his father's cousin, and closer in age to the old man than to Adrian, Etienne had a kindness for his young cousin, and Adrian found he quite enjoyed the man's company. For one thing, his parents disapproved of him, which was always a boon. For another, Etienne had a taste for things that bordered on the shocking. And while Adrian had sponsored his cousin's entrance into English soc
iety, it was Etienne who'd ensured he'd be admitted to the exalted ranks of the Heavenly Host, despite the fact that his father, who had once presided over their revels, now held the group in contempt.
But that was his father. The only man he knew more capable of administering a setdown than he was.
Etienne, being French, had more than a passing acquaintance with some of the darker practices shunned by polite society. He had introduced his second cousin to the pleasures of the opium pipe and ways he could gratify himself alone that were as inventive as they were dangerous.
Unlike his father, who seemed to have forgotten his own disreputable youth, he encouraged Adrian's love of curricle racing, and he played for stakes even higher than Adrian did, with more success.
Adrian never cared if he won or lost. His inheritance, even before his esteemed old man gave up the ghost, was huge, though not quite as impressive as Maria's fat gentleman, the nabob. And at least with Etienne he was never, ever bored.
No, he could look forward to three days of delicious debauchery, as well as a much-needed visit with his dearest friend Montague. He wasn't going to think about Miss Spenser again, he was certain of it.
"There is little sport here, enfin?” Etienne said. "Let us see if we can find something to entertain us at Le Rise. "
Le Rise was quite the most daring of all the houses of ill repute, the second best thing to the gatherings of the Heavenly Host. The gaming stakes were extremely high and at times quite shocking, the wines were tolerable and the other entertainments were quite irresistible. It was almost impossible to gain entry unless one was of the very highest level. Adrian had been one of the first members, of course, and Etienne was admitted as his guest.
"If we can't then we're pitifully jaded indeed," Adrian said in his perfect French.
Etienne laughed. Leaving Adrian to wonder whether he might not have spoken the ugly truth.
3
Normally the thought of a trip to the countryside would have been Charlotte's idea of perfection. She had never been overly fond of London. It was noisy, smelly and dirty, and while the opportunities for theater and lending libraries and the company of like-minded women were stimulating, the thought of rusticating, at least for a short while, was divine.
