Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (27 page)

“I didn’t. I was being myself, Mama. And believe me, I find it as odd as you that he seems to like me.”

“People are beginning to talk. Including
Lady Whistledown”

Charlotte drew a breath. “Herbert has been in
Whistledown.”

“Only in reference to his perfect character. And speaking of Lord Herbert, he attended the Wivens

soiree. Did you even notice?”

“I danced with him,” Charlotte replied, ignoring the nagging thought that she’d spent more time looking for Lord Matson, and that she
hadn’t
given Herbert a thought until he’d coughed and asked her to dance.

“Well, I can only hope that Matson is enough of a gentleman to realize that we’ve suffered through enough of his nonsense and that we don’t want to see him here any longer.”

Charlotte almost let her mother leave without comment. After Xavier’s angry reaction to their dismissal

of her, though, she couldn’t do it. “Would it be so terrible if I had two men courting me? I thought the goal was to see me happily married. As for the specifics, Lord Herbert was simply the only one interested—until now.”

The baroness stopped. “It’s not … that isn’t … Lord Matson is a rake, Charlotte. We have no reason

to believe that he is sincere in his so-called pursuit of you.”

“But what if I like him?” she asked in a quieter voice, fighting the abrupt urge to cry.

“You need to have more realistic expectations, my dear. Now cheer up. I have it on good authority that Lord Herbert will be visiting this afternoon. He’s expressed an interest in trying out my new pianoforte.”

“Oh. Splendid.”

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head any longer, Charlotte. He’ll be here any moment now. Please wear something suitable.”

Her mother closed the door. Something suitable. According to her parents’

thinking, that would be a large sack. Absently Charlotte returned to fiddling with the emerald necklace. She’d tried it on once in private, and had to admit that Lady Ibsen had been correct. It made her feel completely scandalous.

She wondered whether Lady Ibsen wore a similar bauble for Lord Matson—and whether he still called on

the widow.

“What does it matter?” she breathed. “He certainly isn’t having any fun calling here.”

At that moment sunlight broke through her window. Smiling, she rose to throw open the glass and lean outside. The light and warmth after two months of cold and four straight days of rain felt glorious. She closed her eyes, basking in the glow.

“Charlotte?”

With a start she opened her eyes and looked down. Lord Matson stood on her drive, looking up at her

in the window. “Good afternoon,” she whispered, blushing.

“It is now. Can you arrange to meet me somewhere?” he said, his voice barely audible.

Good heavens.
Now she felt like Juliet. “Where?”

He frowned a moment, then his expression cleared. “It’s a lovely day to go walking in Hyde Park, don’t you think?”

Yes, it was, if she could convince Lord Herbert to delay his pianoforte recital.

Just how much trouble

she would be in if her parents discovered what she was up to, she didn’t want to think about. This afternoon, a man who stole her breath with his smile wished to see her. And she very much wished to see him. “I’ll try,” she called back down.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He returned to his carriage and instructed his driver to leave. As he vanished around the corner of the house, she took a deep breath and left her bedchamber. She really should have taken the opportunity to tell him to stop calling on her—but she couldn’t be expected to deny one more chance to live a daydream.

To say that Xavier felt frustrated was quite possibly the understatement of the century. He’d put on his most conservative clothes, conversed with the wit of a damned mortician, called on Charlotte every day for nearly a week, and he’d only managed to see her once. Obviously, after the first surprise ambush, her parents had been ready for him—either that, or Charlotte had the most active social calendar in England. Even after seeing her in her window, he was tempted to knock on her door just to see where her parents would say she’d gone today: tea with friends, the lending library, visiting a sick aunt—he’d heard it all. And so, considering the fact that he’d successfully maneuvered against Bonaparte’s best during the war, he had to admire Lord and Lady Birlings’ skill at subterfuge.

If this had been simple lust after a simple chit, he wouldn’t have cared; despite his reputation he had

more than enough self-control to turn away from a female if the trouble began to outweigh the reward. This, though, was far more serious. After two hours of conversation with Charlotte, he’d gone home

and torn up his list of prospective brides. It was time, then, to do some maneuvering of his own.

And so he had his carriage leave him at the edge of Hyde Park where he would be able to see anyone coming from the direction of Birling House. Who she might bring with her, he had no idea, but he didn’t much care. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to see her eyes light with passion and excitement at his touch.

He waited in the shade of an elm tree while the park grew more crowded around him. Apparently everyone meant to take advantage of the sunlight today. Good. It would make Charlotte’s attendance less suspicious to her parents.

He wondered what his brother would have said, seeing what a muck he’d made out of his hunt for a bride. Probably the first thing Anthony would have done was laugh at him for concocting a list, for thinking that he could make himself into the perfect nobleman and landowner by finding the perfect wife, as if that would resolve all of his frustrations at leaving behind a promising military career and his worries that he could never fill the boots of his new station. But Anthony would have liked Charlotte. Xavier knew that instinctively.

His brother had always had a good eye for character.

He shifted, looking for a more comfortable position against the tree. Blast it, if her parents refused to let her go out-of-doors, he was going to resort to kidnaping. Just as he was beginning to formulate a plan, though, she appeared. Her maid trailing behind her, she walked with her hand around the arm of her escort—Lord Herbert Beetly.

“Bastard,” Xavier muttered, though he was more angry at her parents.

Marrying Charlotte to Beetly would be like chaining a butterfly to a beetle.

Despite himself he smiled a little. Beetly the beetle.

So now he had to figure out a way to get her away from the insect for at least a few minutes, because if he couldn’t kiss her this afternoon, he was going to explode. They began a stroll along one of the paths, and he shadowed them from the shrubbery. Herbert continued droning on about some sort of allergic reaction he had to grass. After Xavier nearly brained himself on a low-hanging branch, he began contemplating doing the same thing to the beetle.

Luckily for Herbert, however, an open carriage rattled by. “It’s Lady Neeley and that companion of

hers,” Beetly commented, angling to keep them in sight. “I hear she wants to have Bow Street arrest Easterly for the bracelet theft.”

“Nonsense,” Charlotte replied, pulling her hand free.

Xavier slipped up behind her maid. Covering Alice’s mouth, he signaled for her to be silent, then led her directly up behind the couple. He placed Alice’s hand on Beetly’s arm, and in the same motion grabbed Charlotte and tugged her backward into the bushes.

Charlotte stumbled, and he caught her up against him before she could fall.

“Shh,” he breathed, leading her further away from her escort. When they’d reached the relative privacy of a small glade, he stopped. She was out of breath, her bonnet fallen back on her shoulders, and she wore a smile of genuine delight. God, she was fascinating.

“This will never wor—”

Xavier took her by the shoulders and leaned down, covering her mouth with his. She stiffened under his grip, then relaxed into him, giving a soft, throaty moan that made him hard. “Now that is a proper greeting,” he murmured, kissing her again.

“No, it’s an improper greeting,” she corrected, her fingers digging into his sleeves.

It would be so easy to ruin her, to lay her down in the grass and make her his.

Patience,
he ordered himself, releasing her reluctantly. She was proper and terribly worried about appearances, and he didn’t want to frighten her. This wasn’t about an afternoon’s satisfaction; it was about a lifetime of it.

“Lord… Xavier … I’m not… I don’t play this sort of game well,” she stumbled, her gaze still focused on his mouth. “If that’s what this is—a game, I mean—I do wish you would tell me.”

Sometimes men were such fools. He’d nearly been one himself, looking at faces and popularity and shades of hair as though that mattered a whit. “It’s not a game, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “But if my character displeases you, or if you have your heart set elsewhere, please let me know so—’

With a small breath she wrapped her fingers around his lapels, leaned up along his body, and kissed him again. Well, that answered that. He slid his arms around her waist, holding her close.

“Let’s make the most of our escape, then, shall we?” he murmured, shifting his attention to her jawline.

She frowned. “I do seem to be better protected than the king, don’t I?”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. You can tell Beetly you wandered off and thought he was right behind you.”

“You’re very devious.”

“When I need to be.”

Charlotte stepped back a little, meeting bis gaze with her warm brown eyes. “I have a few questions for you, Xavier.”

His heart stammered a little. “Ask them, then.”

“Are you courting Melinda Edwards? Because she’s my friend, and I don’t want to be put in the middle

of anything that might hurt her.”

He could make up something flip, he knew, but she’d probably see through it.

And besides, there was something so … forthright about her that he couldn’t help wanting to respond to it. “I consulted a friend of my own,” he said slowly, “because I hadn’t been to London for quite a while and I wanted to know which lady might best suit me.”

” ‘Suit you?’ ” she repeated.

Xavier smiled a little. “You
don’t
like games, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” She sighed. “It sounds silly, and I’m really not that delicate, but it’s happened several times, that I’ll be out somewhere and a man begins to pay attention to me so his friend can speak with Melinda.

I don’t like being the distraction.”

He touched her cheek, running a finger along her smooth skin. “No, you’re distracting,” he corrected. “And very refreshing. And I’m not playing games.

I’m here to find a wife. Yes, Melinda Edwards was originally on that list. She isn’t, any longer.”

Color fled her cheeks. “But—”

“I was in the army, you know,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear her say something ridiculous like he couldn’t be seriously considering her, “and I had quite the career. I’d begun as a lieutenant, and after two years I’d been promoted to major. I was quite happy with that being my life. England’s always fighting a war somewhere.”

“What happened, then?”

“My older brother, Anthony, died last year. I was summoned home and arrived just in tune for his funeral. Some sort of influenza.” He cleared his throat, wondering if she could hear how angry being abandoned by his closest friend still made him—and how lonely he still felt. “Anthony hadn’t married and had no heirs, which left me with the title.” He forced a chuckle.

“Compared to being an earl, war

was easy.”

“Why me?”

“Why you?” he repeated, touching her again because he couldn’t seem not to.

“You defended your cousin-in-law to your mother.”

“But—”

“Not only against popular opinion, and not because you knew whether he was innocent or guilty, but because nothing had been proven. That, my dear, takes a great deal of character.”

“So you like my character.”

“Charlotte, do you like being required to behave as you do? Do you enjoy your time spent with Lord Herbert? Do you expect you’ll be perfectly happy saying yes when—and I do mean
when
—he asks you to marry him?”

Her face folded into a frown. “Of course I don’t like any of that. I don’t like having my behavior scrutinized by my own parents as a result of a supposed scandal that had nothing to do with me and

that occurred when I was seven years old. Who would like such a thing?”

“I have no idea. But I do know that I never expected to have this life thrust on me, and that I would have been perfectly happy to have caught the fun at Waterloo and have had Anthony still alive and shouldering all the responsibility. Except for one thing.”

“And which thing would that be?”

“You.”

Charlotte looked at him. She’d viewed him from a distance, imagining what brave things he’d done in

the war, admiring his self-confidence and ease in talking to and with other people. She’d never imagined that he might be unhappy, or lonely, or especially that he would ever look in her direction. But he had looked, and apparently he saw them as kindred spirits, two people not entirely comfortable with where they’d found themselves and trying to make the best of it. The oddest thing was, she could see it, too.

Oh, my.
“I need to walk,” she blurted, striding off in a direction roughly opposite of where Herbert should be.

In a second he’d caught up to her. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said in his quiet voice.

“I’m not upset. I’m thinking.”

“Thinking in a good way, or a bad way?”

An unexpected chuckle escaped her lips. “That’s what I’m trying to de—”

Someone smacked into her, and before she could gasp, she lay sprawled on the ground, her nose inches from—“Charlotte!” her friend Tillie Howard gasped. “I’m so sorry!”

She sat up, grateful to find that at least her skirt hadn’t flown up past her waist.

So much for her dignity. “What were you
doing?”
she demanded, pulling her bonnet back over her hair.