Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (28 page)

“A footrace, actually,” Tillie muttered, looking embarrassed. “Don’t tell my mother.”

“I won’t have to.” With the park this crowded, someone else was bound to have seen. “If you think

she’s not going to hear of this—”

“I know, I know,” Tillie said, sighing. “I’m hoping she’ll chalk it up to sun-induced insanity.”

“Or perhaps sun-blindness?” Xavier put in, helping Charlotte to her feet. She thought he looked amused, but then he hadn’t been the one knocked to the ground.

Still, her mother would have an apoplexy at her own behavior today, so who was she to judge anyone

or anything? “Lady Mathilda, this is Earl Matson.”

“Pleased to …” Tillie trailed off as a tall, dark-haired man skidded up beside her.

“Tillie, are you all right?” he asked.

Lady Mathilda answered and received help to her feet, but Charlotte’s attention was on Xavier. He’d stiffened a little as the other gentleman had appeared, and he’d immediately taken a step closer to her, keeping her hand in his. A thrill ran through her. Was he actually jealous? And on
her
behalf?

Tillie introduced her to Peter Thompson, but before she could introduce Xavier in return,

Mr. Thompson interrupted her. “Matson,” he said, nodding.

“You already know each other?” Tillie asked, before Charlotte could.

“From the army,” Xavier answered.

“Oh!” Tillie exclaimed, her red curls bobbing. “Did you know my brother? Harry Howard?”

The expression in Xavier’s eyes changed for just a moment. Charlotte couldn’t read it, but something in that faded cobalt made her grip his fingers just a little tighter.

“He was a fine fellow,” he answered after a moment. “We all liked him a great deal.”

“Yes,” Mathilda agreed, “everyone liked Harry. He was quite special that way.”

The earl nodded. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“As are we all. I thank you for your regards.”

Charlotte glanced at Mr. Thompson, then looked again more closely. He was eyeing Xavier the same

way the earl seemed to be sizing him up, like two stallions each protecting a mare from a rival.

Oh, dear.
“Were you in the same regiment?” she asked, trying to distract them.

“Yes, we were,” Xavier returned, “though Thompson here was lucky enough to remain through the action.”

“You weren’t at Waterloo?” Tillie asked.

“No. I was called home for family reasons.”

“I’m so sorry,” Tillie murmured.

Abruptly Charlotte wished her friend didn’t look quite so attractive, with her bosom heaving and her cheeks glowing from the footrace.
Tan.
“Speaking of Waterloo,” she broke in, “do you intend to go to next week’s reenactment?

Lord Matson was just complaining that he missed the fun.”

“Charlotte,” Xavier murmured, too quietly for the others to hear.

“I’d hardly call it fun,” Mr. Thompson muttered.

“Right,” Tillie seconded in a too-cheery voice. Obviously she also wished to be elsewhere. “Prinny’s reenactment! I’d quite forgotten about it. It’s to be at Vauxhall, is it not?”

“A week from today,” Charlotte said, nodding, and beginning to wish she’d just kept her mouth shut, as her mother kept telling her to. “On the anniversary of Waterloo. I’ve heard that Prinny is beside

himself with excitement. There are to be fireworks.”

Peter didn’t look terribly excited at the prospect. “Because we want this to be an
accurate
representation of war.”

“Or Prinny’s idea of accurate, anyway,” the earl added coolly.

“Perhaps it is meant to mimic gunfire,” Tillie said tightly. “Will you go, Mr.

Thompson? I should appreciate your escort.”

Charlotte shifted uncomfortably. Obviously the subject was even more sensitive than she’d realized. She opened her mouth to change the subject as Tillie and Peter continued debating whether they should attend or not, but Xavier tugged on her hand. When she looked up at him, he shook his head slightly, his gaze

on Tillie and surprisingly compassionate. “Leave be,” he muttered, glancing down at Charlotte.

“But—”

“Very well,” Mr. Thompson was saying to Tillie, though his lips tightened.

“Thank you,” Mathilda replied with a grin. “It’s very kind of you, especially since—”

At her friend’s abruptly uncomfortable expression, Charlotte shook herself.

“Well, we must be going,”

she said, “er, before anyone—”

“We need to be on our way,” Xavier finished smoothly.

“Terribly sorry about the footrace,” Mathilda said, reaching out to squeeze Charlotte’s other hand.

Smiling, Charlotte squeezed back. They were still friends, after all. “Think nothing of it. Pretend I’m the finish line, and then you’ve won.”

“An excellent idea. I should have thought of it myself.”

When Xavier tugged her backward, Charlotte didn’t protest. Herbert was probably scouring the park for her by now, and whatever row he caused would be her fault.

“You have interesting friends,” he said after a moment, leading her into thicker undergrowth.

“So do you.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call Thompson a friend.”

As she realized he’d managed to once again find a glade sheltered from all other occupants of the park, she pulled her hand free. “I need to get back to Herbert.”

“I know.” He closed the distance between them with one long step. “And I hope you know that while I’ve been making every attempt to behave myself for your parents’ sake, I have earned my somewhat… colorful reputation.”

Her heartbeat quickened. She’d begun to find new levels of boldness since their first encounter, herself. “Oh, have you?”

Reaching out, he took both of her shoulders in his hands and yanked her up against him. As his lips

found hers, Charlotte felt heat rush from their point of contact down to her toes, with a warm, unexpected, tingling between her thighs. He meant it. He was serious in his interest. As wondrous as it was, a small, logical part of her mind still wanted to know why. Why her? Why not someone lovely and collected and sophisticated like Melinda? Why—His hands trailed down her arms, brushing the outside of her breasts while his thumbs stroked across her muslin-covered nipples with just enough authority to let her know that he’d done it on purpose, and that kissing her was only the beginning of what he wanted.

“Xavier,” she gasped, leaning into him.

“Shh.”

“Charlotte!”

She started, her passion-clouded brain taking a moment to register that Herbert’s voice was not right behind her but rather was far enough away that he couldn’t possibly have seen anything. “Let go, Xavier,” she murmured, unable to resist pursuing his mouth for a last rough kiss.

“You need to break with Herbert,” the earl said, his voice harder.

“And what reason would I give?” she asked, equal parts thrilled and frustrated.

“I’ve already mentioned my dissatisfaction with his exciting character to my parents. In response, my father accepted his invitation to escort me to Vauxhall.”

“We’ll see about that,” Xavier replied. “I’ll tolerate this sneaking about for a while, but my patience does have a limit, Charlotte.” He cupped her face in his hand. “And Lord Herbert will not be escorting you to Vauxhall.
I
will be. You can wager on that.”

It would make things worse, and for once Charlotte didn’t mind. As Herbert drew closer, Xavier faded back into the shadows. She gave the excuse he’d suggested, that she’d wandered off and been surprised to find him gone. Being a man of no imagination, he believed the tale. And from Alice’s amused expression, the maid wasn’t going to give anything away, either.

Xavier had said his patience wouldn’t last, and she could only wonder what would happen then. One thing, though, was for certain. She was going to Vauxhall next Wednesday.

Very well, the secret is out. The object of Lord Matson’s affections is none other than Miss Charlotte Birling, whose name, This Author must confess, has never before graced the pages of this column.

The pair in question were seen arm in arm yesterday in Hyde Park, looking rather cozy, indeed.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
12 JUNE 1816

Charlotte hummed as she faced the mirror. She’d barely eaten dinner last night, and she’d barely slept,

but even so she felt… energized, as though electricity ran just under her skin.

Along with it, she became aware of the alarming feeling that nothing could go wrong. That should immediately have alerted her that everything was about to go to hell.

At least her parents allowed her to finish her morning toilette and come downstairs to breakfast in blissful ignorance before they pounced. “Good morning,” she said, sweeping into the small breakfast room and breathing deeply the scent of fresh-baked bread.

“Good morning,” her mother replied, looking up from her perusal of the new Whistledown column.

“Wait until you hear this.”

“I don’t care what anyone else is doing or saying.” Charlotte selected a peach and a thick slice of bread from the sideboard. “I don’t even care if it’s probably going to rain again today.”

Her father lowered
The London Times
to look at her. “And what is the reason for this new, careless Charlotte?”

Something in his voice caught her attention, but she pretended to ignore it.

She’d changed in the past few days; she couldn’t expect that they had. But they would, because she needed them to if she meant to have any sort of future with Lord Matson. And she meant to. “You’ll laugh at me.”

“We won’t laugh,” her mother returned.
Don’t say anything more,
the little sensible voice inside her head began urging. This morning, though, the giddy voice, the one that wanted to sing and waltz across the room, was much louder. “I feel like I’ve been a caterpillar, and now I’m a butterfly.”

She took her seat, and it was a moment before she noticed that neither the baron nor the baroness had commented on her metaphor. As she looked up, they were gazing at one another. Something had happened. “What’s wrong?”

she asked.

Slowly her mother slid the gossip column over in front of her. “You may think you’re a butterfly,” she said quietly, “but that would imply that you’ve become independent, and that your actions—’

“—and that your actions reflect on no one else,” her father finished. “I think we can all agree that you are in error.”

Swallowing, Charlotte looked at the
Whistledown
column.
Oh, no.
“I—”

“Consider carefully which lie you intend to tell,” the baron interrupted again.

“You and Herbert have already regaled us with the story of how you two became separated in the park yesterday. Matson’s name did not come up in that conversation.”

For just a moment Charlotte closed her eyes. Back to caterpillar again in one second. And now she’d never be allowed out of her cocoon. Ever. Unless she forced it open herself. “I like Lord Matson,” she said quietly. “I think you would like him, too, if you would give him a chance.”

“We didn’t make his reputation, Charlotte. He did that on his own. And he must face the consequences

of it—on his own.”

“What about my reputation?” she protested. “You decided when I was seven that every breath I took could ruin me, and so I haven’t had an opportunity to do anything. Yes, I’m in
Lady Whistledown.
But am I ruined? No.”

“That remains to be seen. Did you intend to see him in the park, or was it an accident?” Her mother took the column back. Undoubtedly it would go into a box so she could pull it out every time she wanted to make a point about something.

Charlotte lifted her chin. “It was on purpose.”

“Charlotte!”

She pushed to her feet. “I’m not beautiful or vibrant, Mama. Believe me, I know that. And when I’m

with Lord Herbert, I feel plain, and ordinary, and small. But when Xavier looks at me and talks with

me, I feel… attractive. Don’t expect me to ignore that. He’s a good man, trying to take a place in

Society when he never expected to have to do so.”

“So he tells you flattering lies and now you’re ready to let him use our good name to improve his own standing.”

“Papa, it’s not—”

“It’s not like that? Can you think of another reason why he might be courting you?”

So that was it. In their eyes, she truly was ordinary. Why would someone as handsome and wealthy as Xavier Matson want to associate with her, unless there was something tangible in it for him? “Oh,” she said quietly, her voice catching.

“Edward, there’s no call for that.” To Charlotte’s surprise, her mother stood and put an arm across her shoulders. “We don’t want to hurt you, but you need to consider that not everyone is as good-hearted and honest as you are.”

“And that whether you live under our roof or not, your actions reflect on us and our reputations.” The baron’s mouth pinched.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Papa. May I go to my bedchamber now?”

“Lord Herbert will be taking you to luncheon. Until then, yes, I suggest you retire to think about the consequences of your actions.”

As Charlotte clomped back upstairs, she wondered how long Xavier would remain interested in her if

her parents never allowed them to meet again. In him she’d found a companion spirit, but while hers

was still tethered, his was free.

His actions reflected on no one but himself, and being both a man and wealthy, most anything he did would be excused. As for her own actions, her father was correct. She lived under their roof, shared their name, had been presented to Society by them. And she could accept all of that.

What bothered her was that the standards of conduct expected of every proper female in London didn’t apply to her. Or rather they did, but threefold.

And she didn’t have the awe-inspiring beauty or daring to counter the strict walls put up around her.

Xavier hadn’t seemed to notice her faults, but she knew that he was frustrated with her situation. And Melinda Edwards, Rachel Bakely, Lady Portia Hollings, and a half dozen other young ladies were all out to catch his eye—while she sat on her bed, grumbling about her fate in solitude.