Potent Pleasures (20 page)

“My lord.”

“Lady Charlotte.”

There was a small pause. Alex wanted, very badly, to lean over and kiss Charlotte’s neck. Then he would pull her to her feet, walk to his carriage, and rip that bit of muslin she called a dress right off her. His eyes darkened and he felt himself growing hard. Damnation.

“What do you think of the play?” he asked, nodding toward the now empty stage.

Charlotte considered his question. “I liked the first two acts very much, but the third act was flimsy…. Would a mad king really wander about the moors with only his fool? And why did that monkey suddenly appear?”

“Yes, the monkey.” Alex scowled. “Didn’t you read Shakespeare at school?” he asked.

“Of course. But there were many plays they wouldn’t allow us to read, and then there were always blacked-out parts in the plays we were allowed to read.”

“Blacked-out parts? What about this one?”

“We didn’t get to read
Lear
at all. Although I’m not sure why. It seems lighthearted enough, too light.”

“Lighthearted! The third act is supposed to be bitter … terrifying. Do you remember when the king sang a little jig about being mad as the wind and the snow?”

“I didn’t like it.”

“Those lines are supposed to be howled, not sung—brilliant lines, spoken by a man who is howling mad: mad as the wind and the snow.”

Charlotte considered this in silence. “The verse too … it hops and leaps,” she said. “For instance, the king’s speech about old age was brilliant, but then that man, what is his name? Reginald—he seems to be speaking prose, not verse.”

Alex shuddered. “That’s because Reginald is an adornment that this ass of a stage manager decided to give to Shakespeare’s play. There’s no Reginald in the original.”

“How lucky you are,” Charlotte said regretfully. “We were forbidden to read so much.”

“Well, couldn’t you read the plays now?” Alex could never figure out what gently bred ladies
did
all day long. Men took care of investments and met their estate managers and gave speeches in Parliament, as well as boxing, gambling, and wenching. But what did women do? He remembered his mother counting the linen and carrying around food to the poor, but that was it.

“Oh, no,” Charlotte replied absently. “I work in the mornings and I never seem to have time for reading these days.”

“You
work
?”

Charlotte caught herself. She never talked with men about painting; they immediately fancied her as a water-colorist, painting sweet little wreaths of flowers onto paper bags.

Charlotte looked up into Alex’s face, a hint of a smile glimmering in her eyes. “Do you know that they wouldn’t even let us read all of
Romeo and Juliet?
”

Alex cast his mind back. They hadn’t acted the play at school; he couldn’t think of anything offhand that might need censoring.

Charlotte continued. “My friend Julia Brentorton—she’s now married and lives abroad—figured out that they excised precisely ten lines, all from Juliet’s epithalamium, you know, her soliloquy before Romeo climbs up the rope ladder to her window.”

“Of course!” Alex said, startled. “For he shall lie upon me like snow on a raven’s back, like day on night….”

Charlotte colored. She would look like snow if she lay on top of Alex’s chest; his skin was the color of dark honey. She jerked her thoughts away.

Alex was more interested in Charlotte’s mention of work. “What kind of work?” he asked bluntly.

Luckily at that moment Sophie reappeared, followed by a flock of admirers.

“Charlotte, dearest,” she said in her half-laughing, mischievous tone that drove all the men behind her mad with desire, “this play is simply not Shakespeare, is it? But Lord Winkle has a delightful suggestion … that we eschew the second half and go to Vauxhall instead.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said rather stupidly, her eyes instinctively meeting Alex’s. What she met there made her feel feverish. She knew without question that her mother would forbid an excursion to Vauxhall in company with the earl. Vauxhall had far too many dimly lit pathways and shadowy arbors.

“What does your mother say?” she finally asked, looking up at Sophie.

“She doesn’t like it, but she has agreed.” Sophie bent over, ringlets brushing Alex’s cheek. “I think my father fancies that he has an
amour
with Miss Boch,” she said softly, “and my mother would like to leave the theater.”

Charlotte rose immediately. She felt as if she had been ridiculously naive before the conversation with her mother. It would never have occurred to her that the marquis might try to fix an interest with a young lady, even if she were French. She never would have given a second thought to a lively conversation between them, or guessed that the marchioness might dislike watching her husband laugh genially at Daphne’s French witticisms.

Will looked questioningly at Chloe van Stork, who had watched all the traipsing around the box with rather wide eyes. She looked at him quickly and then down at her hands. Will thought he would rather like to lure Chloe into a dark avenue and kiss her again. He thought of her soft lips under his.

“Shall we join them?” he asked, his tone smooth as honey.

“Vauxhall,” Chloe said. “My mother would not like it.”

But when Chloe appeared at the van Stork’s box, flanked by her huge blond cavalier, her mother surprised herself by nodding agreeably. Katryn cast a loving look at her serious daughter. There was pink in Chloe’s cheeks and her eyes were shining. She had watched Chloe in the Brandenburg box and felt a little guilty. Chloe looked like a crow, surrounded by gaily fluttering gowns. Perhaps she was too prudish in her notions of dress. She certainly didn’t want Chloe to marry one of the solid, plump Dutchmen who thronged into her husband’s workrooms. While this Lord Holland was undoubtedly a fortune hunter, her shrewd assessment was that he was also an honorable man.
And
she was starting to think that he and her daughter might even make a genuine marriage.

“Will you be properly chaperoned?”

Will explained that the Marquis and Marchioness of Brandenburg would accompany the party.

“Yes, go, daughter,” she said, and nodded at the baron. He bowed politely to Chloe’s abstracted father. Her father was properly dressed, an elegant evening coat straining across his plump stomach, but he looked distracted, as if he was thinking of his work.

“Ah, humph,” her father said in farewell.

A small smile lit Chloe’s eyes and she dropped a kiss on his bald head. She put her hand on Lord Holland’s arm, ignoring the secret tingle that she felt at his touch. She felt as if she were in some kind of dream. What was she, plain Chloe van Stork, doing at Vauxhall with Charlotte Daicheston? In the last months the gossip columns had anxiously chronicled every move Lady Charlotte made. She knew with absolute certainty that her own name would appear in
The Tatler
tomorrow morning. Chloe shivered a bit with excitement and looked up at Will Holland.

His bright blue eyes looked almost black … it must be the lighting in the corridor, Chloe thought. He drew her quickly down the stairs and toward the carriages. Finally she was almost running to keep up.

“Sir,” she gasped, pulling him back slightly.

Will turned his head, completely surprised. He was feverishly thinking of getting Chloe into the carriage and kissing her again; he didn’t remember ever being so obsessed that he forgot the normal social graces.

“I apologize,” he said. And then it just came out of his mouth: “I wanted to kiss you again, in my carriage.”

Chloe’s eyes widened. She knew that Will Holland was courting her only for her money. Why on earth was he so eager to kiss her? It must be part of his courtship routine. Will felt her infinitesimal withdrawal and cursed inside. He tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said firmly. “We will amble toward the carriages and I won’t touch a hair of your head: how’s that?” He turned rather anxiously to look down into her blue eyes.

But she surprised him again. Chloe’s eyes were dancing, unmistakably enjoying his discomfort.

“I should enjoy that,” she replied.

Will looked ahead again. Enjoy what? What would she enjoy? Ambling? Or him not touching her? He drew her hand closer to his side and consciously controlled his walk. Chloe smiled to herself. They proceeded toward the carriages at a snail’s pace.

Chapter 10

B
y the time all the carriages met at Vauxhall and the group had reassembled and found each other, they were around twenty persons. Charlotte felt a moment of annoyance. She hated large parties where you never got to talk to anyone seriously and you spent all your time shouting over someone’s shoulder. Besides, Alex was behaving in a most offhand manner, strolling on ahead with a group of men. The men had all lit cigars and were talking loudly of a boxing match scheduled for the coming week. She found herself next to Chloe van Stork, walking toward the brightly lit pavilion. Charlotte studied Chloe’s profile again and felt a quickening of interest. Yes: This was the person she wanted to paint next. Chloe was very beautiful, even though she didn’t know it, but more interesting was the painfully honest look she had. As if she would always blurt the truth and would never gain the smooth social apparatus that Sophie was probably born with and which she herself had painfully acquired in the last three years.

“Miss van Stork,” she said.

“Yes, my lady,” Chloe replied.

Oh dear, Charlotte thought. “Please do call me Charlotte,” she said. “Why don’t we sit over here?” She steered Chloe toward a large table, away from the smaller table where a group of beaux were already clustered, looking expectantly at Charlotte.

Chloe sat down, wondering where in the world Will had gone. He had behaved (to her secret disappointment) like a consummate gentleman in the carriage, and then she seemed to lose him on the walk. The party itself was also unexceptionally proper. The marquis appeared to be a little drunk to her inexperienced eye, and the marchioness frigid with annoyance, but there was nothing remarkable in that. She had noticed that
ton
marriages seemed invariably strained. Probably, she thought, it was all that alcohol they drank. It fuddled your brain, her mother said.

Lady Charlotte seemed to be staring at her in a very peculiar way. Probably she was entranced by the novel idea of sitting with a bourgeois cit. Chloe raised her stubborn little chin.

“Why are you regarding me so … intently, Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte’s face glowed. “That’s it! That’s exactly the look I want!”

Chloe looked confused. The woman must be mad as a hatter. How odd that the papers hadn’t mentioned it.

“No, no,” Charlotte said hastily. “I’m not making any sense, am I? I paint, you see. I’ve just started painting people—well, I have painted Sophie, that’s all. And I’d like to paint you.” She paused. Chloe van Stork was looking at her doubtfully.

Charlotte gave her a deliberately charming smile. Unlike Will, Chloe didn’t unbend an inch. Charlotte leaned across the table. “I don’t dabble with paints.” She broke off. “May I call you Chloe?”

Chloe nodded silently.

“I really paint. And I work at it like the devil,” she said frankly. “I’d like to paint your portrait, in profile I think. Yes, that would be best.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes, unconsciously chewing on her lower lip. “Do you think that you could possibly sit for me? A portrait takes a long time, about six weeks, but I wouldn’t need you every day. I work from about eight in the morning to one; any time you could give me would be wonderful.”

Chloe was staggered. Everyone knew that society belles didn’t do a single thing all day long. They sat around and counted their pearls. She gulped rather gracelessly, staring at the elegant woman on the other side of the table.
She
worked like the devil at painting?

“I suppose so,” she finally replied, hesitating. “I would have to ask my mama.”

“Of course. Perhaps she would like to accompany you? She probably wouldn’t want to just sit in my studio, but I know that my mama would much enjoy some company,” Charlotte said, recklessly ignoring the duchess’s elaborately planned mornings.

Chloe tried to imagine her mother having a leisurely tea with the Duchess of Calverstill and totally failed.

“I doubt it,” she answered uncertainly. “She is frightfully busy, most of the time.” Then she could have bitten her tongue off with embarrassment. Charlotte’s mother probably lay about on a daybed most of the day. Charlotte might think she was being critical.

But an insult had never occurred to Charlotte, who had been trained to run a large household and knew just what an enormous amount of work it was. “Yes,” she said absently. She was still staring at Chloe’s face. She reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Chloe’s maid had pulled her hair ruthlessly into a tight circle of braids, but small ringlets were starting to fall out.

From across the large vine-hung arbor scattered with tables Will saw Charlotte tuck up Chloe’s hair and he frowned. She wasn’t planning to transform Chloe, was she? The way she herself changed? He didn’t like it. Chloe was Chloe, and he didn’t want to see her in one of those flimsy French gowns, leaving all the men free to gape at her bosom. He walked over and loomed behind Chloe’s chair, frowning at Charlotte.

“Miss van Stork,” he said with deliberate formality. “Would you like to join me for a stroll? We might look at the mechanical train.”

Chloe sat perfectly still for a second. It really was ridiculous, the way her heart leaped into her throat when she heard his voice. He was a fortune hunter, nothing more. She had read all about his pursuit of Lady Charlotte, for example.

“All right,” Chloe said coolly. She nodded at Charlotte, giving her a rather sweet smile, and walked off with Will. Charlotte watched them go, smiling slightly. She had no delusions about how long Will would be a single man. He was well and truly caught, she thought. She shrugged a bit and met the brown eyes of the young man seated to her right.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

Charlotte felt truly annoyed. She disliked walking into shadowed passageways with strange young men. In her experience they invariably tried to kiss you, certain that their masterful lips would conquer all resistance. Vauxhall was surrounded by pleasure gardens and ivy-hung walks that were only dimly illuminated by Chinese lanterns and strings of lights. Her eyes met Sophie’s and Sophie twinkled at her sympathetically. She herself was busy fending off three men with a similar mission. Meanwhile the marquis had managed to talk Daphne Boch into going to see the fireworks, and the marchioness was staring straight ahead, a pinched look about her mouth. Charlotte wanted to go home. Alex was nowhere to be seen, and what was she doing with him anyway? Not that she
was
with him, considering that he had sauntered off the moment they arrived. She felt cross, humiliated, and rather tired.

The young brown-eyed gallant was standing next to her, politely holding out his arm. She looked up at him appealingly. “My lord, I find that I am quite exhausted. Would you be so kind as to escort me back to my home?”

Happily enough, the Honorable Peter Dewland evidenced no sign of libidinous fever at the idea of being alone in a carriage with Charlotte Daicheston. He simply nodded. Charlotte made her apologies to the tight-lipped marchioness. Sophie had disappeared into the flower-scented night, escorted by all three bravos. Alex was nowhere. Charlotte put her fingers lightly on Peter’s arm and they walked off toward the carriages.

They were about halfway to the carriage park when a particularly lovely burst of fireworks lit up the sky. Charlotte had been so busy trying to pick her way over the ill-lit brick walks without stubbing her toes that she hadn’t paid much attention. But now Peter Dewland said in a rather boyish and charming way, “I say, Lady Charlotte! Just look at that!”

A scarlet serpent curled around a large tiger lily, flaming for a moment and falling into broken pieces.

“Oh, how lovely,” she said.

“My brother would love this,” Peter commented, still watching sparkling fragments crumbling into blackness.

“Why didn’t he join us?” Charlotte asked. “Is he too young?”

Peter colored and looked down at his companion, worried that he was boring her. But she looked genuinely interested.

“Quill is my older brother—he hurt his leg in a riding accident,” he said. “He has to stay in bed all the time now, unless one of the footmen carries him outside. But it hurts quite a lot to be moved and so …” His voice trailed off.

“Oh, dear,” Charlotte said in a small voice. Here she was, fussing over a silly thing like her ineligible beau deserting her, and this boy’s brother was permanently bedridden. “You know, I believe you can buy fireworks here. You could set them off in your back garden, and then if your brother came to the window, he could see them as well.”

“Oh, Lady Charlotte, that’s a lovely idea,” Peter exclaimed. “Do you know where the fireworks are sold?”

Charlotte nodded back toward the huge, lit-up pavilion they had walked away from. “I believe they are back there.”

Peter hesitated and then turned to go. “I will buy some tomorrow, Lady Charlotte, and I shall tell my brother that it was your suggestion.”

Charlotte laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, no! We have to do it tonight, don’t you think? And mightn’t I help with the fireworks?” A sudden thought struck her. “I’m not sure that the marchioness would wish to join us, however.” She could not accompany any man to his house without a chaperone, no matter how good the cause.

“My mother,” Peter said with his appealing near stammer mer. “My mother would be happy to chaperone us, I feel sure. I believe she knows your mother quite well.”

Charlotte took this with a grain of salt. It was amazing how many members of the
ton
said they knew her mother quite well; Adelaide had never been much good at repulsing people. Still … Charlotte was struck with the determination to set off fireworks for Peter’s injured brother.

“Let’s go!” she said gaily. They started back toward the lit pavilion, walking rather less carefully. A slight breeze set Charlotte’s black ribbons dancing around her slender white dress. Alex, who was standing at the edge of the pavilion, staring out in utter fury, recognized the gown in an instant. His eyes narrowed, even as he felt a flash of happiness in his belly. God almighty, this woman would probably drive him mad. Who was she with, out there in the dark, anyway? The marchioness had told him that Charlotte had returned home; why was she returning? He had pretended to himself that he was angry because she had left the party without saying good-bye to all her friends. Inside he knew that he was furious because she didn’t bother to say farewell to him. He had gone to order a banquet of delicate sandwiches to be brought to their table, only to return to find his girl (as he invariably thought of her in the last week) gone, and all the rest of them wandering around in the dark somewhere. Only the grim-faced marchioness was left, staring into the darkness. He quickly found her a rum punch and was contemplating murder when he saw Charlotte’s billowing ribbons returning to the pavilion.

And now … he was quite happy and didn’t bother to analyze his change in mood. Alex strode out in Charlotte’s direction. My God, it really was dark out here. No wonder there were so many thefts and rapes and what have you at Vauxhall. He felt a sudden flash of alarm and quickened his stride. He had almost reached Charlotte and the young gentleman accompanying her. One look at Peter, even in the dim light, reassured him.
This
one wasn’t going to pull any fancy tricks in the dark. Alex pulled to the side, pressing into the hedge. Charlotte and her escort walked on, not even noticing him. Alex waited until Charlotte was almost past him and then he reached out and caught one of her floating black ribbons, pulling it sharply back toward him.

She swung about fiercely, jerking the ribbon out of his hand. Her eyes flashed at him for an instant until she recognized him, and then some other emotion touched her eyes … he wasn’t sure what. He caught another ribbon.

“Sir,” said the young gallant in a rather strained manner. “The lady would prefer that you not touch her garments.”

“Do you, Charlotte?” Alex said, gently pulling the ribbon toward him. Charlotte perforce walked a step closer to him. “Do you prefer that I don’t touch your … garments?”

Charlotte raised her chin, meeting his eyes. “Certainly, my lord. I am not certain but that you have damaged my gown already.”

Alex’s eyes smoldered down at her. He tugged a bit more on her ribbon, and Charlotte stepped forward again. There was only a hairsbreadth between them now. Peter, standing behind Charlotte, couldn’t see Alex’s hands, so he let them slide from the ribbon and spread them wide on her front, his fingers fitting snugly under the rise of her breasts. Charlotte drew in her breath, sharply.

“I’m just checking for damage,” he said with a lopsided grin.

Charlotte couldn’t think of anything to say. “We’re going to buy fireworks,” she finally said, retreating a step. “Mr. Dewland’s brother is unable to leave his bed and we thought to buy some fireworks and set them off in his garden.”

Alex’s eyes shifted from Charlotte’s face to that of Peter Dewland, who was standing off to the side, unsure what to make of the earl’s antics.

Suddenly Peter’s face looked familiar. “Is your brother Quill?” Alex demanded.