Potent Pleasures (21 page)

Peter nodded.

“What a fool I am,” Alex said, looking thunderstruck. “I’ve known Quill for years,” he explained to Charlotte. “We were at school together. I was very sorry to hear of his accident.”

Peter looked at the earl doubtfully but Alex continued, his tone brisk.

“Right you are!” Alex said, turning Charlotte around. “I think I know exactly where to buy fireworks.”

By a half an hour later, Alex had rounded up those fragments of the party that were round-upable. Will seemed to have taken Miss van Stork home, leaving a message for Charlotte that Chloe would wait on her at nine o’clock in the morning. Alex heard that in silence. Before the evening was over he intended to know exactly what his beloved planned to do with a city miss at that unfashionable hour in the morning. His two French friends had also gone home, Daphne desperate to get away from the marquis’s increasingly familiar commentary. And after hearing their plans and receiving Peter’s assurances that his mother would act as chaperone, the marchioness bundled her husband into a carriage and took him home. A few gallants sniffed at the idea of pleasing an invalid and wandered off into dark pathways to find a willing courtesan, of whom there were many at Vauxhall. So Sophie and Charlotte, with a reduced contingent of about three men, not including Alex and Peter Dewland, set off, bringing with them a perfectly marvelous collection of fireworks.

When Alex found that the only fireworks officially sold were simple rockets, he threw his peership around—backed by a noble number of coins—and ended up with one Mr. Glister, a fireworks director at Vauxhall, and a few of his “spessial works,” as he called them. “I’d as lief do it myself,” Mr. Glister kept explaining anxiously. “You might as well take a finger off as look at these. They’ll take the nose right off your face.”

It was only when the carriages pulled up in front of Peter’s darkened house that Charlotte felt a twinge of anxiety. She had been relieved to find that Peter lived in a respectable area, two houses down from her great-aunt Margaret, as a matter of fact. But when Peter ushered them in his mother greeted them cheerfully; it seemed that she and her husband, a viscount, were having a game of chess in the library, and had sent most of the servants to bed. And Charlotte did fancy she had seen Viscountess Dewland with her mother, so that was all right.

Mr. Glister disappeared into the garden to set up his “spessial works,” and Charlotte happily accepted the glass of champagne someone put in her hand. Ever since that disastrous night three years ago, she hardly drank any alcohol. It hadn’t taken long for her to figure out that the lemonade she and Julia drank so enthusiastically had been laced with spirits. But now … She measured Alex’s large body leaning carelessly against the mantelpiece. Alex was listening to Peter’s father prose on about the extraordinary efforts of Bow Street Runners to catch tollhouse thieves. Perhaps it was the champagne. Little fingers of excitement kept darting up her spine. She was terribly glad that she hadn’t gone home. And when Alex looked up and met her eyes she couldn’t stop herself from giving him an entirely intimate, shameless smile. Alex’s eyebrows flew up and he pushed himself into an upright position.

Viscount Dewland kept babbling on about the Runners. Alex let his eyes range suggestively over his beloved’s face. Her glorious mop of curls was even more disheveled than usual, the effect of wind rather than art. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, with her arching eyebrows and huge green eyes. He felt himself hardening in a way that was simply not acceptable, given the skintight pantaloons that passed as fashionable evening wear. Still … his eyes drifted lower to her soft breasts, rising out of that white dress as if they were begging for kisses. God! This would never do. He politely disengaged himself from Viscount Dewland and walked over to Charlotte. Her own eyes hadn’t strayed below his chest, although he damn well wanted them to. On the way he picked up another glass of champagne. Alex stood a whisper’s breath away from her, his eyes glinting a dangerous, sensual message. Charlotte felt a familiar heat creep up from her knees. Why did he do this to her? She had only to be next to him and she wanted to do
that
again.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said gravely. “Shall we ascertain how the redoubtable Mr. Glister is doing in the garden?”

She tensed. It was a moment of decision: Should she go into the gardens with him? She looked about rather wildly, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. Then she caught Sophie’s eye and Sophie winked deliberately.

“Oh, Charlotte,” she called across the room, her clear voice arching over the chatter. “Don’t you think someone should venture out and see what is happening? We cannot intrude on Lady Dewland’s hospitality too long.”

Alex offered Charlotte his arm. Still she hesitated. What was he going to
do
out there in the dark? Hadn’t she sworn to herself that she wouldn’t go outdoors alone with him again? She did want his kisses, the heavy, drugging feeling of desire that swept over her when his lips met hers. But she didn’t want to …

“It’s a beautiful night,” she said, smiling back at Sophie. “Why don’t we all go into the garden and see if Mr. Glister could use some help?”

Alex held out his arm. “Lady Charlotte?” And then, quietly, “Coward!”

Charlotte gasped, and looked up at him. His eyes were dark with desire but there was an unspoken smile there as well.

She grinned back, feeling quite daring. “Sir, your penchant for the outdoors makes me justly wary.”

Alex responded to the grin, not to the words. What on earth was she talking about? So he kissed her on a picnic—well, not that it mattered. She was absolutely right; his fingers were itching to push down her gown and pull a rosy nipple into his mouth.

“Come on,” he said almost roughly. They walked out into the night. The Dewlands’ town house had a large formal garden stretching behind it. Charlotte felt a little ashamed of her doubts about Peter. The Dewlands were clearly an old and well-established branch of the nobility. Her sister Violetta was so nimble about things like this. She could immediately place any member of the
ton
, and discuss his or her antecedents and claims to nobility … but Charlotte had never bothered to learn. She spent no time reading
Burke’s Peerage
. How could she? It was extremely difficult as it was to meld the life of a marriageable young woman with that of a part-time painter. Her mother kept warning her that she would have trouble once she was married. “How will you know how to organize a party going in to dine?” she had asked. Charlotte had thought briefly of the boring shuffling and reshuffling that prefaced a dinner party, especially when a sticky question of precedence came up. To be honest, the question of marriage had seemed so remote that she would never be organizing her own dinner parties, so why worry?

The whole party flocked out of the large double doors leading from the drawing room to the garden. Alex handed Charlotte the glass of champagne he carried in his hand. Charlotte heard Sophie squeal with delight as the smell of roses drifted over the garden, her three gallants jostling in an attempt to be the first to pick her a perfect rose. Alex led Charlotte to a perfectly unexceptional bench, in clear view of Lady Dewland. She felt a tiny pulse of disappointment. Didn’t he want to pull her off into the darker paths leading to the back of the garden?
Not
that she would have permitted such a thing, of course. She sipped her champagne and then bent her head back, feeling soft curls brush the back of her neck. It was now so late that it was possible to see a few stars in the sky, even given London’s ever-present haziness.

“Did you read the piece in
The Gazette
about coal dust?” she asked suddenly. “The writer argued that coal fires are not only obscuring the air, but actually making people ill, especially babies.”

Alex looked down at her curiously. He hadn’t thought that society belles read anything but the gossip pages.

“I thought he argued the case too strongly,” he replied. “There’s no scientific evidence linking coal dust and mortality. I should think that many of those babies die of malnutrition.”

“Why do they cough so much then?”

“They could have colds … pneumonia. I thought his point was interesting, but without better information we could not ban coal fires as he proposed.”

“But, Alex,” Charlotte protested, not even realizing that she used his first name, “he said that autopsies have found babies whose lungs are
black
inside!”

“Well, then why are most of those babies found only among the poor?” Alex rebutted. “They could have died from anything!”

“You know as well as I do that only the children of the very poor are autopsied.” Charlotte was keeping a tight rein on her temper. She drank some more champagne.

“Yes, but I have seen very few babies among my friends who have a constant cough, as he was describing. And if I had,” Alex said, “I would take Pippa to the country immediately.”

“That’s just it,” Charlotte explained patiently. “Children of nobility spend most of the year on country estates. We’re in London only for the season—half the year at the most. Whereas poor children breathe this air all the time.” She waved her hand at the sky. “I spend a lot of time thinking about light,” she said, “and you have no idea how different it is here than in the country. It’s hardly even
light
in the city.” They lapsed into silence.

Alex looked down at Charlotte with a new respect. She had just argued him into a standstill. A small frown creased his forehead. Why did she spend a lot of time thinking about light?

He’d bet she wasn’t thinking about light at the moment. Her head was thrown back, exposing a lovely white column of neck, and she had her eyes closed. Just so would she look when she rode on top of him, her curls tossed back in abandon.

“What are you thinking?” he said, his voice roughened by that thought. He trailed a finger down her forehead, over her small straight nose and stopped at her lips.

Charlotte opened her eyes. “The smell of roses,” she said. “They smell so warm. Why should a smell be hot or cold? But they smell warm.”

Alex thought about this for a minute. “I suppose,” he said rather doubtfully. “Hot chocolate smells warm.”

Charlotte laughed, a lovely, joyful sound, he thought. “That’s not it! I was thinking of flowers. Freesias smell cold, for example.”

“Hmmm.” Alex trailed his finger over her chin and down to her collarbone. He leaned closer and took a loud sniff. “You smell …” He paused provocatively. She giggled. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You smell warm,” he said finally. “Very warm. Also faintly like orange blossoms.”

“Very clever,” Charlotte said approvingly.

“I met a girl once, in a garden, who smelled like lavender, and so far that has been my favorite scent.” He leaned so close that his lips were almost touching hers. Then he gave another exaggerated sniff. She giggled again. “I think …” His lips were touching hers now, whisper-soft. “I think that orange blossoms are my new preference.”

Charlotte was trembling slightly. But Alex drew back. He couldn’t kiss her here, in full view of Viscountess Dewland, not to mention Sophie’s band of gallants. In the moonlight his eyes were black as jet, blacker than night, Charlotte thought. She felt like a hypnotized rabbit, unable to pull her eyes away from his. Alex stood up and pulled her to her feet. He seemed to feel no such weakness, she thought with a faint pulse of humiliation.

“Let’s check how Mr. Glister is doing with the fireworks, shall we? Your mother will be worrying about you soon.”

Mr. Glister had set up camp at the bottom of the garden. “So as I won’t show a burned patch,” he earnestly explained. “Because these here gardens are very nice, very nice indeed, and I wouldn’t want to show them any indig—any indignity, no.”

The footman standing behind him rolled his eyes. Charlotte suppressed a smile. Alex had taken her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and while he talked to Mr. Glister about the technical problems of setting up large fireworks without a platform, Charlotte simply relaxed and thought about her hand in his. His hand was so large. Her fingers were trembling and she was afraid he might notice, so she rubbed her thumb against the base of his wrist. He responded in a most gratifying way, instantly tightening his grip even though his voice never faltered speaking to Mr. Glister. Charlotte, on the other hand, was unable to think of anything but his fingers, which had started a slow, sensual massage of her hand. She tried to look pleasantly interested in the fireworks, although in fact she didn’t hear a word Mr. Glister said.

Finally Mr. Glister said, “Aye, sir, aye, it’ll be just a wee bit of time now. Why don’t you tell all them up at the house to look out of their windows. And the wee sick bairn as well.”

Alex tucked Charlotte’s arm into his and smilingly turned her back toward the house. This was no better, Charlotte thought frantically. He was holding her so tightly that she could feel the warmth of his long body walking next to hers. She felt as if her body were on fire. How was she going to disguise this? If he guessed, he would think she was a wanton tart. Ladies don’t feel like this, she knew that for certain. Her mother was not talking about the kind of raging desire Charlotte felt when she mentioned marital pleasure.