Captive (20 page)

He did not know where the thought had come from. He did not want to marry anyone, least of all Charlotte Edgerton. No man in his right mind would willingly marry someone who was certain to give him heart palpitations and headaches for the rest of his life.

She was unpredictable and unmanageable. And more desirable to him than a dozen courtesans.

Maybe that was the problem. He had been without a mistress for too long. He made up his mind to find a willing demi-rep and bed her before the week was out.

“If I think of any other qualities you should avoid, I will be sure to mention them,” he had said.

Now she stood on the other side of the ballroom from him sorting through the eligible suitors—and there were a great many of them—while he stood by and watched like a hawk on a promontory, waiting for her to bring him her choice, so he could tear the man to shreds. The only reason he did not shoo them all away like flies from a piece of cake, was because among them were a few substantial prospects.

Sir Fenton, for example. Although, on second thought, perhaps a rake of forty was too old for a chit of seventeen.

Lord Harrellson might do. Except he tended to corpulence. A man in his condition might not survive into old age, and with Denbigh’s luck, and as her nearest relative, Charlotte might end up becoming his responsibility all over again.

Ah. The Earl of Devon. Except, Devon already had four children by his mistress of ten years and could not be expected to give her up. He did not think Charlotte would tolerate the situation, should she discover it. Or, heaven forbid—and knowing Charlotte—she would invite the mistress and the four children to come and live with them!

Viscount Canby was a definite possibility. He was said to be in trade, but that did not exclude him in Denbigh’s mind. The viscount had made and lost a dozen fortunes, but had most recently lost one. Following a week-long game of whist at White’s, he hadn’t a feather to fly with. Canby would surely come round again, but Lion didn’t like the idea of Charlotte being subjected to such financial ups and downs.

His gaze came to rest on Lord Webster. There was a suitor who could not be faulted. Webster was a large man, even taller and broader shouldered than Lion himself, but without an ounce of fat on him. Not given to excesses. Lived most of the year on his
country estate, where Charlotte would be able to ride to her heart’s content.

Except Webster had buried two wives already. Both lost to childbirth. What if Webster, huge man that he was, set seeds that grew too large for the women who nurtured them? What if the size of his babies ripped their mothers apart as they tried to expel them?

He could not bear the thought of that happening to his Charlotte.

She is not yours. You don’t want her, remember?

His eyes scanned the room, looking for other likely marital candidates. He found few to his liking. Each one had some defect he could not accept. Charlotte deserved the very best.

“I say, Lion. Shocking crush. Lady Hornby must be delighted. Everyone who is anyone is here.”

Lion turned and greeted his best friend, managing not to cringe when he laid eyes on Percy’s pig-pink waistcoat.

“Good evening, Percy. Everyone may be here, but I’m having a devil of a time finding a single gentleman in the throng who would make a good husband for my ward.”

“Too bad, old man,” Percy said, shaking his head in commiseration. He followed Denbigh’s gaze to Lady Charlotte and the crowd surrounding her. “What about Fenton?” he asked.

“Too old.”

“Lord Harrellson—”

“Too fat.”

“You cannot fault the Earl of Devon,” Percy protested.

“Except for his mistress and their four children.”

“Canby is—”

“Cleaned out,” he interrupted.

“Lord Webster?” Percy asked, the doubt in his voice conveying that he knew there must be some problem with the man, though he could not see it.

“He has buried two wives in childbirth. I keep seeing Charlotte ripped in two.” He shook his head. “I cannot countenance it, Percy.”

“Oh, dear,” Percy said. “I had no idea finding a husband for a gel as taking as Lady Charlotte could be so difficult. Next you’ll be looking at me,” he said with a laugh.

Denbigh did exactly that. “Why not you, Percy?”

Percy’s face turned as pink as his waistcoat. “You know I have no taste, Lion. The gel would turn her nose up at me.”

“I promise you Charlotte would be more interested in the man inside the clothes,” Denbigh said.

“I’m not ready for a leg-shackle.”

“We’re of an age, Percy. It is time you set up your nursery.”

“I tell you I’m not ready, Lion. If you can’t find another man you like for the chit, why not marry her yourself! The best part of that solution, my friend, is that you’re already engaged to her.”

“I don’t love her, Percy.”

“Love is no basis for marriage,” Percy scoffed.

It was what Lion himself had told Charlotte. He could hardly blame Percy for spouting the same blasphemy. Every gentleman of their class had been brought up with the same understanding. Where marriage was concerned, property and bloodlines were more important than feelings between people.

“Besides,” Percy continued, “do you think any of those gentlemen you are asking her to choose as her husband will love her? It is not the thing. At least you like her.”

“I do?”

“Of course you do,” Percy said. “What’s more, you admire her. She’s beautiful, and she has her own fortune. What more can a man ask of his bride?”

Lion could not argue with Percy’s reasoning. Neither could he discuss with his friend, Alice’s brother, the unhealed wounds that made him unwilling to make any woman his wife. He could not ignore the past or make it go away.

His feelings for Charlotte frightened him, because they were so similar to what he had felt for Alice. Except, what he felt for Charlotte was a hundred
times more powerful. Alice’s betrayal had left him wounded. Charlotte’s betrayal would kill him.

Not literally, of course. He did not believe in the romantic fancy that said you could die of a broken heart. But he knew enough about heartbreak to be certain that if Charlotte betrayed him with another man, he would not want to live. He could not imagine her doing such a thing. But he had not imagined it of Alice, either.

“Be at ease, Percy,” Lion said. “I will find a husband for Charlotte if I have to search the rest of my life.”

But having weighed and rejected the suitors that surrounded her now and found them wanting, he could see no reason to leave her any longer at their mercy. Besides, he had arranged to have the conductor play a waltz first, so he could dance it with his ward. The orchestra had warmed up, and he could hear the music was about to begin.

“Excuse me, Percy. This dance is mine.”

Denbigh started across the floor toward Charlotte, thinking how nice it was going to be to hold her in his arms.

Charlotte lying in his bed, their naked bodies entwined
.

Denbigh scowled. He had better find a husband for the chit soon.

* * *

Charlotte saw the scowl on Denbigh’s face and wondered who had given her away. She had tried to be subtle about asking questions, she really had. She was trying to discover where Lord James might have taken Lady Alice the day he had compromised her. So far, all she had gotten were quizzing looks from the gentlemen. Apparently English ladies never asked, “Where would a gentleman take a lady if he wanted to sneak off and be alone with her?”

Those she had asked merely cleared their throats uncomfortably. Or coughed. Or snickered.

However, Sir Fenton, a nice old man who bore a slight resemblance to her papa, had leaned in close and whispered, “Meet me at the masquerade in Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’ll be wearing a black-and-white checkered domino. Come to Lover’s Walk at midnight. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

“How will I find you in the dark?” she whispered back.

“I will find you,” he promised.

Charlotte was delighted with the prospect of intrigue, not to mention the excitement of attending a masquerade. It would be one sure way to get Olivia out of her grays and browns. She would insist that her friend dress up as someone exotic, like Cleopatra, or something charming, like a shepherdess. Yes, a shepherdess was perfect, because Olivia could carry a staff that would help her to walk.

Before Charlotte could congratulate herself on coming up with such a famous idea, Denbigh was standing before her. She was surprised to see the crowd of gentlemen had dissipated like insubstantial clouds assailed by a fierce wind.

“Shall we dance, Charlotte?” the earl said, leading her toward the small space in the center of the room that had been cleared for the purpose.

“If you don’t mind me stepping on your toes,” Charlotte said.

“I’ll take my chances. Just remember to count.”

“Cat-cow-pig, cat-cow-pig,” Charlotte recited as he began whirling her in his arms.

“What?” Denbigh said, either not having heard what she said, or not believing his ears.

“I was counting.” And one-two-three was too difficult to manage with her heart in her throat. It was the first time Denbigh had held her since he had kissed her in the study. It was amazing how all the hairs could stand straight up on her arms like that. She felt the prickle as goose bumps formed at the root of each one of them. Simply amazing.

She was achingly, steal-your-breath-away conscious of his hand at the small of her back, his thumb just touching her above the vertebrae exactly at her waist. One of her hands rested on his broad shoulder, while the other was cushioned gently in his gloved hand.

She blessed the wizened old general in a red uniform dotted with shiny medals who was taking up so much room with his partner that Denbigh had to pull her close to dance around him. She closed her eyes briefly to enjoy the feel of her breasts pressed against the wall of his chest.

But she quickly became dizzy and opened her eyes to regain her balance, only to find it didn’t help. She still felt light-headed. Lighthearted. As if she could happily float off among the moon and stars with the earl and never come back down.

Only, they were not going anywhere together unless she could figure out what had really happened between Lord James and Lady Alice. Astounding how quickly one could get one’s feet back on the ground—figuratively—when one needed them there.

“One of the gentlemen told me there is a masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow night,” Charlotte said. “May Livy and I go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“A masquerade is no place for two gently bred ladies.”

“I’m not a—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It is not unknown for young bloods to lay in
wait for an unprotected female on the darker walkways.”

“But you’ll be there to protect us.”

“I cannot keep you from being ogled by every scapegrace in high shirt points,” he said.

“But we’ll be wearing masks, so who will know it is us?” Charlotte pointed out.

Denbigh groaned.

“Please,” she said. “Livy needs some excitement to cheer her up. Pretty please.” From the look on his face, this was one of those times when please was going to work. Or perhaps he changed his mind when he caught sight of Olivia, sitting along the wall in solitary, mouselike drabness, and decided she was right.

“Very well,” he said. “We will go.”

It was a good thing he had hold of her around the waist, or she would have jumped up and down with joy. The waltz was ending, and she had already begun to step back from the earl when he tightened his grasp on her waist.

“Our waltz is over,” she said.

“I’m not through talking. We’ll dance another.”

“No couple dances twice in a row. Livy told me it isn’t done, except by those who are promised to each other.”

“We’re engaged,” he reminded her.

“I’m jilting you,” she reminded him.

“Not before I can claim another dance,” he said, whirling her into motion as the music began again.

She kept her eyes focused on his face, wondering what had provoked him to such odd behavior. Not that she minded being held in his arms. She could feel his warm breath against her cheek, and it caused her stomach to do a strange flip-flop. Once it landed, she asked, “What was it you wanted to say that required another dance?”

“I wanted to ask if you’ve found any gentleman who appeals to you among those you were interviewing.”

“Oh. No. No one special.”

If she had not known better, she would have said he heaved a sigh of relief. Apparently that was all he had wanted to know, because he did not utter another word.

But he continued looking down at her, and she could not help looking back at him. His eyes searched her face, and she wondered what he expected to find. She searched his in return, and saw too much worry and sorrow and not enough laughter in his eyes.

She could make him happy. She could make him laugh. If only he would give her the chance.

She glanced over at Olivia as they danced by and saw that she appeared agitated. Charlotte swiveled her head back to see if she could determine the
problem and saw Olivia making odd gestures with her hands in her lap. Locking her hands and pulling them apart. Locking them and … 
pulling them apart!

She looked at the distance between her body and Denbigh’s and saw that not an inch separated them. She hadn’t even noticed, except that it had felt perfectly right to her.

Now that she looked, she saw others had noticed what Olivia had, including Lady Hornby herself. Charlotte gave a backward jerk, putting some distance between herself and Denbigh, and said brightly, “What are you going to be?”

“Be?”

“What costume are you going to wear to the masquerade?” It was necessary to keep continual pressure on her arms to keep Denbigh at a distance. Although why she had to be the one to observe the proprieties, she had no idea. But Olivia looked relieved the next time they danced past her, so Charlotte kept it up.

“I never wear costumes,” Denbigh said.

“But you must! It’s a masquerade. Why not be a pirate? Or a prince of Arabia? Or a red savage?” she said, laughing with wicked glee as she imagined him in each role.