Captive (7 page)

Charlotte grimaced.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” Olivia said. “I’d give anything to be in your shoes.”

“No you wouldn’t. They pinch.” Charlotte stepped out of the uncomfortable satin slippers, bent over to pick them up, and held them out to Livy. “But be my guest.”

Livy smiled. “I wish it were that simple.” Her smile faded. “I cannot dance, so what would be the point?”

“Why can’t you dance?” Charlotte asked.

“Be sensible, Charlie. I walk like a lopsided duck. How could I possibly manage to dance?”

“I remember you telling me you would never ride again. You managed that,” Charlotte reminded her. “What’s so different about dancing?”

“When I’m riding, the horse does all the work,” Olivia said. “On the dance floor it would just be me and my awkward hobble.” Olivia stared off into the distance. “Don’t worry about me, Charlie. In my dreams, I’m a very good dancer.”

Charlotte climbed up onto the bed beside Olivia, pulled her skirt up practically to her waist, exposing her gartered stockings, and sat cross-legged like one of the red savages for which America was famous. “Tell me about your dreams, Livy.”

“I don’t want to bore you.”

“I wouldn’t be bored. Tell me. I’ll bet you’re being courted by a devastatingly handsome man.”

“Oh, yes. He’s blond and blue-eyed and very tall. When we waltz, he can’t take his eyes off me. He’s graceful, but strong. And he has a warm and friendly smile.”

“Oh, Livy, he sounds wonderful. Who is he?”

Olivia laughed. “He isn’t real, Charlie. I made him up.”

“But he could be real. You could come to London with me and find him.”

“I’ve already told you why that’s impossible.”

“Because you have a limp? That’s no reason. The queen will understand if you can’t curtsy as low as everyone else. I know your handsome suitor is out there looking for you. All you have to do is go to London and let him find you.”

“You’re the one who’s dreaming now, Charlie. No man is going to want a woman who’s … who’s crippled. I don’t have any illusions about my looks, either. I would never have been a belle of the ball. And at five and twenty, I’m firmly on the shelf.”

Olivia paused and swallowed hard. “I’ve resigned myself to being a maiden aunt to my brother’s children.”

Charlotte grabbed Olivia’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Any man would be lucky to have you, Livy. You’re the kindest, most thoughtful person I know.
I’m not going to let you give up on yourself. You’re going to dance at a ball with a handsome beau, just as you’ve always dreamed. All you have to do is come to London with me.”

“I can’t, Charlie. Please try to understand.”

“I won’t take no for an answer, Livy. You have to go to London. Otherwise, I’m not going, either.”

“Oh, Charlie, no! Lion has everything planned. He’ll be furious if you change your mind about going now.”

“I’ll be glad to make my bow to the queen and behave myself at Almack’s,” Charlotte assured her. “As long as you come with me.”

“I don’t have the proper wardrobe for a sojourn to London,” Olivia protested.

“The modiste has several more fittings to do for me. We’ll simply get her to make up the necessary gowns for you, as well.”

“Oh, Charlie, you’re impossible,” Livy said.

But Charlotte noticed her eyes positively glowed with excitement. She couldn’t wait to see Livy dressed for a ball. In no time at all she would find a real beau just like the man of her dreams.

Now all Charlotte had to do was convince her guardian that he needed to bring his sister along for the journey.

* * *

In the weeks since his arrival at Denbigh Castle, the earl had closeted himself with his steward in the mornings, spent the afternoons lecturing to Charlotte, and usually accepted an invitation from one neighbor or another for an evening of entertainment and supper. Olivia had told Charlotte that the earl was much in demand as a dinner guest in the neighborhood, despite his rakish reputation.

“He’s rich as Croesus,” Olivia confided, “the heir to a dukedom, and you must have noticed his features are very well put together.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Charlotte lied.

The truth was, she could not take her eyes off the man when they were in the same room together. She was purely disgusted with herself but could not seem to break herself of the habit. It was disconcerting because the earl had spent at least two hours with her every afternoon giving her what he called “lessons in deportment.”

She was scheduled for another one in a very few minutes. She crawled off the bed and forced her toes back into the uncomfortable slippers. “We had better get to the salon before your brother sends someone after us,” she said to Olivia.

“What is it today?” Olivia asked.

“Flirting lessons, I think.”

Olivia was startled into a laugh. “You’re teasing me.”

“Your brother didn’t call it that, but he mentioned
at breakfast this morning that he wants me to learn how to behave when a gentleman exhibits an interest in courting me. It’s a good thing you’re going to be there, Livy. Maybe you can learn something useful.”

The earl’s sister acted as a chaperon during the lessons. She also happened to play the piano, which had been convenient on the afternoon the earl decided to teach her to waltz.

Charlotte shivered as she recalled the debacle.

She had learned a great many country dances in America, but she had no knowledge of the waltz. It had amazed her to discover that the woman stood within the man’s embrace, that he put his arm around her waist, and that one of her hands rested on his shoulder while her other hand rested in his palm.

“Are you certain this is the right way to do it?” she had asked the earl when he had the two of them stationed in a virtual embrace.

“I’m sure,” he replied. “Music, Olivia.”

She had turned to Olivia in desperation, but Olivia had simply smiled from her seat in front of the piano and said wistfully, “It’s a wonderful dance, Charlotte. It’s almost like flying.”

“You’ve danced the waltz?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, no. But I’ve seen it danced.”

“Are you ready?” the earl said, obviously impatient to begin.

“I guess so,” Charlotte said. But really, she wasn’t ready at all for the emotions rioting through her. She felt gauche for the first time in her memory. Flustered when she was ordinarily never discomposed. She was achingly aware of the earl’s hand on the center of her back, and the warmth of his palm holding hers. She was ice; he was fire. Any second now he was going to see a puddle at his feet.

“Relax, Charlotte,” the earl ordered,

“I’m trying.” She unlocked her knees and nearly collapsed.

“Not that much,” he said, holding her breathtakingly close as he helped her regain her balance.

“Count one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three,” he said, as he began whirling her around the room. “Ow!”

“I’m sorry. Did I get your foot?” she asked.

“Concentrate, Charlotte. Keep counting.”

“One, two, three,” she repeated dutifully. She could have been saying “cat, cow, pig” for all the attention she was paying to the dance. She could not take her eyes off him. His gaze was so intense, she got lost in its depths.

She felt quivery inside and a little frightened, too, because she had never felt this way before. His arm tightened around her waist, and he pulled her
close as she tripped over the edge of the carpet they had moved out of the way.

“Careful, Charlotte,” he said in a rumbly voice that made the hairs stand up on her arms. “Careful.”

It was far too late to be careful. Something very dangerous was happening to her, and she was helpless to prevent it. She had known she was attracted to the earl from the first moment she had seen him. She had been resisting that pull with all her might and main. But she had not counted on the waltz. Waltzing was so much more intimate than she had imagined a dance could be.

Her nipples peaked when the tips of her breasts barely brushed the earl’s waistcoat. Her belly curled with desire when he pulled her tight against him as they whirled faster and faster. She felt light-headed—which was obviously the result of all that whirling. Except she had never felt quite like this before. Breathless—and why not? It was an energetic dance. Euphoric. There was no explanation for that except the joy she felt at being held in his arms.

Abruptly, he stopped dancing and shoved her away to arm’s length. “You’re not paying attention, Charlotte. You won’t have much success on the Marriage Mart if you persist in losing count and stumbling and stepping on your suitor’s toes.”

It was a lowering experience for someone as coordinated as Charlotte Edgerton knew herself to
be to fail at something so simple. But how could she be expected to dance with boneless knees? How could she be expected to keep count when she could barely remember her own name? How could she be expected to keep from bumping into him, when her body wanted more than anything to be next to his?

Worst of all was the knowledge that while she was mooning over him like some calfling, he was busy planning how best to marry her off to some other man.

Surely everything she was feeling could not be all one-sided. Surely he must feel the attraction, as well. But when she looked up at him, there was no sign of anything except annoyance on his face.

“Are you ready to try again?” he asked.

No, she was not. She had suffered quite enough humiliation for one afternoon. “I’m sure I’ll do fine at Almack’s,” she said. “I promise to practice with Timothy.”

He frowned. “I didn’t know Galbraith knew how to waltz.”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll teach him,” she replied.

“I don’t approve of such familiarity with the servants, Charlotte. Each person has his place in this household. Galbraith is a footman, not a dance instructor.”

“Timothy is my friend.”

“English ladies don’t make friends with the servants,” he admonished her.

“I thought we had established that I’m not an English lady.”

“That’s precisely the point,” he said. “I’m trying to teach you the right way to act.”

“Is it right to treat people differently simply because they weren’t born with a title? I can’t subscribe to that point of view, sir.”

He gave an exasperated snort at the “sir.” “Every society has its own rules, Charlotte. Ours in England are different, but we have our reasons for them.”

“What reason can account for making a butler less of a man than a baron? Explain that to me please,” she demanded. “Or an American custom less civilized than an English one.”

“That’s simply the way it is,” he blustered. “A man’s hereditary birthright and position—”

“Don’t say any more.” She took a step back from him. Maybe the earl was not so admirable, after all. She wasn’t sure what it was that had made her act like a silly goose for a moment. Now she saw him clearly. He was narrow-minded and shallow and not at all the kind of person a woman would want as the father of her children. Imagine the awful things he would teach them!

She had left the room without another word. And had not spoken to him for two days. Of course, he had not said a word to her, either. Until this morning at breakfast, when he had demanded her
presence in the salon for flirting lessons after luncheon.

Thank goodness Olivia would be with her. Thank goodness she had realized what a reprehensible character the earl really was before she lost her heart to him. He could flirt all he wanted with her—she could flirt all she wanted with him—and it was not going to affect her one teensy weensy little bit.

Unfortunately, that foolish hope was dashed the moment she entered the salon and laid eyes on the dastardly fellow. Or rather, the moment he settled his vivid gray eyes on her.

Her heart bounded around inside her like an excited puppy. At the same time, her chest felt as if it were being squeezed by the sugar press that crushed the cane on her father’s plantation. She felt dazed and disoriented, fluttery and faint.

“Charlotte? Are you all right?” Denbigh asked.

His husky voice sent a frisson of awareness skittering down her spine. “Of course—” She had to clear the frog in her throat before she could say, “Of course I’m all right.”

Olivia took her place in the upholstered wing-back chair near the fire and took up her knitting, while Denbigh reached for Charlotte’s hand and led her over to sit beside him on the claw-footed sofa.

Unfortunately, the instant he sat down beside her, the vision rose in her mind of what he had been
doing to Lady Frockman on that same sofa. And what it might feel like if he did that to her.

She made the mistake of looking at him, and found him staring back at her intently. She quickly lowered her gaze—a very unCharlottelike thing to do. Which she realized, too late, had revealed her distress.

“What’s wrong, Charlotte?” Denbigh asked in a voice soft enough not to be overheard by his sister.

“Nothing.”

“In any other woman, I would believe you’re simply being demure,” he said. “But not you, Charlotte. You brazenly look a man in the eye. So I ask you again. What’s wrong?”

He lifted her chin with his forefinger. The last thing she wanted to do was look at him, but it was the only way she could prove she was not upset. She lifted her lids and stared into his eyes. And felt herself falling.

He removed his hand reluctantly. Before he did, his thumb brushed across her chin in what might almost have been a caress. “Charlotte …”

She waited for him to complete whatever it was he wanted to say. He didn’t use words. He simply looked deep into her eyes, took her hand in his, and stroked his thumb across her knuckles. He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed the back of it, leaving a damp spot that cooled in the air.

Suddenly, he dropped her hand. “You’ve let me go too far,” he announced.

“What?”

“It is perfectly appropriate to gaze lovingly into a gentleman’s eyes,” Denbigh said, “but when he begins kissing—even your hand—he has gone too far. It is not to be allowed. Not before you have my approval to continue the courtship. Is that understood?”

“What?” She was still having trouble grasping the fact that Denbigh’s intense gaze, his gentle touch, had all been part of the lesson. He had not been affected in the least by her presence. He had not been moved at all by the touch of her hand, as she had been by his. She rose abruptly.