Captive (8 page)

“Oh, I understand, all right,” she said. “All you’re interested in is seeing that some man—with the correct heritage and birthright—is fooled by an act long enough to be tricked into marriage. Have I got it right?”

He rose to face her. “I did not mean—I suppose it must seem—Damn and blast, Charlotte. You’re twisting everything.”

“You mean I’m not supposed to flirt? I thought that was what this lesson was all about.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

“Stop that. You look ridiculous.”

“I can’t be what I’m not,” she cried. “I refuse to put on an act that I wouldn’t be able to keep up
forever. What do you suppose would happen after I married a man whom I had deceived as to my true nature? What would happen when he woke up after the honeymoon and realized who—and what—he had married?”

Denbigh had the grace to flush.

“Don’t you think it might be better if I choose a man to suit me, rather than try to change myself to suit a man?”

Denbigh’s jaw tightened. “Choosing your husband is my prerogative.”

“How can you know who would make me happy?”

“Happiness is not the purpose of marriage. Marriages are alliances where property and bloodlines are considered foremost.”

“No wonder Lady Alice left you at the altar,” Charlotte blurted out. “I don’t blame her for fleeing from a loveless marriage.”

Olivia’s knitting needles clattered into her lap. “Oh, Charlotte, please don’t say such things!”

The blood drained from Denbigh’s face. He stood rigid for a moment longer before he turned and left the room.

Charlotte felt wretched. She had never purposely hurt another human being in her life. Accidentally, yes. Through carelessness, yes. But she had wanted to make Denbigh feel the same pain she was feeling at his rejection. She had said what she
thought would wound him the most. Her unerring aim had hit a very vulnerable mark.

She saw Olivia through a blur, and realized Olivia’s eyes also welled with tears. She crossed and dropped to her knees in front of the earl’s sister. “I’m sorry, Livy.”

Olivia brushed her hair back from her face soothingly as she looked out the window past Charlotte’s head. “You must never, ever say such things again. You will never know how much Lion suffered when Lady Alice abandoned him. It was a love match. At least on his side. Something happened … It was awful.”

“What happened?” Charlotte asked.

Olivia shook her head. “Please don’t ask. He told me once. When he was in his cups. It was awful.”

“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said again. “I promise I won’t ever do such a thing again.”

But she was more than ever convinced that the choosing of her husband should not be left to the Earl of Denbigh’s discretion. He did not have the same values as she did, or embrace the same ideals. She would be better off choosing a husband of her own.

Or staying single. That idea also had considerable merit.

The only problem was, Charlotte did not think she could last four years as the earl’s ward.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

There was nothing demure about Lady Charlotte’s gaze as she examined the blond Adonis standing before her. He was older than the young bucks of the
ton
who had crowded round her ever since she had entered Almack’s. Lines webbed his piercing blue eyes and creased his sharp-boned cheeks. He was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, altogether an admirable male specimen. Before Charlotte could accept the gentleman’s offer, Denbigh answered for her.

“The lady’s dance card is filled, Your Grace,” her guardian said in clipped tones.

Charlotte’s eyes goggled. A
duke
had just asked her to dance, and Denbigh had turned him down! And unless magic elves had been at work, her dance
card most certainly was not filled. Denbigh had been picky about the sprigs of fashion he allowed to pay court to her. But what was wrong with
this
man? The duke looked fine to her, even if he was at least ten years older than Denbigh, maybe even old enough to be her father—at least thirty-seven or eight.

She perused her dance card and looked up at the duke with a twinkle in her eye. “It seems there is one dance—”

That was as far as she got before Denbigh’s hand clamped tight on her wrist. He tugged her from her seat and, when she glared mutinously at him, settled her hand on his arm with an unspoken dare to try removing it. Charlotte was rebellious; she was not stupid. She left her hand where her guardian had put it.

“Excuse us, Your Grace,” Denbigh said. “This dance is promised to me, and the set is about to begin.” He turned and began leading Charlotte onto the dance floor.

“But, Your Grace, Lady Olivia, the earl’s sister, would love to dance with you,” Charlotte called back over her shoulder.

Charlotte felt Denbigh’s arm go rigid beneath her fingertips as he stopped abruptly. He gave her a narrow-eyed look that would have kept a Gunter’s ice chilled for a week. Charlotte wrinkled her nose
at him and heard him growl as he turned his attention back to the duke.

Well, it was his own fault for leaving his sister sitting there all alone like a wallflower, when she should be enjoying herself, Charlotte thought.

Olivia sat stiff as a buckram hat brim in the chair next to the one Charlotte had vacated, her hazel eyes lowered modestly in a way Charlotte’s never were.

Charlotte watched the duke’s eyes and saw them settle on her friend. Charlotte knew the duke was seeing a rather plain, rather shy woman, her oval face surrounded by mousy brown curls topped by a lace-edged spinster’s cap. Under his perusal, Olivia’s face turned crimson and then, as the duke’s heels snapped together and he bowed over her hand, faded to a ghostly white.

“My lady?” the duke said in a flinty voice. “Will you do me the honor?”

“You’ve done it now, Charlie,” the earl muttered.

Though his features remained as immovable as one of the Elgin Marbles she had snuck out to see, Charlotte was certain Denbigh was furious. He had never,
ever
called her by her American nickname.

Charlotte watched as the blond Adonis reached out a gloved hand to the earl’s sister and held it there, waiting for her hand to be laid in it. “I am Braddock,” he said.

Olivia gasped. Braddock was an infamous rake.

Charlotte would have gasped, too, if she hadn’t been afraid a too-deep breath would cause her bosom to fall completely out of her gown. Her nearly naked—though charmingly exposed—bosom was another of her plans to upset Denbigh that had gone awry.

She had instructed the
modiste
to lower the bodice to a level she was sure would leave Denbigh howling with outrage and then pranced down the stairs of the town house in London where they were staying, confident that her guardian would be forced to leave her at home this evening. She had no desire to be paraded on the Marriage Mart like a filly for sale.

Denbigh had taken one shocked look at her décolletage and roared, “Charlotte! You will go right back upstairs and—”

That was when she had made the mistake of smirking in triumph. Denbigh recognized the trap she had set, snapped his jaws shut, swallowed hard, and in a remarkably calm—if cold—voice said, “Get a scarf. It will be chilly this evening.”

In spite of Denbigh’s black looks, she had refused to wear the scarf once they arrived at Almack’s. But she feared she had suffered more than Denbigh. It was like dangling a worm before trout. The gentlemen simply couldn’t resist. Now it seemed she had attracted a very big, very dangerous
fish indeed. Braddock, as in Reeve Somers, the Duke of Braddock.

Denbigh had killed the Duke of Braddock’s younger brother, Lord James, in a duel barely a year past. As a result, the two powerful men had become mortal enemies. It wasn’t bad enough she had landed the dangerous duke, she had thrown him—sharp teeth and all—to Denbigh’s innocent sister.
Good Lord
, she thought.
What have I done?

On second thought, the two men’s enmity for each other was no reason, so far as Charlotte could see, to cheat Olivia of her chance to dance with a handsome man. And the duke was handsome, a striking contrast with his blond hair and blue eyes, to Denbigh’s black hair and silvery gray eyes.

Charlotte met Olivia’s panic-stricken gaze and pleaded with her eyes for Livy to accept the duke’s offer.
Take a chance on life. Don’t let your brother’s disapproval keep you on the shelf
.

Then, to everyone’s amazement—not least of all her brother’s—Lady Olivia Morgan stood and said, “I will be glad to dance with you, Your Grace.”

“But—” Denbigh spluttered.

Charlotte’s fingernails dug through three layers of cloth—her gloves and the earl’s snug velvet coat-sleeve and fine lawn shirt—to silence him. Her heart sank when she saw Braddock frown as Livy’s
first two steps revealed her uneven, almost unsteady, gait.

The duke took a step closer, offering his entire arm, rather than merely his hand, to support Livy. “You’re hurt,” he said. “I would be glad to sit out—”

Before Charlotte could tell the blasted man that Livy yearned to dance, Livy surprised Charlotte by saying so herself.

“It is a long-ago injury, Your Grace, and has healed as well as ever it will. I prefer to dance, if you please,” she said in a trembling voice.

“Very well, then. Shall we?” The duke’s arm slid around Olivia’s slim waist, and the earl’s sister went whirling onto the dance floor, leaving Charlotte and the earl staring after them. Charlotte watched long enough to see that the duke was supporting Livy’s weight with the arm he had around her waist, pulling them almost indecently close. Lucky Livy.

Charlotte grinned.

Denbigh snorted.

Before Charlotte could say another word, Denbigh circled his arm around her waist.

“I thought I had to have permission from one of the patronesses to dance a waltz,” she protested.

“While you were busy with that idiot Lord Fairchild earlier this evening, Lady Jersey gave permission,” Denbigh said through clenched teeth.

Then they were waltzing, whirling around the ballroom at a dizzying speed. It was like floating, like flying, like heaven on earth—so long as she ignored the scowl on Denbigh’s face. And the fact she could have been an Indian pachyderm in his arms, for all the attention he gave her. His gaze was riveted on Braddock and his sister.

Which wasn’t all bad, because it gave her a chance to look at his face up close without being observed. It wasn’t a bad-looking face, she supposed, but it would be vastly improved if he would smile more often. And she liked his eyes better when he was laughing. They turned a lighter, softer gray than the stormy color they were now, when he was angry.

She purposely stepped on his toe, to get his attention.

He took his eyes off his sister and Braddock barely long enough to say, “Remember to count, Charlotte,” and then swiveled his head to follow the other couple as they twirled past him.

“Dancing is quite as nice as I thought it would be,” Charlotte said. “I thank you for the lessons.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Now stubble it.” He pulled her close to avoid a collision with Lord Bottomly and a giggling heiress.

Charlotte was suddenly aware of her breasts crushed against Denbigh’s chest and the feel of his muscular thighs pressing against her own through
her gown. For the first time all evening, her bosom was definitely in no danger of escape from her bodice, yet she felt more exposed than ever. Her feelings, the yearning she felt for Denbigh’s approval, but even more for his touch, were naked on her face. She glanced up at him, wondering if he had divined her dreadful secret—that she was attracted to him.

To her chagrin, Denbigh did not seem at all affected by their closeness. He merely set out to give her yet another scold. “I cannot imagine what came over you, Charlotte. A lady does not offer her chaperon as a dance partner to a gentleman she cannot partner herself.”

“Why not?” Charlotte asked. “Especially when her chaperon is far too young to be put in that role and …” Charlotte cut herself off. She could not tell Denbigh about Livy’s secret dream of someday being whirled around a dance floor by a handsome young man. That was something Livy had told her in confidence. “Livy did not seem to mind being forced into the duke’s arms.”

“I think I am the best judge of what is appropriate for my sister,” Denbigh said.

“I beg to differ,” Charlotte said.

“You would,” Denbigh muttered. His eyes remained riveted on the other couple.

Perturbed at being so totally ignored, Charlotte
demanded, “What is it you think he’s going to do to her in the middle of the dance floor?”

Denbigh’s gray eyes left the other couple and turned back to her. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put anything past him. The man has sworn to ruin me.”

“Surely he wouldn’t hurt Livy,” Charlotte protested. “And certainly not here at Almack’s. He wouldn’t dare!”

“There’s no telling what an angry, desperate man will dare.”

“Is that why you didn’t want Braddock to dance with me? Because you were afraid he might do me harm?”

“Braddock is a confirmed bachelor. No woman is going to get him to the altar. Since my goal is to get you married and out of my hair, it made no sense to let you dance with him.”