Captive (9 page)

Charlotte’s chin jutted mulishly. “I thought we had settled that I will choose my own husband. I might like to try attaching Braddock.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try my patience by saying provoking things,” Denbigh said. “I won’t allow you to marry Braddock, and that is final.”

“You can’t stop me once I’m of age from marrying whomever I choose,” Charlotte retorted.

The earl’s lip curled in amusement. “Are you
willing to be my ward and obey my dictates for four more years, Charlotte?”

Charlotte quivered with fury. Trust Denbigh to remind her she was only seventeen. She blinked back the tears of frustration that welled in her eyes. She was captive to the earl’s whims until she was twenty-one or until she was married. Charlotte had already figured out that her only hope was marriage. She had determined to marry a man who would give her the freedom to be herself, a freedom that had been bred in her bones, a freedom that was as American as she was. It would serve Denbigh right if she married his enemy.

But from what Denbigh was saying, Braddock hadn’t really been interested in courting her, but in somehow hurting him. “Are you saying the duke only asked me to dance to cause trouble for you?”

“I think he asked you to dance because you’re beautiful. And because he wanted to cause trouble for me. It is common knowledge you are my ward. His intentions cannot be honorable.”

“Why not? Is the duke a dishonorable man?”

“His brother was.”

“What did Lord James do that was so terrible?” Charlotte asked. Olivia had refused to discuss the matter.

Denbigh did not answer.

Charlotte opened her mouth to pursue the issue but closed it again when she looked up into Denbigh’s
eyes. They were filled with anguish. Something terrible had happened, that was for sure. Someday she was going to find out the whole story. Clearly this was not the time or the place.

She sought for some safe subject on which to converse. Of course, with Denbigh, there was little they could discuss without arguing. Then she recalled what Denbigh had said, that the duke had wanted to dance with her because she was beautiful.

“Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Denbigh looked startled at the question, and then uncomfortable. “Why do you ask?”

“You said the duke wanted to dance with me because I’m beautiful. Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Charlotte was looking right into Denbigh’s eyes when she asked and saw a flare of some emotion, quickly shuttered. He continued staring at her until she felt a disconcerting heat rising in her cheeks. She refused to look away, focusing instead on his individual features, the wide-spaced gray eyes, the black brows, the aquiline nose, the square jaw, the mobile mouth that hardly ever smiled.

She watched him lick his lips and felt a strange shiver of excitement run through her. She wondered if he had felt it, too. She lifted her gaze to meet his and found his eyes were heavy-lidded, his nostrils flared, his lips somewhat full. Charlotte suddenly felt threatened, but there was no escape from his embrace.

“My lord …” She didn’t finish the sentence because she couldn’t remember what she had wanted to say.

“Your eyes are too big,” the earl said in a husky voice, “and as green as a cat’s. Your hair tumbles about your face like a fallen stack of goldenboys. Your lashes, on the other hand, don’t match your hair at all. They’re coal black. And you have freckles marring those alabaster cheeks.”

“You refused to let me cover them with powder, my lord,” Charlotte reminded him in a voice that quivered with hurt as he listed all her faults.

“And your mouth …” Denbigh made a
tsk
ing sound and shook his head as though in dismay. “You have the mouth of a courtesan. Red and plump and rosy. It is easy to see what Braddock found to like. But Braddock is a rake.”

Charlotte lifted her chin pugnaciously. “Are you finished, my lord?”

“No, I am not. Your chin defines you, Lady Charlotte. Defiant. Stubborn. Square and honest to a fault.”

“Now are you done?”

“One more thing.”

“What is that?”

Instead of answering, Denbigh danced her toward the edge of the floor, toward a curtained anteroom that concealed them from the assembly. Once inside he stopped dancing. When she tried to
step back, his arm firmed around her waist, holding her in place. “You make a man want to keep you safe from the evils of the world, to kiss you and touch you and hold you close.”

Charlotte fought back a momentary panic. She had no idea why Denbigh was saying such things. He most certainly could not act on such a statement. After all, she could hear the dancers whirling past them on the other side of the curtain. There was nothing the earl could do to her here that would be any worse than the insults he had hurled on the dance floor.

Or so she thought, until he lowered his head and his lips touched hers.

Olivia could hardly believe she was waltzing at Almack’s. She had dreamed of it for so many years—since the accident when she was seventeen—and been so very certain her dream would never come true. Now, thanks to Charlotte, it had.

The reality of it was even more wonderful than she had imagined. She could feel the muscles in Braddock’s shoulder under her fingertips, feel the strength of his arm around her waist, the warmth of his body, the scents of soap and male sweat, which were not at all unpleasant.

And she could feel his gaze on her. That is, when he was not watching her brother.

“Do you think your brother will call me out for the insult?” Braddock asked abruptly.

She glanced up at him in surprise. “What insult, Your Grace?”

“For daring to dance with his sister,” Braddock said. It was plain he would have welcomed a duel.

“It is an honor you do me, Your Grace.”

“The honor is mine,” he replied grimly.

She knew he was responding with what courtesy demanded. Even if he did not mean it. “It is kind of you to say so, Your Grace.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with my feelings toward you or your family,” Braddock said harshly.

Olivia faltered and missed a step at the virulence in his voice, and Braddock’s arm tightened around her. “I’m sorry to be so clumsy, Your Grace.”

“The fault was mine.”

Olivia shook her head. “No. I should not have accepted your offer to dance, given as it was under duress. Sometimes Lady Charlotte does outrageous things.”
That was an understatement
. “Inveigling you to dance with me was one of them.”

For the first time, she saw his features relax in amusement. “No one forces me to do anything, my dear.”

“You could not have wanted to dance with me,” Olivia managed to say, glancing at him from beneath lowered lashes.

“Why not?”

“Because …” Because she was a twenty-five-year-old spinster, with mousy brown hair and nondescript hazel eyes and a painfully awkward limp. “What will people think?”

“Are you worried about my reputation as a rake?”

“Hardly. I mean, who would think … surely no one would believe …” She flushed, unable to conceive of herself as the female in such a relationship.

Braddock grinned, and she was amazed to see the years fall away. He looked younger, almost carefree. “I assure you, my lady, from the indecently close way I am holding you, we are already setting tongues to wagging. And I must say, I am not suffering at all from the experience. Beneath that dreadfully unstylish frock you are wearing, I believe I am holding quite a handful of woman.”

Olivia would have stopped dancing entirely if the duke had not chosen that moment to whirl her around so that she was forced to grasp his shoulder or go flying into the air. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. No gentleman spoke in such terms to a lady. He must mean to insult her, and thus provoke her brother into a duel and perhaps kill him. She refused to allow that to happen.

She wished she were like Charlotte. Charlotte would have confronted the duke and slapped his
face. She hadn’t even the courage to raise her eyes to the man. But she could make it plain in words that the duke could not hope to use her to destroy her brother.

“You may insult me all you wish, Your Grace. I will repeat nothing you say to my brother. I will not allow you to provoke him to a quarrel because of me.”

“I would hardly expect your brother to challenge me to a duel because I called your dress unfashionable,” Braddock said with a cynical curl of his lip.

“You purposely misunderstand me. That was not what I meant. I meant … the other thing you said.”

“It is no insult to say a lady has the figure of a woman,” Braddock said in a soft voice.

“It is unseemly to speak of such things.” Olivia felt her face heating with embarrassment.

“Then I will not speak of it again. At least not tonight. May I call on you tomorrow?”

Olivia felt a flash of joy followed immediately by suspicion. “For what purpose?”

“Why, to take you driving in the park, of course.”

Olivia wished she knew what the duke was really thinking. Was he truly interested in her? It seemed too much to hope. More likely he wanted to cause trouble for her brother. However, she did not
want to turn down his offer to go driving if it had been made because he was sincerely interested in her, however unlikely that seemed. Maybe, if she had a chance to talk with him, she could somehow manage to bring peace between Braddock and her brother.

To judge the duke’s intentions, she needed to see his eyes. But that meant lifting her chin and looking up at him. She simply could not do it. Which meant she would have to turn Braddock down. “I don’t think—”

“I have him now,” Braddock muttered.

“What?”

Instead of answering her, the duke whirled her toward the edge of the dance floor. Before she realized what he was about, he came to a halt near one of the alcoves and, with a flourish, pulled the curtain aside.

Lionel Morgan had become the Earl of Denbigh, Viscount Leighton, and several other lesser titles when he was eighteen, and his father had tried to jump a fence with a nag that could not do the job. His mother had died years before, giving birth to a stillborn child.

He had done a creditable job over the past eleven years, of managing the life of his sister and a great many properties, with all their attendant servants and tenants. Or so he had thought, until Lady
Charlotte Edgerton had come along and told him everything he was doing wrong.

The chit was driving him crazy. They had clearly been engaged in a war of wills since the moment they met. He had refused to be manipulated, cajoled, or entreated to fulfill the girl’s demands to be returned to America. He had made it clear that the only way she would ever be free of him was if she fulfilled the requirements of her father’s will. The stubborn minx had vowed to buy her freedom with matrimony, and he had been doing his best to help her ever since. He would rejoice and be glad when she was finally out of his life.

So why was he standing here behind a curtain, a few feet from the dance floor at Almack’s, kissing her? And worse, much worse, enjoying it!

Her lips were soft and supple and pliant. Not at all like the Charlotte he knew. Because her response was so unexpected, he was held in thrall a moment longer than was safe under the circumstances.

The bright candlelight from the ballroom chandelier hit his closed eyelids before he realized what had happened. The collective gasp he heard told him before he opened his eyes that their indiscretion had been discovered. It was not until he turned to see who had exposed them that he realized how neatly he had been trapped.

“Braddock!”

“Well, well, Denbigh. Enjoying the company of your ward a bit too much, I should say.”

Lion’s lips pressed flat. The duke would love it if he slapped a glove in his face, but he refused to be taunted into creating a scene. Lion saw the shocked look in Olivia’s eyes and felt sick to his stomach. What had he done? He was supposed to be the responsible one. Damn it all.

The music stopped, and those who had merely been glancing at the unfolding spectacle as they danced by stopped to gape. Denbigh could see the patronesses conferring. Soon he would be joined by one or several of them, demanding an explanation for his behavior.

There was no help for it. The Earl of Denbigh had jeopardized—all right, ruined—a young woman’s reputation. There was only one way to repair it. A glance at Charlotte’s blushing, but untroubled, face revealed she had no idea how great the calamity that had befallen them.

Denbigh waited for Lady Jersey to reach his side before he took Charlotte’s hand in his, forced a smile, and said, “I have proposed to Lady Charlotte, and she has accepted me. I hope you will be the first to congratulate me on my good fortune.”

He held tight to Charlotte’s hand when she tried to snatch it free. He saw the relief on Olivia’s face. She gave him a supportive smile, and he realized
his sister was not in the least upset by the prospect of having Charlotte as a sister-in-law.

Charlotte had turned a chalky white. He could feel her quivering, as though she were going to explode any minute. He had to get her out of here before she did.

Denbigh saw the approving look in Lady Jersey’s eyes before she signaled through her congratulations that he was forgiven his solecism.

“You should have told us, Denbigh. We would have brought in some champagne.”

“Lemonade will be fine to toast our nuptials,” Denbigh reassured her, since weak lemonade was the strongest drink ever served at Almack’s. “If I could be allowed a moment of privacy with my fiancée—”

“A moment only,” Lady Jersey said, making it clear there were limits to her tolerance. The patroness stood guard as the curtain dropped to give them privacy.

Denbigh turned to his ward, certain Charlotte would have a potent opinion about the situation to share with him. He was caught off-balance by her silence.

Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she caught her lower lip in her teeth so hard he winced.

A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed painfully and said, “Well, Charlotte, do you have something you would like to say to me?”

“You’re an idiot and a fool and I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”