His Mistress by Morning (23 page)

“Truly?” she whispered.

Quince nodded. “Aye. Make your wish come true, Charlotte. Miss Burke has many advantages, but you hold something far more valuable.”

“And what is that?”

“The knowledge of how to make love to him.”

Charlotte sat back. “I can’t just throw myself at him! I would be ruined.”

But even as she protested, she recalled a thousand and one ways she and Sebastian had made love—and not just inside her bedroom.

In stolen glances across the Opera House.

With the brush of her hand over the top of his sleeve while riding in the park.

With a single stolen kiss.

She knew how he loved that French vintage Rockhurst bought from a smuggler in Hastings. That he found Townley’s collection breathtaking, could quote Coleridge’s poetry, and loved to count the freckles on her back.

Yet she hadn’t considered one other problem.

“The Sebastian I knew as Lottie was a rakish, devil-may-care sort,” Charlotte said. “And my Sebastian is rather…well, as his sisters like to say, dull and overly sensible. I don’t know if he’ll be enticed with the things Lottie offered.”

The lady smiled. “He still loves all those things, he just doesn’t realize it.
Yet
. And I doubt Miss Burke is the woman to show him…that is, unless you let her.”

Charlotte’s gaze flew up, a sharp stab of jealousy dividing her doubts. Miss Burke kissing Sebastian? Waking up beside him?

No! Never!

But even in her momentary bravado, those aching doubts moved back in. “But how will I ever—”

Quince threw up her hands. “Have you not learned anything? He is no more different than you are. You must help him discover the rakish side he’s been hiding all these years.”

Help Sebastian discover his inner Corinthian? The man who loved reading Coleridge in bed, driving through
the country at haphazard speeds, taking a wager at the blink of an eye, a man who let his passions rule? The idea of awakening that man brought a sly smile to Charlotte’s lips. “Do you really think—”

“Yes,” Quince rushed to tell her. “I do!”

Charlotte faltered to a stop. How could she have forgotten?

“He must marry Miss Burke,” she said, defeat filling her words. She turned her back to Quince to hide her disappointment.

“Whyever for?”

“The money. The Marlowes are up the River Tick.”

“Then you’ll have to change that as well, I imagine,” Quince said matter-of-factly, as if finding a fortune in a fortnight was as easily conjured as a blue velvet gown.

“This will never work,” Charlotte said, pacing toward her closet. “My life as Lottie was one thing, but I’m only Charlotte now. My mother will never…”

Yet when she turned around, she found the room empty. Quince had vanished.

Then into the sudden stillness of the room, Charlotte heard a tiny whisper. “You have everything you need, my dear. I promise you.”

“How can that be?” Charlotte asked. This time, there were no answers. Frustrated, she plopped back down on her bed, only to find herself perched atop something hard and unforgiving beneath her sheets.

What the devil,
she thought as she absently poked her fingers around under the coverlet. And as she dug deeper, an image rose up the back of her mind.

No, it couldn’t be.
She flew up, yanked the coverlet back and gasped.

For there in the sheets lay the diamonds from Rockhurst.

Slowly she reached out and took up the hard, cool stones, still not quite sure whether or not to believe that this boon had followed her home.

Yet they were so very real, sparkling and twinkling in the morning light. And if they were real, then that meant anything was possible.

“I told you so,” came another whisper and a little laugh. “Put them to good use, my dear. Put it all to good use.”

Sebastian collected his hat, gloves, and walking stick from Fenwick, and went striding out the front door fleeing his mother’s advice before, for some unlikely reason, it took root and made sense.

Yet his escape came to an abrupt halt the moment his foot came off the last step and hit the sidewalk, for he found himself colliding with a blinding flash of muslin.

His walking stick clattered to the ground as his arms wound around the lady to catch her before she ended up in a heap.

For a startling moment, like a flash of recognition, the curves beneath his grasp seemed as familiar as his own two hands. The way the lady fit against him, the faint hint of violets tickling his nose—shot him out of his reverie like a cannon blast.

And suddenly his all-too-important errand, his orderly schedule was all but forgotten.

“My deepest apologies, madame,” he murmured, looking down at the ugliest, plainest bonnet he’d ever seen. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find in his arms—a creature capable of beguiling his senses utterly and completely—but certainly not this plain little wren.

And then she glanced up from beneath the bare brim of her poor hat and the pair of eyes that gazed up at him pierced his heart.

Blue. So clear and blue, they took his breath away. So familiar he didn’t know what to make of it—for they belonged to none other than that little spinster friend of Hermione’s. He took another look—certain he’d been mistaken—and found himself further captivated by a tendril of hair that had escaped her bonnet. When had her hair changed to that shade of brown, no longer like a sparrow’s wing but rich and full of fire?

And how would it look freed from its pins and spread out over silk sheets, those eyes looking up at him with desire and passion, the curves beneath his hands naked and trembling at his touch?

“Are you well, my lord?” she was asking, looking up with a knowing little glance that left Sebastian with the jolting impression that she could read his thoughts.

He let her go so suddenly that she nearly tumbled backward, but he didn’t catch her again. Didn’t risk the chance of holding her and coming up with any more rakish thoughts about his sister’s best friend.

Gads, how frightfully embarrassing. He’d all but made a cake of himself, holding her so…so infamously…so very rakishly, and now he suspected he needed to apologize to her for his untoward behavior.

Oh, the devil take him, what was her name?

And then it came to him. “My regrets, Lottie. I fear I didn’t see you there.” Then he realized he had taken hold of her again, her arm that was, quite shamelessly, right out in the middle of plain view of everyone on Berkeley Square. He released her again (more reluctantly than he cared to admit) and was at a loss to say anything further.

“There is nothing to apologize for, my lord,” she said, sliding past him and making her way up the front steps like a graceful, beguiling cat.

Like Titania entering her court.

For a moment all he could do was gape after her, until she shot another sly glance at him from over her shoulder, as if she had known he would still be standing there, staring at her in this ruttish manner.

And to make matters worse, she looked quite pleased with herself, basking under his rakish attentions.

Sebastian shuddered, then snatched up his walking stick and made a hasty bow before he took off down the street at a good clip, taking flight toward the Burkes’ fashionable house in Grosvenor Square as if the French were hot on his heels.

It wasn’t until he’d pulled the bell at their door that he realized what he had called the lady.

Lottie?

The name was all too familiar, too intimate for such a greeting.

Intimate
. Now there was a word he didn’t want to use in the same sentence as…oh, demmit, what was her name? Wilcox? Wilson? Wilmont! Miss Wilmont. Not Lottie, not even Charlotte. But plain and ordinary Miss Wilmont.

He took a deep breath and let it out, as his mother often suggested to remedy the dark recesses of one’s mind.

It didn’t work. With his eyes closed, he found himself imagining Miss Wilmont in her altogether reclining on a chaise with a knowing little look on her pert face—her lips tilted with satisfaction and her bright blue eyes sparkling with delight.

His eyes sprang open and he found the Burkes’ butler, Prouse, standing there staring at him.

Gaping, more like it.

“Yes, hello, Prouse. Good day,” he muttered as he was shown in. Whatever was wrong with him? He made a Herculean effort to shake off these unsettling notions as the Burkes’ butler led him down the hall to the salon, where Lavinia was awaiting him and he would be swept back into the familiar routine of his life.

His suddenly dull existence.

Charlotte gaped as she watched Sebastian flee down the street. What had he called her?

Lottie.

No, she’d heard him wrong. He couldn’t have.

Yet there it was, his strong, deep voice still resonating in her ears.
Lottie.

She started to laugh, the possibilities unfolding before her.

“Miss Wilmont?” Fenwick called down from the doorway. “Is that you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Fenwick!” she replied, bounding up the last of the steps.

“You seem quite improved from yesterday, miss, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I feel like an entirely new person,” she confided.

He nodded. “Lady Hermione is not in. She and Lady Viola have gone for a walk in the park with the young Mr. Marlowe. However, she thought you might call and asked me to direct you to join her in her usual spot.”

“Perfect!” Charlotte told him, spinning on one heel and bounding back down the steps. She hurried across the square and was at the park in a thrice.

For the first time in her life, she stood at the threshold of the throng parading about the park and didn’t feel in the least bit overwhelmed by London’s finest.

How different everything and everyone looked, she mused from her new perspective as she made her way toward the rhododendron grove that Hermione favored.

Sebastian’s sister always liked to take up her position near the grand bushes, especially now that they were in a riot of blooms, as she waited for the Earl of Rockhurst to ride by. She claimed the setting gave her a dramatic backdrop, and in true Hermione fashion, she was dressed in a rainbow of colors, from her bright orange pelisse to her wide-brimmed purple hat with its explosion of dyed ostrich plumes.

Viola stood beside her sister, quite ordinary in her relatively normal muslin, and spent her time watching the carriages and handsome rakes on horses parading past, as if she were making notes for when her time came and she was finally out in society.

Griffin, who was supposed to be escorting his sisters, was nowhere to be seen.

“Hermione!” Charlotte called out. “Oh, there you are!” She hugged her friend to her and held her close, so very thrilled to see her again. Oh, it felt like ages since she’d seen her bosom bow.

“Oh, Charlotte!” Hermione enthused. “You are out and come to the park! Tell me you have good news, for you look quite recovered. No! No! Let me guess—the solicitor found an annuity or some rich property that he missed yesterday? Oh, say it is true.”

Charlotte took a step back and smiled. Hermione had just unwittingly solved her first problem. How to explain
the diamonds. “You are right. He discovered a necklace that was supposed to come with the ring.”

Hermione puffed up. “I knew it. What is the bother of an inheritance if it isn’t worthwhile?” She paused. “It is worthwhile, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Charlotte told her. “But it is a secret, and you must be very discreet about it.” She glanced over at Viola. “Both of you!”

For heavens knew what her mother and Finella would say if they discovered she’d had a diamond necklace in her possession.

The younger girl shrugged. “’T’isn’t like anyone listens to me.”

“Oh, a necklace! That’s perfect,” Hermione mused. “First you must sell it!”

“That is what I intend to do—with Griffin’s help,” Charlotte confided.

Hermione nodded in agreement. “He’s forever selling the things he wins at cards to fund his experiments. He’ll know just how to do it, for Lord knows we wouldn’t want to ask Sebastian to help us.”

Viola added a breathy snort and rolled her gaze upward.

“Oh, Charlotte, I am utterly relieved at your news,” Hermione said, continuing blithely on. “For Sebastian is determined to marry Miss Burke and we haven’t much time to change his mind.”

Viola tipped up on her toes and looked over her sister’s shoulder. “And worse yet, here they come.”

Hermione and Charlotte turned in unison to see Sebastian strolling up the walkway with the infamous Miss Burke on his arm.

Hermione groaned as dramatically as if she were Banquo’s ghost. “A pox on that girl. And worse yet, she’s got those dreadful Dewmont sisters trailing after her.”

Viola sniffed and turned her back to the entire assembly, as if that were enough to vanquish them.

Charlotte didn’t really see Miss Burke or her friends—her gaze was fixed on Sebastian. It was all she could do not to rush to his arms, to demand a kiss, offer him so much more.

She barely even heard Hermione as she began to complain, “Oh, heavens, this is a disaster. Now here comes the earl with his aunt, Lady Routledge. My afternoon is positively ruined,” she declared, pushing back the flurry of plumes in her hat, which persisted in falling in her face.

Rockhurst? Charlotte’s gaze rose, and she found herself looking up at the devilish earl. And to her shock, he was staring at her, and right there and then he pulled his carriage to a quick stop.

Hermione gasped. “He’s stopping.”

“Don’t toss up your breakfast,” Viola offered. “Though that might not be a bad idea. Maybe with your kippers all over his boots he’d finally notice you, Minny.”

Charlotte shot the younger girl a quelling glance, which to her amazement, actually worked on the usually irrepressible little Marlowe.

“Look, Lord Trent, there are your sisters,” Miss Burke declared, steering the viscount in their direction, the Dewmont sisters following like ducklings in her imperial wake.

Miss Lavinia Burke was in every sense of the word a perfect Original. Her taste in clothes elegant and stylish, her manners kindly bestowed (if it hadn’t been for the haughty manner in which she held herself, Charlotte
might have even thought the girl meant every word of her smooth greeting).