Three Schemes and a Scandal (7 page)

“Charlotte …” James said warningly.

“Oh, look, Lord Hastings!” she called brightly.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said in a polite, but cold greeting. He could not snub her—being so closely related to a duke, and being his longstanding neighbor in Hampshire, as she was—but it was clear he wanted to. Most likely because of the man by her side.

“I was hoping we might have a word with you,” she said, and then before either gentleman could protest, she grasped their arms—lightly to the observer, but like a vise to the men—and steered them over to a private corner of the library.

The crowds served a great purpose, for the public venue prevented either gentleman from acting out. Furthermore, a mention of the Eversham Motif on the ceiling meant that all eyes were focused up, thus completely missing all sorts of scandals in their midst.

Such as two of London’s feuding gentlemen in conversation, mediated by the formidable Charlotte Brandon.

“I cannot fathom what possibly we would have to talk about,” Lord Hastings said icily.

James glared at them both.

“James’s terrible speech was my fault,” Charlotte said in a low voice. “I wanted you to know that. And to not hold it against your son.”

“Charlotte …” James’s voice was a warning, a plea … and it was lost to Lord Hastings’s sudden lecture.

“Lady Charlotte,” he began and even she shrank slightly under his withering glare. “I believe in honoring one’s commitments in a prompt and dignified manner. I believe that gentlemen conduct themselves in a certain way—including, but not limited to, the attire they choose to appear in when in public. Above all, I firmly believe in minding one’s own business.”

“But—” James clasped her hand and squeezed. Hard.

“I shall not question your involvement in this entire matter, Lady Charlotte, nor shall I report it to your brother, His Grace. I trust you will not grant me sufficient motivation to reconsider. You are welcome.”

The tears that stung Charlotte’s eyes were not feigned or summoned at will. For all of her noble efforts and good intentions, Lord Hastings simply delivered a devastating set down—and he hadn’t even listened to the speech she had planned! And he had used her own favorite retort against her. It was unforgivable.

No, Lord Hastings,
you
are welcome, she huffed to herself.

Lord Hastings did not even deign to acknowledge his son before stalking off. Lord Capulet finally decided that the preservation of his newly redecorated library trumped the elusive Eversham Motif and
The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney
.

In an effort to avoid being ushered out along with the mob, James tugged Charlotte into a private window alcove.

On one side, French doors opened onto a small balcony overlooking the terrace. The thick walls—about two feet deep—formed the sides and luxurious velvet curtains draped on either side of the alcove’s opening into the library.

There was room for the two of them. Just.

T
he only time James had seen Charlotte cry was when George Coney had died. No, that wasn’t quite right. When he laughed at her for thinking to bury the beloved pet with hymns and a recitation of memories. The worst, of course, was when she had encountered Dudley. With her pet. Over an open fire.

The doctor actually sedated her with laudanum. The boys were soundly punished, and sent back to school early … before Charlotte had awoken.

He’d always felt shame about how he acted that day.

While he had not taken a bite, he had not tried very hard to stop Dudley, who threatened each and every day to dunk James’s head in the privy. He was a bully to this day, which made the whole thing worse. James had hurt the fragile feelings of a really terrific girl to impress a bloody idiot.

And now tears were perched menacingly and he would be damned if she cried because he hadn’t defended or befriended her again.

So he tugged her into the alcove so they might have some privacy. Immediately, he regretted it. There was barely enough room for them both and it was impossible to forget that she was no longer a girl, and very, very, very much a woman. Especially as every slightest movement resulted in a complete caress.

“Charlotte you must not let him get to you,” he said. “My father is an arse.”

She sniffed, and blinked back the tears. He allowed a small exhalation of relief.

“He’s so ungrateful! The lengths I went to in order to issue a heartfelt apology!
I invented an architectural motif for him,
” she hissed.

“Upon which he lectured at length further solidifying his reputation as London’s architectural expert. You are too kind,” James said. She was either kind or insane; at the moment he was feeling charitably toward her for he could see the marvelous chain of events she had set in motion so that he and his father might mend their rift.

“I know that. But why doesn’t he see it?” she asked, miffed.

“Because he cares only for blocks of stone, architectural whatever and Gideon,” James said frankly. Beyond their alcove, the room was steadily emptying as Lord Capulet herded them out.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked, peering up at him with her big blue eyes. He would swear that she could read minds, and see through carefully constructed facades. No wonder so many men were terrified of her.

“Not so much anymore,” James said with a shrug. It was a mild annoyance that he had reconciled himself to, like a blister that becomes a callus.

A woman’s laugh punctured the silence that had fallen upon the room.

James ducked his head out and saw Lady Layton and Lord Beaverbrook stumbling into the now empty library, clinging to each other in a manner than left no question as to their intentions.

“I want to see the Eversham Motif,” Lady Layton giggled.

“I’ll show you my motif,” Lord Beaverbrook growled. James thought he might be sick.

James also realized that unless they acted now—

Too late. Lord Beaverbrook locked the library door. And then he bent Lady Layton over the desk.

James quickly yanked the sashes holding the curtains back, and the heavy velvet drapes fell together, enclosing him and Charlotte in a dark, secluded alcove in which it was impossible for them to stand without touching each other.

“Well, this is compromising,” Charlotte remarked, uttering the understatement of the nineteenth century. They were stuck together in a small, dark space with another couple making loud, adulterous love on Lord Capulet’s desk.

“It we get caught,” he clarified. It was their only hope. And then he prayed they would not get caught. How long could Lady Layton and Beaverbrook go at it? They just needed to wait them out and sneak out undetected. And pray no one looked for them in the meanwhile.

“What about—” Charlotte asked, inclining her head toward the amorous couple, who were now loudly declaring the pleasure that they wrought upon each other.

“If we just remain quiet, they won’t notice us at all. In a moment or so, they’ll be very … distracted … then we can make our escape,” James said. If only he believed it. He had visions of being stuck here all night.

“Are they doing what I think they are doing?” She wriggled in an effort to peek out of the curtains, and in doing so brushed intimately against certain portions of James’s anatomy. Part of him was thrilled with this situation.

“What do you think they’re doing?” James asked her, relishing the blush that crept across her cheeks.

“Marital relations,” she said solemnly.

“In a manner of speaking. Except they are not married to each other, but to other people,” James said.

“I want to see,” she said, grinning wickedly.

“Oh, that is nothing you should witness,” he told her. “There are some things which ladies—or gentlemen—are not to see.”

Lord Beaverbrook’s bare arse is at the top of the list.

“That was the worst possible thing you could say, James,” Charlotte said, and she writhed a little more, and he groaned. Her hands crept toward the part in the curtains …

He forced them closed.

“Do not make me tie your wrists with this,” he said, dangling the velvet sash before her wide eyes. She bit her lip. He suspected he felt more threatened, teased and tortured than she.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered. Strangely, he wanted to. What a sight it would be for Charlotte to be still, to be at his mercy for once.

“No one would blame me,” he said. But that was a lie. If he were discovered with a
bound
female, he would have to leave town. Indefinitely.

“I want to see,” she whispered again. Her curiosity would be the end of them both.

“Chess. They are playing chess,” he said, his voice oddly husky.

She smiled at him, like the devil with a trick up her sleeve. Then she slid down slowly, her back against the wall, her breasts brushing against him. Quite nearly on her knees—with her mouth just inches from certain excited parts of his anatomy—she turned her head, parted the curtains and peered out.

“Chess? I think you meant chest. Yes, he has his hand on her chest,” she murmured. James thought of his hands on the round swells of Charlotte’s breasts, then his mouth, and the thought was tempting. Too tempting. Especially with her mouth just inches from …

“I can’t quite …” Charlotte tilted her head, trying to get a better view from her impossible position. She brushed against him. He groaned softly.

“It’s an advanced move in … backgammon,” James told her. Why he felt impelled to protect the innocence of Charlotte Brandon he knew not. Especially given that he’d just been considering his hands and his mouth lavishing attention on her breasts.

“If that is backgammon then I have been playing
all wrong
,” she replied, and God help him, he wanted to laugh. She slid up to stand, her body torturously caressing the length of his as she did. The thing was, he didn’t think this was a deliberate scheme or a purposefully seductive maneuver.

In spite of all her dangerous and devious machinations, she was an innocent.

“Don’t look anymore. You’ll be ruined,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“One might say I already am. For the second time,” she said.

“And whose fault is that?” he questioned.

Hers
. But he would be blamed for it.

“Quite beside the point, I’m sure. Now step aside sir, I couldn’t
quite
see and I’d like to be shocked.” She tried to inch past him. He held the curtains firmly shut. Mainly, though, to keep his hands occupied with something other than her—whether a caress or strangling, he wasn’t quite sure yet.

“You want to be shocked, Charlotte?” he asked, with a lift of his brow, like a dare.

“I’ll settle for amused,” she said coolly.

“Will you now? He replied just as coolly, even though, by God, he suddenly wanted to take her, kiss her hard and show her shocked. Ravished. Amused.

“Shouldn’t a gentleman honor a lady’s wishes?” Charlotte mused. “Is that not the gentlemanly thing to do?”

“It depends upon the matter in which she wishes to be obliged. I cannot in good conscience let you look at the extremely indelicate situation in which Lady Layton and Lord Beaverbrook are engaged.”

“Extremely indelicate?”
Charlotte echoed with a stifled burst of laughter. “You sound like a dowager.”

“I’ll have you know, Miss Charlotte, that I am a renowned rake. No woman would mistake me for a dowager,” he said, warningly.

“Why does that sound like a threat?”

“It isn’t,” he said firmly. But he was
this close
to proving to her thoroughly and assuredly that he was not a dowager. He was a rake and he would take his pleasure where it suited him.

Starting with her. He would kiss that impish, teasing smile right off her mouth until she was gasping his name and her lips were red and swollen from his kiss.

“Isn’t it?” she asked. He thought he might have heard her mutter “pity, that” under her breath, but he was distracted by Beaverbrook loudly and vehemently invoking the Lord’s name and that of his son. And Lady Layton loudly and repeatedly affirmed that yes, yes, yes, that was just right, right there.

“Goodness …” Charlotte murmured and a blush infused her cheeks. “We need to get out of here. I will be missed.”

“They’re just about done,” he said. The torture was almost over. He felt something then … something that made him perfectly understand Charlotte’s whispered “pity, that.” This was a horrendous situation.

But it was fun. Certainly more fun than inane conversations in the ballroom and waltzes with insipid young girls or blatant illicit proposals from widows and married women. Given the choice, he would choose to be here, in this miniscule alcove, with the tempting and vexing Charlotte Brandon.

The realization made his heart stop in his throat.

Yes, this was
fun
.

And it could be much more fun if he were much less of a gentleman.

Besides, it was time to plot their escape, now that Lady Layton and Beaverbrook had finished. Oh wait—oh no.

“I could just take you again!” Beaverbrook cried out.

“Yes, take me! Now! Again and again and again!” Lady Layton gasped.

Charlotte met his gaze and simply said, “We could try the window,” and he wasn’t sure if that was the best thing or the worst thing she could have said given that he was seriously considering ravishing her.

C
harlotte thought he’d been acting peevish. He must have been so annoyed to be stuck thusly with her. Plus, she knew that Harriet would be wondering about her; ditto for Sophie and Brandon. And she could not explain that she was stuck in an alcove with a known rake. It was worse than being stuck in the folly.

Here, it was physically impossible for them not to touch. She’d felt the length of him, all strong, as she slid down to peek through the curtains. Had she known … she would have stood still and tall, a perfect specimen of an ideal lady’s posture. And then she couldn’t help but feel him all over, all over again as she stood up.

Lady Layton and Lord Beaverbrook seemed to be having a marvelous time. And she, and James … if he was such a rake why didn’t he kiss her already?!