The earl’s bedchamber was a spacious room decorated in brown and gold. His valet was there, folding Cosgrove’s nightclothes. “Leggatt, half a dozen neckcloths, please.”
“Of course, sir.” Leggatt withdrew to the dressing room.
Cosgrove untied his neckcloth and tossed it on the bed. “Take that thing off.” He gestured at Charlotte’s neckcloth.
The earl’s bed was a commanding piece of furniture, as wide as it was long, with four posts of turned mahogany. The counterpane and hangings were a rich, earthy brown. Gold threads sparkled like gleams of sunshine.
Charlotte jerked her attention away from the bed. She fastened her gaze on the earl’s dressing table, with its silver-backed brushes, and unwound the neckcloth from her throat.
The valet emerged with six starched neckcloths hung over his arm.
“On the back of the chair, Leggatt.”
The valet did as he was bid, laying each neckcloth out tenderly.
“Come here, lad.” Cosgrove stood in front of a tall cheval mirror.
Charlotte obeyed.
The earl took the crumpled strip of muslin from her hand and tossed it on the floor. He surveyed her for a moment, eyes narrow. “Something simple . . .” He took two neckcloths from the back of the chair and handed one to her. “A Barrel Knot. Watch carefully. Around the collar thus, so that the right end is longer than the left . . .”
Charlotte copied him.
“Make a loop, then pass the cloth over a second time . . . No, no—” Cosgrove released his own neckcloth. “Like this.” His hands guided hers, his fingers warm and strong and confident. “See?”
Charlotte felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “Yes.”
“Try again.”
She did, acutely aware of him watching. The blush refused to fade; she felt it heating her face.
“Good. Now pull the left end through. Yes, like that. And tighten it. No, lad, watch what you’re doing in the mirror. The knot should be horizontal.”
Charlotte stepped closer to the mirror, wrestling the knot into place across her Adam’s apple. “Like that, sir?” she asked, turning to him.
Cosgrove reached out and tugged the knot, straightening it, tightening it. His knuckles brushed the underside of her chin. The blush flamed hotter in Charlotte’s cheeks. Her pego stirred.
Alarm lurched through her. Was it going to stiffen? Now, of all times? I wish to have a soft pego, she said frantically in her head.
Magic itched at her groin. Her pego stopped stirring.
Cosgrove stepped back, examined her, shook his head. “No.”
“Maybe I should just purchase a stock—”
“Stocks are for country parsons.” Cosgrove held out another neckcloth to her. “Watch me, then try again.”
She labored over the Barrel Knot for half an hour, her face hot, her fingers clumsy. They weren’t alone—the valet was quietly setting the room to rights—but it felt alarmingly intimate to be standing at the mirror alongside Cosgrove, with the bed just behind them. She was acutely aware of the earl’s proximity, his clean scent, the timbre of his voice. Her chin and fingers tingled where he’d touched her. Her pego kept wanting to stiffen. I wish to have a soft pego, she chanted silently.
Charlotte threaded the left end of the neckcloth through the loop and pulled it tight. She peered at her reflection. Was the knot straight enough? Tight enough?
She turned to Cosgrove. “There, sir.”
Cosgrove surveyed her.
Charlotte wanted to reach out and touch his face, to stroke her fingertips from cheekbone to jaw, to feel the grain of his skin. The urge was sudden and shocking and intense. Her pego gave a strong twitch.
She clenched her hands at her sides. I wish to have a soft pego.
“Leggatt? What do you think?”
The valet stopped straightening items on the dressing table. He crossed to the mirror and stood with his head tilted to one side, his lips pursed. “Adequate,” he said finally.
Cosgrove grinned. “Rare praise, lad.”
“It’s all right?” She reached up to touch the neckcloth.
Cosgrove caught her hand. “Leave it alone.”
Heat surged in her face again. I wish to have a soft pego. “Yes, sir.”
Cosgrove released her hand. He took the last neckcloth from the back of the chair, placed it around his throat, and tied it swiftly. “A Mail Coach,” he said, when he was finished. The knot was obscured by a fall of starched muslin. “I’ll teach you it next.” He glanced in the mirror, made a minuscule adjustment, straightened his cuffs, and headed for the door. “Come along, lad.”
Charlotte followed him from the bedchamber. In the coolness of the corridor she pressed her hands to her face, as if she could push the blood from her cheeks by force.
She had to conquer her partiality for Cosgrove. Had to. The blushes were bad enough, but now it was affecting her pego, too.
Cosgrove strode along the corridor. Charlotte soberly trailed him. She’d learned something about the male body this morning. A man’s pego stiffened when its owner felt physical desire. That’s why Phillip Langford’s pego had been sticking up at the brothel. It had been responding to the whores.
And my pego is responding to Lord Cosgrove.
Today, the earl had mistaken her blushes for embarrassment, but tomorrow she might not be so lucky. If he noticed that she blushed when he stood close, if he noticed her pego moved when he touched her, if he realized she was attracted to him—
He’ll dismiss me.
Scratch the itch and it usually goes away, Cosgrove had said. But this was one itch she couldn’t scratch. Not with Lord Cosgrove. She had to master her response to him, wrestle it under control, expunge it.
“Sir . . . you said your last secretary had rooms nearby.”
“In Chandlers Street. Three minutes’ walk from here.” Cosgrove started down the stairs.
“May I have the address please?”
“Anxious to leave?”
“I’m your employee, sir, not your guest.”
Cosgrove glanced back, his eyes creased in amusement. “So you are, lad. So you are. Twelve Chandlers Street, I think it was.”
“Thank you, sir.” The sooner she was gone from his house, the less chance she had of betraying herself.
The earl insisted on accompanying her—You’ll find me useful, lad—and in the event, he was correct. The landlady, Mrs. Stitchbury, was flattered to receive a visit of inspection from an earl. She allowed herself to be persuaded to rent her best set of rooms—larger, sunnier, and quieter than poor Mr. Lionel’s rooms—at the same price.
The earl smiled charmingly as he thanked her.
Color mottled Mrs. Stitchbury’s face.
I must look like that, always blushing. “I can move in today, sir.”
“Tomorrow’s soon enough, lad. I’m sure Mrs. Stitchbury would like the opportunity to air it.”
“Oh, yes, your lordship. Of course! I’ll have the maids turn the mattress for the young gentleman and air the bedding and—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stitchbury.” The earl made an elegant bow.
Mrs. Stitchbury’s face reddened again. She curtsied low, as if in the presence of royalty.
Charlotte saw the earl’s lips twitch, but his face was perfectly straight when Mrs. Stitchbury rose again.
“What did I tell you?” Cosgrove said, as they strolled back to Grosvenor Square. He glanced sideways at her. “Useful.”
“You were making up to her, sir!”
“Me?” Cosgrove placed a hand over his heart. “Lad, you wound me.”
Any answer she could make dried on her tongue. How am I to conquer my partiality when he looks at me like that, with laughter in his eyes?
“Lionel said she was a pompous, silly woman. Just the sort to be flattered by a visit from an earl.”
They turned into Grosvenor Square. The laughter extinguished in Cosgrove’s eyes. His face hardened. He seemed to age ten years in the space of one second.
Charlotte followed the direction of his gaze. The house looked pained, the shattered windows wounds in its façade. “He broke fewer windows last night.”
Cosgrove grunted.
They crossed the square. Charlotte hid a yawn behind her hand as they climbed the steps to the front door.
“Tired?” Cosgrove said. “I’m not surprised. Have the rest of the day off.”
“Me? But sir, you pay me to work, not to sleep!” Charlotte hurried into the house after him. “And besides, you had forbidden me to follow him!”
“Now he remembers,” the earl said, to no one in particular.
Charlotte bit her lip. Another yawn crept up on her. She tried to swallow it.
The earl noticed. “Off to bed with you.” The note of finality in his voice was unmistakable. “Now!”