He certainly hadn’t intended to go to the museum after dropping Charlotte back at her house.
He had intended to remain at home and catch up on his correspondence.
But when it came down to it, he didn’t have much correspondence to take care of, and he had done most of it prior to taking Charlotte driving. He’d been out of the country for so long, he didn’t have many connections in England any longer, and he hadn’t been in town long enough to cultivate new acquaintances.
And he wasn’t going to cultivate new acquaintances sitting alone in his brother’s house.
The plan was, then, to go find the potential new acquaintances at the only place he’d heard would have people he might meet. Whether or not he wanted to meet them he couldn’t know until he met them—another type of oxymoron he looked forward to sharing with Charlotte.
That meeting-people plan was rendered moot as soon as he’d seen Charlotte.
Replaced by a feeling of pique that she felt she had to come to the museum to find eligible men. When she’d just been taken for a drive with one.
Which was then replaced with a feeling of horror at realizing he’d just thought of himself as eligible in regard to Charlotte—she was an assignment, nothing more.
Which was a lie, but he had no intention of having Lord Bradford angry at him for overstepping his duties regarding his niece.
He did enjoy spending time with her, but nothing more. There couldn’t be. What he wanted, what he needed, was to keep his reputation clean so he could return to India.
That was all. He should not be thinking of how and when he could kiss her again.
Nor how it had felt when they had laughed together.
Nor how she seemed to see beyond his looks to the man underneath.
None of that.
So he made conversation and glanced around at the statues, which were, as promised, naked statues, and kept returning to that kiss.
He should not attend the Millers’ that evening. He would be sorely tempted to kiss her again. He needed to keep his distance. He was having too much fun with his assignment. Assignments were not fun; they were intense, delicate work.
Except for this one.
“Lord David?” Lady Anne must have said his name a few times already; she sounded as though she were concerned about him.
“Yes, apologies. What may I help you with?” There was definitely more to Lady Anne than a thin, pale debutante; he’d caught a few sharp glances she’d shot at Charlotte when she thought no one was looking.
“I was hoping you could escort Charlotte—Lady Charlotte, that is—to her carriage. Her mother and mine are busy, well”—she looked embarrassed—“and Charlotte needs to get home. She’d forgotten about something she was supposed to do.”
He could just imagine what the mothers were up to and felt annoyed at himself for being glad that Charlotte wanted nothing to do with it.
“It would be my pleasure.”
So much for staying away from her. But after seeing her to her carriage, he could return home and stay there. All evening.
***
“What is the matter with you?” Gotam lounged in one of the easy chairs in the salon, sipping some more of that not-British brandy.
David slowed his steady pace back and forth across the carpet to stand in front of his friend. “Nothing. Why?”
Gotam raised his chin at him. “Because you are walking as though there is a fire somewhere near your hindquarters. And as far as I know, the fire is safely in the grate.”
Both of them turned and looked at the fireplace where, indeed, a cozy fire was blazing cheerfully.
It should have been a restful evening in, but all he’d done thus far was resist the urge to drink himself insensible. Not to mention practically wearing a hole in his brother’s finest Aubusson.
“Why aren’t you out chasing down your assignment? The Abomination is not entirely abominable, is she?”
David sat down opposite him, splaying his arms out on either side of the chair. “She is not entirely abominable, no.” He stretched his neck. “It is just—the intrigue is worse here than it was back home. All the gossip, and talk behind people’s hands.”
“Otherwise known as gossip,” Gotam observed dryly.
“And the constant vigilance that you say the right thing,” David continued, ignoring his friend’s interruption,
“Otherwise known as being a diplomat,” Gotam added.
“All right, fine.” David rose again, unable to sit a moment longer. “I’m bored, and irritated at being required to act a certain way in society, and resentful that it’s the cruelty of others that make me have to do all this.”
“So it was the Lady Louise’s cruelty that landed you in this mess?”
If Gotam wasn’t his best friend, he might’ve murdered him already.
“No,” he replied curtly. “That was my own idiocy. I’m surprised she hasn’t shown up here again, in fact.”
Gotam smiled his cagily mysterious smile, the one that looked especially foreign to David’s British eyes.
“Oh. So she did show up here again.”
Gotam nodded.
“And you got rid of her?” David took his glass from the sideboard and clinked it against Gotam’s. “Thank you.”
Gotam raised his glass in a salute and drank.
“Will she stay away, do you think?”
Gotam shook his head. “No, you merely got a reprieve. I am guessing the lady is even now plotting how to ensnare you in her delectable web.”
“Lord, I hope not. If so, I will have to find a way to remove myself from her coils.”
“A sticky proposition,” Gotam returned, a smirk on his face.
“Indeed.”
The Millers’ was, predictably, crowded with many of the most fashionable people in Society. Including her father, who’d decided to actually accompany his ladies to an event, since his sister was eschewing her normal card game to venture into Society. But the crowd did not include, as far as Charlotte could see, him.
She would have noticed him if he were here; first of all, he was taller than most of the gentlemen, not to mention that there would have been a general elevation in the ladies’ frame of mind and conversation.
Mr. Goddard was there, however, and asked her for the first waltz, which she had to agree to. Then, surprisingly, her hand was solicited for several more dances, by Mr. Smeldley, plus a few of the other gentlemen who’d been at the museum that afternoon.
Charlotte didn’t flatter herself that they were suddenly recognizing her attractions. She was actually trying to figure out what percentage of this change in attitude could be attributed to her fortune and what percentage to the attention David had been paying to her. Was it forty percent of the former and sixty of the latter? Or perhaps even thirty to seventy?
“My dear.” Her father took her elbow and pivoted her to face the lady he was with, one of the most stunning women Charlotte had ever seen. “I would like to introduce Lady Radnor, who’s recently arrived from India.”
“How do you do? It is a pleasure.” Her mouth spoke the polite words, but Charlotte’s mind was racing—it was too much of a coincidence that both of them were just arrived from India.
Perhaps they were returning all of the beautiful people to England?
“The pleasure is mine,” the lady said. Her voice was low and what Charlotte could only call sultry. My goodness.
Charlotte thought she would just ask, rather than continue to wonder. “You must know Lord David Marchston, then.”
Her father was probably oblivious to it, but there was no mistaking the gleam that came into her eyes at the mention of his name.
“Yes, Lord David and I … traveled in the same circles. My husband—my late husband—was a general in the army.” She held a lace-trimmed handkerchief to eyes that were as dry as Charlotte’s throat. And Charlotte was very thirsty.
“I am sorry for your loss, my lady.”
“Thank you.” She looked anything but heartbroken.
“Lady Radnor’s husband insisted she return to England after—well, after he had gone. We have convinced her to come out this evening, even though she is in mourning, since her husband would have wished it.” Her father beamed at the lady. She was worth looking at, certainly; glossy, black hair, dark eyes, pale skin, and a captivatingly red mouth.
Rather, in fact, like Snow White.
“Will Dav—that is, Lord David be here this evening, do you know?” And now Charlotte was wishing she had a poisoned apple.
“I am not certain he was invited.”
“He is welcome everywhere, isn’t he?” Now her tone was downright possessive.
“Of course, but the Millers perhaps do not know him as well as you seem to.” That comment drew a narrowing of the lady’s eyes. Yes, Snow, you might be stunning to look at, but do not get sharp with me. I will get sharp right back. Not to mention forcefeeding you some apples.
“No matter. I will see him at another time.”
What other time? “Of course.” Now she was desperate to know precisely what David and Snow were to each other. Was he madly in love with her and relieved her husband had died? Had he been good friends with her husband? Why had she returned to England?
And where was David, anyway? He’d said he’d be here, even though he lacked an invitation. She was embarrassed to admit to herself how the evening’s joy seemed to pall when she thought he might not be coming.
“Dear, I am escorting Lady Radnor to the whist tables. Please let your mother know where I am.” Charlotte watched, her mind still churning over this new turn of events, as her father and Lady Radnor made their way across the room and disappeared into the card room.
“I’ve figured it out.” Anne’s voice startled her out of her reverie. She jumped, then turned and faced her friend.
“What have you figured out?”
Anne glanced around as though to make sure they weren’t overheard. “His flaws.”
There was no mistaking who she was talking about.
“And?” Please don’t let his flaws be that he is madly in love with a recently returned widow.
“He doesn’t seem to have any.”
“That’s not a flaw.” He was perfect. Which meant that he was not for her.
Not because she thought she wasn’t up to his standards—because she didn’t think that poorly of herself, no matter what he might think—but because she didn’t want to fall in love with, much less marry, someone who was a Paragon of Perfection.
Paragons of Perfection might think they were happy enough to be with someone who was less perfect, but eventually, all that paragon-ness would come to grate.
She was almost disappointed that his flaw wasn’t that he was desperately poor, in need of an heiress. An heiress like her.
But she would, meanwhile, enjoy his company. That she could do.
Meanwhile, Anne was rolling her eyes. “Don’t be a ninny. Of course he has a flaw, he probably has many of them. They’re just not spoken about in polite society.”
Now that sounded entirely intriguing and dangerous.
What kinds of flaws wouldn’t be spoken about?
She really wished he’d shown up tonight. Just to see how perfect he really was.
***
It took a bit—well, quite a lot, actually—of doing to slip out of the house without her mother knowing precisely where she was going. She’d taken her maid with her, but she knew Sarah could be discreet.
The question, of course, was if she was going to be discreet. That was a question she should perhaps not answer at the moment.
Almost as soon as she knocked, the door was flung wide open, revealing a dark-skinned man with a white turban on his head. He smiled at her, his white teeth a shocking contrast to his skin.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “That headwear is even more remarkable than mine. Tell me,” she said, stepping through the door, “isn’t it confining? Because my mother had a turban like that one, and I tried it on, and it itched terribly.”
His smile widened. “You must be Lady Charlotte,” he said, turning to the side and holding his arm out in a sweeping gesture. “Please come in. I will tell Lord David you are here.”
“He is here, then?” She’d thought that perhaps he’d been called away, or worse—sent back to India suddenly, or off on his honeymoon, or perhaps pining outside Lady Radnor’s door.
That he was here was a relief … and a matter of consternation.
Now she would have to find out what she wanted to know without his finding out she wanted to know things.
Which made her head hurt.
“Yes, he is in his study.” The man waited for Sarah to enter, then shut the door behind them.
Well. She was inside his house. Well.
“I will just go fetch him. Would you mind waiting here for just a moment?” The man’s accent was intriguing; his words seemed to roll up and down on a seesaw.
“But not if he is occupied,” Charlotte said, feeling a flutter of nerves in her belly. What if he was shocked by her being here? Practically alone? What if he was annoyed she’d disrupted him? What if …
“Good morning, Lady Charlotte.” He descended the stairs without his habitual quirked smile. Oh, goodness, he was upset with her.
He glanced around—as though anybody but them and the two servants were there—and frowned. He really must be upset. Had she made a terrible mistake? “Come in here,” he said, striding to a door at the left-hand side of the hallway. “Gotam, take Lady Charlotte’s maid to the kitch—no, not there. Take her to the library, please, and make sure no one sees you.”
“Excellent.” The man—Gotam?—bowed his head to Charlotte’s maid as elegantly as any nobleman she’d ever seen. “Please, this way, if you would.”
Charlotte swallowed as she walked past David to enter the room he’d indicated. It was an intensely feminine room, which made David’s presence in it almost ludicrous.
Pale pink walls rose up behind darker rose curtains, with gold-framed paintings breaking up the pink every few feet or so. The carpet was a swirl of pastel-colored flowers, while the furniture was white and thin and seemed like it was just barely balancing.
Rather like some of the Season’s debutantes, in fact.
Standing in the middle of all the frippery was David, like an enormous oak in the middle of a bunch of hedges. Or a stallion among ponies.
Or just a stunningly handsome, very masculine male in the midst of overdone femininity.
He still had that scowl on his face, too. “Would you care to sit down?” he said, pointing to the least spindly chair.
She considered it for a moment, then went and sat in the chair opposite. “You should take that one, I am not certain the rest of these could handle your weight.”
His lips moved as though to smile, but he didn’t. Which made her heart flutter even more. Mistake or no, she just wanted … well, she would just have to say it, wouldn’t she?
“Before you demand to know why I am here, practically unchaperoned, it is because I didn’t see you last night. And I found myself horribly disappointed that I hadn’t.”
His frown grew … frownier.
She held her hand up as he opened his mouth. “And before you say anything, and get all distant and polite, let me assure you, I have no designs on you besides friendship.” Not just that, her sly mind whispered inside her head. “That is, I do not have any expectations.”
Now he just looked shocked. Which, perhaps, was better than frowny.
“Would you sit, please, and stop towering over me? You’re quite intimidating.”
The chair creaked as he sat down.
He caught her eye and almost smiled. Thank goodness.
He did not clear his throat. Good. “I apologize for disappointing you last evening.” He made no mention of her expectations. Nor of why he hadn’t appeared.
“Well.” Charlotte clasped her hands in her lap and looked at him. She cleared her throat. “I am in need of your—of your assistance.”
He leaned back and flung one arm across the chair. “What can I help you with?”
She swallowed. “Does a gentleman wear anything underneath his evening clothing?”
He unfurled his arm from the back of the chair, drawing his hand through his hair. “And why would you possibly need to know that?” he asked through a clenched jaw.
She hadn’t thought that through, had she? She rose unsteadily, realizing just what an idiot—what a naïve, infatuated idiot—she was. “Never mind, I will find someone else to ask—”
Before she could finish the sentence, he was up on his feet also, holding her upper arms. She felt the heat and the strength and the emotion in his hands.
“You will not go ask anybody else any of your questions.” He stepped closer, so he could stare into her eyes. And she into his.
Dark, lovely, lovely blue. Oh, he was still speaking.
“If you have—when you have questions—you will ask me. And only me.” He shook her gently. “Is that understood?”
She bit her lip. His eyes tracked the movement. “Yes,” she said in a soft voice.
“Good.” He exhaled. “To answer your question, I have to say—” He shook his head as though clearing it. “Lord, Charlotte …”
He was so befuddled, so adorably confused, and so entirely charming she couldn’t resist. She raised her hands to his face and grasped his chin, pulling his mouth down to hers.
This time, she knew how it would feel. Had been thinking about how it felt, in fact, for the entire time since it had happened. Part of her brain was occupied with avoiding Mr. Goddard’s attentions, or ignoring her mother’s persistent nagging, or wishing she could just be done with this whole trying-to-get-married business, take all her money, and just go somewhere, but all the while, during all that time, a tiny part of her kept reliving the Kiss.
So she was prepared to be disappointed when she finally got to experience the reality again.
She was not disappointed.
As soon as their mouths met, he made a low noise in his throat, and his hands slid down her arms to her waist. Holding her in place, as if she were going to go anywhere.
At first, the kiss was soft. Just a meeting of mouths. His firm lips pressed against hers, their noses almost bumping into one another.
Then, after only a few seconds, he tilted his head, angling his nose to the side of hers, pressing harder on her mouth.
Oh. Goodness.
She slid her fingers across his jaw, feeling the stubble prickle against her fingers. Her fingers kept sliding back, around to his ear, to the back of his neck, where they rested, curling into the soft smoothness of his hair.
She wanted to roll herself into a ball and dissolve into him, she wanted to touch him everywhere, she wanted to pause so she could process all the feelings and touches she was experiencing.
His fingers flexed at her waist and he drew her closer, into his body where she fit up against him like a piece in a puzzle.
An incredibly attractive, masculine puzzle.
And then—and then he slid his tongue over her mouth, just barely glancing across her lips with it, and she made a soft noise that would have embarrassed her if she weren’t so entirely engrossed in what was happening.
He parted her lips with his tongue at the seam, then slid inside.
Oh. Badness.
Only not, because there could not possibly be anything bad about something that felt so good. Could there?
His tongue delved into her mouth, teasing and tangling with hers. It felt—well, it should have felt odd, but instead if felt simply wonderful. Her entire self was focused on the kiss, on what his tongue was doing, on how his lips were moving against hers.
She responded by slipping her tongue into his mouth, pulling him tight against her, her fingers still clasped in his hair. She felt his chest against hers, felt her knees tremble as he deepened the kiss, his mouth and hers joined in a delicious moment.
His hand had crept up from her waist to her torso, his large fingers splayed across her body like he was claiming her—owning her.
She felt her breasts press against his chest, an odd ache making them feel heavy and sensitive. She’d never thought about it, but now that the thought had crossed her mind, she desperately wanted him to touch her. There.
And, judging by the way his fingers were creeping up, so did he.
At least they were in agreement.
But just as it seemed both of them were to get their wish, he broke the kiss, letting go of her and moving back a few steps. He froze and looked at her, his eyes wide and the darkest blue she’d seen, his mouth—that gorgeous, delicious mouth—still tempting her.
“I apologize, Lady Charlotte. That—” He ran a hand through his hair, and it ruffled. Beautifully, of course. “That should not have happened. Please, allow me to escort you home.”
Charlotte stared back at him, feeling her chest heave as she drew deep breaths. Trying to settle herself, even though every part of her was not in want of settling.
Every part of her wanted, in fact, to kiss him again. And again. Would she ever tire of it?
She doubted it. Honestly, how did people not just spend all of their time kissing?
“There is no need to apologize.” She backed up and sat herself down in her chair with a definitive whump. “I am the one who kissed you, remember?”
She glanced down, and oh—goodness. Well. There was that.
She couldn’t think about all that right now. She knew that as a gentle young lady she should be screaming in fright and running from the room, but she instead just wanted to figure out how it all worked.
If he’d been startled when she asked him about men’s evening wear, how would it be if she asked about that? An abrupt giggle burst out of her before she knew it.
He still stood, staring at her, the evidence of how he felt still right there, right at her eye level, which made it hard to concentrate. For her, at least; she couldn’t tell how he felt. His face still bore that same expression and he hadn’t moved.
“Sit down, Lord David. I won’t bite,” she said.
At that, his mouth—Lord, that mouth—curled up into an almost smile, and she knew it was going to be all right.
He sat, the chair emitting that same creaky groan and they both laughed.
“Yes, well. That was … You are …” He shook his head as he paused.
“Impetuous? Annoying? Forward?” Charlotte said when he didn’t speak.
Now he smiled at her truly, a full-faced smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “No, I was not going to say any of those words. You leave me speechless, honestly.”
Charlotte tilted her head to look at him. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
She saw him swallow, then slowly shake his head. “I do not know.”
***
He shook with the wanting. He was grateful she’d urged him to sit, because he wasn’t certain he could stand. And it was just a kiss—not that anything with her was “just” anything. As in just asking about what men wore underneath their clothing, or talking offhandedly about how atrocious—abominable, in fact—her taste in clothing was. Even the first time they’d met she’d nearly asked him about where he’d been wounded.
Which, coincidentally enough, was right near the part that was throbbing in want and desire right now. Not that he could think about that now. He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs to try to disguise the workings of his body.
Her eyes darted down, then back up to his face. So she’d noticed. He wondered just how long it would be before she asked him about that.
“Before that happened,” he said, gesturing to the space between them, “you were promising me that you would save all your questions for me. And me alone.” He didn’t want to think what Lord Bradford would say if his niece got an even worse reputation with him pretending to court her.
He would never make it back to India if that happened.
“Do you promise?” he said, keeping his eyes locked with hers.
She smiled, a sensuous smile that burned its way from his eyes all the way to … well, there.
He was in deep trouble. And would be in even deeper trouble if she allowed her tongue to run away with her.
An inopportune image if he wanted to keep himself from investigating what her tongue could do.
“I promise,” she replied, at last, when he’d nearly forgotten what he’d asked.
“Good.” He folded his hands in his lap, just over there, hoping his erection would subside enough for him to concentrate on the matter at hand. Damn. Another unfortunate turn of phrase.
“So, since I have promised, do you also promise to answer any and all questions I might have?” Her brown eyes sparkled with that zest that, he’d come to realize, indicated she was intensely invested in something.
Right now, that something was him.
And it felt marvelous. Too good, in fact.
“Uh, of course,” he said, knowing full well he would likely regret his promise within the next few minutes.
“What do you wear under your clothing, then?”
Oh, dear Lord. He cleared his throat. She smiled, as though at a private joke. “Nothing. It is—” He gestured down to his shirt and jacket. “There is only the shirt and jacket and trousers. We don’t wear a chemise sort of thing, like you ladies do.”
Her eyes brightened even more. “So you are aware of what ladies wear underneath their clothing?” She’d tilted her head in her questioning mode.
“Uh … yes.” He didn’t say anything else, for fear of entirely getting himself in the soup. He was definitely a gauche-mat at the moment. He didn’t think he could even think clearly, not with her sitting across from him in her ridiculously loud gown and her lips still red and swollen from his kiss.
She nodded, as though his answer was expected. “Of course. Men have so many advantages to ladies, don’t they?”
Where was this conversation going? David felt totally at sea, having no clue what she might say next. He both dreaded it and anticipated it.
She frowned, as though in thought. “I wonder,” she began, and David felt his insides tighten in anticipation. She met his gaze and smiled that sensuous smile again. “I wonder if you would allow me to investigate the differences between men and women. Their clothing, their attitudes, their very personalities. Those are the questions I would most like to ask.”
She paused and began to do something at her wrist to her glove. “And it would be much easier if you could think clearly, wouldn’t it?” She removed the glove—a bright purple glove, if he wasn’t mistaken—and his breath caught.
She flung it on the carpet between them as though in a challenge. Which, he thought, it rather was.
Dear Lord.
“There would be no obligation to anything, as you said before,” she said in a light, conversational tone. Almost as though they were discussing the weather. “It would merely be you assuaging my curiosity.”
Was that what it was called?
“And you would be saving me from having to ask someone else, as you said before.” She spread her hands out, palms up, a glove on one hand. “See? It would be a beneficial relationship.”
“A beneficial relationship,” he repeated, feeling as though his head was going to explode. What was she suggesting? Did she even know what she might be suggesting?
The gleam in her eye and the curl of her lip suggested she did know.
He was definitely in the soup.
“So when can we begin? I am so happy you thought of this, Lord David. An excellent idea for investigative discovery.”
“What?” What would Lord Bradford—or anyone—think if she told them this was his idea? He would be married to her in moments, if her family didn’t murder him first.
He wasn’t sure which idea was more frightening. He was intrigued by her, he definitely enjoyed kissing her, but it wasn’t as though a few kisses and some unexpected conversation was going to make him forsake his entire life’s goal. Was going to make him resigned to being the stunning beau ideal of a wealthy, unpredictable woman.
Who seemed to get dressed in the dark.
She’d slid the second glove off her hand and threw it to join its mate on the carpet. He kept his eyes on her skin, the delicate part of her wrist where it melded the hand and the arm. Just being able to concentrate on her, rather than her clothing, made him able to breathe and think better.
Imagine what would happen if she remov—oh, no. He couldn’t allow himself to think of that, or he’d risk losing whatever composure he’d managed to regain since they stopped kissing. If by composure he was referring to his subsiding erection.
“Begin,” she repeated, only slower, as though he himself were slow. “I want to begin exploring things and having you answer my questions as soon as we possibly can.” She tapped her finger against her mouth as she thought. “I can tell my mother I am going to the museum and come here instead.” A pause. “It’s settled.”
Settled, even though he hadn’t contributed anything to the discussion, and the thought of having her, here asking her probing questions, was enough to make him want to tell Lord Bradford the assignment was impossible and perhaps he should just send him off to New South Wales. Where he couldn’t get into any trouble.
“Fine,” he said, instead of any of the rebuttals coursing through his mind.
Why had he said that? What was it about her that made him lose his calm?
He had no clue, just that she did, and he did, and they were set on some sort of course that might end in disaster. Or with both of them naked.
Which was likely the very same thing.