Chapter 12

Lottie stared at her ice and tried not to frown. The cold of the ice cut through the small glass and her thin lace gloves to chill her fingertips. A delicious sensation. Equally delicious, the chill that shivered through her as the ice slid down her throat. Tingled in a pleasant way, and the sun shining on her as they walked from Berkeley Square to Hyde Park soothed her, too. Physically.

Emotionally, she felt as if she stood on the edge of a cliff. She’d told the man striding beside her too much, given away her secrets and her fears. Terrifying.

More terrifying, however—he’d not reacted as she’d expected him to, taunting her, tormenting, and teasing until she wanted to jump from the phaeton and run, screaming, home. No, Quinton had accepted, praised, encouraged.

That bit of her that had urged her to reveal all, to trust the boy she’d grown up with… that bit of her crowed, vindicated. She could trust him.

Yet… what did that mean? Nothing? Silence gathered like a heavy pile of autumn leaves around them, crushing. How to break it? He seemed unconcerned, worked at a small lemon-flavored ice as they walked as if all were right with the world. Tall and handsome and confident and more masculine than any man of her acquaintance. Big, strong, everywhere. She’d felt it herself.

And now her cheeks were flaming because she’d touched him. She knew she was brazen, bold, but she’d surprised herself. Delighted herself. Wanted more.

Needed, though, to quell her rising desire, so she groped about for conversational topics to serve her purpose. Samuel’s Guide? New corset fashions? Headaches? Or… ah. Yes. That did it.

“That man you were talking to,” she said. “Mr. Barnaby.” A fellow with a visage to make any celebration a funeral. “Why are you so close with him?”

“My father wanted me to lean on him. He’s an earl’s fourth son. He knows what it is like, to some extent, to inherit, knows the duties, the work required, the dedication, but he will inherit nothing himself. I suppose my father knew he would be capable of guiding me. The man had guided my father before, so why not? They met in school, were good friends. Barnaby saw my father through a heartbreaking first marriage. He’s been a great support for me. Particularly after my father’s death.”

“I didn’t know your father was married before your mother.”

Quinton stared at the ice in his hands, a crease forming between his brows. “A woman he loved quite dearly, and she died quite painfully. Painful for her and for him, I understand.”

“I’m glad to hear that Barnaby is a capable and dependable fellow because I’m afraid he’s not very likable.”

“Neither am I a likable fellow.”

“I like you quite well… at times.”

“The times when I’m under your skirt,” he grumbled before taking another bite of his ice.

She chuckled and hid the sound behind a hand.

He stopped, stopped her as well with a hand to her elbow. “I shouldn’t be saying things like that to you.”

“Why do you, then?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose it feels… quite natural. As if every time I’ve insulted you or teased you in the last six years, I’ve been one breath away from demanding you hit your knees before me and wrap that beautiful mouth around my cock.”

She gasped. “Would you… would you like that?”

“Absurd woman.” He kicked back into motion. “Stop taking notes.”

“Stop giving them.” She spoke around her smile. The way he spoke… as if what they were doing right now was a natural extension of what they’d been doing. Did he mean it? Surely not. But then—she scurried to catch up. His hard jaw, harder eyes. Anger bit him. Angry with her? Or with himself for wanting her in the way he’d described?

Perhaps a change of topic. The notion of kneeling before him, and treating him to the same kisses he’d treated her two nights ago, made breathing difficult, made her skin hotter than the scorching summer air could ever wish to make it.

What had they been discussing before? Oh yes.

“He doesn’t like me, you know,” she managed to say in a surprisingly normal tone. No lust to speak of there.

“Who?”

“Barnaby.”

Quinton shrugged. “He doesn’t like many people.”

“He came to visit me once. My first Season. Before my parents died.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me if I had a husband in mind, if I had fallen in love. But he said it with such derision. He was mocking me.”

Another growl, deep in his throat, his chest. He’d been doing that a lot today. “I’ll talk to him. Tell him to mind his own damn business and leave you the hell alone.”

Lottie laughed. “Why would you do that? It was so long ago. I’ve not seen him again until this afternoon.”

“Because he doesn’t trust me.” He sped up.

She did too, running to maintain a pace with his long strides as Hyde Park rose before them. “Trust you to do what?”

“Stay away from you.”

“And why would you do that?”

He stopped, Rotten Row within view, and on it, a gaggle of six girls and women clustered around a tall, starkly dressed man. Her sisters. Her brother. He paced back toward her, leaning low, his brows pulled low, too, over brown eyes that had caught the heat of the summer day and burned into her. “Because he knows what you do to me.”

“And what is that?”

His gaze dropped to her lips, hungry.

And she dropped her ice, wanting only to feast on him.

He watched it fall, landing with a splat between them. “Hell. Now what? Your megrim will return. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.” And off he hurried into Hyde Park.

“How will you fix it?” she wondered to no one in particular. “Confounding man.”

When she found her sisters, Prudence asked without greeting, “Was that Noble I just saw stomping about?”

“Yes. He’s apparently going to fix my head.”

“Do you feel pained?”

“Not particularly, but he’s convinced.”

“You do have that line right there.” Prudence poked the space between Lottie’s eyebrows.

Lottie swatted her sister’s hand away. “I’m well.” For now.

“Excellent. Because I’m in pain. Quite intolerable pain.”

Panic thumped through Lottie, hollowed her belly out. Prudence seemed fine, whole and healthy, but… “What happened?”

“They happened.” Prudence glanced over her shoulder where a group of gentlemen had gathered. They watched her as if she were a Drury Lane actress. “They won’t leave me alone, and I can’t tell them to leave because Samuel’s right there.” She hissed the last three words in a low whisper. “I desperately want to help Cora. See?” She nodded across the park where Cora spoke with one of their oldest friends, Lady Templeton. The two women were of similar, average height and possessed similar, slender figures. Yet Cora seemed to stand a head taller than the older lady, as if she dared mere measurements to defy her true height. The height of her soul, she’d likely say. Much too poetic a turn of mind for Lottie. But with her black hair and steel spirit, poetry suited Cora.

Lady Templeton seemed to approve of that steel spirit. With a slight nod, she slipped a small piece of paper into Cora’s palm. The two women barely interacted but for the exchange, and Cora glided across the park to another of their acquaintances, Mrs. Garrison, and another exchange of paper.

Lottie recognized the process. The paper, once unfolded, would reveal the name of a scandalous book, the book each lady wished to borrow next.

“Oh,” Lottie said, “I wasn’t aware today was the day to make requests. Tomorrow is the meeting?” The women passing the paper were members of their—no, Cora’s—lending library, and tomorrow they would meet for their monthly discussion of books.

“Yes, and I’ll have no idea what book goes to whom, and—”

“And you shouldn’t. We decided to give up the library so that we could find husbands. It’s too much of a risk.”

“How is finding a husband going, Sister?” Prudence crossed her arms over her chest.

“Well—”

“Merriweather.” Quinton appeared at her elbow, making her jump.

“Lord, Noble, you scared a year off my life,” Prudence said, hand fluttering at her neck.

He ignored Prudence and shoved his half-eaten, mostly melted ice at Lottie. “You take mine. It’s the only solution.”

“Are you”—she studied his pinched face—“panicking?”

“Your headaches are nothing to take lightly.”

Lottie took the ice.

Prudence blinked at him, her mouth partly open. “Are those from Gunter’s? Did you steal the bowls? Are you going to return them? This is all highly irregular.”

“Just eat the damn thing,” Quinton mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and stomping away.

“No! Quinton, you can help us.”

He stopped, turned back around slowly. “Help? With what?” The pinched worry had been replaced with reluctant curiosity.

“What I told you about earlier,” Lottie said. “The books.”

His brows shot up to his hairline and rushed forward. “Shh. You can’t talk about that here.”

Prudence shoved a thumb his way. “He’s acting odd.”

“My fault. I’m courting him. It’s put him out of sorts.”

“Lottie!” The same name said very differently in two different voices echoing at the same time.

“What happened to Merriweather?” she asked Quinton.

“You’ve shocked it out of me.”

“I’m not sure I like it.”

“Can we focus on my problem?” Prudence tugged on Lottie’s arm. “Whatever is happening between you two, I hesitantly approve. I think. But please do help with the unwanted suitors.”

“What do you want us to do?” Quinton regarded the gaggle of gentlemen standing at a distance. “But if I help, I do it for the poor suitors who need to be saved from you. Is that Bailey?”

“Yes,” Prudence said, “The American. Surprised me, too. But Samuel approves of his suit. He approves of them all, and is just waiting for me to choose between the American, a marquess’s youngest son, a vicar, a—”

“A vicar?” Lottie asked.

“Former vicar. Unexpected deaths in the family, unexpected inheritance of a title. You know how it goes.”

“Yes,” Lottie said, “and you could exhibit a bit more sympathy. They’re all quite good-looking. Though Bailey appears a bit coarse and—”

“Boring, Merriweather,” Quinton drawled. “Trust me. He’s quite boring. Not at all a lively fellow. Bury your interest. Deep. Or waste your time.”

“Oh, you found my name, I see. And as you well know, I’ll plant my interests wherever I like.” She grinned.

Quinton grunted, ignored her. “I didn’t know Bailey wished to marry.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I can distract him at least.”

“That’s something.” Prudence shivered. “He’s the most eagle-eyed. Makes me feel uneasy, as if he sees everything.” She whipped toward Quinton. “Why would you help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’ve not shown an interest in any of us but Samuel since your father’s death. I was still a child, but I remember what it was like before.”

“You were always a tiny chit, like a bug. Cute. But smooshable.” He winked at Prudence, then ambled toward the gaggle of gentlemen.

“You’re a bug!” Prudence yelled after him.

“Leave him alone, Pru.” Lottie pushed her sister gently toward Cora. “We’ll handle this, but”—she leaned close and whispered—“please consider marrying. Mother would want you to… to consider love.”

Prudence’s gaze flashed to Quinton. “Like you are? I thought love had no room in your plans of marriage but…” Her voice dropped impossibly lower. “What about him?”

Oh, she had thought that, hadn’t she? Only a fortnight or so ago. How odd that life shifted so quickly, its bends occurring without forewarning. “Don’t worry about me. It’s mine to worry about you. I’ll speak with the gentlemen, see if I approve of any of them for you. Then I’ll send the rest away, and you’ll only have one absolutely wonderful man to get to know.”

Prudence snorted.

“Just become acquainted with that one man. Just try. The books, the library… they are wonderful, but they are not forever. They will not watch out for megrims and protect you from unwanted attentions. They will not keep your secrets safe or comfort you.” She dared not look at Quinton. He’d done all that for her this Season in his own brutal way, watched out, protected, kept, comforted. If she continued pursuing him, she would cause herself pain. He’d been nothing but truthful with her. He would not marry her, no matter how much of their bodies they shared with one another.

Was it worth it?

Prudence sighed. “I’ll get to know one man. One, Lottie. And if he does not suit, then—”

“You may waltz into spinsterhood at your leisure.”

“Precisely.” She hugged Lottie, whispered in her ear, “Good luck. With courting him.” Prudence ran to join her friend and, as they approached, Lady Macintosh, to accept another slip of paper.

Then Lottie joined Quinton where he stood beneath some trees conversing with Bailey, her steps heavy, the ice entirely melted in the bowl in her hand.

“I’m telling you,” Quinton was saying, “I need your help, Bailey. Will you deny me?”

Bailey seemed all lion-like ease, raw power hidden by a veneer of boredom. His long, dirty-blond hair had been pulled back into a queue, and his beard was thick and untrimmed, wild and untamed. No wonder Prudence felt uneasy in his presence. No ton dandy, Mr. Bailey.

Even his voice was rough, stripped of all elegance until it became a growl. “Take your woman and leave me be, Noble.” He nodded at Lottie. “Afternoon, Lady Charlotte.”

“Am I the woman you’re referring to, my lord?”

He nodded. “I mean no offense.”

She chuckled. “Surprisingly, none taken.”

Quinton removed his hat and slapped it on his thigh. “Bailey was just about to leave with me. I need a sparring partner at Jacksons.”

“I’m not leaving.” Bailey studied the park until he found Prudence.

“But why would you stay?” Quinton demanded, his boot now tapping out a rhythm to accompany the rapping of his hat against his leg.

The other men looked back and forth between Bailey and Quinton as if the two bandied a ball about instead of words.

Lottie scooted to the side and smiled at the assembled suitors. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Prudence has told me so much about you.”

The gentlemen scooted to the side, too, doffing their hats and making elegant bows. But for one tall, hulking fellow hovering near the back who seemed not to know how to do it.

To the side, Bailey and Quinton bickered.

Lottie tamed an eyeroll. “Are all of you courting my sister?”

Head nods like ducks bobbing on the choppy waters of a lake.

“I begin to think we should not.” The hesitant, big man from the back.

“Oh?”

He nodded, and his hat fell off. He picked it up, his cheeks flaming. “She doesn’t seem to want us, and I won’t force her.”

The others chuckled, and one fellow stepped forward. His clothes were slightly too big for his frame, and he appeared a child playing at dress up. “The Guide says a proper lady is hesitant. We must simply be patient.”

“The Guide should tell you beef-brains that a lady knows her own mind.” The awkward giant crossed his arms over his chest.

“I know it is not the done thing,” Lottie said, “but could I ask you name, sir? Since we are without a proper introduction.”

He clamped a hand to his hat and bowed awkwardly again. Someone should tell him he didn’t have to bow so often. He would surely break at the waist. “I’m Mr.—ah, no. I’m Viscount Norton.” Said with the hesitation of a man who wasn’t who he used to be. That meant he was likely the fellow who’d been a vicar before inheriting.

“Would you mind helping me?” Lottie asked. “I’ve twisted my ankle and need a strong arm to wobble my way over to that bench.”

He frowned, but he rushed to her side. Gallant, that.

“The rest of you,” she said, waving to the gentlemen, “may disperse now.” No lightness in her tone. They could do anything they wished but defy her.

And they knew it, wandering off in various directions with identical grumbles.

“I suspect,” she said, peering up at the former vicar, “they believe I hold some power over Prudence’s decisions. As her older sister.”

“And you do not?” He escorted her to the bench and helped her sit.

“Not as much as they think I do. Neither does Samuel, but I see you’ve guessed that.”

Lord Norton stood above her, hands clasped behind his back, looking across the park where Prudence and Cora conversed with another patron of the library. “Dukes’ daughters, I assume, are used to getting their own way.”

“Yes. And no. There are quite a few things I’d like to have but do not.” Her gaze strayed to Quinton, still speaking with Bailey.

And, as if he felt her scrutiny, he whipped around, saw her missing, spun in a wild circle before finding her and leaving Bailey speaking to himself. He stalked toward them.

“Oh dear, he’s wearing his angry eyes.” Lottie stood to face her not-suitor. “You’d best brace yourself. Or run. Now.”

“What?” Norton followed the trail of her gaze. “What have I done?”

“It’s likely something I’ve done. Don’t worry. Quick, before you leave, answer me this. Do you believe married women should answer only to their husbands?”

His brows sank low. “In what way?”

“You must answer, not counter with your own question.”

“But—”

“Here’s another: Do you think men know better than women?”

“In some things, but—”

She growled.

“You’re asking philosophical questions with a clear threat stalking toward us. I’ve no time to think of a proper response!”

“You said you trusted women to know their own minds. Do you truly believe that?”

“Yes!” He threw his arms out to his sides.

“Excellent. You may go now.” She shoved him, and after a few stumbling steps, he took off.

And Quinton arrived, hands in fists, gaze targeting the fleeing former vicar. “What are you doing?”

“Having a delightful conversation.”

“I heard you say your ankle was hurt.” He squatted before her, his hands hovering near but hesitant to touch the hem of her gown. He frowned. Naturally.

“A lie to get Lord Norton away from the others. He has the most potential, I think.”

“For Prudence.”

“Of course.” She looked at him.

He looked at her. Could that be called a look, all blazing with heat and danger?

“Who else?” she asked.

“No one else,” he grumbled. “Are you positive you’re not injured?”

“I’m—Oh, good afternoon, Samuel.”

Quinton popped to his feet. “Clearford.”

“Noble.” Samuel studied Quinton for a second, then he studied Lottie, then he seemed to discard whatever thoughts had popped into his mind. “Where’s Prudence?”

Oh, no good. But Lottie had years of distracting Samuel from their subversive Hyde Park enterprise. “She became overwhelmed with emotions for one of her suitors, Lord Norton I believe, and she had to excuse herself to catch her breath.”

Samuel pulled the brim of his hat low. “Norton, you say? Hm. Would not have expected that. Where’s Bailey?”

“Here,” Bailey grumbled, trotting up to the bench round which they gathered.

“Not very attentive,” Samuel chided.

“Noble distracted me.”

Quinton gripped the brim of his hat so tightly it would surely crush to dust. “Your sister ran off, and I did not know where she was.”

“And I’ve still not found Prudence,” Samuel said, irritation clear in his voice, “so—ah. There she is.”

Lottie stood, pushed the men away from one another. “Gentlemen, please do not bicker. It’s exhausting and accomplishes nothing. Lord Noble, as you see, I am fine. Mr. Bailey, you are no longer distracted by anyone but yourself. You may court as you please. And Brother, why are you scowling at Prudence?”

“I’ve got another suitor to introduce to her. You won’t like it.”

“Who is it?” she demanded.

“Lord Phillipspots.”

Oh. Lottie’s suitor. Former suitor. And apparently, he’d decided to court Prudence. It should… hurt? But she merely found it… “How annoying.”

“Insulting,” Quinton corrected.

“And how’s that?” Samuel’s hand crept beneath the edge of his jacket, one of the places he liked to stash a throwing knife or two.

Lottie stepped between the men. “All is well. I do not care a bit. But I guarantee you Prudence will not like it, and—” She jumped as she spied a man approaching from behind her brother. “Oh dear, is that him? He’s coming this way.”

He soon pounced, bowing and casting Lottie curious glances.

“Have you told them, Your Grace?” Phillipspots asked.

“I have, but Lottie is—”

“Clearly upset. I had hoped I could have a word with her alone, to soothe her hurt spirits.”

Lottie’s hands found her hips. Hurt spirits? That was insulting. As if she were pining for him. She was, admittedly, excellent at pining, but not for this man.

“I think it would be wise,” Samuel said. “If you do successfully court Lady Prudence, you’ll be sisters with Lady Charlotte, and we do not wish family dinners to be awkward.” He nodded curtly at Bailey and Quinton. “Come along. Let’s leave them to talk.”

Quinton hesitated, every line of his body rigid.

That thrilled her. She wanted to dance around his hard hesitation, erect a monument to it. Protective or domineering impulse though it might be, she didn’t quite care. She cared only that it meant he felt something for her, something other than desire. She should not hope, but that hesitation built such hope and encouraged it to soar.

But she must focus. No happy dancing. No hope soaring. Prudence protecting—that being her sole purpose. And even if she did not wish Prudence to marry this man, she needed all men to think kindly of her sisters, to believe them true paragons of virtue. So that if they chose to take it, they would have every opportunity to marry well.

“I think it wise, too,” she said, offering her brother her most confident smile.

Quinton straightened, and though his scowl remained, he stepped out of his hesitation and allowed Samuel to lead him away.

Then she was alone with Phillipspots.

“I understand you are cut by this turn of events, Lady Charlotte.”

Ah, he would waste no time. Neither would she.

“I’m not. It’s natural you look elsewhere when one avenue does not work out.”

“I hope you will do nothing to decrease my chances of wooing your sister.”

“Of course not. You will rise or fall based on your own merits.”

“Will I?” He raised a brow. “Does your sister happen to have a volatile admirer hiding in the shadows?”

Ah, that. Standing before him, one hand holding a bowl half full of melted ice, the other holding her too-big reticule, and the specter of the Woodward ball rising between them, she felt… awkward. Not a feeling Lottie knew well. She needed fewer objects in her arms to smooth her skirts and reassure herself everything remained nicely in place. She set the bowl on the bench first, then lowered her reticule. It hit the edge of the bench, fell, caught on a bit of jagged wood, and hovered there upside down.

And her book slipped out. Lord Bottom’s Baguette landed face up on the grass for all Hyde Park to see. She froze. Then she dove.

But Phillipspots got there before her.

Her heart hammered in her chest as his thick fingers turned the book over, as he frowned at the spine and the cover, as he opened it up and found the frontispiece. An ink drawing of Lord Bottom using his baguette on his governess.

Phillipspots snapped it shut, tossed it toward the bench as if it were on fire, had burned the gloves from his hands. Then he lifted a slow, dazed look toward Lottie.

“It’s not what you think,” she said, even though the words formed the most dazzlingly ridiculous lie she’d ever told. What exactly did she think she could convince him it was?

“What is it, then, Lady Charlotte?”

Excellent question. No idea how to go on. One inconceivable truth rang like madness between her ears—for five years she’d kept this secret, and now she’d ruined it. And if she was going to be ruined, she refused to take anyone else with her. She flashed a glance at Prudence across the park, her younger sisters running after one another down rotten row, the twins walking arm in arm. Tears stung. They would come. And she would let them.

“I found it in a shop and—”

“No wonder you wanted a kiss. You’re a wanton.” He sneered at the book. “Worse, likely.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Prudence. “I do wonder what that says about your sisters. You can tell your brother I’ve decided against pursuing Lady Prudence.” He snorted. “Prudence. I doubt she has a bit of it.”

“No.” She tried to cry out the word, but it lodged in her throat, came out weak and sickly.

Phillipspots sneered, and she tried to lunge for him. He must let her explain. But her muscles would not work, and he walked away without a single brush of her fingertips across his fine coat.

She dropped onto the bench, her hands covering her mouth. She wanted to weep until her entire being dissolved. She’d ruined her sisters with a careless mistake. The thing she’d dreaded, the reason she’d stopped running the library to begin with—all her effort undone in an instant. She could not cry enough to undo this. Every bit of her heart—her head, her arms and legs, her gut, her heart.

And her backside was… wet? She looked down. The cup of melted ice had spilt, staining her skirts red.

Ruined. Like her.

No. No, she was only ruined if Phillipspots spread word of what he’d seen. Surely, he wouldn’t. Hope surging her steps, she ran.

Why was Lottie running? And why had Pisspot stormed off with a sneer? Quinton took two steps after her, but Clearford grasped his wrist, held him tight.

Quinton wrenched his arm away. Tried to. “Release me.” Lottie grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

“Answer a question for me first.”

“What?” he snapped. He could barely see Lottie now.

“When Phillipspots told me that he would no longer be courting Lottie, he did not tell me why. He just said they would not suit. But when he asked my permission to court Prudence, he said something odd.”

“Are you going to ask your question?” Time ran out with each of Lottie’s running steps. She’d reached her sisters now. “What did the man say?”

“He asked me if you were as protective over all my sisters. Or if you threatened men only over Lottie.”

Hell. What happened that night? He was never drinking again.

“Did you threaten Phillipspots, Noble? Over Lottie?”

“Apparently, I did.”

“Apparently?”

“Don’t remember. Now will you release me?”

Clearford threw Quinton’s wrist away. “You don’t remember that you cornered the man in a dark hallway and threatened him for kissing Lottie?”

Had the man kissed Lottie? Quinton boxed up a murderous impulse, but not soon enough for it to rage back to life as an image, a shadowy memory, popped into his mind. Lottie in a hallway with a man. Kissing.

Oh yes. He’d threatened Pisspot. He remembered that now. Wished he didn’t.

“The man wasn’t following your Guide correctly,” Quinton said. “You said no kissing.”

Clearford scratched his chin. “Do you think I should deny Phillipspots’s courtship of Prudence?”

“Yes.”

Clearford snapped his jacket tight. “Very well, then. Thank you. And thank you for protecting Lottie. You might not realize this about her, but she can be stubborn. And rebellious.”

The sisters were running off now, their arms around Lottie.

“Why wouldn’t I know that about her?” Quinton asked. “Of course I know that about her.”

Clearford blinked. “I forget. You grew up with them, too. It’s been a long time since you’ve shown any interest in them at all. I suppose I thought you’d put Lottie and the others right out of your mind.”

He’d damn well tried to.

With a sigh and a slap to Quinton’s back, Clearford said, “Thank you, again, for protecting Lottie. It takes a weight off my shoulders to know I don’t have to do it alone.”

Lottie and three of her sisters climbed into a coach, and Quinton studied his friend. He often forgot that the duke before him had also lost his parents, had been forced into a heavy role at an early age. Heavier than Quinton’s because Quinton didn’t have charge of eight sisters.

He slapped Clearford’s back. “I’ll always protect her. You never have to worry about that.”

But who would protect Quinton from her?