Chapter 6

Lottie stared up at Quinton’s townhouse, a pause in her steps. She hated hesitating. But how could she not? The last time she’d seen him, he’d scared away her suitor, pressed her against a wall, almost kissed her, not kissed her, and let loose words into the shadows between them that had nearly laid her flat.

Quinton wanted to kiss her. He never stopped thinking about kissing her. He couldn’t kiss any other woman with any sort of desire. Couldn’t be true. Because then why had she spent the last six years thinking he despised her? Perhaps one did not need to like someone to want to kiss them. She clutched her hands to her belly. She had to go in. She had to help his mother host an event meant to find him a wife. It had, when she’d agreed to it, seemed the perfect plan. A wonderful way to rid herself of her agonizing unrequited affection. Watching him find a wife would convince her heart to move on. And she would be further along on her journey to finding a spouse of her own.

But the Woodward ball had ruined all that. Phillipspots had removed himself from contention. He had called to visit with Samuel, and she had been in the anxious sweats the entire time, her head pounding. She’d expected a proposal.

But Samuel had come to tell her that Phillipspots had decided to wait another year to find a wife, and that he wished Lottie luck in finding a husband.

A blow, that.

Thankfully, Erstwhile and Pepperidge were still contenders. Of course, Erstwhile hadn’t kissed her at all, and Pepperidge had barely kissed her. Phillipspots’s kiss had been the best of the evening. She’d enjoyed it. She could marry a kiss like that.

And yet, it paled in comparison to not being kissed by Quinton, to his big body pressing her against the wall, making her feel desired, wanted, consumed, making her feel like she unraveled his control. She liked that. She wanted to make him wild. In his not-kiss she’d felt more promise for the bedroom than in any of the three attempts made by the other men.

She shivered, a pulse of lust low in her belly. She must go in. She must do this because nothing had changed. What he had said… A lie, a fancy born of alcohol? Or a raw truth revealed by it?

It didn’t matter.

The door opened. “Lady Charlotte, are you unwell?” The butler, Mr. Carter, watched her with a blank expression.

Caught. Caught in a horrid moment of hesitation and indecision. How humiliating. “Yes, I am well. Thank you. I was merely enjoying the sun.”

He blinked up at the clouds, close-knit and blocking even the dimmest of the day’s rays. “Of course.” He held the door open and stepped to the side, inviting her in.

She entered as if everything in the world were perfectly fine.

Mr. Carter closed the door. “Lord Noble has requested to speak with you when you arrive.”

Everything was not perfectly fine. But she could not run. Show weakness? To Quinton? Never. “Yes, of course, Mr. Carter. Please show me the way.”

He led her to a small study on the first floor and opened the door to reveal a caged lion, pacing. Quinton held a beaten notebook, his neck bent as he read while he paced. Princess lay in a pile of graying fur nearby, watching her master in his back-and-forth journey across the room.

The butler cleared his throat, and Quinton snapped to a stop, hid the notebook behind his back, and faced them.

“Ah, you’ve arrived.” His attention bounced about the room, unsettled and unsettling. First, it landed above her head, and then it wandered behind her before finally settling on the butler. “Thank you, Mr. Carter.” A dismissal, and the butler knew it. When he left, an awkward silence stretched out like treacle between them.

“He said you wish to speak with me,” Lottie finally said.

Quinton nodded and shuffled toward a nearby table, tossed the book down onto its surface. She knew what it was, of course. She’d seen it in Samuel’s study. His Guide. She’d never read it, never been tempted to. But Quinton had been studying it. It meant he was taking this mission to find a wife seriously. It meant finding a wife mattered to him. It meant he desired success. And it meant he felt as if he might not obtain it on his own.

His large hand settled at the back of his neck, stretching the wool of his jacket against his lean, muscular arms as he lowered his gaze to the floor and then slowly lifted it to finally catch on hers. “I want to apologize. For last week at the Woodward ball. I don’t remember much. What I do remember… it’s not good. I wish to apologize.”

What should she do with that? He’d never apologized to her before. She deserved an apology. She wanted one… as long as he apologized for the right thing. But if he could not remember what he’d done to require an apology, how would she know if his motivations passed muster?

“Did you receive the tea?” He risked a step closer to her.

“You sent that?” The day after the ball, a package had arrived from this residence. She’d thought Lady Noble had sent it over. Apparently not.

His arm dropped to his side. “I remember that it helps you. Your megrims. You probably already have some but—”

“No, I finished the last some time ago. It was quite thoughtful of you.” She risked a step forward, too. “Thank you.” And another step.

Something like panic roused in his expression, and he marched to Princess, knelt, and scratched behind her ears. “Very good, Merriweather. You’re of no help to my mother if you’re an invalid.” From thoughtful to thoughtless in less than a breath.

“I do not see that she needs my help.” She set her steps toward the notebook. “Not when you have this to guide you. If I had such help courting my beaus—”

He stood. “You are not courting them. They are courting you. Women do not court. They are courted. And your suitors have access to your brother’s notes as well. Frankly, they must be nodcocks if they’ve not already won you over.”

“Phillipspots has abandoned pursuit.”

His jaw worked. “Whatever happened at the ball”—he placed his hand over his eyes—“he was part of it, was he not?”

“Yes,” she ground out.

“God, I’m sorry, Lottie.”

“Stop saying that. I accept your apology, now let’s leave it in the past.”

“Very good.”

“Is that all you wanted of me?” Irritation pulled her apart at the seams.

He nodded. “Now I must meet Mother. And so must you.” Without another word, he stormed from the room.

She remained hypnotized by the empty doorway for quite some time, her fingers doing the mechanical work of unclasping her spencer, draping it over a chair, untying her bonnet, and dropping it there as well. She found a mirror across the room and ensured everything about her seemed smooth and calm and perfect. The exact opposite of her insides. Good. Best no one knew what screams echoed inside her.

She dropped to the ground beside the dog she’d given Quinton so long ago, and Princess picked up her head, laid her muzzle on Lottie’s skirts.

“Your master is inscrutable.”

The dog huffed, wiggled her head harder into Lottie’s fingers.

“I should leave. But Lady Noble needs me. It’s been ages since she’s hosted a thing. But… why did he apologize? Can you answer me that, Princess dear?” And why was he so nervous about wooing a bride? Any woman would say yes. “He is nervous, though.” The Guide gave that away.

She stood and picked it up, flipped to a random page, read it aloud. “Often a lady may appear reluctant, or she is unaware of the desire coursing through her, perhaps interpreting it as inappropriate. It is the suitor’s purpose to gently guide her to a better understanding.” She snorted. As if women didn’t know their own minds. “Samuel is a right arse sometimes, Princess dear.”

Yet… many women didn’t know because they weren’t allowed to. Even before Lottie had discovered her mother’s hidden books, her mother had shared necessary and forthright information about the marriage bed and bodies with her. An unconventional woman, her mother, but knowing made life better for Lottie, allowed her to make decisions with all the information at hand.

In the deepest bit of himself stripped bare by drink, Quinton wanted to kiss her. Also, Quinton could suffer the aftereffects of his actions with shame, embarrassment, regret.

That Quinton, unsure and heartfelt, was the one she remembered from her childhood. The one who, the day they’d put his father in the ground, had collapsed into himself, puppy held tight, misery choking him. He’d allowed her to comfort him, and she’d fallen in love with him that day. A girl of sixteen knowing little except that the boy newly become a man beside her was somehow the most important person in her existence. He’d always been there, a cheeky friend with a ready wink in his eye. A ready scowl as well when she did something he disapproved of. They’d ambled over hills and through woods together. But that day… she’d felt a tug in her heart she’d never felt before, as if a golden tendril from his own had reached out and tied itself between her ribs, locking them together always, each heavy beat of sorrow or heady beat of excitement sending a ping down it from one chest to the other.

And then he’d disappeared. Into London, into the role of viscount, adulthood severing that fragile, fledgling bond. When she’d sought him out at his home, he’d been absent. Or unwilling to see her. And years later in London at the first ball of her first Season, he’d taken one look at her and left. She’d never felt such anger, deep and sharp. Then the impossible man had kissed her. Kissed her in the woods, sweeping away her grief in a moment of wild ecstasy. And walked away. Ran away. Fled as if she’d shown clear intent to impale him or some other such gory machinations. After that, she’d hated him. Tried to. Failed to.

And now he’d come in at the worst possible moment, dropped a revelation like hot glass into her hands, and confused her further. The devil.

Forget confusion. Forget him.

She nuzzled Princess’s fuzzy neck with the toe of her boot, one final parting pet, then found the drawing room where the guests would be seated and found Lady Noble, too.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Lottie said with her brightest smile.

Lady Noble stretched out her arms as she approached, offering a tight, short hug. “Lottie. You look lovely. As always. I’m nervous. How is the room? Too hot? Too cold? Too… ugly?”

Quinton slumped in a chair in the corner, one leg outstretched, hands folded across his tight abdomen. She should attend Lady Noble’s questions, reassure her. She could think only of him, so big and so close. And such a mystery. She must wipe him from the scene, erase his scowling elegance, his masculine grandeur. She put her back to him.

“Do not fret, Lady Noble. Everything seems perfectly placed. A delightful temperature, too. Hm. Let’s regroup these chairs. The ladies will feel more comfortable with smaller groups. And Lord Noble will simply have to flutter from one group to the other.”

He snorted.

“He makes an excellent butterfly, don’t you think?” Lottie said.

Another snort. He stood. She couldn’t see the movement, but she heard it, felt it along every inch of her skin, and a drawer opened, closed. She heard the shush and slam of it. Then he sat again.

“What tea service are you using?” she asked Lady Noble.

“The porcelain one. Green and gold.”

“Hm.” She finally glanced at Quinton. He wore a bottle green waistcoat and focused on a square of paper in his hands. He folded it, fingers strong and confident as they moved. For a moment, the room melted away, became another room, another day years ago when two small children had bent their heads together over a mountain of wrinkled paper, trying to get the flower just right. She had no time for memories. No need for those particular ones, either. “Dark green or light?”

“Is that important?” Lady Noble asked. “I wish I remembered more about entertaining, but I’m afraid I let that particular skill pass into obscurity. Gladly, too. These days I much prefer solitude to society.” She tilted her head. “Dark green, I think.”

“The shade of a given color may not be terribly important to some, but I find it necessary for establishing the right mood. But even small visual connections can help create a feeling. The colors you’ve chosen are good. Fresh yet elegant. Is there a design on the tea set?”

“Yes, a floral one. Should we have met yesterday? Sooner, to make preparations?”

“No. We do not wish an event such as this to seem too formal or prepared. It should feel natural, organic. It should encourage comfort.”

Another snort from across the room.

She ignored it. “May I see the cups and pot?”

Lady Noble showed her, and after, they strayed out into the garden to find blooms similar to the ones depicted on the tea service. When they returned to the drawing room, flowers in hand, Quinton sat reading a book in the same corner, and the room seemed slightly… different. She couldn’t quite determine what had changed.

She helped Lady Noble place the flowers about the room and said, “How many do you expect to attend?”

“No more than ten, and soon.” Lady Noble glanced at the clock.

“But you sent out twenty invitations.”

“Yes, well”—Lady Noble leaned close and whispered—“many were put off by Quin’s behavior at the Woodward ball last week.”

“Ah.” She snuck a glance at Quinton. Had he apologized because his mother had demanded it? “Well, I dare say he intends to behave better today.”

“He must. I’ve thrown all the liquor out.”

Lottie laughed and glanced his way. He stared at her, that long leg outstretched, his elbow propped on the chair arm, and his head propped up between thumb and forefinger. Nothing about him spoke of good behavior. Chiseled lips and straight nose, high cheekbones and whisky-colored eyes. The Noble Smirk and something hotter in his expression, something that sizzled. She looked away to avoid being singed. And found the strong outline of a jaw peppered with bristly hairs. A sliver of corded neck above a snowy white cravat. Shoulders that spilled outward under dark wool. From one end of London to another, they spanned, broad and strong and—

She shook her head. None of that. She grasped a small glass vase filled with pink and white flowers and searched the room for the perfect spot. Ah, there—a low table at the center of a group of chairs. She bent, placed it, and paused.

“What are these?” She picked up the small, shaped paper, one of several scattered around the table. “A butterfly?” The rest of them too. Her gut tightened. Quinton stood at the window, staring at who knew what, hands clasped behind his back. “Quinton—”

The door opened, and the butler appeared. “My lady, the first guests have arrived.”

Lady Noble wrung her hands before her. “Oh my. Oh, yes. Very well. Send them in. Are we prepared?” She stared at Lottie.

Lottie held the paper butterfly lightly between her fingers. “Yes, yes, we are. But quickly, place the rest of the flowers. One on each table and one on the mantel.”

A quick flurry of activity gave way to stillness as Lady Noble stood front and center, awaiting her guests, and Lottie receded into the background. She’d haunt the opposite corner of the room currently occupied by Quinton. She’d sit, pull a book from the nearby bookcase, and read until Lady Noble needed her.

Voices soon filled the taut silence, Lady Noble’s welcoming warble, her son’s deeper, clipped tone. Not much welcome there. But the ladies, jubilant and excited, seemed not to notice. Lottie peeked out of the corner of her eye. Everyone seated themselves, a maid rolled a tea cart in, Lady Noble presided, and Quinton… fluttered about. Like a butterfly. She still held the paper in her hand, folded and shaped and pristine. She pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes. They burned. Air came halting into her lungs.

“Oh, look at these!” one of the ladies said. “Butterflies.”

A chorus of oohs and aahs.

“Lady Charlotte made them,” Quinton said.

Lottie gripped the paper as tightly as she could without damaging it.

“She’s a close family friend,” Lady Noble rushed to say. “I’m quite hopeless when it comes to planning events, and she’s been such a help. I have no daughter, you see, to guide me in the latest fashions.”

The other mothers in the room rushed to sigh their condolences, likely eager to offer up their own daughters for Lady Noble’s purposes.

Lottie smiled at the party, nodded. Only Quinton failed to smile back. In fact, he appeared to have found something fascinating at the bottom of his teacup.

“The butterflies are a delightful touch,” one mother said.

Lottie nodded. “I am glad.” The butterfly winked from her lap. It burned. Why had he lied? He’d clearly been the one to fold the papers, to place them on the tables. She ripped a book from the nearby bookcase but could not read it. The same sentence knocked at her brainbox several times, but no matter how many times she saw it on the page, she never came closer to understanding it.

The low rumble of Quinton’s voice, then feminine laughter ringing like bells through the air. He’d amused them. He never amused her anymore. Only annoyed. She peeked their way. He’d taken a seat in a small group of ladies. Two mothers, two daughters, and he conversed without even a hint of a smirk. The ladies seemed pleased with him. More than that. They seemed enamored. When he stood, their gazes followed him like shooting stars across a night sky. And when he settled with another group, they sighed, a congregation in complete agreeance with one another—their god was a worthy one.

She returned her attention to the book, but beneath it, her hands smoothed over the folded paper, traced its winged edges.

“Do you need tea, Merriweather?”

Her heart skipped a beat. He stood above her, steaming cup and saucer in hand. She took his offering and settled the saucer over the book. She was parched and, more than that, in need of the comfort of a cup of warm tea, steam warming her face, the warm cup against her palms.

“Thank you.”

He bowed and left.

“Wait.”

Slowly, he returned to her, his brown eyes warm at the edges, cold in the center. “Yes?”

“The butterflies… you remember?” She had meant to ask him why he’d lied, claiming they were her idea, but in the end, her tongue had cared more about the memory—two children, a pile of paper, and a mission. They’d folded a garden of blooms that day, enough to scatter across every surface of Lottie’s family drawing room.

He shrugged. “My fingers remember. Nothing more than a mechanical memory of the muscles.”

“Excellently done. Do you still… do you practice?”

“Of course not.”

She swallowed. “Ah. You’re doing well.” She nodded at the guests.

“I must admit, the Guide offers excellent advice. Perhaps you should give it a read. Shedding suitors left and right, Merriweather.” A tsk in his voice as his mouth stretched into the Noble Smirk. “You might need it.” Then he turned on his toe and returned to charm the ladies once more.

He clearly did not remember what he’d told her at the ball. Perhaps he did not remember the feeling—wanting to kiss her—anymore, either. Perhaps he needed drink to call it into existence. The tea grew cold in her lap as everyone chatted around her. Within an hour, the group had dwindled. A single lady and her mother remained, the rest having scurried off to Hyde Park for that afternoon’s parade. The mother and daughter sat on a couch, and Quinton and his mother occupied chairs across the table from them. Tea had been forgotten. Biscuits had been forgotten. The small group spoke and laughed with ease, and Quinton picked up a paper butterfly, held it out to the young lady whose name Lottie could not remember. She took it, blushing, and their fingers brushed. Briefly.

But long enough for jealousy to roar to life, tearing at Lottie’s chest, gnashing with wail-worn teeth. No one noticed. Why would they? Because along with the tea and the biscuits, Lottie too, had been forgotten.