Chapter 20

Anthony couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or anxious at the sight of Charlotte and Drayton coming toward him. Anthony had danced dozens of cotillions in his life, but they had never felt as long as the one he had just witnessed. Neither, he was certain, had the ones he had participated in required so much holding of hands or touching.

But things could not have gone well if they were skipping the second dance of the set.

How much of his violent reaction to watching Charlotte and Drayton was rooted in a hatred of the man versus the continuing shift in his view of Charlotte, he didn’t know. Or didn’t want to know, perhaps.

They were not truly engaged—at least not in the way everyone believed them to be—which made it all the more confusing how much Anthony hated watching her smile with Drayton.

But she was not smiling as the two of them approached. The shape of her brows and the glint in her eyes was apologetic, and Anthony’s heart began to thump.

“As promised, Yorke,” Drayton said, extending the arm Charlotte’s hand rested upon as an offering to him. He drew it back suddenly, though, smiling in a way that made Anthony want to pull off his cravat and strangle him with it.

“Just one thing,” Drayton said. “As I am returning Miss Mandeville to your care before my promised time with her has been enjoyed, I hope you will offer me something in return.”

Anthony could think of a dozen things he’d like to offer Drayton, but he forced a smile. “And what might that be?”

“To accept an unfortunately belated invitation to a small party I am hosting at Barrington Hall.”

Anthony’s gaze flew to Charlotte’s, but the wideness of her eyes told him it was just as much a shock to her as to him.

“Naturally, had I known of Miss Mandeville’s interest in Barrington Hall or of the true nature of your sentiments toward me, Yorke, I would have thought to extend an invitation in a more timely manner. Is it too much to hope you will accept despite that? As a gesture of goodwill, let us say.”

Anthony could have kissed Charlotte right then and there. He restrained himself, however, pulling his gaze from her and clearing his throat. “We would be delighted, my lord. It is very gracious of you.”

He hesitated. Drayton had not mentioned anyone else in the invitation. Being engaged, he and Charlotte did not require a chaperone, but given the impending end of that betrothal, it behooved them to protect her reputation in whatever ways he could. “My lord, I hesitate to ask such a thing after your profound generosity, but would it be possible for my aunt to join us? As a chaperone of sorts.”

Drayton laughed. “I would have thought you would be eager to shed such constraints now that you are able.”

Charlotte laughed with a hint of nerves. “It is all so new, you see.”

Drayton smiled knowingly. “Rest assured, there will be more than enough married women present to act in that capacity—should you wish for it.” One of his brows quirked, and Charlotte’s cheeks filled with color.

She smiled despite that, thanking him.

Anthony did not feel himself able to press further. It would have to do.

Drayton smiled and held out his arm again, allowing Charlotte to thread hers through Anthony’s.

They bid him good evening and watched him walk a few feet before he was stopped by an acquaintance.

Before Anthony had the opportunity to ask Charlotte how in the world she had managed to garner an invitation within a quarter of an hour of her first real conversation with Drayton, they were interrupted by a man asking if Charlotte would do him the honor of dancing with him.

Anthony did his best to take this unwelcome development with good grace. He sipped from his glass of ratafia slowly, letting his eyes wander over the lines of dancers. All too frequently, they settled on Charlotte.

She was so different from what he had first thought her, with a ready smile and so little of the biting banter she had subjected him to from their meeting at Bellevue House.

She was kind and loyal to her family—more so than they knew or might ever know. She accepted Aunt Eugenia’s antics with good humor. And, beyond all that, she was putting herself at risk for Anthony.

No. Not for Anthony.

For Silas.

It was not her affection for Anthony that led her to plan and strategize. It was her sense of justice, her need, he had come to believe, to avenge her father in some way.

He would be a fool to make anything more of it.

When Charlotte’s hand was claimed for the following set and then the fourth and final set of the evening after that, however, Anthony’s patience began to wear thin. Was a man not permitted to dance with the woman he was pretending to be engaged to? How could they keep up the appearance of being in love if every other gentleman present spent time with Charlotte while Anthony sat and watched?

But his pride prevented him from intervening. Charlotte wished for her family to become better connected. Naturally, she would marry someday, and it would be entirely selfish of him to monopolize her attention given the situation.

He was coming to well and truly hate that confounded situation.

With Tabitha’s need to discuss all the events of the evening, there was no chance for conversation on the short carriage ride home. Anthony sat beside Charlotte, trying to ignore the press of her body against his. He focused his efforts instead on dissecting why he was in such an ill humor when they had accomplished their very goal.

Once he was in his bed, restful sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned, flitting in and out of dreams about an alternative house party, where Drayton discovered their engagement was nothing but a ruse and married Charlotte himself. And she stared up at him with an adoring smile.

He thrust the mangled bed linens from his body and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes. Not even in his dreams was he free of her.

His hands paused and his brows furrowed at a strange sound.

What was it?

It came from Charlotte’s bedchamber. Perhaps she too was having unpleasant dreams—but more than likely, the unpleasantness in hers would take the shape of being forced to marry Anthony after all.

He reached for the ceramic jug beside his bed and poured himself a glass of water, drinking the entire thing within seconds. Setting the glass down, he ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the door to Charlotte’s bedchamber. The distinct sound of chair legs grating against the floorboards met his ears.

What in heaven’s name was she doing at this hour of night?

More importantly, though, why did he care?

He lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with wide, thoroughly alert eyes that were not even considering sleep at this point.

There was a muffled clatter in Charlotte’s room, followed swiftly by a muted exclamation.

Anthony scrambled out of bed, snatched his dressing gown from where he had slung it over a chair, and shrugged his arms into it.

He knocked on the adjoining door as firmly and quietly as he could, then cocked an ear to better hear the chaos within. The door opened a bare inch, and Charlotte’s eyes stared back at him. A disheveled braid hung over her shoulder. Behind her, the room was lit with four candles, all concentrated around the escritoire.

“Did I wake you?” she asked, apology in her eyes.

He shook his head, and his eyes narrowed. He reached a hand toward her face, his heartbeat racing. “Is that blood?”

Her hand beat his to her cheek. “Heavens, no. It is only paint. I was clumsy enough to knock it over.”

“That explains the clatter.”

They stared at each other another moment.

“I shall endeavor to be silent now,” she promised.

“Not on my account, I hope. I cannot for the life of me convince myself to sleep.” His gaze returned to the small portion of the escritoire visible to him over the top of Charlotte’s head. “Are you painting Higgins’s caricature?”

She nodded.

“At this hour?”

“I must send it with the post in the morning, or Mr. Digby will—” She stopped.

Anthony’s brows drew together. “Will what?”

“Be disappointed.”

But that was not what she had been on the verge of saying.

“In any case,” she continued, “I shall be awake at least another hour, for now I must clean up before continuing on. Thankfully, we have no engagements tomorrow, so I may claim a headache and rest half of the day if I wish.”

“Ring the bell,” Anthony said. “A servant can clean the paint.”

She shook her head. “How would I explain why I am painting at this hour? Besides, I have no wish to rouse any of the servants. They need sleep as much as we do. More, I suspect.”

Anthony searched her face. He had thought her so intractable and disagreeable at first, but here she was, determined to clean the paint she had spilled because she was too concerned for the welfare of the servants.

“Wait until morning, then,” he suggested.

“It will be dry and a horror to clean, speaking from unfortunate experience. I shall simply do it now.”

“Let me help you, then,” he said.

“Oh, no.” She closed the door another fraction of an inch, as though she feared he might slip through the miniscule space. “That is unnecessary.”

“I will not be sleeping either way, which means I will be sitting here uselessly while you toil and lose sleep.”

She chewed the inside of her lip, then opened the door wider.

“Good heavens,” Anthony said, taking stock of the area around the escritoire. “It looks like a rainbow was massacred at your desk—and on your nightgown.”

The front of her was generously splattered with various colors of paint, which grew more sparse away from the nucleus of chaos. Still, though, a few drips and drops adorned the pale skin of her chest visible above the drawstring of her chemise.

The sleeve of it slipped over her shoulder, and she hurried to put it to rights, then strode over to where her wrapper was draped at the edge of her bed.

Anthony averted his eyes, though they fought him tooth and nail.

His gaze surveyed the part of the room that did not put him in danger of admiring Charlotte, falling upon the basin of water that sat upon the dresser beside her bed. Beside it were two folded towels.

He carried the basin and towels over to the desk and dipped the edge of one towel into the water. Charlotte followed suit with the other, and they set to wiping up the wet paint that had splattered the chair and the desk.

“I was hurrying so that I could sleep,” Charlotte explained as she scrubbed at a spot on the top of the chair back. “I was too careless.”

“And now your sleep is even more delayed.”

“A cruel irony.”

Their towels migrated down the length of the chair back, then to the legs, requiring them both to crouch. Their hands bumped as they reached for the same spot, and Charlotte drew hers away quickly. Evidently, she could touch Drayton easily enough, but even accidental contact with Anthony was something to avoid at all costs.

He suppressed a sigh, finished working on the chair, then moved to the floor, settling on his knees.

“The party begins sooner than we thought,” she said. “We have but a few days to prepare.”

“A great deal of our strategy will depend upon what we find when we arrive—the location of the desk, for instance, and how many people will be in attendance. The more there are, the easier it is to slip away unnoticed, but the more likely we are to encounter someone.”

She glanced up at him with an amused smile.

“What?”

“This sort of scheming comes quite naturally to you, it seems. Have you thought of everything?”

“Hardly.” In fact, he had spent the better part of his time trying to understand his fluctuating feelings toward Charlotte. “I have had the better part of the night to consider a few things, though.” Like the way the color of her lips so perfectly matched her cheeks when she was embarrassed.

She smiled and surveyed the area. “No matter. Between the two of us, I am certain we will think of everything important. Did we clean it all?”

Anthony looked around. “It is difficult to say without more light. No doubt we will find a few spots in the morning, but we have certainly removed the bulk of it.”

Charlotte pushed herself up and shifted her braid from her shoulder to her back, as Anthony too rose to his feet.

“Ah,” he said. “We have missed a spot. The paint on your face.”

Charlotte’s hand flew to her face, searching for it. She rubbed haphazardly, apparently trying to cover as much area as possible to increase the likelihood of finding her target. She looked at him for confirmation she had rid herself of it.

His lip pulled up at the corner, then he dipped the dry edge of his towel in the basin on the desk and stepped toward her. “Not quite.”

He wiped gently at the red spot on her forehead, then moved to the one on her cheek. His eyes wandered to her lips, sending a jolt of heat into his veins, captivating him with the desire to hold her as he had that day when he had found her crying in this room. But this time, he wanted more. He wanted her to close her eyes as he pressed his lips to her perfectly pink ones and showed her what he would do if they were truly engaged.

His gaze moved to hers.

Her eyes were alert and watchful. Or were they wary?

He pulled his hand away and stepped back, ignoring the disappointment in his chest. “There.” At the edges of his vision, he could see the splatters of paint on her chest, but even if the light in her eyes hadn’t warned him against any further contact, Anthony knew his limits, and they would not survive long if he tested them in such a way.

“I will leave you to your painting,” he said.

She nodded. “And I shall attempt to finish without further mishap.”

He offered a small smile, then made his way to the door, stopping just shy of it and turning to her. “Thank you, Charlotte.”

Her brows drew together. “For what?”

“For what you did this evening. I had my doubts that you would find success, but I should have known better.”

“You should have indeed,” she said with a soft, teasing smile.

He chuckled, remembering with a lump in his throat how it had helped to hold her hand as he spoke with Drayton, to know that it was not his burden and his alone anymore to help Silas. “You have no obligation at all to help me, Charlotte. But I am grateful you are willing to.”

She lifted her shoulders. “What is a spurious engagement for if not to help one another? Besides, now that I have spent more time with Lord Drayton, I would be tempted to pursue his ruin on my own even if you decided against it.” Her eyes twinkled merrily, even in the dim light.

“I believe you would. Good night, Charlotte.”

“Good night, Anthony.”

He stepped through the door to his bedchamber, closed the door behind him, then let out a long breath as he stared ahead.

He was falling in love with Charlotte Mandeville, and he hadn’t the slightest idea how to stop.