Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Once they'd been announced the winners, Charlotte hobbled quickly into the house, one bare foot on the gravel, a shoe and a stocking dangling from her hand. She didn't wait for the duke, nor did she celebrate with him. The thrill of the win vanished quickly, replace by embarrassment and worry and wonder—all because of that kiss.

"What's wrong?" Chelsea asked in a whisper, hurrying behind her.

Charlotte feigned a snort of amusement, hoping Chelsea wouldn't notice. "I have one bare leg in a garden full of people. I want to make myself presentable again. I should have thought that obvious." She huddled in the alcove in the entrance hall. "Stand guard."

Chelsea did as she was asked, shielding Charlotte from view. Charlotte, meanwhile, rolled the stocking over her heel and up her leg. Every touch seemed to light her on fire, every brush of the fabric brought images of the duke and his wandering hands. She'd felt his excitement, and her body had responded in kind, leaving her tingling from head to toe.

"All right," she said, holding onto the wall as she slipped her foot into her shoe. "Let's go and get some food. I'm positively starved."

She marched past Chelsea before her friend had a chance to answer. The duke hovered at the entrance, and she could feel his heavy gaze on her, but she studiously avoided it. Indeed, she planned to stay away from him for the rest of the day.

"Goodness, someone is in a hurry," Chelsea said. "It's only a buffet, not a sit-down meal."

"All the better," Charlotte said without looking back. "It will give me the opportunity to meet some of your other guests."

She turned into the dining room to find that the mahogany dining table had been pushed to the edge of the room and laid out with a veritable feast. The chairs had been removed, guests milled around this room and others, plates of finger food in their hands.

Charlotte picked up a plate and selected a range of foods, from sausage rolls to little cubes of cheese, then she wandered away from the table, hoping to find a quiet corner. She could sense Chelsea's curiosity.

"But what about the duke?"

Charlotte tutted, pricking her cheese with a toothpick. "Stewart forced us together for the game, knowing full well there is tension between us. There is no need to continue that now that we are within the house walls."

Charlotte found a little couch tucked into the corner of the drawing room and settled herself on it, hoping that the guests milling around her would leave her be.

"Tension?" Chelsea asked with a frown as she joined her. "But you and he seemed to be getting on so well."

Charlotte huffed. They had been getting on well—too well—and that was the problem. That kiss! And it irritated her that Chelsea had noticed at all. She tutted to show her disapproval.

"I do know how to be civil when a situation demands it of me, Chelsea."

Chelsea raised her eyebrows. "I have known you since we were girls," she said. "I've seen your version of ‘civil' and I can tell you now that it is nothing like what I witnessed out there."

Charlotte ignored her, picking of the flaky pastry that surrounding the sausage meat. "Are you not eating?" she asked.

"Are you not answering?" Chelsea countered.

Charlotte giggled. "Really, dear, there is nothing to answer. You are overthinking things, as you so often do. The game is over, and now I would like to enjoy a little bite to eat without thinking about the irritating duke. Is that all right?"

"But—"

"Lady Chelsea! Your guests would like a word," her father called from across the room.

Chelsea huffed. "Duty calls. Do excuse me, Charlotte. We'll finish this conversation later!"

Charlotte breathed a silent sigh of relief that they'd been disturbed. She loved Chelsea dearly, but she needed time to think. And to relive the moment his lips met mind.

The kiss had, in truth, left her reeling. The very reason she had become so excited by the remainder of the hunt had been to avoid the feelings that had begun to unravel, forcing her attention elsewhere. But now they screamed for her attention, and she needed to give it to them.

That kiss!

The word swam around her head, her heart quite unable to grasp the magnitude of it. She disliked everything about the duke. He was as irritating and cruel as he was handsome and amusing. Except that kiss. And the fact that they had, as Chelsea kindly pointed out, gotten on so very well. As if they were a team made for one another.

Charlotte threw a cube of cheese into her mouth and chewed forcefully, as if that could push these new emotions away. She had finally been kissed! After all those years of waiting and dreaming, she'd been kissed—and by a man who looked like a god and was a duke to boot. But it had left her unsettled and confused and uncertain.

It was everything she had read about in fairy tales. The tingling, the burst of emotion, the tightness in the pit of her stomach. The way she had craved for him to reach inside her and pull on her already unraveling spool. Wanting to feel the pressure of his body pushed against her. It was everything she had read about, everything she had wanted, and everything that she had not believed existed in the real world.

It was… perfect.

She threw in another cube and bit down on it. Even food seemed to taste better now that she had been kissed.

Laughter filled the air, and she lifted her head, seeming to remember that she was in the midst of a party. The drawing room had begun to fill, the guests preferring it to the uncomfortable dining room. And there, across the room, she saw him.

The Duke of Ashbourne.

He hadn't seen her, or if he had, he gave no indication of it. He leaned one hand against the wall, so casual and yet so formal all at once. His hair flopped over his forehead, unencumbered now by his top hat, and he'd undone the button of his tailcoat so that it hung open, revealing the stark whiteness of his shirt.

Charlotte's breath deepened as her eyes landed on his chest, remembering the way it felt against her own. So different to the softness of herself. So alluring. She licked her lips, feeling that now-familiar tingle down her spine. Between her legs. She shifted position, trying to force it away.

He still hadn't noticed her. In fact, she doubted he would. He was deep in conversation with a small group of gracious, elegant ladies. So beautiful, so well put together. So unlike the woman who had just whipped off her stocking in front of a crowd of people. So much better suited to a man such as Alexander Wentworth.

***

Alexander groaned as he dropped into the armchair by the fire, a large glass of brandy in hand. Finally, all the guests and the household had retired for the evening, leaving just him and Stewart to drink the last of the alcohol.

"Long day," he muttered.

"But a good one," Stewart added. "It was a lot more fun than even I expected, and I planned the entire thing."

Alexander chuckled. "You always were good at organizing such events. I don't know how you have the patience."

He stared into the dancing flames in the grate. It had indeed been a good day, but a confusing one, too. He had kissed Miss Charlotte, despite all he had told himself, and though he had enjoyed it—and he thought she had too—she had avoided him for the rest of the evening. Had he made a foolish mistake?

He hoped not. Not that it truly mattered, of course. She would never be interested in him, not when she knew the truth about his situation. Not when she was told—for someone would surely tell her. The ton delighted in such things.

But he could still taste the remnants of her on his lips, and he cherished that. He could see still the joy on her face as she had boldly thrust her stocking in the air. How free. How delightful. There was something about her that drove him wild.

Stewart shrugged. "I enjoy it. Fancy a game of cards?"

Alexander nodded, then got up to fetch the playing cards. "Crib?" It might take his mind off yet another problem he had given himself.

As he dealt out the cards, Stewart set up the board. "I couldn't help but notice how well you got on with Miss Charlotte. You made an excellent team."

"Ha. I'm not going to lie and say it wasn't difficult. She has a mind of her own, that one." He placed two cards in the box, then put the first card down. "Eight."

"But I think you rather like it, if you're honest with yourself. Her being difficult I mean. You see it as a challenge." His card snapped as he added it to the table. "And two makes ten."

"And I think you're delusional," Alexander said, though he knew in his heart that Stewart was right. Her reticence was as alluring as her carefree abandon, and it was all tied together by her beauty. "Fifteen for two." He moved his peg along two spaces, then looked up expectantly at his friend.

Stewart kept his eyes on his cards, but when he spoke it was with sincerity. "You know, the solution to all your problems lie with Miss Charlotte, if only you could handle her being difficult ."

His fingers wiggled over the tops of his cards as if deciding which to choose, though he never put one down. Instead, he waited for Alexander's response, still not looking at him.

"How so?" Alexander asked. He put all his cards into a neat stack and placed them face-down on the highly polished table.

Finally, Stewart looked up at him, meeting his gaze from beneath his brow. "You mean to say that you haven't heard?"

Alexander rolled his eyes. "Heard what? Why on earth are you being so cryptic?"

Stewart raised his head fully and grinned. "Why, Miss Charlotte is one of the wealthiest ladies in London. I'd say she'd give the Prince Regent a run for his money, even."

"Is she indeed?" Alexander sat back in his chair. This new information was interesting, though he didn't think he could marry a woman merely for her wealth, and certainly not one as confounding— and as enchanting —as Miss Charlotte.

"Her father died a few years back, and he left her incredible wealth. With no brothers to take it and no husband to hand it over to, that money is… well, it's just sitting there. It could be yours, Alexander. It could solve all your money problems and turn that pit of an estate of yours into a place you could be proud of."

Alexander frowned, then picked up his cards and turned them over and over in his hand. "But she's what? Three-and-twenty? Four-and-twenty?"

"Three-and-twenty, just like Chelsea," Stewart confirmed. He finally placed a three onto the pile of cards. "Eighteen."

"If she is so wealthy, and she is clearly a beauty, then why isn't she already married? Something must be wrong with her."

Stewart shrugged. "She has not been short of suitors. She had turned down a great many offers, or so I've heard. She's done the season several times, and now everyone just sees her as a slightly eccentric wallflower. But she's incredibly rich, and I suppose no one has taken her fancy thus far. Until now, that is."

Alexander tutted. "She has not taken a fancy to me, if that's what you're inferring. If anything, quite the opposite. I seem to only offend her. She dislikes me immensely."

Stewart threw his head back and laughed. "Of course, because everyone gazes lovingly across a room at people they dislike. And I'd wager I saw a fair amount of lust in those eyes, too. If you could overcome her eccentricity, you could have everything you dreamed of—and your Uncle Norman will be well looked after."

Alexander held his cards to his pursed lips, his eyes set on the table in front of him. He didn't think Charlotte at all eccentric. If anything, he found her amusing and charming, and he was intrigued by her fresh attitude to society. If only more people were like that, the world would be a better place. But could he marry her? No, surely not.

He glanced back up and smiled, then fanned out his cards once more. He selected one quickly and placed it down. "Four makes twenty-two. I'll be honest, the very idea of marriage since Lucille is… well, it's unpleasant. Bachelorhood is far more appealing."

"Yes, but—"

"But," Alexander interrupted, pointing at him with his cards. "I cannot deny that I haven't considered marrying for money—as an absolute last resort, you understand. And I had heard something about an eccentric heiress who would, potentially, see me out of my woes. But now that I've met her… my thoughts are different."

"Different in what way?" Stewart asked.

He shrugged, pursing his lips again. He knew, in his heart, that he couldn't. Could he? But he couldn't quite put his finger on why. "I cannot marry her for her money, Stanhope. She is too pure and too honest to be duped in such a way."

Stewart shrugged as he placed the nine of hearts down. "Thirty-one for two," he said, then, "I understand your reasoning completely, but you are quickly running out of time—and options. Just spend a little time thinking about it. Perhaps you might find the bravado after all."