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Chapter 16

CHAPTER

a

16

C harlotte tiptoed down the dark hall to her bedroom suite. Since Lady Jasmine had arrived, she'd been tucked away in an empty pantry next to the nursery. It was very late and she was on a furtive mission to flee the manor without being detected.

Lord Dartmouth had to be aware that she'd learned about his fiancée, and he'd have been determined to seek out Charlotte. In typical male fashion, he'd have been eager to explain himself, to spew justifications and beg her forgiveness. Well, forgiveness wasn't in the cards. Charlotte was so angry that, if she'd owned a gun, she might have marched to his fancy master suite and shot him right between the eyes.

Her temper was her worst failing. It exploded when it shouldn't, and she couldn't control it, but she made no apologies for her spurts of rage. Over the grueling twenty-three years of her life, she'd had plenty to rage about.

She'd never been more ashamed—or more mortified. She'd risen that morning, preening as if she were Cinderella, as if the handsome prince had plucked her from obscurity and would raise her up to be a countess. She'd actually believed he'd been ready to toss over convention and marry down to a poverty-stricken young lady who didn't even have a gown pretty enough to wear to supper.

She was so gullible!

In her hours of hiding and ruminating, the only excuse she could devise for her stupidity was that she was so desperately lonely. She always struggled to get by and she yearned to find a path back to her prior status in the world. She'd met Lord Dartmouth and had assumed he would somehow provide the necessary route to safety. Had any female in history ever been such an idiot?

Noblemen were renowned for their sexual games and trickery, and they were especially enticed by women from the lower classes. They promised marriages that would never occur. They arranged fake marriages so na?ve girls would think they were brides. They put rings on fingers, as a vow to proceed in the future, but the minute the tryst ended, the nobleman disappeared.

Charlotte understood all of that, so how could she have disregarded the lessons drilled into her by older, wiser matrons about the duplicity of prominent men? What was wrong with her?

He'd sworn he'd wed her. Her! Charlotte Cronenworth, who barely had coins in her reticule sufficient to purchase the fare to London. Her sole thought was to escape, and before she'd flitted up to the nursery, she'd packed her satchel, then had realized she'd missed the public coach for that day. It had meant she couldn't catch it until the following day.

She'd stuffed her bag in the wardrobe, praying—if Lord Dartmouth stopped by to accost her—her clothes would be gone and he'd presume she'd left. The ruse would supply her with the extra time she needed to vanish. She would collect her things, sneak out a rear door, then wait down the lane until dawn broke. Then she'd continue on to the village and buy a ticket on the coach. Shortly, she would exit the Dartmouth area.

He was very vain, so he'd never inquired about her situation in London. He didn't know where she lived, and hopefully, she'd quickly land a job so, even if he tracked her down at the Cronenworth town house, she wouldn't be there. She didn't imagine he'd track her down though. He'd had his fun with her, so his interest would swiftly wane. He'd forget about her and focus on his wedding, which was approaching very fast.

As she reached her suite, she entered carefully, like a burglar creeping in. She dashed to the dressing room, and her satchel was where she'd stashed it, in the bottom of the wardrobe. She eased it out, then spun to slink away, and she'd made it out to the sitting room when a lamp flared, lighting the space in ghostly shadows.

She jumped a foot and whirled around. Lord Dartmouth was lounged on a chair in the corner, watching for her to skulk in.

"Where the hell have you been?" he crudely asked, not keeping his voice down. The door to the hall was open, but it didn't bother him in the least.

"I've been hiding from you," she testily retorted, not being quiet either.

It was his home. If he felt like engaging in a loud quarrel in the middle of the night, it was fine by her. She'd never see any of the despicable people in the manor ever again and she didn't mind if they eavesdropped. She had no reputation to defend to his servants. They treated him like a god, but maybe they should learn that he was a lying, conniving dog.

"I've been searching for you all evening," he said.

She scoffed with disdain. "You couldn't have hunted very intensely. It's not as if I'm invisible. I'm sure that you peeked in this room, didn't stumble on me, and that's your version of an extensive search. Why would you waste any effort on me? I'm certain I wouldn't be worth it."

She started out and he snapped, "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving this disgusting place. The sooner the better. Goodbye."

"I don't give you permission. I will not have you traipsing about in the dark."

She rolled her eyes with exasperation. "You are not my husband or my father. You have no right to boss me."

"I have every right. This is my castle and I am king of it. You will not depart until I say you can."

"After what you've done, do you really think you can order me about?"

Her snotty tone was too much for him. He rose to his feet and stomped over to her. He grabbed her satchel and flung it away. It banged onto the hearth with a bracing thud, furnishing more noise in case anyone woke up and wondered what was happening.

"Sit down," he said quite furiously.

"I'd rather not."

"Sit! Down!" he commanded and he pointed to the chair he'd just vacated.

She dithered, debated, then walked over and plopped down. She could have tried to shove by him, but he'd have physically prevented her, and she wasn't keen to wrestle with him. He'd have won any battle.

He had some remarks to get off his chest and she ought to let him bloviate. He could argue and weep, could rationalize and apologize, but his words would have no effect. There was no comment he could utter that would matter to her in the slightest.

"I'm sorry," was his initial salvo.

"For what transgression? Flirting with me as if you were a bachelor? Proposing when you were bound to another? Ruining me? Tricking me? Which sin should we discuss first?"

"I didn't know how to tell you I was betrothed. In the beginning, it didn't occur to me to mention it, then—once we grew besotted—I couldn't deduce how to confess it."

"It seems to me that it would have been very simple. How about something like: Charlotte, I'm marrying in a few weeks, so this can't lead anywhere. Would that have been so hard?"

His cheeks reddened, so apparently, he was capable of some shame. "I was afraid, if I told you, you'd vanish on me. You were brought into my life for a reason and you can't abandon me until I'm clear on what it is."

She smirked derisively. "Must we dicker over why? It's easy enough to unravel your reasoning. I am a poor nobody who is lonely, vulnerable, and—to my great surprise—very gullible too. You played on my insecurities, so you could have your way with me."

"It was never that," he hotly replied. "Don't you dare claim it was."

"You like to pretend you're the high-and-mighty Earl of Dartmouth, but you possess the depraved morals of your most repulsive peers. You cheat and philander; you lie and scheme to take what you shouldn't have. How many girls have you destroyed over the years? How many false proposals have you tendered? How many of your conquests foolishly imagined you were serious? Was I the only one? Or have there been dozens?"

"I was serious about marrying you!" he absurdly insisted. "I was so excited about it. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything, but in the cold light of day, I was forced to realize that I couldn't follow through. It's not possible."

"What were you hoping to accomplish when you asked me? Did you feel like an actor in a stage drama? Were you reciting your lines, without any meaning behind them?"

He'd been standing, so he towered over her. From her lower perch, he looked powerful, omnipotent, and even a tad dangerous. He wasn't making any progress with her, so he pulled over a second chair. He sat in front of her, and he was positioned very close, so their feet and shins were touching.

She pushed her chair back to put some space between them and it infuriated him. She wasn't behaving as he'd anticipated and he hadn't yet grasped that he could never pacify her.

"When we were together last night," he said, "I wasn't lost in some foggy dream. I knew exactly what was happening and I was eager to have you by my side forever."

"Fine. You like to brag that you can act however you please. Your fiancée is down the hall somewhere. March down to her and cry off."

"I can't do that."

"Of course you can't."

"It's why I went riding for so many hours. I was trying to figure out how to fix this."

At the preposterous statement, a wave of wrath swept over her, and it was so virulent that she couldn't catch her breath. "You actually suppose you could fix it?"

His expression was sympathetic. "You're fond of me, Charlotte. Can you bear for us to part?"

"Yes, I can bear it. The minute you finish delivering your pitiful diatribe, I'll be out the door."

"I don't believe you. You can't leave me. Not when we're both so smitten. I'm completely ensnared, and as to you, I'm sure you're in love with me."

"Oh, be silent! Your massive ego is too much to abide."

She leapt to her feet so rapidly that her chair tipped over and crashed on the floor. Another loud noise! Wonderful!

He stood too and he was extremely vexed. "You won't like to hear it, but I offered you what I could. I asked you to be my mistress. Why can't you view this from my perspective? Why can't you accept what I'm anxious to supply? We could be so happy."

"No, you could be happy. You would get all the benefits of matrimony without having to provide me with the security I deserve."

"You'd be safe with me. I'd cherish and protect you."

"For how long? A month? Six months? Would I be that lucky?"

"It would continue for an extended period," he tepidly said. "I'd shower you with affection, with beautiful clothes and baubles. You'd want for nothing."

"Except a husband."

"It can't be me, but I can be your special friend instead. That's what I can furnish to you. Won't you let me?"

He gazed at her, his blue eyes tormented and enticing. He was correct that she was in love with him, but she'd had no opportunity to grieve and move on. She might never recover from his treachery. Gad, during their reckless fornication, he might have planted a babe in her belly. Then what would she do?

"I won't be your mistress," she caustically spat, "and you dishonor me by suggesting it. If I ever have the chance to wed, it will be because a man puts a ring on my finger. A real ring, placed there in front of a vicar, with witnesses looking on."

"I can't give you that conclusion. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that!"

She'd been so distraught that she'd forgotten she was still wearing the blasted ring. She tugged it off and held it out to him.

"Here," she fumed. "Take it."

"No. You can't wreck what we have."

"What we have ? Are you insane? You flirted with me until I ruined myself for you. You treated me no better than a scullery maid who spreads her legs for the lord of the manor. The only difference is that the scullery maid is usually paid a penny for her troubles. What should I receive?"

"I've never abused you. I'm struggling to devise a method to keep you in my life, but you're being so obstinate. If you would agree to be my mistress, it would solve our problem."

They were talking in circles. Or maybe he was such a toplofty fellow, and sitting up on such a high perch, that he couldn't hear her. She might have been babbling in a foreign language he didn't comprehend.

"Take this ring," she said again.

"No. It's yours."

He didn't reach for it, so she threw it at him. It bounced off his chest and rolled into the shadows.

"That was uncalled-for," he seethed, his rage barely contained.

"The past few hours, while I was hiding and pondering my choices, it occurred to me that you don't know me very well. I have a temper and it's about to explode."

He sighed dramatically. "Why won't you listen to me? We could be so happy! Wouldn't you like to be happy?"

"If your fiancée hadn't arrived this morning, how long could you have maintained your farce?"

"I can't guess," he said, seeming dismayed. "I assume I'm omnipotent and can bluster my way through any situation. I'm ashamed, aghast, and very sad."

"No, you're not. You appear quite calm to me."

"I'm bereft over this and my heart is breaking. How can I earn your forgiveness?"

"Shut up, Win!" She practically screeched the words, and before she could pause to reflect, she slapped him very hard. His head snapped to the side and her handprint sprouted on his cheek.

"I didn't deserve that," he said with an imposing dignity.

"Yes, you did! How dare you feign heightened affection! Of all the transgressions you've perpetrated against me, that might be the worst."

"We've grown so close and I don't understand why we're fighting."

"Here's a bit of news that I'm sure will astonish your grand self: In my opinion, you're a dog, a wretch, a disloyal knave, and I never want to see you again."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I truly do."

She whipped away from him and would have marched out, but Lady Jasmine was blocking the doorway and framed in the moonlight. She was in her nightgown and robe, her glorious blond hair braided down her back. Even though she was attired for bed, she exuded glamor and elegance, as if she'd been dancing at a ball.

She was holding a candle and she lifted it to study Charlotte. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "It's very late, and if the two of you don't pipe down, you'll have the entire staff down here to discover why there's such a ruckus."

"Nothing is wrong," Charlotte said. "Lord Dartmouth stopped by to harass me, but he's just leaving."

Lady Jasmine yanked her furious glower to him. "Is that right, Winston? Are you leaving?" The intimate way she pronounced his name spoke volumes.

He glared at Lady Jasmine and carefully said, "I apologize for waking you, but I'm having a private conversation with my guest. I don't appreciate how you've interrupted. Please go away."

His fiancée was no shrinking violet. "It's the middle of the night and this is the bedchamber of a female who is not your wife. I can't imagine why you'd presume it's appropriate to tarry and I can't accept that it should be permitted."

"Go away, Jasmine!" he repeated more sternly.

"I will return to my room when you return to yours."

Charlotte might have been humored by their petty squabble, but they disgusted her. He was marrying her in a few weeks, yet he'd been sneaking around behind her back. He was a cheating cad and Lady Jasmine was welcome to him.

He bristled with irritation, and Charlotte couldn't predict how it might have resolved, but a footman popped up in the doorway too.

"What's happening, Lord Dartmouth?" he asked. "Some of the folks upstairs heard noises and they sent me down to check on you."

"Everything is just dandy," he said to the boy, then he jerked his focus to Charlotte. "We're not finished discussing this."

"I think we are," she snottily retorted.

He stomped out, with Lady Jasmine and the footman leaping away so he didn't run them down. His strides faded and the footman asked Charlotte, "Are you all right, Miss Charlotte?"

"I'm just dandy too."

She went over and shut the door in their stunned faces, and she spun the key in the lock, so they couldn't bluster in and continue to annoy her. Then she staggered to the bedroom, crawled onto the bed, and curled into a ball. She was trembling from head to toe, more irate than she'd ever been, but more despondent too.

She should have grabbed her bag and crept out while it was still dark, as had been her original plan, but she was too shocked to move. It would be dawn shortly. She would leave then and morning couldn't come soon enough.

v

Jasmine lurked in a hall off the foyer. It was seven o'clock, so she'd been forced to rise much earlier than normal, but she was waiting for Miss Cronenworth to trudge down. As the blasted tart walked out of the house, Jasmine was keen to put her in her place, to have the last word.

She was wearing her most exquisite day dress. It had been sewn by Madame LaFarge who designed clothes for the most fashionable ladies of the ton. It was a gorgeous sky-blue shade that set off her hair and perfectly matched the color of her eyes.

For her jewelry, she'd donned some of her diamonds. They weren't her best pieces, but they were tasteful and understated and they glittered outrageously.

She looked rich, important, and beautiful, and as Miss Cronenworth slinked out, Jasmine was eager for her to realize the differences between them and to be haunted by them forever. How dare she suppose she could have Winston for her own? And how dare Winston trifle with her?

Jasmine was astounded to have caught him in her suite. He'd been so immersed in their quarrel that he hadn't been concerned over how loud they'd grown to be. He hadn't worried that other people—herself, the servants—would become aware of his illicit fascination.

Agatha had been wise to summon Jasmine to Dartmouth, and she was thrilled to have complied, but honestly! She and Winston would have to have a difficult conversation about what she'd witnessed and she was dreading it. They couldn't proceed with the wedding until she had some assurances that Miss Cronenworth was out of their lives for good.

He was so vain that he wouldn't want her to depart, and he was so obsessed that he might even track her down and drag her back, but Jasmine was very vain too. She wouldn't be disrespected in such an egregious manner.

She'd received reports from the staff about his current condition. After he'd stormed out of Miss Cronenworth's bedroom, he'd lurched to the master suite in a blind temper. For a lengthy period, he'd paced and fumed, then he'd fallen into bed. He was still sleeping, so as his lovebird flew the nest, he wouldn't be present to prevent it. If he'd rushed down and begged her to stay, Jasmine couldn't guess how she might have reacted.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she emerged from her hiding spot and waltzed into the foyer as if it had been her destination all along. She arrived just as Miss Cronenworth reached the bottom. While Jasmine had worked very hard to appear striking and composed, Miss Cronenworth hadn't had the luxury of preparation.

She was pale and unsteady, her outfit functional and unflattering, her demeanor defeated. The societal distance that separated them was stark, and it was the precise impression Jasmine had been determined to foster.

She glanced down at Miss Cronenworth's tattered satchel, at her frayed cloak, and her disdain shone through. Then she sneered, "Ah, Miss Cronenworth, it's obvious you're sneaking out. I won't claim I'm sorry to see you go."

Despite Miss Cronenworth's reduced situation, she wasn't cowed. She straightened her spine and said, "Were you speaking to me?"

"Are you deaf? Of course I'm speaking to you. Since I stumbled on Winston in your bedchamber, I was so afraid you might choose to tarry. I'm glad I won't have to chase you off with a stick. Thank you for being so obliging."

Miss Cronenworth studied Jasmine just as caustically as Jasmine was studying her, then she had the temerity to inquire, "Why did you travel to Dartmouth? Aren't you busy in town, planning your wedding?"

"The Dowager suggested I visit. She advised me that there was mischief occurring with my fiancé. She had no ability to stop it, but I've frequently had to resolve this sort of predicament. Winston is a terrible roué, so this isn't the first time I've had to intervene to end one of his affairs."

If the false comment distressed Miss Cronenworth, she didn't show it. She simply smirked with derision. "You're very proud of your relationship with him, but I have to point out that he never mentioned you to me. As you strut and preen about how you ran me off, you should consider what that indicates. Are you sure he's a spouse worth having?"

Jasmine's blood boiled. "You little slut! You have the gall to lecture me about Lord Dartmouth? What nerve!"

"I'm not lecturing you. I'm merely stating that, if I was picking a husband, I'd be a tad more discerning. In my opinion, your betrothed isn't all that grand."

"We remember the scandal in your family, Miss Cronenworth. We remember your notorious mother, and with you having such an unhinged parent, I suppose we shouldn't have expected better behavior from you, but I hope you've learned your lesson. Lord Dartmouth is mine and I need your promise that you will vanish from our lives forever."

"Trust me, none of you will ever hear from me again."

"Marvelous." Jasmine hated that she hadn't put a dent in Miss Cronenworth's armor. She'd slid in the knife, but hadn't inflicted much of a wound, so she twisted it a bit. "In the future, as you reflect on your pathetic liaison, I'm certain you'll convince yourself that his affection was genuine. But you should realize how insignificant you actually were to him."

"Believe me, I realize it. You don't have to clarify his lack of sentiment."

"Be that as it may, I'm about to receive a bride gift from him. It's a property called Peachtree Haven and the Dowager tells me that it used to be your childhood home."

Jasmine's arrow had finally hit its mark and Miss Cronenworth gasped with astonishment. "Win is giving you Peachtree?"

"Yes, and he knows your fond connection to it. He knows and he's giving it to me anyway." Jasmine snickered, then added, "And it's Lord Dartmouth to you. Don't refer to him by his Christian name ever again."

"Ooh, have I offended you by being too familiar?" Miss Cronenworth sarcastically asked. "Let me grovel and beg your pardon."

"You don't belong here with us. I agree with the Dowager that you're not our kind of people. Leave at once and don't ever come back."

"Good luck in your marriage," was the pitiful snot's response. "I'm betting it will bring you exactly what you deserve."

She marched out the door, and with her parting taunt being so infuriating, Jasmine would have raced after her to hurl a few more insults, but she peered about and Boggs was standing down the hall. He was such a sly character. Had he eavesdropped on the quarrel she'd just instigated?

He was the type of tattler who would hurry to Winston and repeat the horrid words that had been exchanged. She had no doubt Winston would be upset to discover that she'd started a fight with his dearest beloved. Well, she had bigger fish to fry with Winston, and as opposed to Agatha and her peculiar friendship with Boggs, Jasmine never worried about a servant.

In her world, if a servant became a bother, he was fired and replaced. She would be Countess soon and Boggs ought to ponder that reality. He'd been able to manipulate Agatha about the bastard daughter, Polly, but he'd never enjoy the same power with Jasmine. She'd terminate him without batting an eye.

"Hello, Boggs."

"Lady Jasmine." He tipped his cap to her. "Was that Miss Cronenworth?"

"Yes, and could you have a groom follow her to the village for me? The maids inform me that she's catching the public coach to London, and I'd like to be sure she climbs aboard."

"I'll follow her myself," he said.

Jasmine nodded to him as if they were conspirators in Miss Cronenworth's downfall. Then Jasmine walked up to her suite. Her job on the lower floors was done and she was anxious to celebrate in private.

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