Chapter 5

CHAPTER

a

5

C harlotte strolled along the beach at Fog Bay. It was so beautiful and she was jealous that Lord Dartmouth owned it. He didn't need it or even seem to want it very much. The property was so trivial to him that he kept it shuttered most of the time. Yet she viewed it as a haven where she could have hidden herself away and been content forever.

The residence was far off the main road and tucked away between two towering headlands. The lawns sloped down to the water, and the beach was rocky and rugged, strewn with logs and boulders, so it was an interesting place to explore.

She'd visited the ocean twice in her life, back when she'd been the child of a rich, prominent importer, but she'd forgotten how stunning it was. When she gazed out at the horizon, she felt tiny and irrelevant, and she remembered that, in the greater scheme of the universe, her troubles were petty and insignificant.

She'd trekked quite a distance from the path that led to the house, and as she turned toward it, there was a small sailboat skimming across the bay. Lord Dartmouth was the sole occupant and he was at the tiller and steering the vessel to the dock. His black hair was unbound and blowing out behind him, and he hadn't shaved that morning, so his cheeks were stubbled. He might have been a pirate scouting the area for booty to plunder.

To her enormous consternation, butterflies swarmed in her stomach, but she ignored them. Her reaction indicated she was excited to see him in a feminine way that was extremely inappropriate. Since their chat two nights earlier, when they'd been more cordial than they ought to be, she'd been avoiding him.

As she'd stood to leave the room, he clasped her wrist, and the touch of his bare skin to hers had been dangerously thrilling. A peculiar aura had arisen, where amorous possibilities had suddenly bubbled up, and she'd been inundated by the overwhelming impression that she ought to act on them.

He'd perceived it too; she'd been certain of it. While she was a spinster, she wasn't a novice at romance. She'd attended a girl's boarding school and they'd often socialized with the boys at a nearby academy. Those bumbling Romeos had been eager to sneak off for a few furtive kisses in secluded corners, so she recognized male attraction when she observed it.

He'd been enticed, but she wasn't a fool. She was a damsel in distress and noblemen had the worst reputations. They were particularly tempted by lonely women who were in dire straits. It was sport for them to seduce females like her.

A man in his position would wed very high, to a duke's daughter or maybe even a princess. He would never look down for a bridal candidate, so any notice she received from him would be a lark, a game. He'd never have honorable intentions.

She knew that fact to be absolutely true, but she couldn't tamp down the wave of exhilaration that rushed through her at having him arrive. She dawdled as he tied off the skiff, as he climbed onto the dock, then the beach.

For a minute, they were frozen like statues, transfixed and staring. They could have made any choice. Charlotte could have spun and walked off in the other direction. He could have nodded a greeting, then proceeded on to the cottage. But neither of them picked the wiser route. Almost as if there was a magnet pulling them together, they staggered toward one another, oblivious to the ramifications of what might happen once they were toe to toe.

Eventually, she stopped, but he kept coming until he was close enough that her skirt swirled around his legs. His color was vibrant, his eyes merry, his countenance dazzling. She was being pelted by masculine aromas—tobacco, horses, fresh air—and there was a more subtle scent too, one that she suspected only she could detect. It called to her on an elemental level, so she yearned to step in and press her body to his.

"Hello, Charlotte," he said. "Fancy meeting you here."

He grinned, her name sounding naughty and illicit on his tongue, as if they were lovers sharing secrets.

She tsked with exasperation. "I'm sure I previously refused to be on familiar terms with you. I can't have you calling me Charlotte."

"I realize you don't like it, but I never listen to women and I'm very spoiled. I've decided to use Charlotte and I will. It's not up to you."

"Have I mentioned that you're a bully?"

"Yes, you have and I can't deny it."

He sidled even closer, and it was very strange, but sparks seemed to ignite. She'd never experienced a similar incident and had no idea how to deal with it. A hazardous situation was festering, and she ought to move away and dash off, but she couldn't force herself to break the connection that had flared.

"Where have you been?" she asked, anxious to calm her racing pulse with ordinary conversation.

"I sailed to Baywick village."

"By yourself?" She voiced the query like a fussy nanny. "Is that safe?"

"It's safe enough. I like to tarry at Fog Bay, but I often feel housebound and I have to escape."

"You miss being out on the ocean," she said. "You miss the Navy."

"Very much."

"Could you buy a new commission? Could you return to it?"

"No. My father died years ago, so I have to stay at home where I belong." He smirked cockily. "I'm not supposed to engage in reckless behavior, but occasionally, I can't help it."

"So you just embrace minor risks, like sailing alone on a windy day."

"No guts, no glory." He gestured to the cottage. "I'm chilled to the bone and need to get inside. Will you walk me in? Or are you still enjoying your stroll?"

"I'm cold too. I'll walk with you."

She was wrapped in her cloak, the hood up and partially covering her face. The garment was thin and worn, and it didn't provide much protection from the brisk breeze. She wished she had a reticule full of money so she could purchase a warmer, heavier one.

He pushed the hood down to study her features, then he said, "There, that's better."

"You can't be so forward with me. You keep taking liberties with my person and I don't like it."

He ignored her complaint. "When you're in my presence, I want your beautiful hair hanging down your back. Don't pin it up. Don't conceal it with a bonnet or cloak."

The flattery had her pulse fluttering even harder, as if she were a silly debutante and, her tone scolding, she said, "And don't compliment me either. I especially can't have you praising me."

"You don't like to have a man tell you you're pretty? No wonder you're not married. You never learned how to flirt."

"As I've already explained, I'm not married because I don't have a dowry, and I know how to flirt, but you and I are not flirting."

"If you say so."

He chuckled and took her arm, then they sauntered away. They were headed for the cottage, but they weren't in a hurry.

"You've been hiding from me," he complained.

"I'm not hiding. You're just never around during the day, and at night, you're out chasing smugglers. You don't even eat supper with us. There's been no chance to bump into you."

"Late in the evening, I've been loafing in the rear parlor, hoping you'd show up again. Why haven't you?"

She scowled up at him. "Are you imagining that some sort of relationship has blossomed?"

"Yes, I'm imagining exactly that."

"Not only are you a bully, you're clearly insane too."

"Why shouldn't we be friendly? We're locked away in the country. If we carry on in a manner that isn't normally allowed, who is there to tell us we can't?"

"We're adults and we don't need a chaperone to guarantee we act properly."

He scoffed, as if perhaps he always needed a chaperone. "There's a powerful infatuation developing between us."

Yes, a perilous liaison had commenced, and she concurred with him that there was no one to notice their conduct. Why not revel? When would she ever have a similar opportunity? In light of the terrible years she'd suffered, didn't she deserve a bit of fun?

As the wicked thoughts rocked her, she was very shocked, and it occurred to her that her mother Sybil's blood was surging to the fore.

It was commonly accepted that a girl grew up to be just like her mother and that bad blood was incredibly strong. Sybil had run off with a scoundrel when Charlotte was five. She'd had a husband and two little daughters, yet she'd deserted them without a backward glance.

The scandal had been publicly devastating and Sybil branded the worst hussy of her generation. Her duplicitous flight had ruined Charlotte's life. It had also crushed her father and destroyed many of his commercial contacts as other rich men had ceased to do business with him. After all, when he'd been so negligent in his choice of a wife, who could trust him in other areas?

Charlotte's father had been stern and grim, but after Sybil had vanished, he'd often scrutinized her and her sister, Theo, as if searching for Sybil's same depraved traits. He'd viciously counseled them to make note of her low morals, to understand that they probably possessed her same licentious attributes, to never unleash them.

Charlotte and Theo had taken his words to heart and had been scared that they might become notorious doxies too. They struggled valiantly to never exhibit a dissolute tendency, but with her sudden attraction to Lord Dartmouth, was it possible her mother's debauched inclinations might seize control and overrule Charlotte's more rational impulses?

What if she was no better than she had to be? She'd always worked hard to prove her father wrong, to show him—even when he was in the grave—that she wasn't like Sybil in even the slightest way. But she'd never previously been tempted by a wealthy, dynamic rogue. What if she had no ability to ward off his potent allure?

"You wrote to Dartmouth for me," she said, desperate to change the subject. "Have you heard from your mother about Polly?"

At her declining to discuss their burgeoning fascination, he glowered at her. "Are we going to ignore what's happening?"

"Nothing is happening, so there's nothing to ignore."

"You can put on blinders and pretend all you want, but it won't tamp down what's starting to build."

"Don't be too sure. I've spent my life pretending. I'm an expert." He snorted with amusement, as she pressed him for a response to her question. "Has your mother answered your letter?"

"No, but she will. She's extremely diligent about her correspondence."

"I spoke to your caretaker and he swears he has no idea why Polly's address would have been listed as Fog Bay."

"I spoke to him too and I'm not convinced that I believe him. I'm wondering if someone bribed him to bite his tongue about her."

Charlotte frowned. "I hadn't considered that problem."

"I could order him to be candid, but he's elderly and I can't bear to berate him, so I'll wait on my mother's reply. If Polly is connected to my family, she'll know the details. Or she'll be able to dig them out of the appropriate people."

"Polly tells me you've been playing chess with her."

"Yes, and the dratted girl is more proficient at it than I am. She's completely humiliated me."

"What do you think of her?"

Charlotte yearned to say, Have you noticed yet that she looks just like you? Has it dawned on you that you might be her father?

He was so handsome, and if she ultimately discovered he had a thousand bastards, she wouldn't be surprised. Noblemen were renowned for their profligate habits, for their many affairs, and even for forcing themselves on unwilling maidens. They were spoiled from the instant they popped out of the womb, and they felt entitled to reach out and grab whatever they craved.

It would never occur to him that he might be the sinner who'd sired Polly. It would mean having to admit that he'd behaved badly, and she was positive he pictured himself as an infallible angel.

"She's splendid," he said. "The school where you taught? The staff did a good job with her."

"I agree, and just so you're aware, she has a posh flare that set her apart from the other students. It was widely bandied that she has a very exalted ancestry."

He glared down at her and, as if he could read her mind, he said, "You're hinting again that she might be mine. Let me put your devious suspicions at ease and categorically state that I have no children. Nary a one."

"Are you certain? Men don't always learn the results of their mischief."

"Yes, I'm certain. I confess to being a cad, but I'm a cautious cad."

She sputtered out a shocked cough. "I'm stunned to be having this conversation with you."

"You're hoping to unearth information about Polly's parents, so we can't avoid difficult discussions or risqué topics." He sighed, as if he was carrying weighty burdens. "She might be my brother Holden's daughter."

"You have a brother? No one told me. I thought you were an only child."

"I had a brother," he quietly murmured. "He passed away two years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear it." She glanced up at him and he had a strange, almost tormented expression on his face. He appeared traumatized and she asked, "How did he pass away? Or am I being too nosy?"

"It was a terrible situation. He married down, without my permission, and it sent him into a spiral of idiotic choices and despair. Could we not talk about it? It's painful for me."

Since they were barely acquainted, it was an incredibly personal remark for him to have voiced in her presence. It made them seem closer than they should be, as if he valued her opinion and could trust her with his secrets. The notion had her giddy with delight, and she was so pleased by his candor that she would ignore his obnoxious comment about his brother marrying down.

It was an exasperating slur about her own paltry antecedents, and it provided a keen insight into how he truly viewed her.

She was eager to pry out some details about his brother's demise, but he'd just rendered the issue off-limits, so she'd interrogate Boggs. He'd probably know what had transpired. Would he gossip about it though?

"Polly definitely looks like a Wainwright," he said, "so I understand your sentiment about me being the culprit."

"I noted the resemblance the minute I met you."

"She has my brother's same features and mannerisms. If it turns out she's his, I'll be glad about it. He had no children with his wife, so Polly would be the only one we've stumbled on. If that's the case, we'll step up and accept responsibility for her."

Charlotte wanted to ask, What if you decide she's not your brother's? What then? But she didn't. He was being kind, so she wouldn't nag, but it was growing more and more clear that Charlotte might be about to assume custody of her.

They'd arrived at the cottage, and he opened the rear door and motioned for her to precede him into the small foyer. She was relieved to be out of the wind.

He was wearing an old canvas coat and he shucked it off and hung it on a hook. He was shivering and he clasped her hand and said, "I'm freezing. Feel my skin."

"My goodness. Next time you go out, you need to bundle up."

"I'm a lazy oaf. If I'm not scolded by a servant, I forget to assess my condition. I'm too used to them watching over me."

"That is a very haughty admission."

"Isn't it though?"

He astounded her by linking their fingers, as if they were adolescent sweethearts, then he said, "I've invited some neighbors to supper, so I'll be home this evening."

"No chasing smugglers tonight?"

"No. They'll have the coast all to themselves." He smiled at her and, like a king bestowing favors, he declared, "You'll dine with us."

"I'd like that." She and Polly had eaten their every meal in the dining room, but it had just been the two of them. He hadn't shown up once.

"It won't be a particularly fancy gathering," he said, "but do you have a gown that's not grey?"

The question had her chortling with laughter. She was a schoolteacher, so her gowns were plain and conservative, with long sleeves and high collars, and they were nearly all grey.

"Yes, I have a gown," she replied. "It's not overly elegant, but it will be fine."

"I hate seeing you in such a drab color. If I had the chance, I'd buy you an entire wardrobe, in every shade of blue, so I could enhance the sapphire of your eyes."

She clucked her tongue with offense. "There you go, complimenting me again. You shouldn't be noticing my eyes or anything else."

"I shouldn't be, but I can't help it."

For a dangerous moment, they hesitated, and she suffered from the most potent realization that he was thinking of kissing her. They were secluded in the dark foyer. Would he dare? Should she allow it?

To the marrow of her bones, she grasped that she shouldn't let him proceed, but obviously—where he was concerned—her common sense had flown out the window. Luckily, he was smarter than she was. Before any mischief could be perpetrated, he shifted away from her.

"We'll start early," he said. "Drinks at seven and supper at eight."

"I will be there with bells on."

"You'll be my hostess."

"As I hardly know you, and we have only the most tenuous connection, that would be completely inappropriate."

"You'll be my hostess anyway. Haven't I mentioned that I'm very vain and that I always get my way? This is one of my many castles and I am king of it. You will be my hostess—because it will make me happy."

She sighed with gladness, but with consternation too. It was lovely to be singled out by him, but it was terribly dangerous. It fueled her own vanity. It pushed her to like him more than was wise, but he was a confessed scoundrel, so it meant he was a master at seduction. He'd be sly in his manipulation, so it was deranged to permit him to woo her. Which was exactly what he was attempting.

But her life was a disaster and she was so lonely. If they flirted a bit, how could it hurt? When she left the rural property, she'd have fond memories and a more positive attitude. An improved mood would focus her as she maneuvered through perils down the road. Wouldn't it?

"I'll talk to your cook," she said. "I'll check on the menu she's planned to guarantee it's perfect."

It was the type of task a wife would assume, that a wife would view as her duty. Charlotte had been trained to run a grand manor, to wed an elevated man, so she'd learned the proper skills. It was nice to finally have an opportunity to put some of them to work.

"My staff is very competent," he said, "so they don't require much supervision, but thank you. I would be thrilled to have you handle it for me."

"May Polly eat with us too?"

He pondered, then nodded. "I guess it would be all right, but let's not tell anyone the real reason she's staying here. We shouldn't stir any gossip, so please invent an innocuous excuse for your traveling to Fog Bay with her."

"I'm a great liar, so I will devise a marvelous story."

"I figured you would, you scamp. I'll see you at seven—if not before."

Astonishing them both, he leaned down and brushed a kiss across her lips. He did it almost automatically, as if they were an old married couple, as if he'd been kissing her for years. Then he sauntered off to the front of the house.

She stood in the isolated room, her fingers pressed to her mouth, and her pulse thundering in her ears.

My, my, but wasn't she in trouble?