by Julia Quinn
“Yes, Mama.”
Once Melinda’s maid joined them, they set out at a brisk pace down White Horse Street toward Knightsbridge. It wasn’t raining, but it looked as though that might change at any moment. Still, it was nice to be out-of-doors without having to tote a parasol or risk ruining one’s bonnet.
Melinda looped her arm around Charlotte’s. “You’ll never guess who came to call on me yesterday.”
“Please tell me,” Charlotte said with a smile. “You know I live to hear of your romantic conquests.”
“Well, he’s not a conquest, precisely. Not yet, anyway. He did seem quite interested, though, and even brought me white roses.” Her delicate brows lowered. “He also seemed a bit…intoxicated, though I might have been mistaken.”
“Tell me, for heaven’s sake!”
“Xavier, Lord Matson. Can you believe it? He has the most beautiful eyes, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he does,” Charlotte said softly, her heart crumbling. As Melinda looked at her, though, she managed a short laugh. He wasn’t for her, anyway. Everyone knew that. Not with his mottled reputation and her ridiculously clean one. Simply because he’d spoken to her twice didn’t mean anything. “How exciting! Has he spoken with your father?”
“Oh, it’s far too soon for that, goose. But he did ask me all about my interests, and my friends—and when I gave him your name, he mentioned that you’d met! You awful girl! Why didn’t you tell me?”
For a moment Charlotte couldn’t remember how to breathe or to speak, and she nearly forgot how to walk. He’d mentioned her. He’d remembered her. A tingle ran down her spine. Earl Matson had spoken her name, dull or not, destined for Lord Herbert Beetly or not, and acknowledged that they’d met.
She realized that Melinda still gazed at her expectantly. “Oh, he practically ran into me at the Hargreaves’ Ball,” she managed. “To say that we met—well, I think he was just being polite.”
“Very well. You’re forgiven, my dear. I thought it must be something like that. And when I said that you were practically engaged to Lord Herbert, he said, ‘Yes, they seem quite attached.’”
Well, that made one thing clear. Lord Matson hadn’t paid much attention to their two encounters at all if he thought her “quite attached” to Herbert. She could barely tolerate the man, for goodness’ sake. And even though she hadn’t expected anything more, it still hurt. There could be few things worse, she supposed, than having one’s daydreams sink into the mud. Now she couldn’t even pretend that he had a secret infatuation with—
“Good morning, Miss Edwards, Miss Charlotte.”
At the sound of that low, masculine drawl, Charlotte whipped her head around so fast that she nearly stumbled. “Lord Matson,” she squeaked, as he slowed his magnificent black horse beside them. Of course. It was nearly ten o’clock. He was on his way to the boxing club.
Much more collected, Melinda smiled and gave a half-curtsy. “What a pleasant surprise, my lord! I hardly expected to see you this morning.”
Charlotte stifled an abrupt frown. Melinda was a terrible liar. She’d absolutely expected to see the earl, which meant that he had more than one female spying on him as he rode to Gentleman Jackson’s each weekday morning.
“Yes, I’m on my way to an appointment,” he returned. “But since we seem to be heading in the same direction, might I walk with you for a bit?”
“Of course, my lord.”
As he swung down from his horse, Melinda detached herself from Charlotte’s arm, making a space between the two of them for the earl. Oh, dear. Mama was going to kill her. Three days in less than a week, conversing with Xavier Matson. Except that he wasn’t joining them to talk to her, of course. He was interested in Melinda. And Charlotte could hardly blame him. Her friend was slender, petite, and blonde, with sparkling green eyes and perfect grace. And for the first time in their long friendship, Charlotte hated her.
But even though she knew he wasn’t there because of her, even though he’d joined them so he could walk with Melinda, her breath stopped as he handed his horse over to their maid and offered her one arm, and her friend the other.
He’d taken her hand twice before, but this was the closest they’d been to one another. Even through his caped greatcoat Charlotte could feel the warmth of him, seeping through her own sleeve and glove and into her skin. Lord Matson was tall, but so was she. The top of her head came to his chin, which would have been perfect, she thought, for waltzing. The muscles of his arm played beneath her fingers, making her want to run her palms up along his shoulders.
As he turned to engage Melinda in conversation, Charlotte couldn’t help leaning in a little closer to breathe in his scent. Shaving soap and toast and leather—a surprisingly intoxicating combination.
Faded cobalt looked over at her as if he knew she’d been inhaling him. “And what are the two of you doing out here this morning?”
“Walking,” Melinda answered before she could.
“So I see. You took a chance, though, coming outside in this weather.”
“We’re not made of sugar, my lord,” Charlotte returned, trying to recover her composure. “Or at least, I’m not.”
He chuckled. “No, you seem to be made up of several more subtle spices.” His gaze lingered on her a moment before he turned to Melinda again. “And you, Miss Edwards? What are your ingredients?”
“Oh, heavens, it must be sugar, for I’m certain I would melt in the rain. I’m not nearly as stalwart as Charlotte.”
“Don’t worry, Melinda,” Charlotte said, wishing she could linger on his comment about spices rather than worry that Melinda made her sound like a farm ox. “I would loan you my parasol.” She risked a glance up at Matson’s face. “And which ingredients are you, my lord?”
“Charlotte!”
“It’s a fair question, Miss Edwards,” the earl countered, his soft smile deepening. “I suppose, though, that it would depend on who you asked. My brother used to say that I was full of hot air.”
Melinda gave her charming, bubbling laugh. “Oh, surely not.”
“I prefer to think of myself as merely blood and sinew and bone, though I suppose that sounds rather mundane.”
“It sounds truthful,” Charlotte said, keeping her face turned away so the other two wouldn’t see her blushing. Yes, her mother would send her away to a nunnery, but it would be worth it. She’d never expected to be able to banter with Lord Matson, much less to discover that he had a sense of humor and a quiet intelligence that quite belied his rakish reputation.
They stopped as they reached Brick Street. “We promised my mother to return home,” Melinda said, her gaze making it clear that she wished him to agree to escort them the entire way.
“And Lord Matson has an appointment,” Charlotte noted, unable to keep the stiff irritation from her voice. Being this close to him and having him pay attention to someone else was unbearable. Fleetingly she wondered what she would do if he did marry Melinda. It was stupid, because she had absolutely no claim on him, but she wasn’t certain she could remain friends with Miss Edwards knowing who her husband was.
“So I do. I assume you ladies will be at the theater tomorrow night?”
“Oh, yes,” Melinda gushed.
He detached himself and reclaimed his horse, swinging into the saddle with an athletic grace that made Charlotte ache. He tipped his hat at the two of them. “Then perhaps I’ll see you there,” he said, his eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. A second later he clucked to his mount, and they were off down the street.
“I think I may swoon,” Melinda cooed, hugging herself.
Charlotte tore her gaze from the view. “Don’t be silly; the ground’s all wet.”
“Oh, Charlotte, I’m just being romantic.” Miss Edwards gripped her hand again. “Come along, now. I’m suddenly starving. Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Charlotte answered automatically, though luncheon had become the furthest thing from her mind. No, now she had to find a way to conv
ince her parents to go to the theater tomorrow night. Xavier Matson might very nearly belong to someone else, but at least she could still look.
“I thought you’d stay for more than dinner.” Jeanette, Lady Ibsen, toyed with a candle, flicking her fingers to and fro across the flame. Her footmen had left the dining room twenty minutes ago, and Xavier knew he wouldn’t see them again tonight. Jeanette had her staff exceedingly well trained.
“Dinner was magnificent, as usual,” Xavier returned, setting his napkin on the table, “but I’m going to the theater tonight. I told you I wouldn’t be staying.”
She sighed. “Yes, I know. One must always hope, however.” Leaning across the edge of the table, she licked the curve of his ear. “I am much better than Hamlet, Xavier.”
“I don’t doubt it. The play tonight is As You Like It, however, and you’re hardly a comedy.”
“Yes, but we could play as you like it all evening,” she returned, shifting closer to twine her fingers into his hair.
On any previous evening since he’d arrived in London, she wouldn’t have had to go to any such lengths to persuade him. Tonight, though, the sensation he was most aware of was vague annoyance. He needed to be somewhere else. “I would like it very much, I’m sure,” he returned, shrugging free of her hands as gently as he could, “but I’m expected.”
She straightened, the motion doing some very nice things to the front of her low-cut burgundy gown. “Who is she?”
Xavier pushed back in his chair and stood. “Beg pardon?”
“Oh, I’m not jealous,” she said, uncurling to her feet with the grace of a feline, “though I am surprised. I thought we were looking for a wife who would have a certain understanding about our relationship. Whoever she is, though, she has your attention. And your interest.”
Frowning, he stopped his retreat. “All I said was that I’m expected. I’m sharing a box with Halloren.”
“So you haven’t found a woman who piques your interest. Someone you’re in a hurry to see at the theater tonight.”
“No.”
“Hm. Perhaps I’ll make an appearance, myself. I do love Shakespeare.”
Inwardly cursing, he shrugged. Hiding this obsession of his was difficult enough without Jeanette lurking in the shadows, trying to outguess him. “Suit yourself, my dear.”
“I always do, my dear.” She held out her hand, and he bowed over it. “I have an idea already, you know, but I won’t spoil your fun.”
“Jeanette, d—”
“I told you, I’m not jealous. I like you too much to wish you ill.” She smiled. “But I’ll be here if it should happen that you’re not…acceptable to her parents. You have acquired a certain reputation, after all, and will be expected to have high standards. And a roving eye.”
Yes, he had acquired a reputation, though most of it was nonsense. Jeanette had said she wasn’t jealous, and given the way she lived her life, he tended to believe her. “Hypothetically, how would a gentleman of questionable reputation go about winning over the parents of a proper chit?”
Lady Ibsen tucked her arm around his, speculation in her dark eyes. “Hm. How can we make you appear respectable?”
With a snort, Xavier pulled free. “I’m not that bad,” he said, heading for the foyer. “I’ll manage.”
Yes, he’d taken a few mistresses since he’d been in London, and he’d spent time wagering rather large sums and drinking a bit too much, but he’d never claimed to be a saint, for God’s sake. And after a year practically trapped in Devon, trying to wade through a tangle of papers and finances left by someone who hadn’t expected to be dead at the age of thirty-one, he’d needed a little release and a little more distraction.
“Perhaps remind them that you’re a war hero,” Jeanette suggested as he collected his hat and coat. “Oh, or perhaps that you’re determined to leave your scandalous ways behind you. In all truth, though, I doubt they will believe their daughter to be the one capable of dissuading you from your fun.”
“Then you must be thinking of the wrong female,” he drawled, motioning her butler to pull open the door. “Just promise that you won’t interfere.”
She put a long-fingered hand to her breast. “Me? If I didn’t like her, perhaps. But I promise. No interference.”
Xavier signaled his coach and climbed aboard. None of the chits on his list would put up any objection at all to his suit. Logic told him to simply choose one of them and get on with making an heir and re-rooting his family tree.
Logic, however, seemed woefully inadequate when he looked at Charlotte Birling. Her mere presence aroused him. But it wasn’t solely a physical attraction that he could wallow away with either her or someone else. He liked being in her company; since they’d met, he’d spent more time thinking of how alone he’d become since Anthony’s death, and how he didn’t feel that way when he spoke with Miss Charlotte.
But before this went any further, he needed to spend more than two minutes talking with her, and he needed to know whether she might be interested in someone with a poor reputation, warranted or not.
Chapter 4
As there is no news of the Neeley affair, This Author will once again focus on one of This Column’s favorite subjects: Earl Matson.
Earlier rumors that he might be altar-bound appear to have more validity than they did earlier this week; indeed, it has been verified that he called upon Miss Melinda Edwards on Monday, and then he was seen squiring about this very same lady (and an unidentified companion) on White Horse Street yesterday. It appeared to be an accidental meeting, but as all Dear Readers know, no meeting between unmarried men and women is ever truly accidental.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 5 JUNE 1816
“Didn’t you say this performance has been sold out for weeks?” Lady Birling asked, sitting beside Charlotte in their newly rented theater box.
“It has been,” Charlotte affirmed quickly, hoping there was no one in the neighboring boxes to dispute that. “The weather’s probably kept some of them away.”
Her father shook out his greatcoat and tossed it over the chair at the rear of the box. “I wish it had kept us away,” he grumbled, taking the seat behind his wife.
“You like the theater, Papa.”
“Ordinarily, yes. With Easterly in Town, however, I prefer that we keep a low profile.”
If her profile was any lower, she would completely disappear. “Sophia doesn’t seem to mind much that he’s returned.”
“I believe Sophia wants to have the entire marriage annulled,” the baroness countered in a lower voice, looking about as her husband had done. “And with Lady Neeley’s accusations, who can blame her?”
With difficulty Charlotte kept her silence, instead lifting her play book so she could peer around the edges at the boxes on the far side of the theater. She could defend Lord Easterly and Sophia until her breath ran out, but her parents had obviously already made up their minds about the entire episode. Truth be told, she barely remembered Lord Easterly, anyway, except that he’d been quite tall and had had a pleasant laugh.
Melinda and her family were in their seats several boxes closer to the stage. Giving her a quick wave, Melinda went back to gazing at the crowd much as Charlotte was. They were, of course, looking for the same man—and at least Melinda had reason to do so. If Lord Matson braved the weather and made an appearance, it would be because he wished to see Miss Edwards.
“Charlotte?” her mother said quietly, patting her hand. “You look sad. Are you feeling well?”
She shook herself. “Yes, I’m fine. I was only thinking of Sophia.”
“Hopefully your cousin will be able to put this unpleasantness behind her. She certainly did when Easterly abandoned her before.”
Charlotte wasn’t so certain that Sophia had put anything behind her, but her cousin had become adept at convincing people that was so. At times Charlotte wished she could look as calm and elegant and composed. She’d never had much luck with that, but at least she did
have the advantage of being able to go virtually unnoticed.
Even her parents succumbed to her near invisibility at times, though not as often now that she’d come of age and needed to be introduced to Society and a potential husband. Her older sister, Helen, had married by the end of her first Season, but then she’d been bubbly and giggly and possessed of large brown eyes and a talent for both the pianoforte and the waltz.
All of which left Charlotte with Lord Herbert. She’d attempted to complain about his lack of animation, but to no avail. Her parents wanted her to marry; she wanted to marry. In her dreams, though, it would be to someone who found her interesting and exciting—and to someone to whom she could at least say something humorous and have him laugh. In her parents’ eyes, she would settle for Herbert because, well, how could she expect anything more?
“It’s a shame we didn’t think to ask Lord Herbert to join us,” her mother said, sitting back as the curtains slid open. “Is he fond of the theater?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Charlotte whispered back. She tended to think not, because enjoying the theater required an imagination, and she didn’t believe he had one.
She took one last look around her as the play began and abruptly spied Lord Matson. He sat in the shadows toward the back of the box owned by Lord Halloren, which was otherwise crowded with several overdressed females. Demimondaines, her mother would call them. She leaned forward a little to see better. He seemed to be ignoring the rest of the box’s occupants, instead gazing toward the stage.
“Charlotte, stop gawking at people,” her mother muttered.
“Everyone else is.”
“You are not everyone else.”
Charlotte sat through the first and second acts, very conscious that the earl sat somewhere back over her shoulder. Fleetingly she wondered whether she should ask for permission to visit Melinda’s box at intermission, because Lord Matson would probably be doing the same thing. Oh, she was so blasted obvious.
As the curtains closed she joined in the applause. Now everyone would leave their boxes to mingle and gossip and be seen, and she and her parents would sit where they were so no one could possibly think they were anything but the height of propriety.