by Julia Quinn
“‘Not beautiful,’” he repeated, slowly facing front again, just in time to turn them up Bond Street. With a snap of his wrist he turned the horses to the side of the street and yanked on the reins to stop them. When he faced her again his eyes glinted. “Don’t you ever say that again,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Is that clear?”
Charlotte swallowed at the fierceness in his gaze. “It doesn’t make sense to deny anything. If I carried myself as anything but what I am, I would only appear ridiculous.”
“The only ridiculous thing about you is that statement. You…” He trailed off, slamming a fist into his knee. “At the Hargreaves’ Ball,” he began again, his voice lower, “you had better reason than most to spread rumors—or to accept the rumors—of Lord Easterly’s part in another scandal. But you defended him to your mother because it was the right thing to do.”
For a long moment she looked at him, trying to remember the exact conversation and how he might have overheard it. “That was a private discussion,” she finally said.
“That doesn’t matter. I liked what you said, that one person’s accusation wasn’t enough to risk ruining a man’s reputation. I spoke with several other chits—young ladies—that night, and not one of them voiced anything but the current popular theory. I doubt it would have occurred to them to do otherwise.”
“Perhaps they spoke that way because they believed him guilty,” she offered, her pulse skittering. She wasn’t an idiot; he was saying that he admired her.
“If I’d said the sky was magenta and green they would have agreed with me.” He sat back a little, still gazing at her. “Would you?”
“If the sky had been that color I certainly would have agreed with you.”
After a moment he visibly shook himself. “The rain’s stopped. What say we do some shopping?”
“You…This is very nice, my lord, but it won’t help either of us to be seen together.” Despite the relatively deserted streets, someone they knew was bound to see them, and then the rumors would start, and people would begin to wonder what was wrong with him, to be seen in her company.
“It will help me a great deal. Willis, hold the horses.”
The liveried tiger urged his mount up to the front of the team and took hold of the nearest horse’s harness. As he did so, Matson took her chin gently between his fingers and turned her back to face him. Before she could gasp or even form the thought to do so, he touched his warm lips to hers. It could only have been a few seconds, a dozen fast heartbeats, but the moment seemed to stretch into forever, the touch of his mouth to hers. Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to memorize the sensation.
“I feel better already,” he murmured. “Open your eyes, Charlotte.”
She did so, half expecting to see that he was laughing at her. Instead, though, the soft smile that curved his mouth left her wanting to throw herself in his arms, and damn the consequences. “My lord, this is—”
“This is the beginning,” he finished for her. “And call me Xavier.”
Chapter 5
It has come to This Author’s attention that Lord Matson, about whom, as all Dear Readers will recall, certain altar-bound activities were reported, has been paying rather assiduous attention to a particular young lady.
This Author would be pleased to report the lady in question’s name (and indeed, This Author is in possession of this name) except that it is so astounding, so completely and utterly unexpected, that This Author fears falsity.
Especially since, by all accounts, Lord Matson’s attempts to woo this young lady have been soundly rebuffed.
Good heavens, is the chit mad in the head?
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 10 JUNE 1816
Charlotte Birling was about to rebel. Last Thursday Lord Matson—Xavier—had returned her home before noon, just as he’d promised. The two hours previous to that had been the most glorious of her life. She hadn’t expected his interest to last, but she’d intended to enjoy it while she could.
But then her parents had bid him good day, and she hadn’t seen him again. No, that wasn’t quite true; she’d glimpsed him through her rain-streaked window three times, and she’d heard his voice downstairs when he’d sought entrance, but as for conversation, one or the other of them might as well be residing on the moon.
And even after only three accidental meetings and one morning of chatting about nothing in particular, she missed him. She had always felt comfortable and safe around men in general because she didn’t expect to be flattered or flirted with, and they seemed to appreciate her lack of vanity. With Xavier, though, it was different. He did feel comfortable, and easy to talk to, but definitely not safe. No man had ever looked at her as he did, and shivers still ran down her spine whenever she recalled him—which was practically every second of the past week.
She could hardly be expected to put him out of her mind, of course, since he’d called every day of the last four. Rebuff after rebuff, lie after lie from her father or her mother, and still he called. She’d never heard him raise his voice, but the brief glimpse she’d had of him as he’d climbed into his coach yesterday had shown tense, straight shoulders and a fist slamming against the window frame.
“Is he going to call this afternoon?” The baroness stood in her open bedchamber door, wearing the same expression of thinly disguised displeasure she’d had since Thursday.
“Beg pardon?” Charlotte asked, quickly placing her tawdry emerald necklace back in her dresser drawer.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Charlotte. Your father asked you not to encourage him.”
“I didn’t. I was being myself, Mama. And believe me, I find it as odd as you that he seems to like me.”
“People are beginning to talk. Including Lady Whistledown.”
Charlotte drew a breath. “Herbert has been in Whistledown.”
“Only in reference to his perfect character. And speaking of Lord Herbert, he attended the Wivens soiree. Did you even notice?”
“I danced with him,” Charlotte replied, ignoring the nagging thought that she’d spent more time looking for Lord Matson, and that she hadn’t given Herbert a thought until he’d coughed and asked her to dance.
“Well, I can only hope that Matson is enough of a gentleman to realize that we’ve suffered through enough of his nonsense and that we don’t want to see him here any longer.”
Charlotte almost let her mother leave without comment. After Xavier’s angry reaction to their dismissal of her, though, she couldn’t do it. “Would it be so terrible if I had two men courting me? I thought the goal was to see me happily married. As for the specifics, Lord Herbert was simply the only one interested—until now.”
The baroness stopped. “It’s not…that isn’t…Lord Matson is a rake, Charlotte. We have no reason to believe that he is sincere in his so-called pursuit of you.”
“But what if I like him?” she asked in a quieter voice, fighting the abrupt urge to cry.
“You need to have more realistic expectations, my dear. Now cheer up. I have it on good authority that Lord Herbert will be visiting this afternoon. He’s expressed an interest in trying out my new pianoforte.”
“Oh. Splendid.”
“I don’t know what’s going on in your head any longer, Charlotte. He’ll be here any moment now. Please wear something suitable.”
Her mother closed the door. Something suitable. According to her parents’ thinking, that would be a large sack. Absently Charlotte returned to fiddling with the emerald necklace. She’d tried it on once in private, and had to admit that Lady Ibsen had been correct. It made her feel completely scandalous. She wondered whether Lady Ibsen wore a similar bauble for Lord Matson—and whether he still called on the widow.
“What does it matter?” she breathed. “He certainly isn’t having any fun calling here.”
At that moment sunlight broke through her window. Smiling, she rose to throw open the glass and lean outside. The light and warmth after
two months of cold and four straight days of rain felt glorious. She closed her eyes, basking in the glow.
“Charlotte?”
With a start she opened her eyes and looked down. Lord Matson stood on her drive, looking up at her in the window. “Good afternoon,” she whispered, blushing.
“It is now. Can you arrange to meet me somewhere?” he said, his voice barely audible.
Good heavens. Now she felt like Juliet. “Where?”
He frowned a moment, then his expression cleared. “It’s a lovely day to go walking in Hyde Park, don’t you think?”
Yes, it was, if she could convince Lord Herbert to delay his pianoforte recital. Just how much trouble she would be in if her parents discovered what she was up to, she didn’t want to think about. This afternoon, a man who stole her breath with his smile wished to see her. And she very much wished to see him. “I’ll try,” she called back down.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He returned to his carriage and instructed his driver to leave. As he vanished around the corner of the house, she took a deep breath and left her bedchamber. She really should have taken the opportunity to tell him to stop calling on her—but she couldn’t be expected to deny one more chance to live a daydream.
To say that Xavier felt frustrated was quite possibly the understatement of the century. He’d put on his most conservative clothes, conversed with the wit of a damned mortician, called on Charlotte every day for nearly a week, and he’d only managed to see her once. Obviously, after the first surprise ambush, her parents had been ready for him—either that, or Charlotte had the most active social calendar in England. Even after seeing her in her window, he was tempted to knock on her door just to see where her parents would say she’d gone today: tea with friends, the lending library, visiting a sick aunt—he’d heard it all. And so, considering the fact that he’d successfully maneuvered against Bonaparte’s best during the war, he had to admire Lord and Lady Birlings’ skill at subterfuge.
If this had been simple lust after a simple chit, he wouldn’t have cared; despite his reputation he had more than enough self-control to turn away from a female if the trouble began to outweigh the reward. This, though, was far more serious. After two hours of conversation with Charlotte, he’d gone home and torn up his list of prospective brides. It was time, then, to do some maneuvering of his own.
And so he had his carriage leave him at the edge of Hyde Park where he would be able to see anyone coming from the direction of Birling House. Who she might bring with her, he had no idea, but he didn’t much care. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to see her eyes light with passion and excitement at his touch.
He waited in the shade of an elm tree while the park grew more crowded around him. Apparently everyone meant to take advantage of the sunlight today. Good. It would make Charlotte’s attendance less suspicious to her parents.
He wondered what his brother would have said, seeing what a muck he’d made out of his hunt for a bride. Probably the first thing Anthony would have done was laugh at him for concocting a list, for thinking that he could make himself into the perfect nobleman and landowner by finding the perfect wife, as if that would resolve all of his frustrations at leaving behind a promising military career and his worries that he could never fill the boots of his new station. But Anthony would have liked Charlotte. Xavier knew that instinctively. His brother had always had a good eye for character.
He shifted, looking for a more comfortable position against the tree. Blast it, if her parents refused to let her go out-of-doors, he was going to resort to kidnaping. Just as he was beginning to formulate a plan, though, she appeared. Her maid trailing behind her, she walked with her hand around the arm of her escort—Lord Herbert Beetly.
“Bastard,” Xavier muttered, though he was more angry at her parents. Marrying Charlotte to Beetly would be like chaining a butterfly to a beetle. Despite himself he smiled a little. Beetly the beetle.
So now he had to figure out a way to get her away from the insect for at least a few minutes, because if he couldn’t kiss her this afternoon, he was going to explode. They began a stroll along one of the paths, and he shadowed them from the shrubbery. Herbert continued droning on about some sort of allergic reaction he had to grass. After Xavier nearly brained himself on a low-hanging branch, he began contemplating doing the same thing to the beetle.
Luckily for Herbert, however, an open carriage rattled by. “It’s Lady Neeley and that companion of hers,” Beetly commented, angling to keep them in sight. “I hear she wants to have Bow Street arrest Easterly for the bracelet theft.”
“Nonsense,” Charlotte replied, pulling her hand free.
Xavier slipped up behind her maid. Covering Alice’s mouth, he signaled for her to be silent, then led her directly up behind the couple. He placed Alice’s hand on Beetly’s arm, and in the same motion grabbed Charlotte and tugged her backward into the bushes.
Charlotte stumbled, and he caught her up against him before she could fall. “Shh,” he breathed, leading her further away from her escort. When they’d reached the relative privacy of a small glade, he stopped. She was out of breath, her bonnet fallen back on her shoulders, and she wore a smile of genuine delight. God, she was fascinating.
“This will never wor—”
Xavier took her by the shoulders and leaned down, covering her mouth with his. She stiffened under his grip, then relaxed into him, giving a soft, throaty moan that made him hard. “Now that is a proper greeting,” he murmured, kissing her again.
“No, it’s an improper greeting,” she corrected, her fingers digging into his sleeves.
It would be so easy to ruin her, to lay her down in the grass and make her his. Patience, he ordered himself, releasing her reluctantly. She was proper and terribly worried about appearances, and he didn’t want to frighten her. This wasn’t about an afternoon’s satisfaction; it was about a lifetime of it.
“Lord…Xavier…I’m not…I don’t play this sort of game well,” she stumbled, her gaze still focused on his mouth. “If that’s what this is—a game, I mean—I do wish you would tell me.”
Sometimes men were such fools. He’d nearly been one himself, looking at faces and popularity and shades of hair as though that mattered a whit. “It’s not a game, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “But if my character displeases you, or if you have your heart set elsewhere, please let me know so—”
With a small breath she wrapped her fingers around his lapels, leaned up along his body, and kissed him again. Well, that answered that. He slid his arms around her waist, holding her close.
“Let’s make the most of our escape, then, shall we?” he murmured, shifting his attention to her jawline.
She frowned. “I do seem to be better protected than the king, don’t I?”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry. You can tell Beetly you wandered off and thought he was right behind you.”
“You’re very devious.”
“When I need to be.”
Charlotte stepped back a little, meeting his gaze with her warm brown eyes. “I have a few questions for you, Xavier.”
His heart stammered a little. “Ask them, then.”
“Are you courting Melinda Edwards? Because she’s my friend, and I don’t want to be put in the middle of anything that might hurt her.”
He could make up something flip, he knew, but she’d probably see through it. And besides, there was something so…forthright about her that he couldn’t help wanting to respond to it. “I consulted a friend of my own,” he said slowly, “because I hadn’t been to London for quite a while and I wanted to know which lady might best suit me.”
“‘Suit you?’” she repeated.
Xavier smiled a little. “You don’t like games, do you?”
“No, I don’t.” She sighed. “It sounds silly, and I’m really not that delicate, but it’s happened several times, that I’ll be out somewhere and a man begins to pay attention to me so his friend ca
n speak with Melinda. I don’t like being the distraction.”
He touched her cheek, running a finger along her smooth skin. “No, you’re distracting,” he corrected. “And very refreshing. And I’m not playing games. I’m here to find a wife. Yes, Melinda Edwards was originally on that list. She isn’t, any longer.”
Color fled her cheeks. “But—”
“I was in the army, you know,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear her say something ridiculous like he couldn’t be seriously considering her, “and I had quite the career. I’d begun as a lieutenant, and after two years I’d been promoted to major. I was quite happy with that being my life. England’s always fighting a war somewhere.”
“What happened, then?”
“My older brother, Anthony, died last year. I was summoned home and arrived just in time for his funeral. Some sort of influenza.” He cleared his throat, wondering if she could hear how angry being abandoned by his closest friend still made him—and how lonely he still felt. “Anthony hadn’t married and had no heirs, which left me with the title.” He forced a chuckle. “Compared to being an earl, war was easy.”
“Why me?”
“Why you?” he repeated, touching her again because he couldn’t seem not to. “You defended your cousin-in-law to your mother.”
“But—”
“Not only against popular opinion, and not because you knew whether he was innocent or guilty, but because nothing had been proven. That, my dear, takes a great deal of character.”
“So you like my character.”
“Charlotte, do you like being required to behave as you do? Do you enjoy your time spent with Lord Herbert? Do you expect you’ll be perfectly happy saying yes when—and I do mean when—he asks you to marry him?”