One Night Is Never Enough (37 page)

Viola lifted her eyes from the flowers to Bill’s retreating back.

“I . . . what the devil just happened?” Emily whispered, staring at their mother, then looking into the crowd to see Bill’s figure disappear.

“Language,” Charlotte said, almost absently, her eyes locked on the crowd that had swallowed him in.

“Yes!” Emily said, voice perkier. “There he is.”

Charlotte froze. “Pardon me?”

“Incredibly Handsome Language. I’ve taken to calling him simply Handsome though, in secret,” Emily chirpingly confided, then waved a hand at someone over Charlotte’s shoulder.

And now that she knew he was within the crowd, she couldn’t look. “Emily, what are you doing?” Charlotte hissed. Even Viola had recovered from her stupor and noticed, looking to where Emily waved.

She waited until she could wait no longer, then turned and bumped into a warm body, a warm hand touching her waist to steady her.

“Pardon me,” she said, shivering beneath his hand, not looking up. All the thoughts and emotions in the last few hours, in the last week without Roman . . . all swirling around.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Gravel under honey. “While I, on the other hand, have many such things. And yet I can’t stop touching you, even when it is better that I stay away,” he whispered, too low for the others to hear. “Everything will be better. Soon. After this. Tonight.”

He stilled suddenly. Almost a complete absence of movement, his hand still touching her. She startled and looked up to see him gazing at something over her shoulder. Deadly ice, those eyes.

“Pardon me, ladies.” There was something venomous in his voice. Lethal and promising. He fluidly stepped around her, fingers drawing along the waist of her gown. Leaving a piece of paper tucked up in the ribbon under her breasts.

She turned, flustered, gripping a hand over the tucked paper as if it had the answer to every question she had ever asked, and saw him stalk toward a man who stood across the street. A man with a feral look to him. The man scowled upon seeing Roman, turned, and scurried into the crowd—not seeing Andreas standing nearby, a hellish smile about his mouth as he smoothly pivoted and followed.

Roman’s pace increased as he moved after them, crowd parting around him. Expensive clothing moving with the stretch of his muscles. Savagery with the edge of polish. He disappeared from view a moment later.

“I say, Charlotte.” Emily just kept blinking. “Each time I see him, I’m rendered stupid. Can I keep him? Or set him on Margaret Smith?”

Viola’s eyes were narrowed, and she looked at Charlotte for a long moment before she looked to Emily. “Do you know that man, Emily?”

“I have only partially met him. Charlotte was rather abrupt with him last time.” Emily gave her a teasing grin. “I look forward to meeting him at a ball though. I bet he knows well how to dance.”

Viola’s eyes were piercing. “Who is he, Charlotte?”

Emily blinked, brows furrowed as she looked from her mother to her sister. Obviously thinking with the way he was dressed and the fact that he had known Charlotte, it meant he was of the
ton.

Charlotte looked at her mother evenly. “An acquaintance of Father’s.”

And she saw everything in her mother’s eyes connecting the threads.
Knowing.

Viola looked at the flowers in her fist. “And the other man?”

“A friend of his. Acting completely on his own.” She added the last instinctively.

Viola said nothing for long moments, then she lifted her chin, looking at Charlotte, expression unreadable. “Very well.” She turned and began walking slowly, flowers in the crook of her arm. “Shall we see whether the sweets here are any good?” she called over her shoulder. “Quality sweets, even in such an unrefined guise, should never be sacrificed.”

Emily looked as if she’d been goosed, but a wild and thrilling emotion ran through Charlotte. Hope.

Charlotte quickly caught up to her mother, with Emily a beat behind. “I didn’t realize you were interested in sweets, Mother.”

“Perhaps that has been my trouble all along. Not choosing to change circumstances to my advantage.” Viola brought her chin up farther. “If one isn’t offered a sweet, it is up to that person to take one or make her own.”

“But—” Charlotte looked at the hem of her expensive dress as it floated above her equally costly slippers. “Sometimes you can’t simply take one. It upsets the whole balance.”

“Of course it does. And makes it incumbent on others to find their own paths.” Viola waved a hand at Emily. “Take your sister. You don’t think that she would lose her way in this world if something happened to the rest of us, do you? Bah. She’s always been the quickest of our lot.”

Emily blinked, but Charlotte smiled, tension and giddiness mixing, pressing her lips together.

“She’d probably take over France, or destroy it, if someone let her in on the strategy meetings. Your father is an idiot not to see it.” There was a lot of relish in the statement, their mother’s voice flowing like a dam finally broken. Free. “He lost his way long ago, thinking there was only one way to skin a rabbit. And I lost my way brooding over his choices.”

“But there is clearly a best way to skin one.” Charlotte gripped her skirt, lingering tension still thrumming through her over her choice. “And sometimes pieces must be sacrificed.”

“No, we aren’t playing chess,” Emily said softly, breaking in to the conversation, putting her hand upon Charlotte’s arm. “And it is not necessarily that there is a best way, only one that is
easiest.
”

As their mother had pointed out, Emily was far from stupid, and she had obviously put things together quickly.

“I—I plan to make my own mistakes, Charlotte. My own choices. Would you take that away from me?”

Charlotte looked at her, shocked and confused. “Of course not, Emily. That is the point. You will be able to make any choice that you wish.”

“At your expense? Do you think I could live with that knowledge?”

Charlotte took her shoulders in her hands. “There is nothing for you to feel guilty about.
Nothing.
It is my choice.”

“And so too do I want to make my own. But not on the back of yours.” She tipped her chin up. “I will make Father proud. Or I will make him rue his estimation of me. Either way, I want to do it on my own. And I want you to be
happy.
I—” She sent a quick look their mother’s way, who was pretending interest in a stall at their right though obviously still listening. “I can’t believe I didn’t piece it together sooner that he was not of the
ton.
But I saw you one night. Maybe, er, more than one night. Together. And didn’t think on that aspect.”

Panic took Charlotte.

Emily gripped her hand. “Charlotte, I’ve never seen you so happy and relaxed. And I know that even though you are arguing with me now, you have thought of alternatives. You simply need to be confident as you walk down
your
path.” She shrugged, a smile loosening her lips, her shoulders letting loose a tiny bit. “Besides, you’d never leave me. If I wanted to join you, you’d make sure I had a place to stay. Maybe I could get a dangerous Handsome to call my own.”

Their mother gave Emily a look but was waved over by a matron a few paces away before she could respond.

“His name . . . his name is Roman,” Charlotte said, unable to move anything but her lips.

“Is it?” Emily looked at Charlotte slyly from beneath her lids as their mother drew past hearing range. “Nice to know. Almost as nice as the deal you made with Miranda to sponsor me should things go badly.”

Charlotte reacted as if
she’d
been goosed. “How do you—?”

Emily hummed. “Best to keep my secrets to myself.” She hummed a little more, walking away. “Like how it has been quite drafty in the house lately. I should speak to Anna about leaving windows open.”

Charlotte looked after her sister, stunned. Then she narrowed her eyes and decided maybe the carriage wheel was still the way for her to go.

Emily laughed, seeming to understand the thought, and raced away. Charlotte raced after her, and
part
of the burden she had shouldered for so long slipped away.

Chapter 22

T
he address was highly respectable. A little
too
respectable. Charlotte had
walked
from her family’s house, a mere five-minute jaunt. And into an even nicer section of town. Only hiding her identity from the dozen or more people she had encountered—and knew socially—because she had worn Roman’s large cloak and kept her head lowered.

She stood on the stoop, knowing that if she turned around, there would be at least one person looking her way. For there was always someone looking for a bit of gossip to be had. Always a Bethany to be found.

Though not for much longer.

Charlotte swallowed. Everything she had believed would make her
content
was awaiting her at home. Freedom from her father, freedom for Emily, an assured place in society. If it wasn’t pure happiness, that was a dream she had parted from long ago.

A dream that had once more crawled through her window and slipped beneath her covers nearly two months past. A dream that had carried her here to this stoop.

She rapped the door with the gleaming knocker.

The door opened immediately. And there he was, golden and gorgeous, leaning languidly against the jamb, the light filtering around him, stroking him. He smiled slowly, only the underlining thread of tension strumming beneath his muscled skin giving him away.

Sleeves rolled up, golden forearms tracked with old scars, clothes assuredly hiding a plethora of weapons that would shine under the lights. Scars and risk.

Eyes hooded and uncertain.

She smiled and walked past him into the foyer. Chancing the disillusionment that might one day grace his face. The shattering of confidence and dreams. The force constantly pushing and pulling within her between external bravery and internal vulnerability.

But there was a little of that in everyone. Even in the man standing behind her.

He closed the door, and it was a loud sound in the empty entryway. She gazed around her, pushing back her hood, but it didn’t seem as if anyone lived in the house. “Yours?”

He tilted his head. “Let us say I’m borrowing it for the night.” He motioned toward the stairs. “The parlor has a few pieces left, though the new owner will have to furnish this place soon, don’t you think?”

She blinked, not really caring about whoever owned the place. Someone wealthy—the address and size of the house guaranteed it. And undoubtedly someone with clout since the neighbors on this particular block were quite powerful and able to dictate and influence who could purchase property.

The parlor was roomy, and thankfully there were a few pieces for them to sit upon and use. In fact, there was a bookcase full of games and books and a small liquor rack that looked very similar to Roman’s.

“No servants or service. Hope you don’t mind.” He kicked back on the settee, putting his feet up on a low table. But his voice sounded strange, almost as if he were hesitant.

She perched next to him, wanting to blurt out all manner of things, trying to find something inane of which to speak instead in order to hide her nerves. “I don’t mind serving myself, but perhaps you should remove your feet?”

A full smile drew across his lips, banishing some of the hesitancy. “I’ll ask permission later. Or forgiveness.”

That sounded more like him.

She touched his cheek. “You are well?” She gave up on engaging in a battle of words—too relieved to see him whole and unharmed.

He froze beneath her hand, then ever so slightly leaned into the touch, eyes closing for a moment. “Of course. Fixed any threats to your safety, didn’t we?”

She examined his serious expression. There was nothing amused about it at the moment. “I . . . I don’t know?”

The edges of his eyes pinched, and he withdrew her hand from his cheek, holding it in his. “I’d never have met with you otherwise. I would have had One-eye tell you to come another day.”

That was something she would address in a moment. But first . . . “Does that mean you are safe?”

The skin around his eyes stayed taut. “I will never be safe.” His entire body vibrated as he leaned toward her. “You have no idea how many times this past week I planned never to see you again.”

She swallowed at the sudden cold his words produced but said nothing as he continued.

“To let you live your life without a trace of me in it. And yet, selfish bastard that I am, here I am.” He tipped her chin up, his gaze switching from one of her eyes to the other and back again, trying to read her. “But I will never be safe. Do you understand that, Charlotte?”

He—and Andreas—had made it blindingly obvious, so the answer, if not the emotion that accompanied it, was easy.

“Yes,” she whispered, having thought things through all week, even with immediately knowing what her answer would be. “And if I have to sew
you
up, if I have to wait up every night, then I will.”

He stared at her, fingers frozen on her chin.

She took his hand in hers, a reflection of his previous motions, and pulled it to her lap. “So, yes, Roman,” she said calmly. “I know.”

His eyes shut for a moment, and he shook his head minutely before opening them again. “There is no wonder in me, no question, as to why I am here. Only that it is not the right choice for you.”

She grabbed
his
chin. “And yet you
are
here. And I am
glad.
”

A sliver of a smile curved his lips, the light she so loved there in the back of his eyes.

“Now—” She primly crossed her hands in her lap. “Tell me what has happened in this week that you’ve been absent from my window.”

He reached out and tugged one of her curls, coiling it in his fingers. “We took care of all threats to you. But there are outside forces that must be dealt with.” His eyes tightened again.

“Outside forces?”

He smiled grimly. “A . . . rival. And Andreas’s
family
must be dealt with.”

She blinked.

“But I will always keep
you
safe.” His eyes went fierce and dangerous, just as they had in the Hunsdens’ shop so long ago. “No one will dare try something like what happened the other night again, not with you anywhere in the vicinity. I made sure the repercussions of such actions would be seen as . . . decidedly unpleasant.”

“What did you do?”

The tight smile didn’t fade. And neither did a word cross his lips.

“Roman.”

He laced their fingers together. “I just had to lay some groundwork—make the consequences known. That if someone hurt you, even unintentionally during an attack on one of us, that they had better make sure to eliminate me as well as half the city of London. I have dozens lined up to do my last bidding—which would be to get revenge for you. Bloodily.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged.

He watched her carefully. Waiting, she realized, for her to bolt in terror.

“Why?” she whispered.

Stabbing pools of piercing blue pinned her. “I would destroy the city if something happened to you. I can’t even bear the thought of it,” he whispered.

She couldn’t speak for a moment, emotion clogging her throat. Love and fear, pain and desire plugging the channel.

And then she couldn’t stop the words, she simply blurted them out.

“Trant proposed.”

Roman’s entire body stiffened, then he turned fluid, playing with her fingers. “Did he?” There was a loose smile about his lips as he leaned back into the cushions.

What are you doing? Get yourself together! Stop rushing!

“And did your father accept?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words all clogged together, tumbling around with her emotions. She had practiced three times in front of a mirror, and even on the third try she had tripped and stumbled.

She withdrew her hand—with difficulty, for she wanted to stay exactly where she was, for eternity. Surprisingly, he let her go. She couldn’t look at his face, though, to see the expression there, or else it would all just tumble out with no sense of order. And there was still that thread of lingering fear in her—that she could be wrong.

She rose and walked to the liquor stand, lifting a replica of his favorite decanter—half-full—with shaky fingers. She grabbed two glasses, guessing that it was One-eye’s easy brew, and she need not worry about any hint of inebriation coloring her words. She poured more steadily than she had any right to claim. “I will tell you of the conversation. But first, what else did you wish to speak to me of tonight?”

“Getting more slippery, are we, Charlotte?” He rose as well, pressing his shoulder against the case that held all manner of games and puzzles and accepted the glass from her. His eyes were unreadable, but intensely focused. His body almost vibrating against the wood. “But I find I can’t concentrate on other matters at the moment. Are congratulations in order?”

Congratulations. It depended on how one thought of the word. For she could secure all of her old goals by wedding Trant. And such a conclusion would necessitate congratulations.

She could marry Trant, become a countess—perhaps even more one day—and still have Roman. And when Roman grew tired of her, she could bandage her heart and look to other shores. Emily would be taken care of. Would have freedom to choose. Would have powerful relatives sheltering her.

The right choice. The safe choice. The smart choice.

A choice given to congratulations.

And she knew that Roman would understand such a choice. He prized determination and survival. She would be showing good use of both by accepting Trant’s proposal.

He expected her to accept.

She could even see it in his eyes now, that he assumed all of the above. That he had long expected this particular order of operations to occur.

Only his remembered words from that first night said otherwise and pointed to other desires.
Will you possess me right back?

What will you do, Charlotte? Hmmm? The answer to that, the desire to know that answer—that is my motive.

“You don’t wish to speak of your decision, Charlotte? But I find myself curious about what was said.” He smiled winningly, but even as he could read her, she found that she could read him too. The way his eyes moved and the position of his body. His words so at odds with his expressions.

“I am quite sure that is true.” She looked straight into his eyes. “After all, you created this situation in order for a decision to be spurred.”

His eyes immediately dropped to his drink, hiding his gaze for a long moment before he looked back up. He motioned his glass toward her. “Why would you say that?”

“It took me far too long to suss it out, I’m sorry to say. But it became more obvious as Trant was speaking. As I connected a thousand small things together with your words the other night. You. You engineered it so Trant would receive a title
soon
. And that he would be willing to negotiate with me extensively in order to secure it quickly. Probably even backing up such negotiations with a bodily threat or two,” she said lightly, not feeling the emotion at all. “Knowing exactly what to say. Giving me far greater power than I had before.”

He looked neither resigned nor apologetic about any of her statements. He simply tipped his glass, watching her.

“What is interesting,” she continued, “is if you could so easily move Trant’s title forward, why wouldn’t you secure one for yourself?”

And now everything about him screamed tension. “I have no desire to be titled. I
never
will hold that desire.” The warning in his words was quite clear.

She watched him, the coil within her growing tighter, readying. The script she had practiced in front of the mirror was long tossed away, the right words suddenly finding their way to her tongue. She hummed a bit. “It would make life simpler, easier.”

He set his glass down, eyes carefully blank. “I don’t like simple. Or easy. Those choices are for people with no imagination. Or drive.”

“And what happens when your game ends? Does another immediately begin? Or do you wait a few months before starting a new quest?”

His eyes narrowed, trying to read her. But she held her lips still, her chin immobile, determined not to make it easy. “It depends on the type of game, of course. And what I have at stake.”

Yes. It was one of the aspects about him that her internal fear could see past. He played games with people—many, many people—but when he collected someone, they were
his,
seemingly forever. The evidence of that was all over the establishment he called home.

And . . . and
she
was part of his collection. That was blatantly obvious from his words to her, from his threat to the populace of London’s underground. The question was . . . would such a collection
be
permanent?