Springtime Pleasures (18 page)

She wrinkled her nose.

Affection?

Well,
warm
affection.

Very
warm affection.

For a brief moment, she allowed herself to wonder whether Chanderley shared her sentiments. Surely he must feel a degree of fondness for her, or he wouldn’t have kissed her so ardently, would he?

“O waly, waly, up the bank,

And waly, waly, down the brae,” Isabella sang softly.

Hastily, Charlie pushed the memory of Chanderley’s kisses aside. Emma-Lee would probably tell her that it was not seeming to think of a gentleman’s kisses while driving through the Park with his sister.

So she joined her voice, loud and clear, to Isabella’s more hesitant, softer one.

“When cockle shells turn silver bells,

Then will my love return to me.

When roses grow in the wintry snow,

Then will my love return to me…”

~*~

The day of the Tollham ball dawned brightly. It started fortuitously, for in the morning Cousin Caroline’s beau brought her a posy and presented it to her very correctly, with a bow and a smile and many charming words. Cousin Caroline had blushed prettily, and once Mr Clarke had taken his leave of them—not forgetting to enquire markedly whether he would have the pleasure of standing up with Miss Dolmore at Lady Tollham’s ball tonight—Aunt Dolmore was thrown into raptures of delight over the yellow roses. Surely the flowers could be taken as an indication of Mr Clarke’s interest in dear Caroline, and it went without saying that Caroline
must
wear a selection of the much-admired roses tonight. One or two delicate blossoms pinned to the bodice of her dress perhaps. Or even better: a tiara of roses wrought into Caroline’s hair.

But alas, fashioning a tiara from roses proved to be beyond the powers of Mary, Caroline’s maid. As a result, the household was in an upheaval: Aunt Dolmore scolded the hapless girl, who under the battery of shrill accusations burst into a storm of tears, while Cousin Caroline was in the mops. Disaster threatened, and in the lengthy interval that was spent on doing things to the remaining roses, Charlie had ample time to look at herself in the glass in her room. She wondered whether there was anything she could do about the unsightly wrinkles and saggings of her ballgown, which, being another dress of Caroline’s from the last Season, was much too full in the bust. The seamstress that had been called in to do the alterations had merely lengthened the hem of the dress, this being deemed sufficient by Aunt Dolmore. After all, it was much more important that Caroline had a new dress to fix the interest of Mr Clarke.

Charlie looked at herself from all angles and then sighed. “You, my girl, have been living with your head up in the clouds,” she told herself sternly as she pinched some of the excess fabric of the bodice. “You could have easily done the alterations yourself if your head hadn’t been so full of other things.”

Wistfully, she gazed into the mirror. Was it really true that it needed a pretty gown to fix the interest of a gentleman? But then the dress she had been wearing at the Frimsey ball hadn’t been the height of fashion either, had it? “And anyway,” Charlie said to her reflection, “it is now much too late to do anything beyond the merest superficialities.” With deft fingers she inserted a few pins into the bodice to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles.

Satisfied, Charlie surveyed her handiwork. “Not perfect, but better. Definitely better.” She wrinkled her nose.
Just remember to take them out before Chanderley does any of those lovely, lovely things again.
Her skin prickled at the memory of the things he had done to her in the Frimseys’ conservatory. How had she been supposed to know that relations between a man and a woman could be so… so… “Pleasant,” she murmured. More than pleasant, really. No wonder gentlemen paid courtesans to do things that were normally done only for procreation.

Not for nothing had Charlie been raised in the countryside, surrounded by acres and acres of farmland. She knew what procreation looked like—only the sheep had never seen very
pleased
with the proceedings.

But perhaps the rams did something
wrong
, for Chanderley’s manly instrument had felt rather nice against Charlie. She looked at herself in the mirror, at her suddenly rosy cheeks. “Very, very nice,” she whispered, feeling warmth pool in her lower body, that part of her which had been pressed so deliciously against Chanderley. “Hmmm…” She shivered at the remembered pleasure, and smoothed her hands over her stomach. It was probably very wicked of her to hope that Chanderley would indeed whisk her away into the one of the nooks in the Tollham library.

She remembered how his hips had moved against her, bucking like a young horse, how his tongue, hot and moist, had tangled with hers. She remembered the exciting sound of his accelerated breaths, the small growls that had seemed to reverberate right through her body.

She moved her legs as dampness formed between them—just as it had three nights ago. “Hmmm…”

If he showed no indication to whisk her away she might just have to talk him into it.

The mouth of Charlie-in-the-mirror curved into a satisfied smile.

~*~

By the time they finally arrived at the Tollhams’ impressive mansion, the dancing was already in full swing. Charlie found Isabella in an almost secluded alcove, a glass of lemonade standing on a small table next to her and her homely blond cousin lounging in a chair beside her. He stood when Charlie approached the pair. “Miss Stanton.” He bowed.

“Good evening.” She dropped him a curtsy.

“Carlotta.” With a beaming smile, Isabella held out her hand. “I must thank you again for the music album you have given me.”

Charlie took the proffered hand and willingly let her friend draw her onto the chair next to her.

“It has afforded me so much pleasure to leave through the music. So many pretty songs!” Isabella’s cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with animation.

Charlie caught a glance from Mr Cole, who had sunk back onto his chair and was following the girls’ conversation. He gave Charlie a warm smile and a slight nod, before his eyes flicked to his cousin. His expression softened with tenderness.

“St. Cuthbert’s must be a very musical establishment,” Isabella said.

A pang of homesickness shot through Charlie. Good old St. Cuthbert’s! “We had a most excellent music teacher, and we girls all swapped music we had brought from home. Some girls’ parents were in the diplomatic corps and some were rich merchants who travelled to the Continent and faraway places, and sent parcels with books and music and sweets.” Charlie grinned. “Mr Bernstone, our music teacher, often referred to us as Horrible Heathens, for we were most interested in the sweets, and only after
they
were gone did we turn to the books and music. Though we liked these, too, of course,” she added.

Isabella sat leaned slightly forward, as if intent on absorbing every little detail of Charlie’s narrative.

“We did receive music from the Far East once—can you imagine? Most wonderful! Alas, nobody could read it, but still… We considered it capital, naturally. Yet we found sheet music and music albums from Vienna even more marvellous. It seemed to us such a glittering place, full of delights. The place where the great Mozart worked!”

Isabella clapped her hands together. “Vienna! Oh yes, it must be such a pretty city! How I wish…” Her expression grew wistful. “I wish I could visit the place… some time…”

“Visit where?” a new voice asked.

Charlie looked around to find Chanderley at her side. He glanced down at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “Miss Stanton.”

Delight suffused Charlie and made her face grow warm. “My lord.”

“If I’m not mistaken, the two ladies were planning to run away to Vienna,” Mr Cole drawled. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Boo!” Isabella protested laughingly. “As if we would ever do such a thing!”

“You were ready to order a coach,” her cousin teased.

Chanderley snorted. “That would have been a short-lived adventure. You would have been stopped at the coast because you didn’t have any papers.”

Isabella sighed.

Charlie pointed an accusing finger at Chanderley. “You, sir, are not a romantic.”

He raised his brows. “On the contrary, Miss Stanton.” The teasing twinkle turned into a dangerous glitter. “Let me prove it to you. Will you do the honour of dancing the next dance with me?”

A little mischievous devil inside her made Charlie continue to tease him. “A dance, my lord?” she said, widening her eyes. “From you, this is a sizable romantic gesture indeed, given how much you generally detest the exercise.”

“You aggravating girl,” Chanderley retorted without heat. He grabbed Charlie’s hand and propelled her to her feet. “Come, and we’ll see how much I detest the exercise.” He threw a look at his cousin and sister. “If you will excuse us, Izzie, Boo.”

Isabella smiled, yet from Mr Cole’s face all amusement had been wiped clear. He exchanged an unfathomable glance with his cousin, but Chanderley only shrugged before he turned his attention back to Charlie. “Shall we, Miss Stanton?”

For a moment Charlie wondered what could have bothered Mr Cole to such an extent. Yet how was she to concentrate on such matters when Chanderley smiled at her just
so
, and she could feel she hard muscles of his forearm as she rested her hand on his arm?

Giddiness bubbled up inside her.
Pea-goose!
she scolded herself—not that it helped much.

“By all means, my lord,” she said, and hoped she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt.

~*~

Dancing with Miss Stanton was… magical.

There was no other word for it.

The air around her seemed to hum with her vibrancy, her
joie de vivre
, and whenever he touched her, a tingle shot up his arm—as if her were still a green boy and she the first woman he had clapped eyes on.

Yes, he had misgivings about
that
. It indicated an alarming lack of control. At the same time, he craved her touch. Heck, in her company, he felt more alive than he had in years.

And he was not the only one, it would seem.

If he was not mistaken, that glow on Izzie’s cheeks had been conjured up by Miss Stanton’s presence. His sister looked happier than she had in a very long time. Naturally, he was grateful, but it was more than that.

He felt that if they were characters in a story, Miss Stanton would be just the kind of heroine who would happily cut her little finger off to open the door to the glass mountain and save those whom she loved.

On second thought…

His lips twitched.

On second thought, Miss Stanton wouldn’t cut her finger off, but would manage to open the door by some other means, involving pins and a nail file.

When he met her in the set, she animatedly told him of sheet music and Vienna.

He felt his lips curve into a smile.

Or, perhaps, she would run the Glass Mountain over like a juggernaut.

Or bamboozle it into opening up all by itself.

She was the kind of heroine who could lift magic spells. Indeed, it seemed to him that perhaps she had lifted the pall that had lain over his sister and himself ever since that dreadful accident. For the first time in months and year, the future seemed bright and full of possibilities.

Her green eyes twinkled charmingly as they met again. “I don’t think you are listening to me, my lord. Is it the dance or my company that you find so fatiguing?”

Minx.
“Neither, I assure you, Miss Stanton.”

They walked around another couple, then their hands met, and she pressed his fingers. Leaning towards him, she murmured, “Didn’t you want to show me the library, my lord?”

“Absolutely
not
!” he hissed back. Not that he wasn’t tempted, but—no, he would not take advantage of her innocence a second time.

Her lips twitched.

“So you would renege on your promise?” she said at the next possibility.

“I did no—”

“There is no need to be polite,” she said mournfully. “It is because of my dress.”

“Your dress?” Perplexed, he glanced down her lithe body, which was sheathed in a yellow dress. Truth to be told, it was rather unsightly, but she surely, she didn’t suppose… “I haven’t even noticed your dress until now,” he said defensively, realising at the same moment that this was nothing but the truth: while he certainly had noticed her ungainly dresses and ugly spectacles at the beginning of their acquaintance, he no longer noticed them now that he was fully enraptured by her charm and vitality, her intelligence and humour. For all he cared, she could wear an old sack and he wouldn’t notice.

He was aware of her thoughtful regard. All at once he felt horribly exposed, as if his skin had been scraped raw, laying bare all his thoughts and secrets.

He rolled his shoulders to shake off the uncomfortable feeling.

They met again, and Miss Stanton once again pressed his fingers as if in reassurance. “Have you a favourite composer? Personally, I like Mozart monstrously well, but really, any of the traditional songs are very pretty as well.”

He cleared his throat, concentrated on the steps of the dance. “I have no fixed preference.”

She glanced at him sideways, and from the corner of his eyes he could see an impish smile dancing around the corners of her mouth. “Shall we discuss poets, then?”

Amused, he shook his head at her.

Her smile widened.

They separated again, danced around another couple, came together, hand clasping hand.

He loved the feeling of her slender fingers in his. His thumb stroked over the back of her hand. How he wished he was touching skin!

“Infernal gloves!” he muttered.

She laughed, throwing him a teasing look over her shoulder as she danced away from him.

He couldn’t suppress the thought of how much he wanted to catch her and hold her and never let her go.

To have and to hold.

While his thoughts were still whirling around in mad array, the set came to an end.

In the crush that ensued as people were walking off the dance floor and other people came onto the dance floor, Miss Stanton was pressed against him.