Three Schemes and a Scandal (11 page)

She had to do something while waiting for him to call.

That was, besides
despise
the rule that IT WAS NOT DONE for ladies to visit gentlemen.

So she read other people’s mail, naturally. While James did not visit. Or write. Or in any way indicate his awareness that she existed in the world.

Logic or madness—one of the two—compelled her to recognize two facts. She had hoped he had something important to say that day. In fact, she hoped it had been a marriage proposal.

That a proposal was not issued, nor did he even pop in to chat about the weather for just a few moments, sent Charlotte spiraling to the depths of despair.

Tonight, however …

Tonight she would Take Action. While she usually abhorred standing in the receiving line with Brandon and Sophie, tonight it served to her advantage.

At 8:17 James arrived, looking devastatingly handsome in the stark black of his evening dress. His hair was brushed back, accentuating that scar which slanted across his cheek, drawing her gaze down, down, down to his sensuous mouth.

Charlotte stared. And paid no attention to Lady Layton’s polite chatter with Sophie, though something struck her as unusual.

“… what a coup that the author George Coney shall be in attendance tonight …”

Very well, that caught Charlotte’s attention. It was impossible that Lady Layton had heard of George Coney because 1) George Coney did not exist and 2) it was highly unlikely she had heard about the wager at the Capulet ball and 3) the book that was the subject of the wager, like its author, did not exist.

She must be turning into one of those idiotic misses who lost brain matter in the presence of handsome men with devastating kisses, exquisitely torturous caresses and rakish smiles that made a girl weak in the knees.

Dear Lord God Above. She wanted to slap herself. But she really wanted to be swept into his embrace as his mouth crashed down upon hers for a scorching kiss…

“Good evening, Charlotte,” James murmured, clasping her hand.

“Hello, James,” she managed to reply. Her heart was beating wildly. Her thoughts were scattered wildly and she was afraid she might be blushing.

“You look fine this evening,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” she said, doing her best to sound demure when in fact her heart was skipping beats. He thought her pretty!

And then, oh then, James’s gaze locked with hers and she ceased to notice the throngs of peers and peeresses, the music from the orchestra … everything went away but James. She tried to read all the unspoken thoughts and secret desires that supposedly lurked in one’s gaze but she only concluded that she
wanted
him. And wanted him alone.

“Well, I shall see you later this evening, Charlotte,” he murmured, squeezing her hand affectionately. Then he smiled. Then he winked.
Winked!

“Wait—” She reached out impulsively and clasped his hand. “I have saved the fourth waltz for you.”

It was immensely forward to say such a thing. But she had to speak with him and a waltz ensured at least four minutes of conversation in which neither party could flee.

There was also the small fact that she simply wanted to waltz with him.

“I shall look forward to it,” he replied, not at all chastising her for such a brazen, unladylike order. That was why he was the man for her.

Specifically, Behind a Pillar

James thought Charlotte looked beautiful tonight. Haughty, but vulnerable. Tortured but determined. Distracted. She probably suspected that a scheme was in the works—one instigated by someone else for a change. Namely, by him. It wasn’t every night that a man proposed and when a man was proposing to Charlotte not just any display of romance would do. No, one must have a touch of genius, be a bit devious …

If Charlotte hadn’t suspected a scheme, she was about to.

James watched from his discrete vantage point behind the pillar as Lady Tweetley approached, armed with information that he had supplied to Lady Roxbury who had passed it along to the necessary gossips.

“Charlotte! Have you heard? George Coney is here! Tonight!” Lady Tweetley tittered before flitting off to spread this impossible news to each and every guest in attendance tonight.

“That is impossible,” Charlotte said flatly. James grinned.

“Is it?” Harriet mused. James’s smile vanished. It had been tricky involving Harriet for he worried how she would hold up under the strain of keeping secrets from Charlotte. But in the end, it had been essential to his plan. Someone had to make sure that Charlotte was escorted to
the west
drawing room while guests all shuffled off to
the east
drawing room.

“Of course it’s impossible. You know as well as I do that George Coney doesn’t exist,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and he could practically see the machinery in her brain working.

The point of the gossip was for Charlotte to anticipate something. Anticipation was key.

However, there was also the problem of Harriet’s nerves fraying under the pressure of Charlotte’s ruthless and relentless logic.

“Perhaps there is an impersonator!” Harriet burst out.

Charlotte’s expression was skeptical. And then the two girls were interrupted by the arrival of Lady Talleyrand and Lady Inchbald.

“Lady Charlotte! Perhaps you can help us. We are so keen to hear George Coney read from his book,
The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney
. Where might we find the library?”

“Oh, no,” interrupted Lord Derby. “He’s reading in the east drawing room.”

“It was in one of the drawing rooms, I think,” Lady Inchbald said.

“No, the library!” yet another guest interrupted.

“Was it in the west drawing room or the east drawing room?” Lady Talleyrand mused. “It was one of the two. Or perhaps the north. I just cannot recall.”

James didn’t give a damn where these people went at midnight when George Coney was expected to “read.” However, it was above all absolutely essential and imperative that Charlotte be in the west drawing room at midnight and that no one else be present.

Harriet, poor Harriet. It was her job to ensure just that.

To assist herself in that endeavor, she had written
west drawing room
on her palm. He had watched her do it.

James now watched her surreptitiously attempt to remove her glove so that she might discretely glance at the answer written on her hand and direct the throngs accordingly.

Charlotte glanced around her, absorbing the information.

James feared his carefully, well laid plans were unraveling by the second. It was deuced hot in this ballroom. Was this tension what Charlotte felt all the time since she was scheming nearly all the time?

“Well what is the worst that could happen if we go to the west drawing room and not the east one?” Lady Talleyrand asked with a piercing laugh.

Disaster
, James thought. He tugged at his cravat, which had been tied awfully tight this evening.

“We shall miss a portion of the reading!” Lady Inchbald lamented.

“It’s in the library,” Lord Derby insisted.

George Coney doesn’t even exist,
James thought to himself. He was sure Charlotte was thinking the same. He glanced at Charlotte—her brow was furrowed and she was furiously thinking, he could tell.

Harriet succeeded in removing her glove.

“Perhaps you should confer with the duchess,” Charlotte suggested. “Do let me know what she tells you. I would also perish if I were to miss this reading.”

“We shall do just that. I should hate to miss it,” Lady Talleyrand said.

“Indeed I am dying to hear from the book that is sold out in bookstores all over London! Not a copy to be had! I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it Charlotte,” Lady Inchbald added.

Charlotte was biting down on her lower lip. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. One could practically see the wheels turning and the steam rising. It was clear to him that she was completely vexed by all the nonsense.

Was it wrong he thought her adorable in that moment?

“Harriet, do you know anything about this?” Charlotte asked in a remarkably calm voice after the bothersome guests had departed in search of the duchess.

“About what?” Harriet asked. She blinked her eyes for effect.

“Harriet …”

“I am parched, utterly parched,” Harriet declared. Without further ado she strode determinedly toward the lemonade table—unwittingly dropping her glove where it was promptly trampled underfoot on the ballroom floor.

In times of uncertainty, ambiguity and chaos, Charlotte—like her dear brother—resorted to facts, and the facts were thus:

George Coney did not exist. Certainly not in human form. Once upon a time George Coney existed as a beloved pet rabbit, who met an untimely demise.

While gossip did have a way of getting twisted, contorted and badgered into new
on dits
, passed around on good authority, in the strictest confidence, Charlotte did not think mention of George Coney’s reading at midnight was the result of people’s idle chatter regarding her invented author and book at the Capulet ball Thursday last. Because …

Charlotte had a sixth sense for sniffing out plots, schemes, mischief and trouble of all kinds. Tonight, she detected a scheme.

Charlotte, it should be noted, was the grand master architect of schemes. She was not an unwitting pawn. However, tonight she suspected she was indeed an unwitting pawn!

Such were her thoughts when James approached her … in addition to thoughts that were utterly unladylike and completely wanton and had little to do with rumors and secret, nefarious plots and more to do with the removal of his attire.

“I believe you promised me this waltz,” James said, ever the gentleman. Though she might have detected a distinctly ungentlemanly gleam in his eye. For the first time she understood the saying “butterflies in one’s stomach.”

He held out his hand and she placed her palm in his. Then he whisked her into his arms and swept her onto the floor, in the crush of dozens of other waltzing couples. They spun and whirled around the ballroom in perfect time with the music.

“
How are you enjoying your evening?” James asked with a polite smile. She was sure he was hiding something.

“It’s far more interesting than I had anticipated,” Charlotte replied, hoping to convey
I know something is in the works so you might as well just tell me. Everything.

“What good fortune,” he said benignly.

She tried again.

“Like most of the people here, I am all agog for the reading of George Coney’s book,
The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney
. I imagine you must be as well?”

“You look pretty tonight,” James said. Her mind went blank.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling. And then she scowled as her wits returned to her. “Also, you are avoiding the question.”

“Your eyes are so blue. Like sapphires,” James murmured.

“My heart is aflutter,” Charlotte remarked dryly, though it certainly did feel as if her heart was aflutter. No gentleman had ever complimented her eyes before, unless to remark that she had a wicked, dangerous, maniacal gleam which she did not think was intended as a compliment though she took it as such nevertheless.

Sapphires, though. That was something.

“In spite of my fluttering heart, my suspicions are still raised,” Charlotte said.

“Your mouth. I want to taste you, Charlotte,” James leaned in close as he said this, so close that he could whisper it in her ear. She thought
Kiss me.
She thought
Taste me.
She thought …

“You are up to something. What is it?” Charlotte asked, unable to master subtly or discretion.

“Your intelligence is—” James began and she cut him off before he could finish that sentence.

“Vast. Deep. Sharp, all-encompassing,” she said as he grinned. “What are you not telling me?”

“And your tenacity! ’Tis that of a terrier,” James said and when her mouth dropped open in shock he hastily added, “I mean that as the highest compliment.”

Charlotte loved sparring. But she hated not knowing. And she did have the tenacity of a terrier.

“You were going to say something,” she said. And then she gave him her most dazzling smile to compel him into sharing his secrets.

“And the rest of you Charlotte … You are truly sublime,” he said. The modicum of her brain that was still functioning processed this unparalleled compliment. Sublime: excellence and beauty inspiring awe. Also, so awe-inspiring as to be both magnificent and terrifying.

This was a good compliment in her book.

Her grip on him tightened. She was afraid to speak, for fear that she would confess to loving him, and to being weak-kneed with lust and delirious with desire for him.

“Oh,” she said in a manner half-spoken, half-sighed. And then, “Oh, no.”

They stepped quickly in three-quarter time, and James whirled them around so that he might see why she had said “Oh, no” in a very grave voice.

“Oh my God,” James said. His sun-kissed skin paled.

Charlotte did her best to lead them into another turn so she could confirm that unfathomable sight.

“Is that—?” she gasped. Of all the things she had ever seen at a London ball, this was new. This was novel. She had suspected a scheme, but this was entirely unexpected.

“It is,” James said, his sensuous mouth set in a grim line.

And then all hell broke loose.

I
n hindsight, perhaps the rabbit hadn’t been the best idea. In theory, there had been a certain poetry to the gesture of gifting Charlotte with a new pet rabbit, which he took the liberty of naming George Coney the Second.

He and Charlotte had first bonded over poor, rescued George Coney the First. Their childhood friendship had ended over him. Now George Coney the Second could symbolize a new start—the start of their future together as husband and wife.