Three Schemes and a Scandal (13 page)

He lowered his mouth quite nearly to hers.

“And we were about to kiss …” he murmured. And then he did kiss her and it was perfect. She had come to crave the taste of him, and the feel of his mouth upon hers, teasing and taunting and intoxicating all at once.

He didn’t stop with a kiss, though. That was the thing with trouble. Once you started, you might as well give it your everything.

Charlotte always gave her everything. She was generous like that. Tonight, with James, would not be an exception. She would give everything and
more.

Her bedroom windows were open and moonlight filtered in, along with the laughing, chattering sounds from the party guests below. She should not be here, now, with him. It was a dozen kinds of improper, yet it felt right. She felt like she belonged in this man’s arms.

James clasped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her hard.

She clasped the fabric of his shirt in her hands and kissed him back.

“I think …” James murmured, and she marveled that he could
think
at a time like this. “… That your dress should come off.”

“If you insist,” Charlotte replied cheekily, even though she was in complete agreement. She thought of some other things that should come off—like his jacket, shirt, cravat, breeches…

“Turn around,” he said gruffly and she did as told, for once.

James swept her hair away from the back of her neck and pressed kisses against the insanely sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. Charlotte’s breath hitched, and she closed her eyes to everything except the stunning sensations …

His fingers undoing all the buttons, brushing against her bare skin.

His hands, unlacing her corset. She could breathe deeper now, but still she felt light-headed and breathless.

His mouth, pressing kisses on her shoulders, and then down along her spine … licking, kissing, claiming the bare skin no one had ever touched. Lower, lower, lower he went until he pressed his lips against the very base of her back and she whirled around.

James knelt before her, grinning wickedly. His hair was tussled, his shirt wrinkled, and he had that scar. But most of all it was that wicked gleam in his eyes that gave him such a roguish air.

“Feeling faint?” he asked with a lift of his brow.

“No. Perhaps. Yes. Why?”

“Because I think you had better lie down,” he said and she managed a naughty smile even as her heart raced.

“Do you?” she murmured.

“Oh, I do.”

She stepped backward, tempting him to pursue her. He did, divesting himself of his clothes along the way. His evening jacket hit the floor, his cravat was flung over a chair, his shirt simply vanished. Her dress hit the floor.

Charlotte drank in the breathtaking sight of his bare chest, all the magnificent planes and ridges of his muscled torso, putting her fleetingly in mind of the naked statues at the British Museum.
This was better.

And but a moment later she was lying down and he lowered his weight onto her, trapping her to the mattress. His eyes were dark as he looked into her eyes.

“I hope you weren’t thinking of escaping,” he murmured, delicately licking her earlobe and making her gasp. There were no thoughts of escaping. In fact, no thoughts at all other than
Yes. Please. More.

“Perhaps,” she whispered, arching beneath him, just to tease him. James groaned and she felt the hard length of him pressing against her. The feel of him,
there.
The feel of him, everywhere …

Charlotte had absolutely zero thoughts of escaping.

James rolled to his side, taking her with him. She tentatively pressed her hand against his chest and he murmured “yes” as he explored her, cupping her breast and drawing a gasp from her mouth. She never wanted the sensation to end, and then it did, and then it got better …

He kissed her thoroughly, she kissed him back, anticipating … everything else … His fingers lightly caressed along her belly, and lower, there, stroking softly in a circular pattern that simply drove her mad.

And then when she couldn’t take it any longer, he broke the kiss, gave her a wicked grin and put his mouth,
there,
where his hands had been and Charlotte, for once, was shocked.

She lost herself to the hot, wanton sensation of his mouth generously bringing her to dizzying heights of pleasure—slowly, surely, determinedly—until she could stand it no more and she shattered, crying out his name.

Vaguely, she became aware of the party sounds from below, stealing in through the open window. She became aware again of James as he once again lowered his weight onto hers. She wrapped her arms around him, wanting to feel his bare skin hot against hers.

She was insatiable. She wanted more, more, more …

“Charlotte …” he whispered her name.

She felt him hot and hard, against her, there.

“Yes,” she whispered because in this dreamy, most satisfied, mostly ravished state she still craved more … She wanted him, and she wanted him to be satisfied by her. She wanted this, all of it, all of him, now and forever.

Slowly, he entered her. Slowly, she let herself go, and just felt … complete. He thrust harder, she gasped. He entwined his fingers in her hair and kissed her again. He moved inside of her, and the pressure built again. She wrapped her legs around his back, he pushed in deeper, she cried out. And then she lost herself completely in the rhythm and the overwhelming sensations until she was crying his name again, and he was capturing it with his kiss. And then James groaned her name and found his release and they both collapsed, sated.

That was definitely trouble. And Charlotte definitely wanted more.

I
t had never been like that.

James lay with Charlotte in his arms, willing his pounding heart to slow, his lungs to stop gasping for air and fighting sleep all the while. He’d made love, and it had never been like this—for the love of it, with real love, and a sense of play and trouble. And by God, Charlotte, probably didn’t know how devastatingly beautiful she was in the moonlight and how her touch undid him.

It was a good thing they were going to be married.

His heart stopped.

First comes love, then comes a
proposal
and then comes marriage.

At that very moment, the clock struck midnight.

He sat up with a start, a tangle of bed sheets around his waist.

“Get dressed, we have to go,” he said, trying to get out of bed.

“Mmm. I want to stay here, with you,” she said, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him. Oh God, he wanted that too, but first …

He reluctantly disentangled himself and began searching for their clothes.

“Is it the reading? It can’t happen. Not since George Coney is trapped in the closet,” she said, laughing. “What are you rushing around for?”

“Trust me, Charlotte. You don’t want to miss this,” James said as he frantically pulled on his breeches.
All
the work he’d gone to in creating this dramatic proposal and they both quite nearly missed it!

“Well now I am intrigued,” Charlotte remarked, still lying abed. He paused for a moment to preserve the memory: her dark hair against the pillows, her pink cheeks, her lips red from his kiss.

“It’d be even better if you were dressed,” he said. Where the devil was his cravat? As he searched, Charlotte quit the bed and began to dress.

Quickly he buttoned up her gown and might have missed a few, but there was no time to fix it. Her hair was a wreck and he grabbed her hand and pulled her away from a comb and the mirror. It was abundantly clear what she had been up to.

He as well, for that matter. His shirt was wrinkled, his cravat hopelessly limp and merely draped around his neck, and his jacket definitely appeared to have spent time on the floor. Under a herd of elephants.

“Oh, I look like I’ve been ravished,” she said, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. It was the truth. He wanted to make love to her all over again. But they could not.

“The look suits you,” he said, quickly kissing her cheek. “Now let’s
go
.”

The Corridor

Hand in hand, James and Charlotte dashed through the halls, dodging groups of guests who eagerly ventured to the east drawing room, or the library or God only knew where for the reading of The Hare Raising Adventures of George Coney (which did not exist) by George Coney (who was presently locked in Charlotte’s closet). It was mayhem at Hamilton House.

He had another destination in mind.

“Where are you taking me?” Charlotte asked breathlessly.

He skidded to a stop on the marble floor.

“I’m not quite sure,” he said. “That is, I know
where
I want to take you but not exactly
how
to get there. This house is insanely large.”

Charlotte nodded with understanding.

“Once we discovered a family of gypsies living in the north wing. They had been there for a fortnight before discovery,” she said gravely.

“And how did they end up there?” James asked with a lift of his brow.

“I couldn’t very well let them starve on the streets in a blizzard, now could I?” she replied with a sweet smile and shrug of her shoulders.

“Promise me …” he said, and then he stopped.

“Promise you what?”

It was too soon for promises like that, for one thing.

“Harriet! You’re supposed to be …” James said and he stopped himself again before he revealed their secret destination and when he saw that Harriet was in quite a state.

“What is wrong? Why are you crying?” Charlotte asked, clasping her friend’s hand.

“I couldn’t find Charlotte anywhere!” Harriet sobbed. “And I looked, and then I couldn’t remember which room because of my and … oh! Did I miss it?”

The trio glanced curiously at each other. Harriet was particularly focused on James’s hand. Holding Charlotte’s.

“Miss what?” Charlotte asked, clearly suspicious.

“Um, the reading?” Harriet ventured.

“The reading? Ah yes, the reading by George Coney the rabbit who is currently locked in my dressing closet,” Charlotte said. “That very one?”

“The reading has not started yet,” James said confidently. Then he winked at Harriet so everything was very clear.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Harriet said, heaving a sigh. “I couldn’t remember if it was in the east drawing room or the west drawing room. Then I thought it might be in the library after all.”

“What, the reading?” Charlotte asked, but everyone ignored her. It was easiest, given the magnitude of the secret they only had to keep for approximately four more minutes.

“Let’s go,” he said confidently. Then he led Charlotte off down the hall. Harriet followed.

“So it’s the east drawing room then,” Charlotte said, and he turned around and the two ladies followed wordlessly. The house was just too large.

This observation was reaffirmed when, finally, four minutes later they stood before the heavy double oak doors leading to the west drawing room.

Harriet peeked through the keyhole.

“Yes, this is it,” she confirmed.

“It’s what?” Charlotte asked, starting to sound very exasperated now.

“See for yourself,” James said, hoping he sounded normal when in fact he was nervous. This wasn’t just a scheme, it was a proposal.

Charlotte knew there was a scheme in the works. There was no denying it now. Anticipation gripped her and would not let go. Already, it was the most marvelous, magical evening of her life—revenge! Ballroom high jinks! A confession of love and making love! Could it get any better? What the devil else did James have up his sleeve?

Eagerly, she pushed open the doors to the west drawing room and for the second time that evening—and for the second time in her twenty years of age—she was speechless.

She looked around the room and only one word came to mind:

Love.

First she saw the faces of her nearest and dearest: Sophie and Brandon, the other Writing Girls and their rogues, Harriet. And James. James with his hair tussled from bed. His jacket wrinkled from its stint on her bedroom floor. His cravat long gone … He looked like such a gorgeous rogue. And he loved her!

Next she saw all the bouquets of freshly plucked flowers—pink peonies, red roses, white lilacs, sweet William and dozens more. There were candles, too, bathing the room in a warm glow. This was
exactly
how she would set up a romantic encounter. And he had read it in her mind and done it for her.

“I knew there was a scheme,” she whispered. Because she was still herself and needed it to be known that she hadn’t been completely outsmarted.

And then there was James, smiling.

“Charlotte,” James said, dropping to one knee and suddenly everything—
everything—
made sense. Not just the schemes of the evening, or the hand of destiny interfering with her previous schemes in just the right ways, but she was meant for this man, and he for her. They had found each other, lost each other and found each other again.

“I love you Charlotte. I had a speech planned for this moment, but I said it earlier this evening. Plans do have a way of going awry, don’t they?”

“Sometimes they go just right,” Charlotte said with a little nervous laugh. She had thought she would be an eccentric old crone, alone. Yet now she had found a man to love, to cherish, to belong with. James. She loved him. She loved being with him.

“I love you, Charlotte. You are beautiful, vexing, amazing, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me, Charlotte?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said. “But I will not promise to obey.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking,” James said, laughing.

“Then yes, yes, yes,” she cried and flung herself into his outstretched arms. He pulled her close for a kiss, which was promptly interrupted by applause and cheers as a tactful and cheerful reminder that they had an audience.

“You do so love a scene,” he said.

“Oh, I do. Everyone must know that I had the most romantic proposal,” Charlotte said.