When he pulled away, her lips were swollen and rosy pink. The sight was satisfying in a deep, primal way.
She blinked up at him, looking dazed. "I . . . I'm suddenly not so certain this understanding is a wise idea."
"I'll speak to your family and Sir Vernon. You needn't worry. They will agree."
"My lord--"
"Piers," he corrected. "From now on, you call me Piers."
"Piers, then." She searched his face. "Just what sort of a diplomat are you?"
Darling, if only you knew. You would turn and flee as fast as those slippers would carry you.
"One with a specialty," he said, in all honesty. "Negotiating surrender."
"An understanding?" Mama followed Charlotte into her bedchamber. "You had him in the palm of your hand, and you settled for an understanding?"
Charlotte collapsed onto the bed. "The understanding was my choice, Mama."
"That's even worse. Have I taught you nothing? Seal the bargain when you have the chance."
Charlotte pulled a pillow over her head. She didn't want to argue with her mother right now. She wanted to be alone, so she could send her mind back through every moment of that kiss, and sort through all the sensations swirling through her. Then she would divide her reactions into two heaps: emotional and physical.
The emotional pile would be the smaller of the two--by a factor of ten, undoubtedly. The wild tumult he'd stirred in her was only a matter of bodies and desire. Hearts had nothing to do with it.
At least, that was what she hoped. But she would feel much better having confirmed it.
She could hear the footfalls as Mama paced the room. "You heedless girl. A fortnight. Do you know that's two whole weeks?"
Yes, Mama. I'm familiar with the definition of a fortnight.
"What if he changes his mind?" she wailed. "You've left him every opportunity to wheedle out of it. He could pack his things in the middle of the night and flee."
Charlotte tossed the pillow aside. "Your confidence in me is so inspiring, Mama."
"This is no time for that insolence you call humor. The marquess was engaged once before, you know. He put off the wedding for eight years, and then the girl married his brother instead."
Yes, she recalled hearing gossip about it. "That betrothal was a family arrangement. They were young; they changed their minds."
"You had better hope his mind has no further changes. If he calls off this 'understanding,' you will be ruined. This is your life, Charlotte."
"Oh, I know it is." She sat up on the bed. "And it's entirely your fault that I'm in any danger."
"My fault?"
"You encouraged the scandal and forced Lord Granville's hand. All that talk of him being overcome with passion."
"I might have encouraged it, but you began it. You're the one who cuddled behind the draperies with him." She sank into a chair and flicked open her fan. "For the first time, one of my daughters gave me cause to be proud. I was hoping you'd snare a duke on this holiday, mind. I thought the area was called the Dukeries, but I was grievously misled."
"It is called the Dukeries. That doesn't mean it works like orangeries. Did you imagine dukes would be growing on trees?"
Mama harrumphed. "At any rate, a marquess is the next best thing. You were very clever to snare him."
"I wasn't trying to snare him at all!"
"Now that you have him, you had better keep him. You must be on your best behavior for the rest of the fortnight. A model of etiquette. Watch your posture. None of that slang, or wit. Talk less, smile more."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. No amount of smiling was going to make her into an ideal bride for Piers.
"Find every occasion to be alone with him. Sit near him at dinners and in the drawing room. Ask him to turn pages for you at the pianoforte. No, wait--don't play the pianoforte. That will drive him away." She smacked her thigh with the fan. "I always told you to be more diligent with your music practice."
"Mama, stop this. If this 'understanding' does become a betrothal"--and I will make sure it does not--"it will have nothing to do with my accomplishments or manners, and everything to do with Lord Granville's character. My charms weren't what caught him. It's his own sense of decency that has him snared."
Mama exhaled her breath in a huff.
"He's an honorable man," Charlotte said.
She refrained from adding, One who kisses like an unrepentant rake.
Her mother seemed to think on this. Then she stood and made ready to leave the room. "Just as insurance, we will lower the necklines of all your frocks. I'll speak to the lady's maid about it directly."
"No." Charlotte leapt from the bed and blocked her mother's path. "Mama, you can't. You can't tell anyone about this."
"But--"
"You mustn't breathe a word. Not to the servants, not to Lady Parkhurst. Not to the neighbors, your correspondents, or even the walls."
"I don't talk to the walls," Mama protested. "Often."
She knew her mother all too well. If left unchecked, she would drop hints at luncheon. Insinuations at teatime. By the time they gathered for after-dinner sherry, she would be boasting of the imminent marriage and writing letters to all her friends.
There would be no escape, once that occurred.
"Lord Granville has asked for the understanding to be kept private," she went on. "He is an important man, and he values discretion. He would be most displeased to be the subject of gossip." An idea came to her. "In fact . . . I wouldn't be surprised if this is a sort of test."
"A test?"
"Yes, a test. To see if we can be trusted. If you speak a word of this to anyone, he will know. And then he is likely to withdraw his suit altogether."
Mama gasped and bit her knuckle. "Oh, Charlotte. Perish the thought."
Charlotte put her hands on her mother's shoulders. "I know you can do it, Mama. All your years of encouragement and mothering, hoping your daughters would marry well . . . It has all come down to this. You must hold your tongue. Bite it. Cut it out, if need be. Everything depends upon your silence."
"Yes, but it's only--"
Charlotte cut her off with a look. "Silence."
Mama whimpered, but sealed her lips.
"Good," Charlotte said, patting her mother's shoulders in praise. "Now go to your bedchamber and rest. I have letters to write."
She herded her mother out of the room, then latched the door behind her and collapsed against it.
Oh, dear. Who could tell if her warnings would last a full two weeks? She needed to identify the true lovers, and quickly.
She went to the small writing desk and dipped her quill in ink. She hadn't been prevaricating; she did have letters to write.
One letter, to be accurate.
The letter C.
With a bold swoop of the pen, she inscribed the letter on paper and sat back to ponder it. She had a mystery to solve, and this was her first--perhaps only--clue.
Chapter Four
Piers leaned forward, closed one eye, and lined up his shot.
Billiards--like so many sports--was an exercise in applied geometry and physics. If the equipment was standard and the playing surface smooth, the only element of variation was the player's skill.
Success was all about concentration. A narrowing of focus. Dulling the senses, ignoring emotion, weeding out any human frailties--until all that remained was one's body, a target, and intent.
With a swift pump of his arm, he made the shot, sending the white cue ball cracking into red, both balls spinning across the green felt in perfect, predictable trajectories.
Most of his life, he had managed people in much the same way. Not because he had disdain for them, or an inflated sense of his own importance, but because emotion could too easily skew his shot. Detachment was key--and it had never been a struggle.
Until now.
Until Charlotte.
She had his mind and body spinning out of control. He couldn't cease thinking of her. The sweetness he
hadn't ceased tasting. The perfect fit of her body against his. The way she'd breezed past his defenses, slipped under his skin.
Yes, she was young. But Piers had learned to take the measure of people quickly, and Charlotte Highwood was more than she appeared. She possessed the sort of honesty that required confidence, and a keen awareness of herself and others.
Damn, this was dangerous--but perhaps danger was what he'd been craving. Yes, that must be the answer. She had his blood pumping and his mind on alert just like his most perilous assignments had done during the war.
That kiss had made him feel alive.
"Ouch."
Something long and sharp poked him in the arse.
Then in the side.
Edmund Parkhurst stood between him and the doorway, brandishing a billiard cue. The boy's brows gathered in a scowl, and he jabbed the point right under Piers's lowermost rib--like a diminutive cannibal holding his captive at spear point.
"I know." His voice was as menacing as an eight-year-old boy's could be. "I know what you did in the library."
Bloody hell. Not this again.
"Edmund, you were mistaken. I'm a friend of your father's. No one attempted any violence. We've discussed this."
"Murder." Jab. "Murder." Jab. "Murder."
Piers let his cue clatter to the table. Where were this child's parents? Had he no nursemaids? Tutors? Hobbies, playthings, pets?
"I am not a murderer," he said, firmly this time.
And he wasn't a murderer. Not technically--so long as one employed the same ethical acrobatics used to absolve soldiers and executioners from their bloodier duties. No court in England would convict him of the crime. He felt less secure about escaping divine judgment, but . . . only eternity would tell.
"I know what you did. You're going to pay." The boy lifted the billiard cue and swung it like a broadsword.
Piers dodged the blow, backing around the table. "Edmund, calm yourself."
He could have disarmed the lad easily, but he could only imagine the scene that would result if he so much as bruised Edmund's little finger in the process. The boy would be running down the halls shrieking not only "MURDER!" but "ASSAULT!" and "TORTURE!" too. Probably adding "FAILURE TO PAY TAXES!" for good measure.
Edmund stalked him around the billiard table, swinging again--harder this time. When Piers ducked, the blow struck a pheasant trophy mounted on the wall, knocking the bird from its perch. He could have sworn he heard the thing squawk. An explosion of feathers filled the room, twirling and drifting to rest on their shoulders like snowflakes.
The emotions on Edmund's face underwent a swift progression--from regret at destroying one of his father's prizes, to anticipation of punishment, to . . .
Pure, concentrated fury.
The boy lowered the cue like a lance, hunched his shoulders, and bore down on Piers in a full-speed charge.
"MURRRRR-DURRRR!"
That, Piers decided, was quite enough.
He grabbed the cue with one hand, holding both it and Edmund in place. He spoke in a low, stern voice. "Listen to me, lad. Bashing one another with billiard cues is not the way gentlemen settle disputes. Your father would be most displeased with your behavior. I am losing my patience, as well. Stop this. At once."
He and the boy regarded one another, warily.
Piers released his grip on the billiard cue. "Go to your room, Edmund."
There was a long, tense silence.
Then Edmund stabbed him in the groin and dove under the billiard table, leaving Piers gasping for breath.
"You miserable little--" He doubled over, pounding a fist against the green felt.
That was it.
Today, Edmund Parkhurst was going to learn a lesson.
"May I put this down yet?" Charlotte asked, her voice strained. "I think I'm getting a cramp."
Delia didn't look up from her sketching board. "Just a few more minutes. I need to finish roughing in the folds of your toga."
Charlotte tried to ignore the twinges in her arms. "Which of the Grecian goddesses holds a silver tea tray, anyway?"
"None of them. It's standing in for a lyre."
There were very few people in the world for whom Charlotte would stand in the morning room, draped in bed linens, holding an increasingly heavy tea tray for hours on end--but Delia Parkhurst was one of them.
After the Prattler had made her a social outcast, Charlotte had given up on full dance cards. However, moping wasn't in her character. When scorned by the gentlemen, she looked about for new friends.
She found Delia.
Delia was warm, witty, and also an unwilling wallflower at balls, having been born with a hip that didn't sit quite right. They conspired in the corners and invented games like "Spot the Wooden Tooth" and "Rake, Rake, Duke," and folded their unused dance cards into paper boats for a Punchbowl Regatta.
That was, until they began putting the time to a better purpose:
Plotting their escape.
"Next year, we will be a thousand miles from here," Delia said. "Free of our families, and far from anyone who reads London scandal sheets. I will have Renaissance marbles to sketch, and you'll be exploring temples and tombs, and in the evenings we'll be surrounded by comtes and cavaliere. No more tea trays."
Guilt crept over Charlotte. After that scene in the library, their plan to tour the Continent was in dire jeopardy, and Delia didn't even know it.
It was going to kill Charlotte if she had to disappoint her friend.
Delia set aside her pencil. "There. I'm finished for today."
Charlotte lowered the tray, unswaddled herself from the linen, and shook the knots from her arms and legs.
"Dare we broach the topic of our journey today?" Delia asked.
"Oh, no. Not yet."
Not while your father believes I lifted my skirts for a marquess in his library.
"Why not?"
Charlotte tried to be vague. "I haven't had nearly enough time to prove myself to your parents. Much less your sister. Frances looks at me as if I'd lead you into ruin at the hands of the nearest roue."
"Frances is protective, and she pays too much mind to gossip. At least I don't have any older brothers to object. Only Edmund, and he's easily persuaded."
I wouldn't be so certain about that, Charlotte thought.
"What's holding you back? Is it Lord Granville?"
The question took her by surprise. "How did you know?"
Delia shrugged. "You left the ballroom as soon as he arrived, and I know how your mother thinks. But I wouldn't worry about her angling for the marquess's attention. He might as well reside on the moon, the man's so far out of reach."
That's what Charlotte had thought, too. Until she'd found herself not only within reach of him, but clasped in his embrace. The memory sent a shiver down the back of her neck.
She sat down and took Delia's hand. "There's something I must tell you. I'm worried about how you'll take it."
"Charlotte, you're my dearest friend. You can always confide in me."
A lump formed in her throat. Would she still be Delia's dearest friend once she told her the truth?
A small crash from down the corridor drew their attention.
Then a larger crash drew them to their feet.
She and Delia hurried out of the morning room and followed the sounds of broken pottery to the entrance hall, where a shamefaced Edmund stood next to the remnants of a vase.
Accompanied by none other than Piers.
Each of them clutched a billiard cue in his hand.
Lady Parkhurst rushed down the stairway to join them, her cap askew and slightly breathless--as though she'd woken from a nap with a jolt.
"What on earth . . . ?" She took in the scene with a quick sweep of her gaze. "Edmund. I should have known you'd--"
"Forgive me, Lady Parkhurst." Piers bowed. "The fault is mine. I was giving Edmund here a few lessons in the art of fencing."
"Fencing? With billiard cues?"
"Yes. We were too enthusiastic, I'm afraid. Edmund is a quick study. My parry knocked over the vase." His gaze slanted to another pile of broken bits in the corner. "And the cupid."
"And the pheasant in the billiard room," Edmund piped up. "That was him, too."
Piers cleared his throat. "Yes. All my doing. I hope you can forgive my clumsiness."
Charlotte bit back a smile. Clumsiness? As she knew well from their encounter in the library, Piers possessed lightning reflexes and full command of his strength. He was merely taking the blame for the boy. Just as he'd taken the blame for her.
"I will, of course, replace all the broken items," he told Lady Parkhurst.
"Oh, please don't," Delia said. "They were dreadfully ugly."
"Delia," her mother said.
"Well, they were."
Lady Parkhurst gave her daughter a look of motherly warning. "I will fetch the downstairs maid to sweep. Kindly take your brother upstairs."
Delia obeyed, taking Edmund by the shoulders and steering him toward the staircase. The boy dragged his feet in protest. Before he reached the top of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder and whispered at Piers, "This isn't over. I have my eye on you."
She looked at Piers. "What does that mean?"
"Don't ask."
Charlotte knelt in the corner and began gathering the pieces of the cupid statue. It wasn't so thoroughly demolished as the vase. Perhaps it could be reassembled.
Piers joined her, crouching low and reaching for the cupid's plaster base and replacing it on the pedestal.
"You shouldn't help," she said quietly.
"Why not?"
"Because you're a marquess. Marquesses don't do this sort of thing."
"Why not? If I make a shambles of something, I clear the mess away. That's as it should be."
She reached for a section of cupid feet and stacked it atop the base. "You don't believe that. If you did, Edmund would be piecing this thing together. It was obviously his fault."
"Not entirely." He added the cupid's plaster ankles. "Sparring requires two participants."
Charlotte handed him the next piece of the statue--a pair of white knees and chubby cupid thighs. As he took it, his fingertips grazed the back of her hand. Just that mere brush of contact, skin on skin, electrified her.
She dropped her gaze, reaching for the rounded cupid bum and placing it atop their growing reconstruction. Her fingers must have been trembling. No matter how she swiveled it, the bit of plaster wouldn't settle into place.