Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (22 page)

“Well, it’s fairly early in the even—”

“Charlotte, you were going to escort me to the refreshment table,” the baroness broke in, stepping between the two of them.

Xavier blinked. He’d all but forgotten anyone else was there—and given the crowd and the noise and his usual fairly keen sense of self-preservation, that was highly unusual. Paying attention to a proper chit was a good way to either get gossiped about, or worse, entangled—and it was far too early in his selection process for that. “Good evening, then.”

“It was nice to meet you, my l—”

“Oh, there’s your father,” Lady Birling interrupted again, grabbing her daughter’s arm.

He looked after them for a moment as they made then-way through the crush.

She’d known who he was, and while that wasn’t all that surprising considering the attention the
Whistledown
columns had been paying him, it bothered him that he’d spent nearly a month in London and she’d never caught his eye.

Certainly she wasn’t a classical beauty, but he would definitely set her on the pretty side of plain. In addition, her smile and her gaze had been…

compelling.

“There you are, Xavier,” a female voice cooed at him, and a slender hand wrapped around his arm.

“Lady Ibsen,” he returned, checking his flying thoughts.

“Mm. It was
Jeanette
last night,” she breathed, pressing her bosom against him.

“That was in private.”

“Ah, I see. And this evening you’re otherwise occupied. Well, I’ve been keeping an eye out, myself. I have several prospective brides in mind for you.

Come along.”

He gazed down at her oval, upturned face and into her dark eyes, which bespoke her Spanish ancestry. “Brides who wouldn’t mind if their husband continued his philandering with a particular female of questionable reputation, I assume?”

She smiled just enough to hint of private seductions. “Of course.”

With a breath he gestured her to lead the way. As they pushed into the crowd, however, he couldn’t

resist a last look over his shoulder at a tall chit with warm fingers and a crooked smile.

And finally, in more sedate news, Lord Herbert Beetly was seen earlier this week, shopping for

a brown hat to match his brown coat and brown trousers, which, to be sure, all match his

brown hair and brown eyes.

Which begs the question
—
Were Lord Herbert to patronize a restaurant, would he choose brown chocolate cake? This Author somehow thinks not. Browned potatoes seem much more to his taste.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
31 MAY 1818

“We would have thought your cousin’s error with Lord Easterly would have been lesson enough for you, Charlotte. Charlotte?”

Charlotte looked up from her plate of marmalade-covered toast, dismayed to realize that she hadn’t heard a word her father had spoken. “Yes, Papa,” she returned anyway, deciding that would be a safe response.

“Well, obviously it wasn’t. Your mother told me that you not only spoke with Lord Matson, but that you encouraged his conversation.”

“I was merely being polite,” she countered, doing her best to keep her attention on the conversation and not drift back into an Xavier Matson-colored daydream.

<> “There is a point at which politeness must give way to responsibility,” the baron stated. “Thanks to your cousin’s error in judgment, this family is once more in a precarious position. Another scandal could—”

“Papa, Sophia married Easterly twelve years ago. I was seven, for heaven’s sake. And I fail to see what was so scandalous about it, anyway.”

Lord Birling lowered his eyebrows. “As you say, you were seven. You didn’t witness the uproar when Easterly simply left England and abandoned Sophia.

I did. And no one in this household will ever be the cause of such a stir. Is that clear?”

“Yes, it’s clear. Perfectly clear. And don’t worry, Papa. I’m certain Lord Matson will never have cause to speak to me again.” Especially not after the way her mother had practically gone into hysterics at the sight of him. Charlotte sighed. First the miracle, that he’d looked at her, and spoken with her, then its destruction—if he even thought about her ever again it would be in gratitude that he’d escaped.

“I’m just thankful that Lord Herbert hadn’t yet arrived to witness you talking with another man,” the baroness contributed from across the table.

This time Charlotte frowned. “So now I’m not allowed to speak with anyone?”

“You know very well what I mean. We’re not being cruel, dear, and I hope you realize that. We are

doing our utmost to provide you with the best future possible, and I don’t think it unreasonable to

hope and expect that you will do nothing to actively sabotage what is in your own best interest.”

She hated when her parents were right—especially when her best possible future reached as low as Lord Herbert Beetly. “Of course,” she said, reaching across to pat her mother’s hand. “It’s just that excitement seems terribly rare in my life, and when it’s so handsome, it’s sometimes difficult to ignore.”

“Hm.” Her father gave a brief smile. “Do try.”

“I will.”

At that moment, as if the morning had been waiting in the hallway for its cue, the butler opened the breakfast room door.

“My lord, my lady, Miss Charlotte, Lord Herbert Beetly.”

Charlotte stifled a sigh, rising from the table as her parents did to greet their guest. “My lord,” she said, curtsying, and wishing for one second that despite her promise to ignore excitement it could be someone dashing like Lord Roxbury or Lord Matson coming to call.

Herbert’s dullness wasn’t his fault, she supposed; his entire family seemed to suffer from a singular lack

of wit and imagination. As he finished greeting her parents and approached her, she had to admit that he was pleasant in appearance—he did dress well.

And if his gaze was a little … vapid, his countenance was handsome.

“Miss Charlotte,” he said, bowing over her sticky marmalade fingers, “your shopping escort has arrived.”

He also tended to state the obvious. “So I see. If you’ll give me a moment, we can be off.”

“My pleasure.”

As she excused herself and hurried upstairs for her bonnet and gloves, she heard her father inquire whether Herbert had eaten already or not. Of course he had; this morning he would have shaved,

dressed, eaten, and picked out the exact appropriate carriage for their venture because, well, that was what one did before calling on someone.

“Oh, be quiet, Charlotte,” she told herself as she collected her things and returned downstairs. “Your life is just as orderly.”

With her maid, Alice, accompanying them, she and Herbert rode to Bond Street in his coach. She would have preferred a curricle so she could look about more freely, but since it was drizzling yet again, the closed coach made more sense.

“I hope you don’t mind the coach,” Herbert said as they disembarked, “but with the rain I didn’t think the curricle appropriate.”

Good God, they were even thinking alike.
Fighting a swell of panic, Charlotte forced a smile and hurried through the door of the closest shop. She
was
as dull as Herbert. Did her friends, who always had exciting tales to tell even if she didn’t quite believe all of them, think her as vapid as she thought him?

Trying to outrun her own dullness, she didn’t see the clothing mannequin until she bumped into it. Before she could grab it, the heavy, metal-ribbed behemoth tipped away from her, thunking into the arms of the nearest shopper. “Oh! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where … Lord Matson.”

With a twist of his lips the earl effortlessly shoved the thing upright again.

“Charlotte Birling.”

Faded cobalt eyes took her in from head to toe, and she wished that she’d elected to wear something less goose-necked despite the weather. For goodness’ sake, she looked like a dowdy old spinster. “I apologize, my lord.”

“You’ve already done that. What—”

“Charlotte,” Herbert’s voice, tight and high-pitched, came from behind her, “why in the world did you come in here? It’s not at all proper.”

Tearing her gaze from the gray-and-black-clothed rake standing before her, she looked around. And scowled.
Blast it.
In as much of a hurry as she’d been to flee from her own thoughts, she might have chosen somewhere more appropriate than a men’s tailor shop. “Drat,” she muttered.

“Are you trying to escape that fellow?” the earl murmured, tilting his head to study her expression.

“No, just myself,” she returned, then flushed.
What in the world was wrong with her?
To say such a private thing to anyone, much less a near, if handsome, stranger, was completely unlike her.

Something flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could begin to guess what it might be. To her surprise, though, he pulled a card case from his pocket and slipped it into her fingers.

“No,” he continued in a normal tone, “I wouldn’t have known it was missing until I returned home.

Thank you, Miss Charlotte. It belonged to my grandfather, you know. And out in the rain, it would

have been ruined.”

He held out his hand, and she numbly set the case back into his palm. “I’m only glad I noticed you drop it, my lord.” She curtsied, struggling to keep her voice steady when she wanted to sing that this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. “If you’ll excuse me, then.” Charlotte would have left, but with Herbert crowding up behind her, the only way out would have been to knock over the mannequin again. Gesturing at the man practically climbing her shoulder, she hid her nervous frustration with a smile. “Lord Matson, may I present Lord Herbert Beetly? Herbert, this is Xavier, Lord Matson.”

To his credit, Herbert leaned around her to offer his hand. “My lord.”

Matson returned the grip. “Beetly.”

A clerk emerged from the rear of the shop. “Are you certain there’s nothing else I can do for you, my lord?” he asked hopefully, placing a wrapped bundle on the counter.

The earl kept his attention on Herbert. “No, thank you. You’ll send me the bill?”

“Of course, my lord.” The clerk finally looked in Charlotte’s direction. “May I assist you?” he asked, managing to sound officious and look dubious all at the same time.

Hm. She may not have intended to do it, but she could enter a men’s shop if she wished. What if she’d been there looking for a gift for her father or something? Still, if Herbert reported to her parents that she’d spoken again with Lord Matson, she’d be in quite enough trouble without adding anything else

into the mix. “No thank you,” she replied. “We were just leaving.”

Matson picked up the bundle and tucked it under his arm. “So was I,” he said, gesturing for Charlotte and Herbert to precede him out to the street.

Goodness. Half hoping that the earl meant to accompany them on their shopping excursion, Charlotte stopped beneath the nearest overhanging eave. Reality had certainly gone astray in the last twenty-four hours. After she’d nearly knocked him down in the tailor’s, her heart had begun pounding so hard that

she thought even the clerk must have heard it.

Since last night her thoughts had lingered on the humor in Lord Matson’s eyes and on his cool, confident manner, which didn’t care what anyone else might think. Since she’d been seven and her family had decided that Sophia’s troubles meant their disgrace, she’d wished she could be cool and uncaring about other people’s opinions.

“Thank you again, Miss Charlotte,” the earl drawled. Taking her hand, he stroked her fingertips with his thumb and then released her again. “Beetly.”

“Matson.”

She watched the earl down the street until he vanished into a pastry shop. A moment later she realized that Lord Herbert stood halfway in the rain, water dripping down the brim of his hat, glaring at her. Charlotte cleared her throat.

“I need a pair of silver hair ribbons,” she offered, and marched across the street without checking to see whether he followed.

Xavier stood in the pastry shop window, watching as Charlotte Birling entered a milliner’s, her escort

and her maid following. So the chit with the fine eyes did have a beau. Last night he’d thought her

mother had invented one in order to escape his conversation.

He’d liked holding her fingers; in the past day he’d reflected on the feel of her warm hand in his several times. Touching her seemed the best damned idea he’d had in weeks.

He had felt physically attracted to females before, so the sensation wasn’t that unusual. The odd thing about his surprising interest in Miss Charlotte Birling was his obsession with her mouth. As soon as he’d seen her smile he’d thought of kissing her soft lips, of saying and doing things to please her so he could see her genuine, crooked smile.

It should have been amusing, except that as he watched Lord Herbert Beetly shadowing her, he wasn’t amused. He was used to assessing the character of enemies and supposed friends in a heartbeat, and she seemed to be someone trying very hard to be quiet and demure and finding it a difficult prospect.

For reasons few people would understand, he could sympathize.

Another pair of females hurried past the window, their flimsy parasols bucking in the stiff breeze. Lady Mary Winter and her mother, Lady Winter. The younger Winter had made it onto his list of potential prospective spouses, though in truth he’d spent more time scratching names on and off of it than actually looking into a union. He knew marriage made sense; he was Earl Matson now, and an earl needed heirs. If his own family was any example, he would need two. Then the first one could die of pneumonia, and the second could abandon his military career and rush home to take his brother’s place as though that had been the plan all along.

“Sir? Is there something you wish to purchase?”

Xavier jumped, reluctantly turning from the window to the pastry clerk eyeing him from behind the food-laden counter. Since he was using the man’s view, he supposed he should pay for the privilege. He approached, pointing at a likely pile of tea cakes. “A dozen of those,” he said, dumping a few coins onto the counter.