Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (26 page)

Oops.
She’d forgotten; she wasn’t supposed to know. “Of course I am, Alice.

Where did Boscoe put him?” she asked, though she assumed the butler had shown the earl to the morning room, the usual

place guests were asked to wait. Not that she’d ever had any male guests except for Herbert.

“He’s in your father’s office. Lord Birling didn’t look at all pleased. I’m sure I don’t know why, because your visitor is very … pleasant-looking, but it’s none of my business, anyway.”

It wasn’t, but Charlotte was so grateful for the news that she didn’t complain.

She needed to hurry; if

she couldn’t get downstairs quickly, her father might very well send Lord Matson away before she had

a chance to see him.

Finally, with Alice still practically hanging off the back of her hair, Charlotte sprinted downstairs to the first floor. The butler stood at his usual post in the foyer, but even stoic Boscoe couldn’t quite mask his curiosity at their visitor.

“Boscoe? Alice said I have a caller.” Practically vibrating with nervousness, she couldn’t resist a glance toward the closed door of her father’s office.

“Yes, Miss Charlotte. Your father requests that you wait
in
the morning room with your mother.”

Until those last three words, Charlotte had been almost hopeful. Her mother, though, would have questions, and she had no idea what to answer. “Thank you,” she said anyway, slipping through the half-open door.

“Did you plan this?” the baroness demanded, not pausing in her swift pacing.

“To have a caller?” Charlotte asked, keeping in mind that she supposedly didn’t know who her father

had trapped in his office.

“To have Lord Matson call on you.”

Thankfully, hearing the name spoken aloud shook her enough that she didn’t have to fake her reaction. “N-no. How could I plan such a thing?”

“I’m sure I have no idea. But you did stare at him out the window the other day, and he approached

you at the Hargreaves’ Ball.”

“Mama, you’ve made it clear that I should concentrate my efforts on Lord Herbert, since no other gentleman has called on me in a year. Why would I think I
could
plan something like this?” ‘

“But why is he here?” her mother persisted.

“He’s here to call on Charlotte.” Her father stood in the doorway, his expression tight and clearly displeased. “He wishes to court her.”

The baroness sank into a chair.
“What? Charlotte?”

Through the roaring in her ears, Charlotte was asking the exact same questions. Even so, her mother’s reaction pained her. Yes, she was quiet and reserved and not vibrant and beautiful like Helen, but it hurt to know that her parents really did think of her as … small, that Herbert was the best match for her.

“Yes, Charlotte. So please collect yourself, Vivian, and I’ll show him in.”

“But—”

“I can’t very well throw him out when he came to ask my permission to call on our daughter,” the baron interrupted in a lower voice. “And quite respectfully.”

He turned his assessing gaze to Charlotte. “Do not encourage him. His reputation is less than snowy, and yours can only be harmed.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Lord Birling vanished, only to reappear a moment later with Lord Matson on his heels. The earl looked

as easy as if he’d been sitting about playing whist, and Charlotte could only envy his composure. Of course, it was beginning to seem very likely that Lord Matson was completely insane. She could think

of no other explanation as to why he would wish to broach Birling House to see… her.

As his gaze found her, however, he smiled. “Good morning, Miss Charlotte, Lady Birling.”

“My lord,” the baroness returned with a curtsy, “what in the world brings you here?”

“As I told Lord Birling, I’ve found myself somewhat at loose ends here in London, not knowing many people and beginning to fall in with the wrong crowd. Your daughter’s kind words and obvious decorum caught my attention.”

Charlotte blinked. Good heavens, he sounded almost… tame. If not for the twinkle deep in his blue

eyes, she would have thought a duplicate of dull Lord Herbert had strolled into the room. A duplicate

with wits and a sense of humor, of course.

“In light of that,” he went on, “I have asked Lord Birling’s permission to call on Miss Charlotte. I had thought we might take a ride in my phaeton, since it has a covered top and will protect us from the drizzle.”

A phaeton!
She’d never ridden in such a sporting vehicle in her life. Charlotte practically clapped her hands together before she could stop herself and clasp them demurely behind her back instead.

“And a chaperone?” her mother pursued, her reaction much more skeptical than her daughter’s.

“My tiger, Willis, is holding the team for me now. He will accompany us on horseback.”

The baroness’s brow lowered. “Another man? I don’t—”

“I’ve given my permission,” her father cut in. “For today. As I said, my lord, she is to be home by noon.”

Matson sketched an elegant bow. “She will be.” His gaze still on Charlotte, he held out one hand. “Shall we?”

It was a good thing her father had given permission, because she wasn’t about to pass up the prospect of riding in a racing phaeton with Lord Matson, no matter the consequences. She nodded, trying to stifle her excited smile. “As you wish, my lord,” she managed in a calm voice.

Alice appeared with a warm wrap, and Charlotte shrugged into it. Both parents followed her out the front door like vultures looking over a fresh kill, so she didn’t dare take the earl’s proffered hand, and instead let her father help her up into the high seat. Lord Matson tucked a blanket around her feet under the

close gaze of the baron and baroness, and in a flash they were off down the drive.

Charlotte sighed, her breath fogging a little in the cold air. “You actually came.”

“Of course I did. I said I would.” He looked at her. “Why do you let them talk about you like that?”

“Like what?”

“Your mother acted as though she couldn’t conceive of why I would come calling on you, and your

father seemed to think I meant to escort you somewhere for the sole purpose of abandoning and embarrassing you.”

“Oh, dear,” she muttered. “It’s just… well, you’ve seen how concerned they are about proprie—”

“It wasn’t that.”

She kept her gaze on the street. “What do you wish me to say, my lord? That they don’t understand

why someone with your attractive physical appearance and your considerable income and reputation would be interested in courting their daughter? I don’t quite understand it, myself.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why not? What’s wrong with you?”

Charlotte flushed. She couldn’t help it. “What do you mean, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ You aren’t supposed to ask questions like that.”

“I’m merely trying to understand why I’m not supposed to be seen in your company.” He shifted so he could face her more fully, flicking the reins from his right hand to his left. “Do you squint?”

“No, my lord. Not unless the sun is very bright.”

“Not a problem today, then. Stutter?”

“Not generally.”

“Missing a finger or a toe?”

Despite her efforts, a smile tugged at her mouth. “Not as of this morning.”

“Are your teeth false?”

“No, my lord.”

“Two ears, approximately level with one another, one—”

“Do stop teasing.”

“I’m not. I’m looking for your defect. There must be one, for them to be so nervous about exposing me

to you. One nose,” he continued, “slightly upturned at the tip, one mouth, with lips above and below, two eyes, which we discussed yesterday.” His gaze flicked the length of her and back again. “It’s

nothing I’m not currently seeing, is it?”

“For goodness’ sake, my lord. That is too much,” she protested, not certain whether to be scandalized or terribly amused. “You’re looking precisely at part of the problem, I daresay.”

“Then it must be that you’re wearing a wig. You’re bald, aren’t you?”

Finally she chuckled. She couldn’t help it. “No, my lord. My hair is my own, firmly attached.” She drew

a breath before he could question her eyelashes or her bosom or something.

“I’m not beautiful or ebullient, and you’re quite handsome and wealthy, with your choice of any single female in London. That’s what they don’t understand. And frankly, neither do I.”

” ‘Not beautiful,’ ” he repeated, slowly facing front again, just in time to turn them up Bond Street. With a snap of his wrist he turned the horses to the side of the street and yanked on the reins to stop them. When he faced her again his eyes glinted. “Don’t you ever say that again,” he said in a low, hard voice. “Is that clear?”

Charlotte swallowed at the fierceness in his gaze. “It doesn’t make sense to deny anything. If I carried myself as anything but what I am, I would only appear ridiculous.”

“The only ridiculous thing about you is that statement. You …” He trailed off, slamming a fist into his knee. “At the Hargreaves’ Ball,” he began again, his voice lower, “you had better reason than most to spread rumors—or to accept the rumors—of Lord Easterly’s part in another scandal. But you defended him to your mother because it was the right thing to do.”

For a long moment she looked at him, trying to remember the exact conversation and how he might

have overheard it. “That was a private discussion,” she finally said.

“That doesn’t matter. I liked what you said, that one person’s accusation wasn’t enough to risk ruining a man’s reputation. I spoke with several other chits—young ladies—that night, and not one of them voiced anything but the current popular theory. I doubt it would have occurred to them to do otherwise.”

“Perhaps they spoke that way because they believed him guilty,” she offered, her pulse skittering. She wasn’t an idiot; he was saying that he admired her.

“If I’d said the sky was magenta and green they would have agreed with me.”

He sat back a little, still gazing at her. “Would you?”

“If the sky had been that color I certainly would have agreed with you.”

After a moment he visibly shook himself. “The rain’s stopped. What say we do some shopping?”

“You … This is very nice, my lord, but it won’t help either of us to be seen together.” Despite the relatively deserted streets, someone they knew was bound to see them, and then the rumors would

start, and people would begin to wonder what was wrong with
him,
to be seen in her company.

“It will help me a great deal. Willis, hold the horses.”

The liveried tiger urged his mount up to the front of the team and took hold of the nearest horse’s harness. As he did so, Matson took her chin gently between his fingers and turned her back to face him. Before she could gasp or even form the thought to do so, he touched his warm lips to hers. It could only have been a few seconds, a dozen fast heartbeats, but the moment seemed to stretch into forever, the touch of his mouth to hers. Charlotte closed her eyes, trying to memorize the sensation.

“I feel better already,” he murmured. “Open your eyes, Charlotte.”

She did so, half expecting to see that he was laughing at her. Instead, though, the soft smile that curved his mouth left her wanting to throw herself in his arms, and damn the consequences. “My lord, this is—”

“This is the beginning,” he finished for her. “And call me Xavier.”

It has come to This Author’s attention that Lord Matson, about whom, as all Dear Readers will recall, certain altar-bound activities were reported, has been paying rather assiduous attention to a particular young lady.

This Author would be pleased to report the lady in question’s name (and indeed, This Author

is in possession of this name) except that it is so astounding, so completely and utterly unexpected, that This Author fears falsity.

Especially since, by all accounts, Lord Matson’s attempts to woo this young lady have been soundly rebuffed.

Good heavens, is the chit mad in the head?

LADY THISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
10 JUNE 1816

Charlotte Birling was about to rebel. Last Thursday Lord Matson—Xavier—had returned her home before noon, just as he’d promised. The two hours previous to that had been the most glorious of her life. She hadn’t expected his interest to last, but she’d intended to enjoy it while she could.

But then her parents had bid him good day, and she hadn’t seen him again.

No, that wasn’t quite true; she’d glimpsed him through her rain-streaked window three times, and she’d heard his voice downstairs when he’d sought entrance, but as for conversation, one or the other of them might as well be residing

on the moon.

And even after only three accidental meetings and one morning of chatting about nothing in particular,

she missed him. She had always felt comfortable and safe around men in general because she didn’t expect to be flattered or flirted with, and they seemed to appreciate her lack of vanity. With Xavier, though, it was different.

He did feel comfortable, and easy to talk to, but definitely not safe. No man had ever looked at her as he did, and shivers still ran down her spine whenever she recalled him—which was practically every second of the past week.

She could hardly be expected to put him out of her mind, of course, since he’d called every day of the

last four. Rebuff after rebuff, lie after lie from her father or her mother, and still he called. She’d never heard him raise his voice, but the brief glimpse she’d had of him as he’d climbed into his coach yesterday had shown tense, straight shoulders and a fist slamming against the window frame.

“Is he going to call this afternoon?” The baroness stood in her open bedchamber door, wearing the same expression of thinly disguised displeasure she’d had since Thursday.

“Beg pardon?” Charlotte asked, quickly placing her tawdry emerald necklace back in her dresser drawer.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, Charlotte. Your father asked you not to encourage him.”