One Night Is Never Enough (26 page)

“It is what you want it to be, of course. As it always has been.”

Something shifted uncomfortably. For Roman Merrick
took.
Freely and unabashedly admitting to it. It was something she counted on actually. That she simply couldn’t resist him and didn’t need to. That she didn’t need to think on the choice. She could just be . . . Charlotte.

“I was under the impression that it was what
you
wanted it to be,” she said stiffly. “You are the one who collects after all.”

“Am I?” One of the inlaid glass doors of the cabinet opened beneath his hand, and he tapped the pane with a finger, producing a hollow sound in the silent room. “Do you plan to allow me to collect forever?”

“No, of course not.” It was surprisingly hard to say. “And don’t make a mockery of me by trying to imply that you would stay well pleased with me for any length of time.” Her voice was tight, the admission pulled from her.

The tapping of the glass echoed inside her, the only sound in the room for long moments.

“You are quite the conundrum, Charlotte Chatsworth,” he said at last.

She tightened her arms, hugging them uncomfortably to her. She looked to the dark windows of the room. Soulless eyes peering in from the night. “I am hardly a mystery when compared with you.”

“But I am quite simple, in fact.” He cocked his head toward her, back still turned. “My wants and desires easy to discern.”

She stared into the shadows of his profile, waiting for him to laugh at the joke.

“You, on the other hand, don’t know what you desire, do you, Charlotte?” He closed the door and turned to lean back against the wooden case. “Do you want the freedom or the cage?”

“I desire freedom, of course.” But she also desired it for others. For Emily. Whom she had to protect. Who was affected by her rogue actions. A pawn someone like John Clark could use.

Roman extended his hand and made a casual twisting motion toward his chest. “Freedom comes in many guises, though. And sometimes, that which is within is the hardest to release.”

“What . . . ?” She swallowed, unwilling to finish the question. Unwilling to face whatever he might say. Whatever was inside.

“But we—you—have tarried here far too long.” He motioned to her, then to the door. “I can’t seem to help myself from tarrying with you. Why do you think that might be?”

As usual, something underlying his words pulled her to him. So much so that she had to stop the movement of her body. For his first words were correct. She needed to return to the floor posthaste to make a respectable exit. She should have been out there already to mitigate whatever venom John Clark chose to spread.

Her continued presence in the room, with him, was almost frightening. What was she doing?

“You . . .” She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to stop the words. “You could find me later, perhaps?”

Damn weakness.

He hummed a little something. He was studying her, she knew it from his positioning, from the feel of his stare, but his eyes were hidden in shadow.

Charlotte waited a moment too long, uncertainty and apprehension running through her. He remained motionless, watching, as if trying to solve the
conundrum,
leaning against the cabinet, pulling deeper shadows to him. She turned when the moment grew to discomfort and walked to the door, peering out, waiting for a threesome of girls to pass before slipping into the hall after them. Not looking back.

He didn’t stop her. And she should be happy about that. She needed to understand this
compulsion
for him and do something to remedy it, to even out her emotions.

The library was a few doors from the retiring room. She bit her lip. Roman always knew what he was doing. Still, Charlotte slipped inside, half-anticipating her appearance to be wild and disorderly now. But she looked perfectly put together. No traces of being pressed and frenzied, of being caught and forced to sneak through a dusty secret passage laced with spiderwebs.

She gathered her courage and exited with a group of women returning to the ballroom; then headed toward her mother as sedately as she could, hiding her emotions behind her strict carriage and mask. She didn’t feel any whispers or secretive looks cast her way to indicate John Clark had carried out any of his implied threats.

She also didn’t feel the relief of knowing she wasn’t ruined yet. And such odd feelings required intense examination, for she had felt such converse emotion ever since she had spent that first night with him. She found her mother quickly and stayed at her side for the remainder of the night. Her mother kept sending suspicious, cool glances her way, but said nothing.

From the lack of immediate whispers, it appeared that Clark intended to find a different way to extort revenge. She had seen him staring at her across the room soon after she had reentered, a glittering look in his eye. Then he had suddenly disappeared, as if the devil had yanked him back to hell.

Off plotting, no doubt. For he didn’t have a solid hold on which to pin the rumor. It would be his word against hers, and, at the moment, hers held more weight.

Though that would change in the blink of an eye should she be caught again—especially by a second person. She was going to have to pay even more care in the future.

The future.
She found it difficult to breathe as she watched the masked dancers twirl—anonymous friends and lovers finding each other. Silly. But she couldn’t bear to think of a future that didn’t contain clandestine meetings with him. She tried to stop the threat of tears. One way or another, their affair would come to an abrupt end.
How
, was the only question.

Clark had been easily taken care of. The man hadn’t presented even a remote challenge. Boring task really, but for the emotions evoked by what Clark had planned to do to Charlotte. That had made the task . . . less boring.

The night had long since blended into the morning when the chair on the other side of the table scraped against the floor. Roman continued to roll the dice at his two-person table, stretched back with his arm over the back of his chair, watching the pips turn. He hardly needed a card printed with a spade to tell him who currently occupied the other seat.

“Lord Downing.”

“A trifle conspicuous in your nightly maneuvers for once, Merrick.”

“I hardly feel the need to hide from you, my lord. Or your wife.” He spun the dice over to him. “It would be stupid to think you unaware of . . . affairs. As for others, who would hazard the correct guess?”

Downing’s expression matched his black attire. “You dance in a deadly game.”

“Do I?”

“On a number of fronts, I believe.”

“Ah, yes. But it is not those other fronts that concern you.”

The viscount studied him. “Your brother will be called to account soon.”

Roman kept his muscles from stiffening and shrugged nonchalantly. “Andreas will do as Andreas wills.”

“There are those who would make deals for your brother if you were willing to negotiate other things.”

“Ah. But I am not willing. I have my pieces already in place, and Andreas well understands my goal.” He tipped his head. “Is that all, Lord Downing?”

“I could call in your marker.”

A single shovel with which to bury him. Downing had said nothing the night Roman had won Charlotte. But he had known. Had helped Roman cover the cheat in the tense minutes after the hands were revealed. And even now, Roman wondered about Downing’s motives.

“Could you now?” Roman smiled. “But then, I don’t think you will. I don’t think your wife will allow it yet. You will be made to see how things play out, just like everyone else.”

“You take unnecessary risks.”

He’d go brood with Andreas if he wanted to be chastised. He waved a dismissive hand. “No one knew it was me tonight. For you, it was hardly a deduction to make when you saw an unknown man dancing with her. But who else would even think to link my name with hers?”

“Trant.”

“Ah, Trant.” Roman smiled. “Interesting thing about Mr. Trant is his ambition. Rules everything in his life.”

Downing’s expression didn’t soften. “You are maneuvering for Trant. Why? It does not seem to be in your best interests.”

“When you find what rules a man, you control that man.”

“Binchley is easily controlled by drink and his terror of his mother.”

“Ah, but intelligence and ambition are difficult to bestow, whereas offered power is not. Controlling men in power—” He waved his hand. “Is easy. It is simply a matter of finding the right key.”

“And what do you think will happen when it becomes obvious to others as to what rules you, Merrick? What your key is?”

Long practice at the tables prevented him from going rigid. “We shall see
if
it occurs, shall we?”

Downing tossed the dice back across the table. “We shall. And perhaps you should reconsider the scope of your actions while waiting for the inevitable. I wouldn’t want to join the voices clamoring for your removal. Nor to sign these.” He tossed a sheaf of papers—a petition—on the table. “Good evening, Merrick.”

Chapter 16

“H
eadache?” Her mother peered at her dispassionately across the carriage space. “You’ve been plagued by headaches this season. Interesting, as I don’t recall you complaining of the malady in years before.”

“Perhaps I have caught your ailment, Mother.”

“Mmmm.” Viola watched her coolly. “That would be a shame.”

Charlotte tried to decipher her mother’s expression, for she was suddenly quite sure Viola wasn’t speaking of headaches.

“You hardly danced at all,” her mother said. “Though there was a very interesting interlude between your dances with Mr. Trant. Who were you dancing with, Charlotte?”

Charlotte wondered how many people had noticed their dance and commented. She pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t know that I recall, Mother. A footman perhaps. I’m sure someone will suss it out.”

She hoped that statement would not prove true.

“Your father will be quite displeased, Charlotte. You may want to rethink your . . . strategy?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Marquess Binchley will be an easily led husband.”

Charlotte nodded.

“A woman could do worse than a witless man.” The emotions in her mother’s caustic voice were pronounced. And there was something almost desperate in her eyes. Strange.

“Yes, Mother.” A witless man who would have them as beggared in the future as they were now. One thing about Mr. Trant. Titles be damned, he would never allow himself or his family to be beggared or ruined. His pride and ambition were far too marked.

That didn’t mean she wanted to be pledged to him either. At the moment, she wished simply to disappear into the night. Free.

Every time she thought of anything marriage-related, light eyes dark with promise pushed into her thoughts instead. She’d been unable to perform on the marital stage since Vauxhall.

Since Roman, really.

Viola retired quickly after they arrived home, irritation coating her night salutations, leaving Charlotte alone in their front hall.

Charlotte’s fingers brushed a bright swath of fabric hidden in the rack of outer garments. Uncovered just for a moment. A smile formed, straight from her heart, washing away her malaise.

She pulled her fingers along the fabric, then walked steadily upstairs, trying to hide her smile. Thinking about what she could do to the intruder while Anna was helping Viola undress.

Charlotte didn’t pause on the landing—feeling confident that she wouldn’t be attacked on the stairs—but she kept her eyes moving as she walked down the hall to her room.

She opened the door, checking for shadows beneath the bottom edge. She pushed the door back quickly, but it didn’t squish a body; nor was anyone waiting in the shadows.

Under the bed was the next best bet. Though she could hardly check in her current state of dress. Still, she’d keep her ankles away. It had taken a fortnight for the throbbing in her throat to ease the last time. She’d never shrieked so hard.

She eyed the wardrobe. It was a tight fit. She would make the gnat regret it if any of her clothes were damaged.

She touched the knob. It gave way too easily. She jumped to the side when a flurry launched from the interior. The gangly body flew through the air, then landed lopsided against the end of the bed with an “ooomph.”

Charlotte snickered before lighting a lamp. She turned to see two large, disgruntled, brown eyes.

“It appears that someone has breached my domain.” Charlotte groaned, hand to her forehead. “Where, oh where, is my shining knight to save me?”

“You knew I was here. It was supposed to be a surprise!” Her sister’s light brown hair stuck up every which way as it was wont to do in the mornings—or when she shoved herself into, say, a wardrobe.

Charlotte held out a hand to help her up. “The whole house brightens when you enter. I can hardly be unaware.”

Emily smiled happily, giving her a hug before dusting herself off. “Oh, well that is fine then. I missed you too. And good show, by the way. I thought I had you for sure. How was your night?”

Charlotte pushed down the excitement that spontaneously appeared with any thoughts of
him,
and the anxiety that always lingered, and smiled at the girl she had all but raised while their mother had been in and out of her constant depression. “Fine. But I didn’t expect you home until next week.”

Had thought she had more time to pretend.

“Tree fell through the south wing. Mrs. Stanwick had to close things down for a few days to get it patched up and decided to extend break for those who wanted to leave early.”

Charlotte’s chin dropped, temporarily suspending all thoughts of the dripping sands of the hourglass. “A tree fell through the wing?”

“Yes.” Emily’s lower lip drew between her teeth. “Not sure how that could have occurred.”

Charlotte raised a brow but didn’t ask. Emily would come clean eventually. “How are things at our fair house of higher learning otherwise? Help me undress while you tell?”

Mrs. Stanwick was the best governess in their county. So highly regarded for her strict propriety that she had been able to take on multiple girls, with parents vying to get their daughters enrolled in her classes.

All the better, for Viola Chatsworth had wanted little to do with her daughters, or anyone else, for that matter.

“School is . . . school is fine.” Emily picked at the coverlet, then pulled up a brisk smile as she helped Charlotte. “I bested Margaret Smith in all subjects.”

A sliver of tension returned, far too easily. “Has she been bothering you again?”

“No.”

Everything in that single word shouted the opposite. Charlotte felt the guilt like a sharpened blade. The Smiths were country neighbors and Bethany Case nee Smith’s animosity toward Charlotte had been passed down the family line.

Margaret, the more physically blessed of the two sisters, hadn’t needed the extra edge to make Emily’s life miserable.

Charlotte pushed the heel of her palm to her forehead.

“Are you pained?” Emily asked, somewhat anxiously. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Anna said you were sick earlier, but I didn’t believe it. You are never sick. Not unless you have cause to avoid something or someone.”

Charlotte pushed against her sudden headache. “If you tell anyone that, you’ll ruin all of my mad designs,” she said as lightly as she could.

“Like I’d tell,” her sister scoffed, looking relieved. “Now, I want to hear all about your night. About the Hannings’ masquerade—I simply cannot bear the thought of another two years before I’m able to attend. And don’t omit any details about your suitors.” She wagged a finger. “You have been incredibly tight-lipped in your notes.”

She thought of how it would look on the page.
Dear Emily, I think you will be most interested in the knowledge of my torrid affair with a man from London’s underworld . . .

“The masquerade was quite tame this year.” The back rooms on the other hand . . . “And my suitors are the same ones you already know of, goose. Quite a lack of interest there. For
your
interest, though, there are a few men who have returned from recent travels who are quite handsome and witty. Who dance like dreams and speak like angels.”

Emily put her chin on her hand, sighing. “That sounds lovely. I can’t wait until I can accompany you.”

“I wish that as well.” Charlotte swallowed. “You will brighten the halls.”

“What I want to know is why you don’t find one of these dreamy angels instead? One should
not
be bored by a suitor.”

Charlotte snorted.

“Who do you truly fancy?” Emily wheedled. “You’ve not written anything tangible in
weeks
. I’m liable to start believing Margaret Smith’s tales.”

“Oh? And what does Margaret Smith have to say?” She tried not to tense too noticeably. Sometimes the truth to rumors was far easier to sift through from the information that passed between towns.

The knowledge of where and with whom she had been spending time would destroy Emily’s future chances in one swift stroke.

She
knew
that. But had been drowning in her own desires instead. Wanting this
one
thing . . .

Emily waved a hand. “Nonsense. As usual. But hurry and let me undo your hair so you won’t be a slugabed in the morning. Mother said I can accompany you on your appointments tomorrow.” Emily looked as excited as a sixteen-year-old could when told she’d get a taste of society.

“Did she? I don’t know . . .” And though Charlotte said it teasingly, she honestly didn’t. What if . . .

“Oh, hush, you wretched thing.” Emily hurriedly helped her, then all but stuffed her under the covers. “Can’t be late tomorrow.”

“Emily, we won’t be late.”

“Ha,” she muttered, capping the light. “I will have my day.” She waved her fist.

“Yes, Captain.” Charlotte rolled her eyes, waiting for her sister to leave.

The edge of the bed dipped, the covers lifting.

“What are you doing?”

Emily stuffed herself next to her, giving her an incredulous look in the adjusting shadows as she made herself comfortable. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“But . . . don’t you want to sleep in your own room?”

Roman . . .

Emily stared at her. “No,” she said baldly, flipping over to her side. “We always do this first night back. Honestly, Charlotte, I’ll start to think you truly perplexed.”

It took Emily twenty minutes to stop chatting and start softly snoring. Emily, who had her boxed in against the wall. Charlotte closed her eyes, hand to her brow. Wonderful. Trapped. Just where she needed to be if a slippery and deadly visitor made an appearance at her window. Her unlatched window—as it had remained for weeks.

Again, what the hell was she
doing
? What was she
thinking
?

A scrape at the window caused her to go stiff as a board, but it was only a branch in the wind. A creak in the floor made her whimper. A whisper of sound outside made her pray that he ignored her request to find her later.

The shadows passed from quarter hour to half hour to full hour, then over again.

The remembered sound of a light laugh and feel of fingers gently stroking her cheek finally pulled her deep to sleep.

It felt like twenty minutes later when Emily pulled at her arm. “Up, up.”

Charlotte allowed herself to be dragged up. She touched two fingers to her forehead. The headache hadn’t ceased. Anxiety, plans, revelations, fear, and the grip of a charmed smile not letting her free. The decisions she made here and now would have an impact on more than just
her
future. She
knew
this. Had breathed the knowledge of it for years.

Had put all her past plans in jeopardy because of him. Because of her
own
needs.

She had half expected to wake to his smile, to Emily’s yelp. Wondering and waiting. Fearing and dreaming. Not sleeping.

She didn’t think she could look any better than she felt.

Emily stopped her tugging and surveyed her. “Actually, you don’t look all that well. Are you truly sick?”

“Thank you for that lovely examination of my sterling appearance.” Charlotte pushed her hand away. “I’m perfectly well.”

She peered into the mirror, though, just to see the ghastly image. She paused, fingers at the corners of her eyes. Was John Clark right? Did she look different now?

“Are those wrinkles?”

Everything in Charlotte froze at the teasing, and her vision seemed to magnify the edges of her eyes, gaze frantically searching for the lines. She tore her gaze away, determined not to give in to the folly.
Stupid, silly fears.
She didn’t want the pictured image to change, as it used to, into the cold, decrepit reflection she had invariably seen staring back. The image had changed recently into something very nearly approaching vibrant. She closed her eyes and ran fingers along her cheek, the tips of her nails lightly scraping as they came to rest at her chin.

Her eyes opened to pin her sister. “Very amusing.” Charlotte tried to keep her voice light. “Help me dress? What should I wear?”

“Pink.”

Charlotte shook her head, looking through her decidedly pink-free wardrobe.

“What is this?” Emily asked. Charlotte looked over to see her sister sitting on the edge of the bed holding a note. “It says, ‘Everything taken care of. Apologies for last night, my snoring beauty.’ ”

Charlotte plucked the note from her sister’s grasp, clutching it in her shaking fist. Damn man had come in through her window after all and left it on her pillow.
After
she had fallen asleep.
Next
to her sister.