One Night Is Never Enough (36 page)

Trant motioned to another chair in the room. Charlotte woodenly rose and accepted the offered seat. An ornate chair her parents hadn’t yet been able to part with. Uncomfortable, but beautiful. Trant drew the door shut and approached her again, hands behind his back.

“I’ve spoken with your father.”

“Yes.” She called upon her manners—and they held her stiff. They never abandoned her except when Roman Merrick called them to his control.

“And he still proves . . . stubborn. Unwilling to believe my assurances.”

“My father often does not follow where others want to lead.” He never followed where she did.

“He does not realize the extent of the mistake he makes, allowing me to speak with you instead. You know what I desire.” His eyes took her in. Admiring her posture and carriage. Her teeth like a good horse showed.

“Yes.”

“We could make a good team, Charlotte.”

She looked at him steadily, at the use of her Christian name. “Of course we could, Mr. Trant.”

“The things we could accomplish together . . . Things beyond your father’s narrow view.”

Rule the
ton.
Climb the social vines. Create their place at the top.

Trant needed her, or someone like her. And the farther he climbed, the higher she would ascend. Unlike Downing, who cared not, and Marquess Binchley, who lacked vision, Trant’s ambition would push him high.

“Yes, I am not unaware.”

She wasn’t a duke’s daughter, or an heiress, but she was exactly what he needed and could have. Poised, impeccable, the perfect hostess, with the grit to rule. And her father had made her attainable. Had limited his own ambitions with one simple round of cards.

Had both freed and chained her with the same.

“I know you aren’t. It is one of your many fine attributes. Your father plays a game still. Holding me off until the end of the season, though little does he seem to realize that it is far too late. But it is not your father whom I have to sway at this point. You are the one who holds the power.”

She kept her face cool. The twisted smile down. “My father holds my strings still. I hardly think it would be within your plans to elope.”

He roamed around her chair, a finger brushing her shoulders. She stiffened automatically, muscles tightening. “No, no it would not.”

Trant desired power and prestige. Standing, and an unsullied reputation.

The whispers about her were making him livid. She could see it there behind his eyes. He was a meticulous planner, and factors kept slipping from his grasp.

“But you are the one who will make or break a contract. I don’t remember you pushing or lamenting Downing’s offer or lack thereof.” She could feel him leaning closer. Her skin prickled uncomfortably, but she held herself immobile as he continued speaking. “You could have pushed it through. There was a moment when Downing was still thinking clearly . . .”

She thought Downing had never been thinking more clearly than when he was outwardly showing his love for his wife. But it was true that there might have been a moment there, a moment he would have regretted forever, and that Charlotte hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t been able to after she had spoken with Miranda in the dark of the opera. Stolen away in the cavern of a box to watch them together. To see the adoration. To hear her future husband’s mistress speak of him.

Trant suddenly was before her. “You are the one who handled your father’s bet and decided things in Merrick’s hall that night.”

“It is not in my nature to have a mark upon our honor.”

“And that does you credit,” he all but purred. “But might there have been . . . something else? You have been . . . sloppier lately,” he said. “Not up to your usual standards.”

“You are correct.” Her directness made him start, his eyes narrow. For he was not one to admire directness when it was pointed at him. “I believe you would deem my emotion and actions as ‘rebellious.’ ”

His face was cool, but there was appreciation as well. “It is a relief to know you can be objective, dear. That you understand and can correct the behavior.”

She looked at the wall. There used to be a painting there. A beautiful landscape showing girls in a meadow. Girls with unbound hair and movement in their limbs. It had been one of the first things her father had sold. “I am able to correct the behavior.”

“I know. Or else we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“Perhaps you are rethinking your plans, Mr. Trant.”

“I am. But things are not too far gone to correct. Jealousy is an easy excuse with which to dismiss the rumors. And marriage will quash the rest,” he said.

“I see.”

“Do you? I will tell you something that no one else yet knows. The King is drawing up Letters right now. He knows which way the wind blows. He sees the future. And by this time next year, I will be an earl.” One finger ran along her shoulder as he turned. “And you, my dear, you will be a countess. And not just any countess, but the wife of the future minister as well.”

She wasn’t surprised by his ambition. Or by the information that he was to be titled. And least surprising was the crisp coolness that coiled within her, waiting. Winning cards lay before her. Chance blossoming and offering her a perfect hand.

“That sounds like a very fortuitous state of affairs.” She tried to keep her voice calm. And she found that it wasn’t difficult to do so. A few months ago, she likely would have felt some heady relief. Something that said she didn’t have to continue along her rocky path, her father’s path.

But that path had disappeared over the cliff, and the one now before her was shrouded in a different kind of darkness.

“I see you are happy to have your sister back,” he said, eyes narrowing when she didn’t gush over his offer, expression also satisfied that she could still act so coolly.

“Yes.”

“Such a carefree, happy spirit.”

Charlotte said nothing, not remotely surprised that Trant knew her weakness. Only that it had taken him so long to use it.

“Your sister will want for nothing. I have many connections.”

Coldness spread. For here it
really
was before her. Actual bargains to be made, deals to be sealed, opportunities to be seized.

Her father thought his pawn was in here placating Trant. Securing his compliance to wait until the end of the season.

She thought back to what Roman had said. That the power rested in her lap. The problem was that internalizing that revelation also meant decisions could no longer be pushed aside.

“I simply wish for Emily to choose her own path.” Everything in her voice said that there was nothing simple in the statement. That this is where negotiating began.

“Then that is what she will have,” he whispered in her ear, excitement in his tone that they had reached the crux. “When I am minister, she might choose to become a patron of the arts. A courtier to a queen. Married to a simple man with children in the country. Anything she wants.”

The whispered promise of
out of your father’s hands
lingered. Not having to worry about threats of Lord Kinley or his ilk.

She lifted her chin in interest, not willing to give away her position yet.

He paced around her chair again. “I’m a greedy man. But I could also offer . . . some freedom for you. Eventually.” There was a hint of warning behind the words. He knew. Her heart beat in her, vibrating up her throat coldly. She should have felt no surprise at the certainty of the revelation. “Even with your current . . .
rebelliousness,
there is still barely a hint of talk. And with a ring on your finger, that all gets wiped clean.” His fingers trailed across her chin as he came back into sight. “Perfection,” he whispered.

She remained motionless. An expressionless bust.

Not only did he know, but he was willing to let her have some sort of relationship with Roman afterward.

Why would he agree to that?
She didn’t have
that
much power. And while Trant was the type of man who could coldly work arrangements out at a later date, that he would use that incentive
now
. . . Something tugged at her thoughts, demanding attention.

“Still.” His fingers left her skin. “You play your part, and I will play mine.”

Give him heirs. Be the perfect wife in the social and political spheres. Have a secret life on the side.

The questions continued digging at her—
why? And why now?

She could have everything. Why then did her stomach clench so painfully? She could have everything she’d thought she’d wanted if she simply, patiently
waited
for it.

“You offer much,” she said.

“I want much in return.” His eyes examined her. “But nothing that you are unable to give.”

She lifted her chin. He didn’t require warmth or personal feeling. Obviously didn’t expect anything remotely smacking of it.

And though Trant’s motives were clear, pieces of him were hidden and twining beneath his calculating eyes. Less able to manage than another husband but also ambitious enough to claw them to the top.

She suddenly wondered when she reached the peak, how difficult it would be to stand upon the high, cold precipice, shivering, balancing, finding it hard to draw breath.

No, that was a coward’s way of thinking.

She worked with the cards she was dealt. She always had. A curl of cool air blew from somewhere.
This was what she had been bred for.

These cards were better, no, more
perfect,
than any she’d been dealt before.

She smiled tightly at the man in front of her, and something inside of her, something that had been hanging by a fingernail for so long, finally broke.

The fair was lively. Emily was as enthusiastic as always, even if she kept sending Charlotte concerned glances when she thought she wasn’t looking. Viola was silent, and Charlotte would have normally pinpointed her expression as brooding, but on second glance it was almost contemplative.

Charlotte had a feeling that the three of them planned to exchange quick, pensive glances all day when they thought the others weren’t looking. She wondered what Emily and Viola were thinking—or brooding—about. She wanted to ask, but then she’d have to explain her own thoughts. Her future and her plans. Set the words and patterns to reality.

They swirled around her, tendrils of air that needed something firm to attach to. For she’d forced their carriage to stop at the Downings’ on the way to the fair. Had run inside to speak to Miranda. A tumult of words and feelings, and admissions, all bursting free.

Knowing that everything might blast back. Turn on end, leave her dying.

And still she had done it. Pushing past the fear, pushing past the responsibility.

Roman . . . what would he—

She froze, seeing Bill walking toward them. It wasn’t an unusual sight to see him these days, but to see him looking so solemn, his hands behind his back, approaching as if he meant to speak with them was. Her heart clenched. Had something happened?

She anxiously looked past Bill, hoping to see golden hair, but the crowd churned, the fairgoers laughing and talking, their voices too loud and piercing.

Bill finally came to a stop, standing before Viola, who looked at him as if he was a bug in her porridge.

“Milady, I couldn’t help but notice that your beauty shines brighter than the bloodiest of veins.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to give into hysterical relief that nothing was wrong with Roman or to stupefaction at Bill’s words. Emily appeared firmly set on the latter.

“Pardon me?” Viola said coldly. But Viola didn’t push up her nose. Nor did she move away.

“The crimson blush of a violent sunset. Slaughtering my poor heart.”

Bill’s hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in a dark but dapper outfit, eye patch rakishly angled.

Charlotte’s eyes automatically raked the crowd for blond hair again. Slaughtering
her
poor heart.

“
Pardon
me?” Viola had never worn such an expression in Charlotte’s sight before.

“Only the light touch of your hand to my brow can stave the carmine mist.”

Carmine mist? Charlotte’s brows furrowed, looking back at the man whom she had very much come to like, suddenly wondering at his sanity. But he was staring straight at Viola.

“
Pardon me?
”

Bill solemnly took his hands from behind his back and offered a bouquet of flawless roses to Viola. “For you, milady.”

Viola stared at the man, her fingers automatically taking the flowers. She looked at the bouquet in her hands. “Blood roses are my favorite,” she said, and Charlotte couldn’t read her tone.

“A beautiful choice, for a beautiful woman.” Bill bowed. “Good day, milady.”