Shana Galen (19 page)

Charlotte’s head snapped to attention. “Freddie? But what does he have to do with anything?”

“Thunder an’ turf! I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“Perhaps not, but you did,” Charlotte pressed.

They separated for the next form of the dance, and when they came together again, Middleton said in a low voice, “Dewhurst asked me to play escort for you tonight.”

Escort? Charlotte shook her head angrily. “Are you spying on
me
now? I am certain the War Office could find better things for you to do with your time.”

“Shh! Tare an’ hounds! I was
not
spying on you,” he hissed, glancing about nervously. “If I wanted half of the beau monde to know I worked for the Foreign Office, I’d take out an ad in the
Morning Post
.”

They separated for the next form, and by the time she placed her hand on Sebastian’s arm
again, her thoughts had jumped ahead. “Sir Sebastian, is there a particular reason my husband asked you to sp—ah, escort me? Is”—she glanced about quickly—“Cade Pettigru here?”

Middleton looked like a trapped insect. He squirmed, wriggled, and finally murmured, “Do not even say his name. Yes, there is a possibility our friend is here tonight. Do you remember what to do if approached?”

For a moment Charlotte had no idea, then slowly she nodded. She knew Freddie and his cousin wanted her to lead them to Cade. Innocent or guilty, she did not care. She would never betray Cade. If he were present tonight, she’d have to slip away from Sir Sebastian and warn Cade. She’d tell him to run as far and as fast as possible.

The dance ended and Middleton led her off the dance floor. Charlotte was trying to think of a suitable excuse to escape Freddie’s cousin when Lord Alvanley approached.

“Sir Sebastian, Lady Dewhurst.” The dandy bowed with a flourish, but Charlotte looked past him to where Lucia stood conversing with Lady Jersey—or rather nodding—as the esteemed patroness of Almack’s, nicknamed “Silence,” prattled on endlessly.

“Good to see you again, old boy. Still looking for a Chinese snuffbox?” Middleton inquired.

“I might be. Depends who’s selling.” Alvanley turned to her. “And how are you enjoying the evening, my lady?”

“It’s splendid.” She began inching away. “Oh, dear, I think I see Lady Selbourne waving at me.”

Alvanley didn’t bother to look. “Oh, she’ll be engaged with Silence half the night. If you are not already spoken for, might I partner you in the next dance?”

“Oh, but I—” Charlotte began.

“Perhaps later,” Middleton said.

Alvanley frowned. “Rubbish.” He took Charlotte’s arm and began leading her to the dance floor.

“What are you thinking about, Freddie?” Lucia asked, coming up behind him. He did not look at her, did not alter his focus from his wife, now being led to the dance floor by Lord Alvanley.

“I made a mistake,” he muttered.

“Have you?” Lucia’s eyes widened. “I daresay, I’ve not heard you admit that before. I thought admitting fallibility made men too mortal. Gods, after all, don’t blunder.”

“I’m not a god.” Freddie craned his head slightly to follow Charlotte and Alvanley’s progress. “I’m a dashed fool.”

“Of course you are. What have you done this time?”

“The bronze satin. It’s stunning. The russet sarcenet would never have been as charming.”

“Freddie!” Lucia cried, and he tossed her a smirk.

“But,” he continued, “I shall not make another mistake and allow her to dance with Alvanley.”

“Oh, he’s harmless.”

Freddie didn’t answer, and Lucia looked away from the dance, a waltz, which was just commencing, and sliced a glance at him with her sapphire eyes. “Freddie, you cannot think to cut in.”

“Excellent suggestion, madam. If you will excuse me?”

“But I was not—! Oh, dear.”

Lucia’s jaw dropped as did those of the rest of the guests as Freddie carved through them and arrested his wife on the dance floor.

“You’re dancing with my wife, Alvanley.”

Charlotte let out a small squeak of astonishment, but Alvanley did not falter. He turned Charlotte away and said, “So I am, Dewhurst. And you’re interrupting. Go ’way.”

Freddie felt his face heat and clenched his fist to quell the urge to smack Alvanley so hard the man’s head spun around. Freddie caught a glimpse of Charlotte, her sherry-colored eyes wide and concerned. Alvanley turned her again, and Freddie caught her arm, tugging her out of Alvanley’s embrace and hauling her into his own.

“As a matter of fact, you are the one interrupting. From now on, no one dances with my wife but me. Madam?” he inquired, but did not wait for her response before sweeping her back into the dance. Pulling her close, he turned and swirled her until he knew she was so dizzy, she was no longer thinking of Alvanley or Pettigru or any other man, only of how to keep up with him.

Freddie’s thoughts, however, were of a more earthy nature. He loved the way she felt in his arms—the light press of her hand in his, the warmth of her body when he pulled her close. Heady with lust, he lowered his hand on her back slightly so that his fingers just grazed her derriere.

Charlotte trembled. “Sir, we are much too close.”

Freddie smiled. “I like you close. I want you closer.”

Her eyes flicked to his mouth, and he knew what she was thinking.

He leaned closer. “If you continue to devour me with your eyes in that manner, I might be forced to take you right here.”

She shivered, and he felt the tremor through to his own bones. “That might cause quite a scandal,” she murmured a moment later.

Freddie chuckled. “At this point I imagine the whole room is so scandalized that nothing we do will produce any greater effect.”

“Well, it is not every day that their paragon of etiquette breaks a rule, my lord.”

Freddie pulled her nearer, so near that his mouth was mere inches from hers. “Don’t do that, Charlotte.” He heard her catch her breath and swore he could hear the pounding of her heart.

Her dark eyes collided with his. “Do what?” she breathed.

“Call me lord. It’s not you.” Rapidly he spun her around the floor until she was breathless and laughing. “
This
is you.” He pulled her flush against him again, and warmed at the desire and promise he saw in her face.

“And do not presume to know everything about me, my little Yankee. I rather enjoy breaking the rules for you. Are you suitably shocked?”

“Scandalized.”

“Good. Then let me scandalize you further.” Taking her hand, he marched off the dance floor, pulling her behind him.

C
harlotte resisted Freddie only until she realized that doing so would cause a spectacle, and then she merely sent a fleeting look to Lucia. Lucia gave her a sympathetic wave, and then her friend’s blond hair was out of sight as Freddie tugged Charlotte through the ballroom door.

Charlotte turned, eager for a last glimpse of the room and possibly Cade, but she saw no one who looked like him.

It was only a few feet to the stairs and twenty-some steps to the next level of the house, but the distance felt farther than Charleston to China. They must have passed fifty or more guests, and each one turned to stare at them incredulously. Charlotte stared back. For a moment she was
certain one of the dark-haired men was Cade, but when he turned his head, he had dark eyes, not Cade’s vibrant blue.

Despite the stares and Charlotte’s resistance, Freddie continued to drag her in his wake. They passed a gilded mirror in the hallway, and Charlotte noted that the color of her face matched her hair. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back, and the dress that had seemed so light and frothy now felt like a suit of armor.

Finally they reached the landing, and Freddie threw open a door, pulling Charlotte in behind him. He slammed the door shut, and the small parlor immediately took on an intimate feel. A brace of candles burned near a small gold upholstered chaise longue in the center of the room; otherwise, all was darkness and shadows. How was she ever to find Cade when her husband had her locked away like this?

Freddie rested the palms of his hands on either side of her shoulders and leaned against the closed door.

“What are you doing?” Charlotte wiggled in the confined space and tried to tug on the doorknob. “Surely this is improper.”

“Shockingly so. We are hopelessly unfashionable now, my little Yankee.”

“I’m a Southerner, not a Yankee, and since I have never been fashionable, I couldn’t care less. But you”—she ran her gaze over him, then raised
a brow—“you have your reputation to worry about.”

“I shall take the risk, I think.” He smiled down at her, then removed one arm from the door and pulled at his cravat. It fell in a snowy white tumble down the dark blue of his tailcoat. Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek, and kissed her.

When they parted, she said breathlessly, “Are you mad? You can’t possibly think to—to—”

“Make love to you?” He took one of her curls in his hand and seemed to test its weight. Mesmerized by the elegance of his long, aristocratic fingers, Charlotte forgot what they had been discussing. But when he moved to kiss her again, she abruptly sidestepped.

“Not here!”

“You prefer another room then?” Bringing the curl to his nose, he inhaled deeply.

“I prefer—” Charlotte had to tear her eyes from his molten gaze. Cade. She had to remember Cade. “I prefer that we return to the ball immediately. Sir Sebastian mentioned that Cade might be in attendance this evening.” Charlotte ducked under Freddie’s shoulder and scooted away.

“I see.” Freddie crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “And you hope to see him.”

“Of course. Isn’t that what I’m here for?”

His warm green eyes turned steely gray, and he said, “Yes. How could I forget your lover or the one thousand pounds I owe for your services?”
He reached up and viciously yanked at the top button of his white lawn shirt.

“Stop calling Cade my lover. You know that’s not true. And as for the money, I—I don’t care about that.”

Freddie’s hands stilled and he eyed her narrowly. “Not at all?”

It was true, but she didn’t want to contemplate that right now. Instead she said, “Cade was—is my friend. I have to help him or else he’ll be—”

“Drawn and quartered most likely.” What looked like anger flitted across Freddie’s face. “Treason is a serious matter.” Freddie tugged another button open.

“Treason!” Charlotte felt her heart lurch into her throat. How could Dewhurst speak of capital punishment and torture so lightly? “But Cade’s an American. If he’s a spy, it’s not treason but an act of patriotism.”

“Patriotism?” Freddie barked out a laugh. “If we excused every spy who argued patriotism, Napoleon, not Prinny, would be redesigning Carlton House right now.”

“And perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad turn of events. You English would do well to be brought down a notch or two.”

Freddie’s eyes slitted. “You hate us that much, do you?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, to give her usual rejoinder. Her hatred of all things
British had become almost a mantra to her. But for the first time, it brought her no peace. “No. I don’t hate all of you.” Finally she looked into her husband’s eyes—rather, the man who’d played the role of her husband, for better or worse—and said, “Not all of you.”

Her words hung in the heavy air between them, and then she was pressing herself into his embrace. His arms around her felt strong and safe and…almost like home. He held her so tightly, so tenderly that it made her want to weep. She didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to have her father’s business, didn’t want Charleston back without Freddie. But did he feel the same, and was it enough to make her happy here in England?

“Charlotte,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. This will all be over soon.”

She stiffened at his words but held on to a fragile slice of hope that what was burgeoning between them would survive whatever happened when they found Cade. Would Freddie want her to stay with him? Make her his wife in truth?

Cupping her face in his hands, he leaned down and kissed her slowly, teasing her lips apart. She wanted to resist, tell him all her fears, but she couldn’t muster the willpower. Before she realized what had happened, she was relishing once again the taste of him, the feel of his lips on hers, the growl in the back of his throat when she ventured to run her tongue lightly over his lower lip.

She felt his control shatter. It smashed into a thousand pieces and then his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss that he deepened until she responded hungrily. She moaned when he ran his hands along the slope of her neck to the arches of her shoulders. She cried when, with the pads of his fingers, he traced the sensitive skin, teasing and cajoling each sleeve down her arm. Gently breaking the kiss, he bent down and curved his mouth over one shoulder, his hands moving to caress her hips and pull her intimately against him.

Charlotte felt the proof of his arousal, and reason made one last bid for attention. “We must stop.” She tore herself from Freddie’s tantalizing kisses, straightened the sleeves of her gown, then pressed her palms against the heated flesh of her cheeks. “If we’re found, what will people say?”

“Yes, what will they say?” Freddie drawled, reaching out to slip her sleeve down again. “I can see the papers now. ‘Lord D———is besotted with his Yankee bride.’”

Charlotte grimaced and tugged the sleeve back in place. “Well, I certainly hope that’s not the headline. I keep telling you that I am a
Southerner
, not a Yankee. Neither you nor your press seems to understand the difference.”

“Well, my darling Yankee,” he said, caressing her cheek, “you may have to get used to the title.”

“But I just told you—”

“And I am a lord not a mister, and you have yet
to get that right, except, I suspect, when you feel like it.”

Charlotte gave him a withering look, but Freddie only smiled and undid another button on his expensive shirt. Charlotte blinked. How had so much of his enticing flesh been revealed? The shirt was positively gaping, the contours of his firm muscles played on by the flicker of candlelight.

“We
must
return to the ball.” Her voice was pleading, but her eyes were riveted to that expanse of bronze skin.

“We will.” Freddie took a step toward her. Reaching out, he lightly touched her arm. “In a moment.”

Charlotte retreated and stumbled over the back of the plush azure chaise longue behind her. “Freddie, if we don’t leave now everyone will be talking about us.”

Freddie took another step forward and wrapped his hand around a thick curl that had come loose from her coiffure. “They already are.”

“But Lucia is probably looking for us.”

“Doubtful.” He tugged the hair lightly, and Charlotte had no choice but to follow where he led. He guided her into his arms.

“What if someone comes in?” She was breathing slightly faster now because she could feel the heat pulsing from his body. And—dare she admit it?—there was something exciting about being in
timate with Freddie when they might be caught at any moment.

“I locked the door.”

He sank his hand into the depths of her hair and dragged her hard against him. Charlotte tried to resist, but she felt exhilarated and wicked. Even when his mouth locked with hers again and his tongue delved into her mouth, infusing her with a heat so searing it made her knees weak, she tried to defy her attraction. But her yearning was too much. He would never be hers. Soon she’d be back in Charleston—alone and struggling with no time for thoughts of passion. If Cade were here, tonight might be her last with Freddie.

And suddenly she ceased the struggle and melted against him. Melted into him. He groaned deep in his throat and combed his fingers through her hair, loosening the pins and ribbons woven into it as he did so. She felt the weight of it lessen and disperse as it fell in sections down her back. Freddie’s hands followed, and soon his palms spanned the curve of her waist.

Then it was Charlotte’s turn to touch and explore. She glided her hands across his chest, unfastening his waistcoat and spreading the V of his shirt wider. He kissed her more ravenously with each stroke of her fingers, and somehow she found the strength to pull away. But only for a moment and only to press her mouth against the rapid pulse at his throat. He groaned as she slid
her tongue down his hot, sweet skin, kissing a trail down his chest.

“God, I want you,” he said hoarsely, and his hands were as rough as his voice when he trailed them over her hips and grasped her buttocks. In one fluid motion, he lifted her and pressed his throbbing arousal against her. Somehow he moved, and before she knew what had happened, she was on the chaise, her legs open and Freddie moving against her.

Charlotte knew she should fight this. But she was breathless with need. She threw her head back and cried out when his fingers grazed her intimately. The rush of sensation restored her senses for a heartbeat, and she was able to push ineffectively against him. “Freddie. We
can’t.
”

He drew back, his eyes moss green with desire and his face shadowed. “Are you still sore from last night?” he murmured. “Have I hurt you?”

Charlotte averted her eyes. “No, it’s not that. We just
shouldn’t
. Not here.”

“‘Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?’”

Charlotte took a shaky breath. “Not you as well. Your cousin already has claim to
Romeo and Juliet.
”

“You wound me, madam, but I might be persuaded to forgive you.” He leaned down to kiss her, but she wiggled away.

“Freddie!”

“I want you, Charlotte.” Freddie’s voice was
husky, and when she met his eyes they smoldered. “Now. Here.”

He pushed provocatively against her again, and the sudden pleasure was so great that Charlotte nearly forgot her objections. She knew now that, given half a chance, Freddie could double, no treble, that sensation.

Perhaps if she just gave in for one small moment.

Charlotte felt the chaise’s silk upholstery on the backs of her stocking-clad thighs where her dress was hiked up. The disparity between the cool silk and her husband’s hot caresses made her shiver, and never more so than when he knelt in front of her and opened her legs. He never ceased kissing her, but his hands came alive—palms making lazy circles on her knees, fingers tripping up her thighs to her garters and back down again. The material of his coat was soft against her skin, but Charlotte wanted to feel him—feel his flesh on hers. She reached forward and pushed the coat half off his shoulders. The fit, of course, was tight, and Freddie merely gave her a half smile as he shrugged out of the garment.

He bent to kiss her again, but Charlotte stopped him with two fingers on his chest. “The waistcoat, too.”

Freddie raised an eyebrow but complied, unbuttoning then tossing the white silk over the back of the chaise longue.

“Any other requests, madam?” His fingers
played on her knees again, this time reaching down to learn the contours of her calves.

“The shirt,” Charlotte choked out, breathless from the sensations caused by Freddie’s fingers and incredulous at her own audacity in ordering him to undress.

Freddie removed one dainty bronze ribbon slipper from her foot and placed his hands again on her thighs. “Be my guest.” In his smile there was a challenge, and in his eyes a tempered passion. Charlotte wanted to see his eyes heat and burn for her.

Roughly pulling off one white glove, then the next, Charlotte threw them aside and reached up to caress Freddie’s neck with her fingertips. He watched her every movement, clenching his hands on her thighs slightly when her fingers first touched him. Meeting his eyes, which were now beginning to smolder, she slid her fingers down the open V of his shirt. Then she withdrew and her fingers skimmed down the fabric, feeling the hard planes of his chest beneath, until she reached his waistband. With a jerk, the fine lawn was free and she pulled it over his head, exposing his chest to her eager gaze.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she returned and allowed her fingers to brush against the flesh at his throat, then the broad expanse of his chest. She paused, glanced up at him, and moved lower. Freddie’s grip on her thighs tightened, and she traced a bold
path of hard strokes across his ribs and over the hard muscles of his back. With a jerk, she pulled him to her and closed her legs against his smooth flesh. His skin was deliciously hot along her inner thighs, where her stockings did not reach.

“You’re so
warm,
” she whispered against his throat, kissing the line of his jaw and rubbing her lips against the brassy stubble she felt there.