Chapter Four
Thus began what turned out to be an afternoon spent in likely the most engaging conversation Charlotte had ever enjoyed with anyone, much less a man. She and Kenley walked for hours, marking a leisurely pace as they followed the winding footpaths of Chapford Manor’s garden and grounds. They walked abreast of one another, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and when Charlotte would speak, Kenley would lower his face, canting his head to listen. He did not simply let her words pass in one ear and out the other, as James and the other men would by nature. He listened to her, his brows lifted in interest, his gaze attentive as he granted her the same consideration he would have any of his fellows.
“When I was a little girl, my father used to let me sit in the gentlemen’s parlor while he and his friends would have brandies,” she said. “I loved to listen to them talking about politics, economics, agriculture. In the mornings, when he would take to his library to read his gazette, he would always hoist me up into his lap and let me read aloud with him, all of the news from Parliament.” She laughed. “I used to tell him I wanted to be a barrister someday, and he would say what a fine one I would make. Mother says it is his fault, the way I am.”
Kenley paused in his stride, looking at her with his brow raised. “What?” Charlotte asked, laughing slightly, momentarily flustered by this gentle but unwavering scrutiny.
“You really are remarkable,” he said, making her blush all the more.
“Do not flatter me,” she said, drawing her hand from her muff and slapping his arm. “I have nearly enjoyed your company today. Do not dare prove you are no less a cad than any other man with witless attempts at charm.”
He caught her hand before she could slip it back inside her muff. “Forgive me,” he said. “You are right. That was a shameless and horrid attempt to endear myself in your regard.”
He smiled, and she laughed. When he stepped toward her, the margin of space between them closing beyond what was considered proper, she did not mind. When he continued to hold her hand, she offered no resistance. When he lifted his free hand and drew his fingers gently against her cheek, brushing aside a wayward strand of flaxen hair that had worked loose from her bundle, she felt her heart flutter, her breath tangle against the back of her throat.
“I should try again,” Kenley said quietly, his hand lingering against her face, the basin of his palm pressing against her cheek. “In earnest sincerity.”
He leaned toward her, and Charlotte could not breathe. Her heart hammered out a frantic rhythm, caught between alarm and eager anticipation. Her eyes closed as the tip of his nose brushed against hers, and she felt the soft, delicate intake of his breath against her lips.
“You are remarkable, Charlotte,” Kenley breathed, his mouth dancing against hers before settling softly. They stood alongside the house, on their way back toward the front entrance, but Charlotte forgot their proximity and the fact that they were well within plain view of the westward facing windows. She forgot about propriety—and the fact that this was anything but. The world around her faded completely, as if God Himself had drawn it all to an obliging standstill to mark the tender occasion of her first kiss, and her wits, breath, and voice abandoned her in a solitary, helpless whimper.
She opened her eyes and blinked dazedly as he drew away from her. Breathing seemed unnecessary and momentarily forgotten, and the cold, damp air had yielded to some incredible, comfortable warmth from deep within her.
“You…you kissed me,” she whispered.
He smiled. “I did, yes.”
She blinked again. “Why?”
He laughed. “Because I wanted to,” he said. “I would be daft not to. Did you mind?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No,” she said. “I mean… yes. I… I do not… I am not sure.”
He chuckled, and she met his gaze. “I should slap you,” she said.
“I would prefer if you did not,” Kenley said.
A loud rattling, the sudden, heavy falling of hoofbeats startled her, and Charlotte turned, her eyes flown wide as grooms drove a carriage toward them, heading for the front of the house. Two more followed almost immediately, and for the first time, Charlotte took notice of the quality of daylight, and the hour this surely indicated.
“Oh!” she gasped, as the first carriage rolled past. She turned to Kenley, wide-eyed with alarm. “What time is it?”
He opened the front flap of his greatcoat and reached beneath, finding the fob pocket of his breeches and retrieving his watch. He snapped back the gold lid and glanced at her. “Nearly twenty past five.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened even more. She and Kenley had been wandering the grounds of Chapford Manor for three hours, surely, if not more. Lady Epping had undoubtedly taken notice of her absence—the entire bloody gathering likely had—and she groaned aloud.
“What?” he asked, his brows lifting in concern. “Nothing,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “My mother is going to throw a fit, that is all. I must… I have to get back inside.”
“It is my fault,” he said. “I lost track of time.” He looked toward the house. “I will speak with her. Let me explain. I will tell her―”
“No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head again in new horror. She remembered all too well Lady Epping’s cold dismissal of Kenley the day before. She could only imagine her reception if Kenley was standing right in front of her, offering excuses for Charlotte. “No, no, that…truly, that is not necessary.”
“I do not want to see you in trouble on my account,” he said. “I did not mean for that, Charlotte. It was an honest oversight. Please, I insist. Let me―”
“No,” Charlotte said firmly, shoving her hand into her muff. “No, thank you, Kenley, but you do not want to do that. Trust me.”
She turned. “I have to go,” she said, walking again, hurrying toward the front corner of the house. “I am sorry. It was lovely, but I must!”