“But he has a lovely forehead,” Charlotte replied. Sir Reginald was blessed with a long, thin face, the kind she would quite like to paint, now that she’d graduated to painting real people. Still, she couldn’t paint him without marrying him; unmarried ladies did not spend hours in a room alone with a man, even if he was posed on the couch and not allowed to move. And she didn’t like his forehead enough to marry him for it.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said with a sigh. “One could burn all his little hair attachments. I like bald heads. But …”
“Do you know who he’d be perfect for?” Sophie said suddenly. “Your friend Julia!”
“Oh, Sophie! Julia’s married!” Julia had made a very good marriage, in her first year. Charlotte still couldn’t think about that season without feeling faint pangs of humiliation. While Charlotte sat out dances at the side of the ballroom, Julia energetically bounced her way into the heart of a red-coated major. They currently lived in Gibraltar.
“Why Julia in particular?” she asked.
“Because Reginald loves to listen; haven’t you noticed? He likes the two of us not just because we’re beautiful but because we talk. And Julia: Well, she talks more than both of us put together, doesn’t she?”
Charlotte giggled. It was true that Julia could carry on a conversation with a brick wall. But Sophie had shocked her again. True, Charlotte thought that she looked well, and she knew that Sophie was beautiful, but to refer to it so carelessly … there was something uncivilized about Sophie York. She was so observant—and she never hesitated to voice her opinion, no matter how indelicate that opinion was.
By now they had reached the upper floor, and crowded after Adelaide into the ladies’ parlor. Sure enough, Adelaide was turning her back to a maid, who had begun painstakingly unbuttoning the gilt buttons on her back. Charlotte groaned inside. They’d be here for hours!
Just then her mama looked up and caught her eye. “Girls, will you help me, please? Sophie, if you would sit here and hold my bag, I would be very grateful.” Sophie sat down with Adelaide’s delicate little French reticule on her lap. There had been a rash of burglaries at ton parties lately, and Adelaide was not going to risk losing her favorite bag.
“And, Charlotte, my dear, would you mind slipping downstairs and telling Sissy where I am? I told her mama that I would keep an eye on her, and I don’t want her going into supper with just anyone. Prudence will be furious if that John Mason takes Sissy in to supper again.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Charlotte dutifully but not enthusiastically. Sissy, or Miss Cecilia Commonweal, was a problem; no one particularly liked her, and she had dreadful taste in men. Given a room full of eligible bachelors, she would unerringly single out the only impoverished second son. And since Sissy’s mother, who was a school friend of Adelaide’s, had a weak heart and didn’t attend many balls, Charlotte had spent rather too many dinners with a sullen Sissy, recently rescued from the attentions of yet another ineligible man.
Charlotte began to make her way down the staircase, struggling to see whether she could glimpse Sissy by looking over people’s shoulders. She didn’t seem to be in the ballroom. She’s probably kissing someone on a balcony, Charlotte thought scornfully, forgetting that she herself had almost done precisely that just ten minutes before.
Toward the bottom of the staircase she suddenly thought she spied Sissy’s plumes. Sissy had taken to wearing an elaborate set of three or four dyed ostrich feathers pinned to the back of her hair that made her a little easier to spot in a crowd. Charlotte privately thought the hairstyle was dreadful, like the nodding plumes on one of the queen’s guard horses.
She was on tiptoe just three or four steps from the bottom, straining to see where those gaudy plumes had gone, when her right foot slipped out from under her, striking the person at the bottom of the stairs squarely in the lower back.
“Ooof!” he said, and thump! went Charlotte’s bottom against the marble step. Tears came to her eyes as her back hit the marble stair riser.
The person she had struck turned around and squatted before her. Charlotte raised her eyes. She began to say, “I’m so sorry,” but the words failed in her mouth.
He was larger than she remembered, and handsomer. His thighs strained through his thin pantaloons; she didn’t remember his having such wide shoulders. But his eyes were precisely as velvety dark as she had remembered, and his hair was the same black-silver curls, falling over his forehead in the French manner. Monsieur Pamplemousse would approve, Charlotte thought idiotically.
Suddenly Charlotte realized she was staring. Her eyes flew to his and she turned faintly rosy. The man was staring back at her, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. Charlotte tried to think of something to say. Finally she blurted, “What are you doing here?” Instantly she felt acutely stupid. Of course he wasn’t a footman! He was wearing formal dress, and besides, how could she have ever thought such a thing? He had an undeniable air of command and gentlemanly breeding.
His winged eyebrows flew up. “Where else should I be?” the man asked, still balancing on his heels.
Charlotte blushed again. “Oh, you know, at a masked ball,” she said vaguely. “This time I knocked you over,” she added.
Alex frowned again. What on earth was this beautiful girl talking about? Just his luck: He’d met the first interesting woman of the whole evening, and she was around the bend. His glance drifted down. From here, he could see straight into her gown. She had the most beautiful, creamy breasts he’d ever seen. They were lavishly round, and soft, and perfectly shaped. His hand actually twitched. My God! He’d almost touched her right here. Suddenly he became aware of piping little voices around them, enquiring about injuries and calling for help.
He reached out a hand and brought her to her feet.
“Is your back all right?” Alex asked, ignoring her nonsensical comment about masked balls. Now he liked her even more. She was just the right height, tall, and when she raised her head her mouth was kissably close to his. Alex drew her over to the side of the hall and without even thinking, reached out to rub the middle of her back where she must have struck the stairs.
His hand instantly stopped. Her gown was so thin he could feel the rising swell of her bottom, and he was rocked by one of the most powerful surges of lust he had ever felt. He must be losing his mind, Alex decided. It had been too long since he had a woman.
Charlotte didn’t even feel his hand on her back, or notice when he snatched it away. “Did you … do you remember me?” she asked, finally, looking straight into his eyes.
Alex frowned again. He’d never met her, that was certain. He looked at her carefully. She had a delectable, triangular face enveloped in soft curls: a perfect straight nose, and high cheekbones. Her mouth was a natural dark red. Her eyebrows were exquisite: high and winged, a woman’s version of his own. For a second, some memory stirred, but …
“I’ve never met you,” Alex said, smiling at her. He wouldn’t forget meeting a woman as beautiful as this.
Charlotte’s mouth fell open slightly. He took someone’s virginity, and he didn’t even remember? What were men, anyway? Did he do that every week?
Alex took her arm again and led her toward the parlor to the right.
“You must have met my brother,” he said. “We’re twins.” He looked down at her and smiled. “You are not the first to mistake the two of us.”
Charlotte smiled back without thinking, and her heart gave a huge thump. “You are a twin?” she repeated. Her mind seemed to have gone numb.
“Yes,” Alex said cheerfully, having figured out the whole problem. The girl wasn’t insane; she was just thinking of Patrick. “Even our mother couldn’t always tell us apart.”
Charlotte looked up at him. She knew exactly who he was—well, she didn’t know who he was, but she knew that he was the one. She even recognized the dimple in his right cheek and the shape of his lips. But he didn’t seem to be pretending; he genuinely didn’t remember meeting her. Charlott
e’s heart sunk. Her virginity had mattered so little that he didn’t even remember taking it.
Her steps slowed. Where were they going, anyway? She had to get back upstairs, to her mother. She calmly took her arm out of his grasp and brought them to a halt.
“Thank you so much for helping me up, sir,” she said softly. “I apologize for knocking you to the floor.” Without waiting for his reply she turned and almost—not quite—dashed up the stairs.
Alex stood dumbfounded. One minute she was there; the next minute she was gone. He looked after her wildly. Who was she?
Suddenly he heard an anxious voice at his ear and turned to see Braddon. “What do you think?” Braddon asked. “Isn’t she devastating?”
“Oh, yes,” Alex said, grasping the whole situation in mere seconds. “I’m going to marry her. What did you say her name was?”
Chapter 5
When Charlotte reappeared from the ladies’ salon she was swept into a crowd of laughing, reproachful dance partners whom she had neglected while attending her mother. Alex watched her fending off their imploring gestures for a minute or so. My God, he thought, she is beautiful.
Charlotte’s color was high. She knew the minute he entered the room. Knowing that he was watching made her feel hot and tremblingly excited. Now she could feel his large hand, just touching her bottom as he rubbed the bruise on her back. She may not have noticed at the time, but now she felt as if her flesh were burning. Thinking of his touch brought on a flood of memories. She was filled with longing to feel his hands on her again, all over her, the way he had touched her three years ago. But at the same time, Charlotte felt punishing humiliation. He had simply forgotten the whole encounter. He didn’t even notice who was in his arms that night. She could hardly think, torn between rage and desire, although none of the men surrounding her noticed her lack of attentiveness.
Thinking of the garden, Charlotte smiled at Will Holland so suggestively that he immediately dismissed all thought of marrying Sophie York. Charlotte was the one. He bent over her hand, beseeching her to allow him to take her into supper. Or—he looked at her wickedly—dance with him once more? They had already danced twice; a third dance would be akin to announcing an engagement. Charlotte laughed and shook her head reprovingly.
If Charlotte couldn’t dismiss the gardens of Stuart Hall from her mind, Alex had no thought of his long-ago encounter with a young prostitute as he watched the lovely daughter of a duke joust with her suitors. His memories of the garden, in fact, were keen: the woman’s long, silky hair and skin so white that her hair had to be red, the shape of her small breasts, upturned like champagne glasses, her soft, dusky eyes. But Charlotte had short black curls, eyes that sparkled with life and intelligence, and breasts that made you ache just to see their generous outlines. There was no similarity between memory and the duke’s daughter, even if the possibility had occurred to him.
Suddenly Alex felt like a cloddish boy, standing by the wall, lusting after the reigning belle of London society. He pushed himself disgustedly into an upright position and turned on his heel. He knew where the Duke of Calverstill lived; why bother contending with the swarm of gnats surrounding the duke’s daughter? Alex rooted a protesting Braddon out of the gaming room and summoned his coach. By the end of an evening spent gambling at Brooks’s, Alex was some six hundred pounds richer.
By three o’clock in the morning the candles were burning down in what Brooks called the Velvet Room. The room was hung in swathes of dark green velvet, designed to make day seem like night, to make the gamblers feel enclosed in a timeless space. But Alex had won a great deal of money, and although most of the gamblers would keep going until dawn, he was tired and a little bored.
His eyes flicked about the room. It was filled with aristocrats lounging in the armchairs that surrounded four gambling tables. Only the servant who was replenishing the wall chandeliers looked as crisp as he had at five o’clock when the doors of the club opened. The gamblers had loosened their elaborately tied cravats, or torn them off in pure frustration. They looked untidy and exhausted, feverishly throwing dice or clutching their cards.
“Well, my lord,” said a drawling, heavily accented voice from the other side of the table. “You have done extremely well tonight.”
Alex swung his head around and calmly met the eyes of Lucien Boch, a French marquis living in England. Boch had gambled outrageously, and lost.
Boch leaned forward, his hands squarely set on the green felt lining of the table reserved for the card game ombre. “You are so … lucky” he said in a soft, poisonous tone. Alex looked at him. Ombre was a game of skill, not luck. Boch had played carelessly.
“I trust, monsieur” Alex said evenly, “that you meant nothing by your comment. I would willingly grant that my winnings are the result of—luck.”
There was a small silence. Boch’s eyes burned with rage; he could hardly breathe he was so angry. His lip curled. “Ah, my lord,” he finally said in response. “I would take my luck at cards any day over yours … at love.”
The room had grown relatively quiet. Three of the four tables had fallen perfectly still, the players listening intently. Everyone knew that the sons of the late Earl of Sheffield and Downes had been sent out of England due to their propensity to settle arguments with their fists. Alexander seemed to have matured, but could any man allow an insult of this nature to pass unnoticed?
Alex’s heart didn’t even skip a beat. He had grown used to gutter insults in the year following his annulment. Still, he had thought to leave them behind, in Italy. Alex squarely put both his hands down on the table’s green surface, leaning forward slightly. The two men were face-to-face, parted only by a small space. He smiled.
“Perhaps, monsieur,” Alex said softly, “you are jealous of my success with women, and that is why you risk your life?”
Lucien stared back at Alex. He felt sick; he had done a terrible thing. Swept into the heat of gambling, he had thrown down a jewel that he kept always near his heart. It was the ring given him by his wife at their marriage.
“My lord,” he said hoarsely, ignoring Alex’s threat, which hung over the entire room. “I am a fool, because I lost to you my wife’s ring. And she is … is no longer here, and I must have it back. Will you play me again?”
Alex drew back. Boch’s eyes were desperate, black. Alex put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a delicately chased ring, graced with a sapphire.
“What does it say?” he asked, turning it over in the candlelight. The ring’s sapphire caught the candles and flung back their light. It must be worth a thousand pounds, he thought.
“Toujours à moi,” said Boch quietly.
“Forever mine,” Alex translated. He suddenly realized that the entire room was dead silent. He looked keenly at Boch, whom he had just met that night. “How long have you been in this country?”
Boch swallowed hard. “Eight years, my lord.”
His marchioness, Alex thought, did not accompany him. She must have fallen under the guillotine. He tossed the ring in the air, caught it, and placed it gently in front of Boch. “There, man, take it.” He swept up the remainder of his winnings as a wave of male voices hit the air, and turned to go.
A hand stopped him. It was Boch, who had come around the table and stood before him, slim, tall, and dressed in black. “My lord,” he said slowly. “I am a fool who is in your debt for life. But while I am stupid, I do not lack money. Please, let me buy the ring from you.”
Alex realized Boch was not as young as he thought, probably around his own age, in fact. “I will not,” he said briefly. Boch stood ramrod stiff before him. Oh, Lord, Alex thought. French pride. He quite liked the man too. “Care to join me for a brandy?” he asked.
Boch’s lips tightened and then relaxed. “All right, my lord,” he said, sighing. “I gather that fools cannot buy themselves out of their idiocy.”
Settled in the library with coffee laced generously with brandy, the two men did not mention love, rings,
or wives, but talked amiably of the latest debates in the House of Lords. As an exiled Frenchman, Boch naturally had no part in government but he took a keen interest, particularly given the threatened grain riots.
“I am wondering,” he said, “whether we could have prevented the revolution in France. If we had had grain machines, such as you are beginning to use here, could it have prevented the rage of the peasants?”
“But my understanding,” Alex said delicately, “is that grain was not scarce, but the peasants were not allowed to eat any. In other words, that food was being hoarded by the very rich.”
“Yes, that is true,” Lucien said in a brooding voice. “I told my father….” His voice trailed off. “We grew complacent, and that is a great sin. My brother, in particular, understood the danger. He bought land in England.” Lucien looked up. “That is why I am not destitute, like the majority of my countrymen living in England. He was very intelligent, my brother. He came to England twice a year for several years, and slowly moved a good deal of our wealth into the house here.”
Alex noted in silence that Lucien’s brother was also dead. “Do you enjoy fencing?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I love it,” Lucien said, his voice brightening.
“Would you care to have a match tomorrow?” he asked. “Just before leaving Italy I began to learn the French method of fencing, and I would appreciate a chance to practice the art.”
“I should be honored,” Lucien said formally. “Tomorrow, at Breedhaven’s?”
Suddenly Alex remembered Pippa. He couldn’t meet Lucien for fencing practice while she was awake because she couldn’t enter the all-male premises of Breedhaven’s Fencing Emporium.
“I would prefer to fence at Sheffield House, if you don’t mind,” he said without explanation.
Lucien’s eyes were puzzled. “Certainly, my lord,” he replied. Why on earth would a man want to fence at his own house instead of at the fencing court? He rose to his feet. He was an unusually tall Frenchman who came eye-to-eye with Alex. They would be good fencing partners, Lucien thought with satisfaction.