Part 69 (1/2)
Charlotte couldn't shake off the sensation of being watched. No, it wasn't quite that. She had been stared at from the moment she arrived in London, mostly by jealous females. This felt more intense and not completely unpleasant.
She let her gaze wander as her feet followed the music. As a girl, she'd loved dancing, but now it was simply a means to an end. It showed off her charms and grace, and allowed her to flirt.
There. Leaning against a pillar. A tall, exquisitely tailored man with dark-blond hair, sardonic amus.e.m.e.nt in icy blue eyes. Their gazes clashed.
Heat flared in her body, the fire of desire, even as her heart twisted in pain and her stomach plummeted to her royal-blue slippers.
Gerard. The sound of his name in her head was a cry of despair.
He acknowledged the brief meeting of their eyes with a slight dip of his head. I dare you, those cold eyes said. Her smile suddenly felt stiff, her cheeks tight.
Her heart rattled against her ribs while her mind absorbed this latest disaster. Nom d'un nom. He wasn't supposed to be in town. Her spy had promised he would not return until autumn.
His gaze drifted away.
Perhaps she'd imagined the challenge. Perhaps he hadn't recognized her after five long years. Lord, she hoped so.
Dragging her gaze back to Lord Graves as he took her hand in the centre of their four, she swallowed dry fear. Serious-faced and hazel-eyed, he was the answer to all her prayers and Father's last hope of rescue from his dank Calais prison.
She smiled and he flushed a bright pink. She wanted to ruffle his gleaming curls, pat his shoulder. He was a nice young man. The kind of man to whom she'd be a loyal and dutiful wife. That he had more than enough money to cover father's debts made him the perfect suitor. If she could bring him up to scratch.
Worry gnawed at her stomach. Gerard was here. His presence sent her mind spinning, her heart tumbling.
The cotillion concluded and Lord Graves walked her back to Miles O'Mally, her father's loyal friend and her supposed uncle. A dandy in his youth, he was still a fine figure of a man with a penchant for flashy waistcoats. Tonight ivory brocade embroidered with pink roses hugged his paunch.
With a light laugh, she fanned her face. ”So energetic. I protest, I am quite parched.”
”Let me fetch you a drink,” Lord Graves said eagerly.
”A true knight indeed, My Lord.” She gave him a glowing smile of approval. He hurried away.
A twinge of conscience twisted her insides.
Why should she feel ashamed? She was doing exactly what the n.o.bility had done for centuries, binding two families together for the good of both. She would be good for the f.e.c.kless youth. A steadying influence. Not for a moment would he have cause to suspect her lack of emotional engagement. Never would he know the sting of betrayal. Such loyalty as she promised came at a price: her father's freedom.
She leaned close to Miles, her fan hiding her lips, her voice lowered. ”He returned.”
The charming Irishman's florid face frowned. ”Are ye sure?”
”My dance, I believe,” a rich tenor murmured behind her.
O'Mally's brown eyes widened, then his brow lowered.
Dread filling her heart, her breath held fast in her chest, Charlotte turned and faced Gerard.
The Duke took her hand. He deftly turned it over, his lips brus.h.i.+ng the pulse point at her wrist as he bowed. Her mind went blank. Fire tingled up her arm. The searing scorch of his warm lips had taken no more than the time required to blink, yet left her trembling.
”Madame Beauchere,” he murmured. ”Such a delight to meet you again.” The modulated voice held an underlying warning.
”I-”
”The music starts.” One hand in the small of her back, the other clasping her fingers, he guided her between the guests towards the dance floor. One or two heads turned to look. Her mouth dried. This was a catastrophe.
Her gaze travelled to a pair of mocking blue eyes. ”This is a waltz,” she said, frowning. ”I don't waltz. Ever.” It always felt much too personal for her taste.
”Really?” He swirled her into his arms and on to the dance floor. He was taller than she remembered. Broader. A man, no longer a boy, and more handsome than ever.
”Despicable,” she muttered.
”I beg your pardon?” His drawl s.h.i.+mmered and danced over the skin of her shoulders as if he'd stroked her nape, yet all the while his hands remained decorously placed.
She glared up at him. ”You did that on purpose. Made it impossible for me to refuse without causing a scene. So I said 'despicable'.”
His eyes warmed to cerulean and one corner of his mouth kicked up a fraction. Attraction sparked, crackling in the air like unspent lightning bolts. Incendiary. Explosive. She found it hard to draw a breath.
”I suppose I should be honoured,” she said. ”Although we lack a formal introduction.”
”We need no introduction, Charlotte,” he said with dispa.s.sion. ”You knew me the moment you saw me.”
He remembered. Her heart leaped with joy. Expending every ounce of will power she possessed, she kept her expression coolly remote. ”I wasn't sure if my memory was playing tricks, Your Grace. You've changed.”
An eyebrow rose. ”We both have. You even have a different name.”
”As do you. My condolences on the loss of your father.”
He shrugged carelessly. ”My congratulations on your marriage and my commiserations on your husband's demise.”
Revulsion churned in her stomach. She hated the pretence. But having killed off a non-existent husband for the freedom widowhood gave her, there was little she could do but accept his condolences. ”Thank you,” she said, as calmly as her trembling body would allow.
”You are all graciousness,” he said.
”And anger,” she replied, arching a brow. ”I never waltz.”
He laughed, the sound deep and dark. It tugged at something low in her stomach. Lower. A place not to be imagined in relation to this man.
”You used to waltz with me,” he said. ”Remember?”
She smiled at him sweetly. ”Your Grace is incorrigible.”
”And you, Madame Beauchere, are beautiful.”
These words delivered in honeyed tones caressed her ear. A s.h.i.+ver ran down her spine at the promise of remembered pleasure. An offer of delights she had once mourned.
That part of her life was over. She must not let him distract her from her purpose. Father's life depended on her ability to net a husband with money. Panic tightened her throat. The Duke could easily spike her guns should he choose. He knew too much about her past. h.e.l.l. He was her past.
Would he expose her? He'd been fond of her once. Might she convince him to say nothing? Dash it, she'd been prepared for the chance they would meet in the small world of the ton, but she'd prayed it would be later. After she married.
Forcing herself to relax, she let the music and the imperceptible pressure of his guiding hands carry her where they would. In truth, she hadn't waltzed since she was a young impressionable girl, when the world seemed a much kinder place.
”For a woman who doesn't waltz, you are very accomplished,” he murmured close to her ear, sparking waves of delicious heat.