Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
A s the notes of a pianoforte began to play, Christopher bowed before Lady Matilda and then escorted her onto the dance floor. The impatience to have her in his arms again was beyond his comprehension.
The sight of her turning her back to him, returning to his parents as if their conversation was at an end, would never do.
What was happening to him? What was it about Matilda that left him all at sixes and sevens? And what the devil would he do about Lady Delphine?
That she continued to believe they ought to be married and insisted on announcing the long-ago betrothal he’d offered when they were but children was outrageous.
That she wished to hold him to such a foolish promise was beyond comprehension. He did not know how to tell her their marriage could not be—too much time had passed. A childhood infatuation had long since turned into nothing more than friendship.
But Matilda was another matter entirely.
She unknowingly had bewitched him. Around her, he couldn’t think straight and often found himself wanting to say more in her company, but unable to do so. Had his tongue somehow lost its ability to form words? And his annoyance at seeing her with Mr. Lincoln had ended with him chastising her instead of kissing her as he'd wanted.
None of the feelings that coursed through his blood matched his character. He was an independent and confident gentleman, a future duke, not a man who became jealous of a woman's suitors.
Matilda slipped into his arms, her slender form fitting against his like a glove. He could not help but reflect on his earlier remarks when they’d first met. He might not have been looking for a wife then, but she had certainly caught his attention now. He could see himself quite happily married to her.
His gaze drifted over the sea of elegantly coiffed heads. Across the assembly room, Lady Delphine watched them, disappointment clouding her eyes, and Christopher knew he needed to repair the damage his childhood folly had caused.
Lady Delphine deserved love and happiness. However, he was not the man to give her that, and it was time she discovered someone who could.
“I thought our conversation was over for this evening, Lord Charteris. You’re quite the popular gentleman this evening. So many ladies vying for your hand, you did not have to dance with me out of duty." Matilda looked up at him, a mischievous twist to her full lips. Lips that had kept him sleepless since the day they had met. Lips he knew were soft when kissed—pliable, yielding, and wanton when required to be so.
Lips he wanted to kiss again.
He watched her as they danced, drinking in her pretty features. Her hair was swept up into a fashionable chignon adorned with pearls, her lips painted a delicate rose pink, and her diamond earrings swayed with every step.
A fist clenched in his stomach at how stunningly beautiful she was. Beautiful enough to make him—and many other gentlemen this evening—lose their minds and sensibilities.
“As the future Duke of D'Estel, it is my duty to dance with as many ladies as propriety demands,” he replied. “I will oversee this county one day, after all, and I want to be known as affable and approachable.”
“Oh, I have not forgotten. And perhaps, if I can secure Mr. Lincoln's affections, we shall live nearby.”
Christopher cleared his throat and bit down the sharp retort that rose in his throat. “I do not wish to quarrel with you, nor do I like how our previous conversation ended, but I still do not think that would be wise, Lady Matilda.”
“No?” she queried, raising her brow and looking at him expectantly. “And why not? We’re friends, and I’m an old friend of your family. There is nothing wrong with us becoming neighbors.”
“There is something very wrong with that notion.”
He did not wish to spell it out or alarm her, yet the truth—his secret sentiments—gnawed at him. Her being married might offer her some protection from him, but he doubted that would keep his longings at bay for long.
As treacherous and ungentlemanly as it seemed, something about Lady Matilda made him not care about the pain he could cause others, so long as he could have her.
“Why?” she asked, puzzled.
“Because." He swept her close through a turn in the dance. “I would want you even more if I were not married to you. Knowing you belonged to another would drive me to distraction. I do not think I could resist stealing a kiss or two or pressing you for more.”
“More?” She bit her lip, her eyes growing heavy with understanding, even though her following words were contradictory to her expression. “Whatever do you mean?”
He ground his teeth, reluctant to say more. But she had asked.
“As a married woman, I would have no qualms in cuckolding your husband if it meant I could have you in my bed.”
Her mouth opened and closed several times before she let out an awkward chuckle. “You did not just say that, my lord.”
He stared into her dark-blue eyes, ensuring she understood every word he spoke. “I mean everything I communicate, always. Should you find love—or at least contentment—in marriage to another, and you live nearby, there is every chance I would still want you. I enjoy our kisses. And nothing within me doubts that more than kisses would also be satisfying.”
“But I could grow heavy with a child should I act so recklessly. You could be forced to watch me bear your child with another man. That your possible heir could carry another name. And you believe you would be all right with that? I think not.”
The idea had not occurred to him before she mentioned it. Her words painted the outcome with painful clarity. A gut-wrenching twist of jealousy told him he could not stomach such a reality.
“You are correct. I would not like that,” he admitted.
“Well then, you’ll have to marry me, and that would not happen.” She threw him a smile that left him breathless, and he laughed, hoping only a little that she was teasing.
“But I thought we were merely enjoying each other’s kisses for now. Turning such little interludes into serious commitment seems rather hasty.”
She shrugged, glancing away to study the other dancers crowding about them. “I would not stray from my marriage bed, Lord Charteris, even for you and your sweet kisses.”
“So you would be lost to me.” He narrowed his eyes, willing her to look at him again, to focus only on him.
“I would. And it would be for the best. I would hate for you to cause a scandal merely because you could not ask me to be your wife when you had the chance. Now,” she said, meeting his eyes, “I know you expressed you’re not looking for a wife. But if it’s just that you’ve not found the right woman, do not discard me so easily. I may be the one who got away, and then you’ll have to live with the disappointment for the rest of your life. And how sad for us both if that were to occur."
He did not reply, but her words settled deep within his soul, and he could feel the heavy truth about what she had spoken.
“We do get along well, and there is passion between us. Why, even now, in your arms before these guests, all I can think about is how much I want to be alone with you. I want your hands on me. Wanton behavior for a well-bred young woman? Yes, but I do not care when it comes to you.”
He shook his head, drowning in a pool of need with no desire to surface.
“I want to be alone with you, too.” And before the end of the evening, he would ensure they were.