Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte could only feign illness for so long.
After three days, her aunt had become reasonably suspicious about her continued excuses to avoid leaving the house.
And she hated that she’d become so cowardly that she chose to hide herself away when she still hadn’t made any progress on what had brought her to London in the first place.
She couldn’t spend every darkened hour reliving everything that had happened—and almost happened—in that private room of the Lyon’s Den. No matter how delicious and tormenting the memories may be.
She’d allowed her emotions and uncertainties to take too much hold. She’d allowed things with the marquess to go too far and she needed to recommit to her purpose. She was here to avenge the pain and rejection her mother had not deserved. That was all that mattered.
When she finally emerged from her bedroom one morning three days after her last encounter with the marquess and declared herself recovered from the “illness” that had been plaguing her, her aunt eyed her with a dubious expression.
But the countess recovered quickly enough and immediately set about deciding what invitation to accept for the evening.
She decided on a dinner party at the home of a slightly aged earl who’d been a close friend of Lady Henmere’s deceased husband.
“Don’t worry, dear. The evening will be a simple gathering of friends, not the marriage mart you’ve become accustomed to. You’ve been thrusting yourself into the fray these last weeks. No doubt it had a hand in your recent illness. It’s time to enjoy a more relaxed night out, I think.”
Charlotte was grateful until the countess added that their host was a widower looking for a young wife and he met all her qualifications. Certainly, there was no point wasting an opportunity if she wished to acquaint herself with the gentleman.
Even though she had only just recommitted herself to her plan, Charlotte experienced a twist of discomfort in her stomach. It felt like guilt. As if she were about to betray someone.
Damn Redington!
She wished she’d never fallen into his path.
Wished she had no idea what his skin smelled like, what the grip of his hands felt like on her skin, what his tongue tasted like or how his kiss made her body feel like molten need.
And worse! She hated knowing how his expression darkened with purpose when he talked of his responsibilities and how intently he’d dedicated himself to a role he’d never chosen.
He really was honorable to a fault and she couldn’t help but admire him for it.
And though her last conversation with Mrs. Dove-Lyon kept running through her mind, she knew she could never reconsider the Marquess of Redington for that position.
There was too much between them. And there was too much at stake.
For him especially. His dedication to his family was a deeply woven part of who he was.
He would need to marry a woman from an impeccable family and of a social station equal to his own.
It was his duty to make an exceptional match, and he would never renege on his responsibilities.
Which meant that the only way she could ever aspire to such a position would be through deception and manipulation.
The idea of using him in such a way made her ill.
Apparently, she wasn’t quite that mercenary.
Nor was she willing to give up on her plan. She needed a wealthy husband if she was to succeed.
The only option for her was to forget the Marquess of Redington existed.
No matter how impossible the task proved to be.
At least there was no reason for him to be anywhere near the Earl of Gresham’s intimate dinner party.
And yet…she saw him the moment she walked into the pre-dinner reception. He stood at the far end of the drawing room, hands clasped behind his back in a properly neutral posture as he engaged in conversation with another older gentleman.
In an instant, her body thrilled with a terrifying rush of sensation.
It was yearning and need and admiration and regret all tumbled into one.
It stopped her breath and jolted through her heart.
Thank goodness she was a half-step behind her aunt and the woman didn’t notice her reaction.
It took several seconds for Charlotte to feign an outward composure she didn’t feel.
She followed her aunt to a group of middle-aged ladies seated on a group of sofas and chairs.
After the countess finished introducing her to those she hadn’t met yet, then took a seat amongst them, Charlotte remained standing.
And though she tried to find something—anything—else of interest in the room to attach her focus, her gaze was continually lured back to the marquess.
His attention was still occupied by the other gentleman, so Charlotte took an opportunity to observe him in a way she had never done before.
On any of their prior encounters, she had always been too preoccupied with her own reactions to the man to fully see him in this environment.
In doing so now, she immediately noted something unexpected.
It was discomfort. Subtle and carefully controlled.
When he tilted his head before replying to something the other man said, she noted the careful way he spoke and the lack of true expression in his face. He was present but not engaged.
She knew people thought him dull and unemotional. Something she had previously struggled to comprehend. But seeing him now, she detected what everyone else seemed to misinterpret.
He wasn’t boring. He was bored.
It astonished her that a man with a life so charmed as his could experience such a thing.
He had the whole bloody world at his feet.
Surely, he should be able to find something to enjoy in such a privileged existence.
But there was no denying it. Every angled glimpse of his face revealed the same expression. Flat. Unaffected. Polite but undynamic.
So very different from how he looked when she had him on his knees.
Then…his body would be fraught with a different kind of tension.
A tension that would ripple through his lean muscles and pulse along the cords of his throat.
His angular male features would be taut with an array of complex thoughts and emotions.
His eyes would flash with a primitive, instinctual hunger.
His voice, rich and textured and deep, would reveal things to her that he could not speak aloud.
Things that reverberated within the darkest corners of her own being.
Charlotte forced her gaze to the floor as heat enveloped her insides. Forcing slow breaths to dispel the lurid thoughts and images from her mind, she reminded herself where she was.
She could not do anything that might be perceived as untoward and gazing at the marquess as if she wanted him naked and stretched out before her in sensual offering would certainly qualify.
Seeing the marquess when she had not at all expected to had disrupted her equilibrium. She needed to shake off whatever spell the man had cast over her and recommit to her purpose.
Leaning forward, she whispered to her aunt that she’d be back in a moment. Straightening again, she intended to turn and stride sedately from the room. But her gaze slid toward the marquess without her permission.
And the blasted man was staring back at her.
The change in him was intense and breathtakingly evident. No one could look at him now and think him dull. His chin was slightly lowered and his jaw was hard as stone. He stared at her with black, fathomless eyes beneath a furrowed brow of serious contemplation.
Charlotte’s belly erupted in a flutter of activity as her skin began to hum.
Instead of leaving the room at a sedate, elegant pace as she’d intended, she practically fled into the hall, her gaze searching for any quiet dark place into which she could disappear for a moment to calm herself.
But even as she discovered an alcove tucked beneath a turn of a darkened stairway, she knew he’d follow her. Here, he would not allow her retreat as he was forced to do at the Lyon’s Den. She knew it. And a part of her acknowledged that it was exactly what she wanted.