Chapter Twenty-One
Charlotte was slowly, but with undeniable certainty, coming to abhor the endless rounds of London parties. The balls, the roues, musicales and dinners and soirées were all the same. The same faces, the same music, the same food and conversation. It was exhausting in its lack of uniqueness.
Even so, she attended every one. She smiled and engaged in small talk and danced. And yet not a single worthy gentleman had made an offer.
To be fully fair and honest, it was no one’s fault but her own.
Her aunt had been more than gracious and had been endlessly enthusiastic about introducing Charlotte to as many prospective grooms as she could find.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had also presented nearly a half-dozen opportunities.
But Charlotte had rejected them all. This one was not quite rich enough.
This one didn’t have enough of his peers’ respect.
That one was powerful but didn’t seem to have any interest in social influence.
In truth, they were mostly excuses. And she feared she knew why.
Redington.
Despite her recommitment and determination to forget him over this past week, he’d utterly distracted her from her purpose.
Days after convincing herself to leave her experience with the marquess in the past, she still craved it with a hunger that made her tremble late at night when she lay in her bed.
Why did she constantly relive the luxurious, passionate sensations of his mouth moving over hers?
The heat and force of his tongue and his hands and his strong, unflinching body.
Why did she so desperately imagine just one more night of having him on his knees, desperate and begging for her to command him?
The man had revealed himself to possess surprising depths, but the mysteries had only begun to be discovered. There was so much more she wished she could explore in the complexities of his desire and his surrender.
And now she had that explosive experience at Lord Gresham’s dinner party to add to her heated memories. She’d expected another summons to the Lyon’s Den that night when she returned home. And when it arrived, she’d been tempted. Terribly so. But she ignored it. And the next one. And the next.
But then they stopped.
His parting words the night of Gresham’s dinner party had made it clear that he expected to continue their…conversation. But after those first three nights, she hadn’t heard from him or caught even a glimpse of him. Perhaps, he’d finally acknowledged that their time together had concluded.
The thought was a painful one despite her resolve to believe the same.
It didn’t escape her notice that if she hadn’t been so quick to decide she hated him after that first encounter, the Black Widow may already have had her married to the man. And would that have been so terrible?
Not for her, certainly. She’d have gotten the exact type of husband she’d wanted, as well as the man she craved with all her being.
But she knew the marquess too well now. And she was quite aware that she would not make a proper wife for him.
She would have brought nothing to the union—no grand title or elevated pedigree, no elegance or grace or social influence.
Even her wealth, which was certainly a lot in some respects, was paltry in comparison to his own.
Though he might desire her and enjoy their time together at the Lyon’s Den, he would want more—require more—in a wife than she could ever provide. Any time she acknowledged that, she berated herself for even thinking about herself in proximity to such a role.
That was what had finally prompted her to go to Mrs. Dove-Lyon late last night. To insist they finally bring an end to their arrangement. She promised that she would agree to the next gentleman the Widow brought forward, no more excuses or prevaricating.
The other woman had stared at her in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time before replying. “As you wish, Miss Dickson. It shall be done.”
Charlotte had expected to feel relief after the decisive meeting. But she hadn’t been able to sleep all night and felt herself in an odd trance throughout the day.
And now here she was, in the middle of another blasted ball, and she could not keep her thoughts from roving over every encounter and memory of the marquess.
Tonight’s event was one of the grandest of the season and though she hadn’t encountered the marquess at any social events in the last week, it was extremely unlikely that he wouldn’t escort his sister to such a promising marriage market.
Surely, it was too much to expect she would make it through the night without…
something. A glimpse. A word. A brief encounter?
The anticipation was so consuming, she could barely focus on anything else.
Names of people she’d been introduced to since arriving were completely lost. Conversations had barely registered.
Even the dances she’d engaged in were a vague memory.
Everything was an abstract blur of pastel gowns and dark-coated gentlemen.
She was in the middle of a country dance with Lord Something-or-other when the arrival of the Marquess of Redington, along with his sister, Lady Eleanor Fairchild, was announced.
She truly tried not flinch or glance to the grand ballroom entry or break into a fine sweat, but she did all three in rapid succession.
And—just like that—the world became clearer, brighter, more vividly colorful.
He was so damned proud and blood-stirringly handsome—his manner solid and unbothered by the ever-curious, constantly covetous stares.
Is that why he’d earned the utterly unfair reputation for being dull? Because he didn’t play into everyone’s desperate yearning for some action or reaction? Did his constancy and firm steadfast demeanor suggest to people that he was a man lacking in excitement or creativity or the boldness of life?
How stupid they all were.
A wealth of passion resided beneath his carefully controlled exterior. A hunger and fire and depth were there—barely concealed in the darkness of his eyes.
And when that hard and focused gaze swept past her position on the dance floor then came right back to settle with fierce intent, Charlotte nearly stumbled.
A blast of self-awareness was quickly followed by a wave of acute desire which angled straight to her core as her heart rate quickened and a heated flush rose beneath her skin.
Merde merde merde merde! How would she survive this?
She forced her attention back to the dance and her partner. She could not give the moment or the man any more of her focus. Not tonight. Not ever again.
She doubted she’d be able to convince her aunt to leave the ball early, but maybe in such an enormous crowd, it wouldn’t be impossible to avoid him the rest of the night.
Surely, he’d wish to avoid her as well. Their one dance had already caused a ridiculous amount of speculation amongst the gossips.
She knew he would not risk another when it could have very real consequences.
He was too careful for that, too aware of societal expectation and personal obligation.
Doing all she could to put the man from her mind, Charlotte forced a pleasant smile as the dance finished and her partner led her through the crowd back to the countess.
Where Redington stood waiting.
As soon as her gaze fell upon him, she knew—something had changed since they’d last breathed the same air. There was a sizzling charge in the atmosphere, like that feeling right before lightning struck.
He lowered his chin to a stubborn angle and furrowed his brow as his direct, unwavering stare ensnared her gaze and held it. His shoulders were strongly squared in his elegant black coat, and his hands were clasped behind his back.
Charlotte was not fooled by his deceptively reserved manner. The truth was sharply evident. It fairly radiated throughout his being. Dark, silent, inescapable.
He would not be lowering to his knees tonight.
She considered running away. Continuing her avoidance. But before she could take such a cowardly action, it was too late.
As she reached Redington’s position, Charlotte barely acknowledged the bow and retreat of her dance partner. A quick glance to the countess revealed that the woman was completely turned away—either by accident or design—leaving Charlotte and the marquess standing essentially alone.
“Miss Dickson,” he said with a respectful bow of his head. “You look lovely this evening.”
Charlotte began to shake her head, preferring blunt honesty over this social flattery, but a flicker in Redington’s eyes gave her pause and she forced a brief smile instead.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her words were steady though her belly trembled. What was his purpose? What new game was this? She felt unprepared. Uncertain.
“Would you care to dance?”
The question was a shock and she stared at him in open astonishment.
A second dance? It was practically a declaration.
The gossips would certainly see it as such. She could already hear the whispers of those close enough to witness this unprecedented event.
What on earth did the man think he was doing? If he had such a burning urge to talk to her, surely there was a more discreet way to go about it than this performance. And what would happen to her when after the dance there was no declaration or offer or proposal forthcoming?
She’d be ruined.
For some reason, the thought of that didn’t strike as hard as it should have.
Ruined.
Hadn’t she already been completely destroyed by her mother’s death? Was there really anything left of her worth saving?
No doubt, seeing the effects of her dark and tumultuous thoughts in her expression, the marquess took a small step toward her and lowered his voice. “Dance with me,” he murmured, his voice thickened with intimate intention and a gentle plea.
Her belly swirled with the dark, rich tones and her heart stuttered dangerously.
She couldn’t refuse. To do so would cause even more speculation. Some genius would inevitably color the rejection as some sort of proof of a lover’s spat. And then their names would become even more tangled in whispers and murmurs.
Perhaps she should just walk away from him after all. Let the gossips have their scandal. Let everyone wonder what happened between them.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she forced a smile and took his offered hand. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”
She was not delighted.
She wanted to be furious. But she didn’t quite have the strength after expending so much energy in the last days trying not to think of the man.
She walked beside him to the dance floor as the musicians started up a waltz. When he fit his large hand against her back and took her fingers in his other hand, she acknowledged that for now, she was his.
So be it.
With a small shake of her head, she tipped her chin and met his stare with more assurance than she felt.
Then she took a half step closer to him just as he eased them into the first step.
It was bold and brash and totally worth it when he drew a swift breath and his eyes flashed in a way that lit her body afire.
For whatever purpose, he’d forced her into this scenario, but neither of them were going to make it to the end of the dance unscathed.