Chapter 19
NINETEEN
CHARLOTTE
Hair coiffed as close to perfection as possible and wearing—unfortunately—the same dress she had worn at Mrs. Ashby’s dinner party, Charlotte’s pencil flew in all directions across the paper on the escritoire.
She sat back and surveyed her work, her nose wrinkling.
It was always difficult to decide precisely how to go about a caricature—what parts of the person to accentuate and exaggerate, what the scene should be, and how to best convey the secret.
The feat felt more difficult than ever today as she attempted to draw a person she had never seen.
With a sigh, she stood, setting down her pencil and making her way toward the door. She had turned the small lock beneath the knob to ensure no one could enter from without, but she unlocked it, entered the corridor, and went to the door of the last bedchamber in the corridor: Anthony’s.
After a moment’s hesitation and a quick glance down the corridor, she knocked softly. Within a few seconds, muffled footsteps sounded inside the room, coming in her direction.
The door opened a few inches, and Anthony peered back at her, his hands at his throat, doing up the button there. His shirt was tucked into his breeches, but he wore no waistcoat and no cravat. His hair was damp and uncoiffed, with locks falling haphazardly over his forehead.
“Charlotte,” said in surprise, brushing his hair back with his fingers in a way that held her momentarily mesmerized.
She forced her eyes to his, refusing to let them explore. “Forgive the disturbance, but I require a bit more information from you.”
His brows drew together as he fiddled with the button again. “Information?”
“I am trying to sketch the scene, and I realized I know far less than I had first thought. Did you say Mr. Higgins was at Vauxhall when it happened?”
“Yes,” he said, extending his head through the gap in the door and looking down the corridor. “Outside.”
“Very good, thank you.” She gave a little curtsy, then walked back to her bedchamber before her eyes could take in more of her betrothed. Pretended betrothed.
But within minutes, she found herself at his door again. This time, his cravat was draped over his shoulders and his waistcoat on but not yet buttoned.
“Yes?”
“The girl he was with,” Charlotte said. “Was she a performer, or did you say she was serving the food?”
“A violinist,” he said decidedly.
“Perfect. Thank you.” She curtsied again and walked to her door.
“Charlotte.”
She paused, hand on the handle, as she met his gaze questioningly.
“If you have another question, you may simply use the door that connects the rooms.”
Her heart skittered. Silly, really. It was just a door—not so different from the one he looked at her through right now, in fact. But she had caught herself staring at it a number of times since yesterday.
“I shan’t need to,” she assured him, “but thank you.” Using that ridiculous door felt like an intimacy with Anthony she could not afford. They could pretend to such familiarity in public, but it was another matter in private.
He cocked an incredulous brow. “If you say so.” He smiled slightly, then disappeared behind his door again, leaving her with a hint of regret that she would never again enjoy the sight of Anthony Yorke in a state of half-dress.
Contrary to her assertion, however, within minutes, Charlotte needed him again. She refused, however, to surrender to the need, until she had been sitting, staring at the paper, for nearly ten minutes.
Her gaze flitted to the door that, if opened, would lead to Anthony’s bedchamber. “It is just a stupid door,” she said. Rising from her chair, she strode over to it determinedly, then rapped upon it three times.
Within seconds, it opened, and Anthony smiled pleasantly back at her, a glint of amusement in his eyes. His cravat was still untied, draping over his shoulders, but his hair had been brushed into order and his waistcoat buttoned.
Regrettably, Charlotte’s unruly mind said.
“I can only assume this is you not having a question,” he said. Had his smile always been so roguishly handsome? She could have sworn it had used to be arrogant and annoying.
“It is only that I have never seen Mr. Higgins,” she defended. “And now I fear no one shall recognize him in the caricature because I have not captured his essence.”
“If you simply draw a large pile of horse manure, that should suffice.”
Charlotte couldn’t stop a smile. “That would certainly be much simpler.”
Returning his own smile, his gaze shifted behind her. “Is that it?” He nodded to indicate the escritoire.
“It is.”
“May I see?”
Charlotte hesitated. No one had ever seen her work before it was complete, and she felt sudden anxiety at the thought of Anthony, of all people, witnessing the messy process.
But she needed him.
Heavens, that was an admission to make to herself.
She went to retrieve the paper, only to discover Anthony following her. Into her private bedchamber.
Which did not matter in the least, for they hated each other, naturally.
It was pure, unmitigated hatred that made the blood thrum in her veins as he came up beside her.
He looked over the messy drawing for a moment, his arm pressed against hers in a way she found utterly distracting. So she sat down.
There. That was much better.
“You have his hair all wrong,” Anthony said, pointing to the pencil strokes above Higgins’s forehead. “He parts his hair on the side. Quite far, in fact.”
Charlotte took a new piece of paper and hurriedly sketched the shape of a new head while Anthony watched.
This time, she placed the parting of his hair to the side—down near his ear.
“Is that better?” She glanced up at Anthony, whose lips drew into a smile.
A regrettably handsome smile that, since meeting Miss Baxter, Charlotte had come to realize was likely the downfall of plenty of women.
“Much better,” he replied. “Even without facial features, he is already recognizable.”
Charlotte’s chest filled with satisfaction. “What of his eyes, though? Have I done them justice?”
Anthony’s brows drew together as he looked at the last sketch. “The eyes are well enough. But his brows are more distinctive. Far thicker than what you have.”
Charlotte’s pencil went back to work, making the crude outline of wide brows on the new face.
Her pencil slowed when Anthony rested his hand on the escritoire, leaning over to observe the strokes more closely. Charlotte kept her hand moving, trying to ignore his sudden proximity and the warmth he brought with him.
He pointed a finger to the brows. “They curl up near the center. Just there.”
“Like this?” She scooped her pencil upward, and Anthony’s breathy chuckle tickled her ear.
“Precisely. As though they were about to take flight.”
They worked on the nose and mouth, laughing in turns as Charlotte took Anthony’s descriptions and embellished them.
Once she had finished the full top lip, she surveyed the result of their work, then glanced up at him, smiling. Her breath hitched, for he was nearer than she had realized, his own lips mere inches from hers.
Their gazes caught and held. The heat of the room suddenly felt oppressive. What in the world was happening?
Was this how hatred felt?
No. Charlotte knew what it felt to hate, for she had hated the man responsible for Papa’s death for some time now. This feeling was nothing at all like that.
She turned her head to the drawing. “That should do well enough, don’t you think?”
“It will do better than well enough. Anyone who has ever seen Higgins will recognize him immediately. You have conveyed him to perfection.”
“Only with your help,” she replied, allowing herself the briefest of glances at him.
He was looking at her, his expression impassive. What she wouldn’t give to know what was in that mind of his just now.
He stood straight. “Well? Shall we move to the body?”
Something told Charlotte it would be unwise to allow Anthony to remain in her bedchamber any longer—and particularly not if they would be discussing bodies.
“I think I can do well enough with what you have told me,” she said.
Anthony nodded and glanced at the small clock on the mantel. “We only have half an hour before we must leave.”
“Half an hour will suffice, for I am already dressed—but for my gloves, of course.”
As if to verify her words, his gaze ran over her, stopping at her back. His mouth opened, then shut again immediately.
“What?” Charlotte twisted to look over her shoulder.
“Your buttons,” he said. “Two are undone.”
Charlotte’s cheeks heated, and she stood up, stretching her hands behind her to try to reach them.
“Those confounded things!” When she’d had the dress embellished before the dinner party, she had also changed out the buttons.
But the ones she had chosen were slightly smaller than the original ones, making situations like this one a constant risk.
Anthony watched her struggles with ill-concealed and growing amusement as she reached her arms over her shoulders, then up behind her back with no success at all.
“Would you care for some assistance?” he finally asked, his hand covering his mouth in a way that failed to cloak the lines of laughter beside his eyes.
“You are abominable,” she said somewhat breathlessly, but she turned her back toward him. Time was of the essence if she wished to finish the caricature.
Her skin prickled the moment Anthony came up behind her. When his fingers took hold of the top button, grazing her skin, a shiver ran down her spine—one significant enough that it was impossible he had not noticed.
“Your fingers are cold,” she lied.
“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat, and there was silence as he fastened the other button.
She shut her eyes and pressed her lips together in an attempt to take hold of her wandering thoughts and emotions. But the second her eyes closed, the image of Anthony’s hands stealing around her waist pressed itself upon her.
She whirled around the moment the second button was fastened. “Thank you. I shall be down shortly.”