Chapter 24 #3
Rather than joining her again by the door, he stayed by the windows. More space meant a clearer head. “When I am with you, I can manage. It is when I am alone that I fear I may say or do something unwise.”
She nodded. “And you will certainly be alone with the men after dinner.”
“Not to mention the billiards tournament I heard the others mention.” He ran a hand through his hair. Curse his temper.
Charlotte regarded him with sympathy. “Perhaps we should not wait. It would be a shame if . . .”
“If I threw a billiard ball at Drayton?”
She laughed softly. “Precisely.”
“If we took the diary tonight, we could leave in the morning.” It was desperation that made him suggest it.
She gave him an incredulous look. “That would be terribly suspicious.”
“Not if everyone believes you to be ill. You could plead the headache.”
“A headache?” Charlotte protested. “Again? Why must I always be the ailing one? I think you should take a turn. You could be plagued by . . . flatulence. Or suffer from a deranged digestion.”
Anthony stared at her, unamused. And yet very much amused. “Charlotte.”
“We can decide upon your ailment later,” she conceded. “Do you really think we can manage it tonight?”
“I am not sure. But I think we must make the attempt at least.” How had he ever thought he could bear a week here? He just wanted that diary in his hands.
“When?”
He thought for a moment. If they attempted it now, they ran the risk of someone entering the library.
There would be servants running about preparing for dinner too.
They needed people to be reasonably occupied.
“While the men are drinking their port and the women are . . . doing whatever it is you do during that time.”
“Pleading the headache.”
Anthony’s mouth twitched, but he continued.
“We can both excuse ourselves without anyone being the wiser that we are together, and we will know everyone is occupied. Even the servants will be below-stairs, eating their dinner.” Anthony’s brow furrowed as he looked at her.
“Though if they do find out we’re together .
. . no matter what the assumptions are, they won’t be good ones. Charlotte, perhaps you should—”
“Do not even think it,” she replied. “I am coming, Anthony. And no more trying to persuade me otherwise.”
He let out a breath and nodded. He would be glad for her company. “We should dress for dinner.”
With their goal that much nearer, Anthony managed to keep his temper in check for the duration of dinner, a small miracle given the way Drayton sat beside Charlotte and leaned in to make private comments with nauseating constancy.
For all Charlotte’s concerns, she handled the questions and conversation directed toward her with amiability and grace, and when Anthony managed to catch a few snippets of her conversation with Drayton, she offered flowery praise of the detail on the fingernails from a particular sculpture from earlier.
Anthony smiled, and it grew wider as Drayton fashioned a polite response, then rose to his feet, inviting the men to remain and the women to follow Lady Buxton through to the drawing room.
Charlotte and Anthony locked eyes, and she rose to follow the women.
He watched as she retreated with the others, wondering how in the world he had managed to find such a capable and kind woman through such mischance—and how he would bear to lose her.
They had agreed to meet in the library ten minutes after the men and women separated, but as Anthony needed to first get the false diary from his bedchamber, he watched for when the clock showed seven minutes.
Hand on his stomach, he excused himself, subtly implying he needed the privy.
That would serve to support Charlotte’s wish that he plead a deranged digestion tomorrow.
Within minutes, he was walking toward the library, thankful to see the corridor empty. He trusted the servants were enjoying their meal before they would be called upon to help their masters and mistresses prepare for bed.
The library was dark when he opened the door, and when he pulled the door shut softly behind him, he was engulfed in blackness. He paused on the threshold while his eyes tried to adjust.
“Anthony?” Charlotte’s hushed voice asked.
“Yes,” he whispered back. “Where are you?”
“Over here.”
He followed the sound of her voice and finally saw her barely distinguishable silhouette just to the right of the desk.
“Do you have the decoy?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Where are you?” he asked, losing sight of her again in the darkness. “I can hardly see a thing.” He caught a short glimpse of her hand searching the dark just as her fingers brushed against his neck. They traced their way up until her palm reached his cheek.
His heart thudded like a drum. He was this close to the thing he had been working toward for months, and suddenly all he could think of was searching this darkness for Charlotte’s lips.
Her fingers slid gently up his cheek and past his temple.
Anthony’s blood raced through his veins, setting him afire, making him acutely aware of the intoxicating scent of violets as she drew nearer.
“Charlotte . . .” he breathed, his hand stealing around her waist as her thumb brushed against his brow, settling upon his wound. His brows pulled together at the tenderness of the spot.
“It is you,” she said with relief.
He dropped his hand from her waist, the flame effectively doused by her words. Evidently, her delicate exploration of his face had not been what he had thought but rather an attempt to ascertain his identity. “Would you like to press a bit harder upon it to be sure? Perhaps give it a good squeeze?”
She laughed softly. “Did I hurt you? I did not mean to.”
She had hurt him. But not in the way she thought.
He took a step back and looked around. His eyes had adjusted a bit more, but it would be difficult to see the contents in the desk drawers without more light.
He set the blank diary on the desk, then strode to the curtains and slowly drew one to the side, securing it with the knotted tassels.
It provided little light, but it would be enough, he hoped, for them to find the diary.
And for his mind to wander to Charlotte’s lips less.
In the dark, he could more easily imagine her welcoming his advances.
Charlotte took up the decoy diary and opened the top left drawer of the desk, while Anthony went to the right-hand side drawers.
Charlotte’s movements suddenly halted. “Wait,” she whispered urgently.
Anthony went still, and his gaze darted to hers. He heard it too: footsteps approaching.
Clenching her teeth, Charlotte carefully shut the drawer she had opened. Anthony followed suit, but his mind was a blank. What would they do? How would they explain themselves if the person chose to stop at the library?
The footsteps paused in front of the door, and Anthony’s wide eyes locked with Charlotte’s.
Suddenly, she stepped toward him, placing a hand on his chest to drive him backward until his shoulder hit the bookcase.
A second later, her soft lips pressed against his, and her arms draped over his shoulders, filling the air with sweet violets.
His senses swam, and his eyes fluttered closed, the warmth of her mouth and body against him bringing his pulse to a perilous speed, dispelling every thought from his mind, every awareness of the world around.
Her hand threaded into his hair, and a small and involuntary groan rumbled in his chest as he pulled her flush against him, devoting himself fully and completely to the task of kissing her. Her body quivered just as the door opened.
“Oh.” A man’s voice interjected.
Anthony knew he should pull away, but his body protested, and he allowed himself another taste of her lips before wrenching his away and looking to the door, where Lord Drayton stood.