Chapter 9 #2
The audacity of him. Charlotte’s pulse thundered in her ears.
Abruptly, she stood, seized her bowl of soup, and marched to the far side of the table.
The porcelain clinked as she set it down with unnecessary force.
She glared at him from across the expanse, every inch of her spine rigid.
“Do not worry, my lord. I would rather chew on glass and die than marry you.”
“That is oddly specific,” Luca remarked.
Charlotte sat with a huff. “I daresay your voice grates on my nerves.”
Alistair groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Charlotte, be reasonable.”
“Me, reasonable?” The words spilled out, fierce and trembling with emotion. “I refuse to marry someone simply because it is the honorable thing to do. I want more. I deserve more. And I cannot believe you—of all people—would deny me that right.”
“I never said that,” Alistair said.
Charlotte lifted her chin, determined to regain composure. “Good. Then we are in agreement.”
The scrape of a chair drew her gaze back to Luca. He shoved it back and rose. “Perhaps I should go.”
“Perhaps you should,” Charlotte replied curtly.
He inclined his head stiffly, offered curt farewells, and departed. The echo of his boots in the corridor lingered long after the door shut.
Silence stretched until Alistair turned a pointed look at her. “That was poorly done on your part.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together, her throat tight. She knew he was right. Her reaction had been rather excessive. But why should she have to endure such talk of honor-bound marriages? Why did the idea of Luca being forced—resigned—to marry her feel like a slap to the face?
She stared at the untouched soup, her hands clenched in her lap. She had meant her words—truly, she did not want to marry Luca. Not now, not ever.
Luca sat slouched in the shadowed corner of White’s, a half-empty glass of brandy clutched loosely in his hand.
The club was loud with laughter, but none of it reached him.
His mind kept replaying Charlotte’s earlier words and how her eyes flashed with hurt, her voice steady but brittle as she had declared she deserved more than a marriage of convenience.
The brandy burned down his throat, but it did nothing to dull the memory.
He hadn’t meant to insult her. That had most definitely not been his intention.
He had only wanted to shield her, to spare her the ton’s scorn and the Duke of Brackenford’s looming menace.
Yet in trying to protect her, he had wounded her instead.
The worst part was the truth he could no longer deny. Somewhere between their endless sparring, the stolen confidences, and her maddening defiance, he had fallen for her. Deeply. Irrevocably. Inconveniently. She might despise him, but he longed for her in a way he could not reason away.
He lifted his glass again, but paused halfway. He needed his wits, not the haze of spirits. He had work to do. A mystery to unravel.
“You look awful.”
The voice jarred him from his thoughts. He didn’t need to glance up to know who it belonged to. “Thank you,” he muttered.
Lord Rupert Milnes lowered himself into the armchair opposite, eyeing him with the shrewd gaze of a man who missed very little. “There is only one thing that can leave a fellow looking so wretched. A woman.”
“You would not be wrong,” Luca admitted, setting his glass aside. “I assume you received my message?”
“I did,” Rupert said. “But I confess I am at a loss as to why you require me.”
Luca leaned forward. “I am investigating The Chelmsford Asylum and the suspicious deaths of two of their patients.”
Rupert let out a low whistle. “Suspicious? It is an asylum. They are full of the mad and the frail. It is only natural that many die.”
“Yes, but there is a pattern,” Luca pressed. “The late Duchess of Brackenford was dead within five months of admittance and so was Lady Coldwyck.”
Rupert raised a brow. “Asylums are filthy places. Disease thrives—”
“Do not dismiss this, just as so many people already have,” Luca interrupted.
His tone was sharper than intended, but he could not quell the urgency coiling inside him.
“The Ravenhurst Trading Company owns The Chelmsford Asylum, but no true owner is listed. It is a company only on paper. I would stake my reputation on it.”
His friend frowned. “And why are you telling me?”
“Because I need a favor,” Luca said. “Your particular set of skills in interrogation.”
Rupert’s brows lifted, though his expression betrayed a flicker of unease. “And who, pray tell, do you wish me to interrogate?”
“The solicitor for the Ravenhurst Trading Company,” Luca replied. “He is expected tomorrow to collect the company’s mail. If anyone knows who stands behind this facade, it is him.”
Rupert leaned back, studying him. “And what has the poor man done to earn your suspicion?”
“I cannot say,” Luca admitted. “But everything about this reeks of corruption. Why keep the true owner hidden, unless there is something to conceal?”
“And if you are wrong?” Rupert asked.
“I am not.” The words left Luca, flat and certain, conviction hardening his jaw.
For a long moment, Rupert considered him, then finally nodded. “Very well. I will do it. But you must not interfere with my methods. Interrogation is not for the faint of heart.”
Relief loosened the tight band around Luca’s chest. “Thank you, Rupert.”
His friend tipped his head. “Consider us even for what you did for Alcott and me when our lives were at risk. You could have written about us in your newssheets, yet you didn’t.”
“There are things more important than a story,” Luca said.
Rupert’s eyes glinted knowingly. “Such as a certain diamond?”
Luca stiffened. “She hates me.”
“It doesn’t look that way, considering the two of you have been seen together all over Town,” Rupert countered.
“We are engaged.”
Rupert blinked, then stared. “Engaged? You cannot be serious. I thought you said she hated you.”
“She does,” Luca replied grimly. “It came about only because I sought to save her from the Duke of Brackenford. I was the lesser evil, so to speak.”
“Ah,” Rupert drawled. “The noble sacrifice.”
Luca retrieved his glass and took a slow sip. “Blasted good sacrifice it was,” he muttered, though the bitterness in his voice betrayed the truth.
Before Rupert could answer, another presence approached. Luca glanced up to find Lord Alcott striding towards them, his expression taut.
“I thought I would find you here,” Alcott said.
Luca’s blood chilled. “Is something wrong with Charlotte?”
“No.” Alcott shook his head. “She is well. But we need to talk.”
Rupert made to rise. “I should go—”
“No,” Alcott interrupted firmly. “You may stay. We are friends, and we keep no secrets.”
“That you know of,” Rupert quipped, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Alcott settled into an armchair, his gaze settling on Luca. “I wish to apologize for Charlotte’s outburst this evening.”
Luca held up a hand. “There is no need. I was equally to blame. I chose my words poorly.”
“I don’t believe there was a better way to say what you did,” Alcott responded. “It was the truth, but Charlotte did not want to hear it.”
Luca swirled the brandy in his glass. The truth had always been his weapon, his armor—but with Charlotte, it cut too deep, even when he never intended it to. “I will not force Charlotte to marry me.”
“Nor should you,” Alcott agreed. “But we both know that is where this path will lead. You two are engaged. If you do not marry, she will be ruined.”
Luca gave a humorless laugh and lifted the glass to his lips. “I think your sister would choose ruination over marrying me.”