Chapter 29
Charlotte had dressed carefully for her picnic, but she dressed even more carefully for dinner that night.
Too carefully! snipped a voice inside, which she ignored.
Clothes could be armor, but clothes could also be punishment, and Warrick deserved the rack, first for forgetting what had happened in his bedchamber, and second for mucking up her head so badly that she couldn’t concentrate on Prince Belozersky.
Third—Charlotte took a deep breath, because the third point was the sharpest. Third, because it was time to admit that the hurt from all those years ago still lingered.
Why do you care? she asked herself.
I don’t, she answered firmly, and yet she reached for a gown that would bring Warrick to his knees.
It was sewn of heavy white silk that fell in cool folds to the floor, but the bodice dipped so low that Gran had raised her eyebrows the first time she saw it and said, “Are you being mindful of your allowance for once in your life? You’ve certainly stinted on the fabric, dear. ”
But was it enough?
Charlotte studied herself in the looking glass and tiptoed into Anna’s room to rummage around in the Ramsay jewelry chest, settling on a brooch with an enormous pale pink, square-cut topaz, which she pinned between her breasts.
There! That drove the point home nicely.
Charlotte kept her head held high as a queen’s as she walked down the staircase, ready at any moment to run into—
“Oh! Your Highness!”
If Belozersky noticed that Charlotte had forgotten his existence, he chose not to mention it. His eyes twinkled as he offered up his arm. “We agreed—you call me Misha.”
“Yes, Misha, of course. Shall we have a glass of champagne before dinner?”
He escorted her into the Great Salon. “To celebrate our engagement? But of course.”
“I prefer to drink to our long friendship.”
“I will raise my glass to you, Lady Charlotte, whatever the reason. May I say what a fine stone you are wearing?” He gazed right at her breasts and raised laughing eyes to hers. “Forgive me if I stare.”
“Are you familiar with the word ‘incorrigible,’ your Highness?”
“Why, yes! It is strange, how many people teach it to me.”
Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh, and to her great delight she was still laughing when Warrick entered the room.
She laughed again, partly because her nerves were jangling and partly to show the duke what a marvelous time she was having.
But instead of skulking off into a corner to brood, Warrick accepted a glass of champagne from a footman and joined them.
“Good evening, Belozersky. Lady Charlotte, how well you look tonight.”
It was an ordinary compliment, no flowery words or bells attached, but the look he gave her wasn’t ordinary at all.
There was nothing too wolfish about it and he didn’t linger on her breasts, as the prince had.
His eyes were hot, a little angry and a little…
solemn? As if he were wrestling with feelings so big only a cathedral could contain them.
Charlotte opened her mouth to say something withering, but the dinner bell rang.
“I shall escort you in?” Belozersky offered his arm.
“I should also like to escort you, Lady Charlotte,” said Warrick.
She turned her head pointedly away from him and smiled at the prince. “If you please.”
Belozersky gestured for the others to go ahead. He had to gesture twice and lift his eyebrows at Warrick, and only when the Grand Salon had emptied did the prince address her again.
“You and I, Charlotte, we have flirted for many years. Is that not true?”
“Yes. You know we have.”
“And we’ve been good friends, that is true also?”
“Yes, of course.”
He studied her, and with none of his usual playfulness. “Perhaps you tell me first, then, when you use me to bait another man?”
Charlotte could only stare. “Oh God, Misha! I’m terribly—”
He wasn’t done. “I came to offer marriage and your answer is no, is that correct?”
There was a terrible prickling heat behind Charlotte’s eyes. If she wasn’t careful, she’d cry and he’d feel obliged to console her and that wasn’t fair.
“I’m a fool.” Charlotte mustered a smile. “I should want it. I want to want it.”
“Oh dear!” He kissed her hand. “Should I be worried that you are famous for your good taste?”
“It’s failed me completely in this instance. But I believe—your heart is also not involved?”
“Not my heart, no, only my poor pride.” He shook his head mournfully. “I do like you very much, and you are so very rich. You are sure it is Warrick you want?”
“Warrick? I’ve no interest—”
The prince squeezed her hand. “When we are not honest with ourselves, it is easy to stray from who we want to be.”
Oh God.
Why couldn’t it be Misha? She’d never seen a man so glorious, and beneath all that splendor of muscle beat a good, steady heart. And yet when he’d stepped out of his carriage and sunlight had poured over the planes of his face, she’d been entirely unmoved.
“Misha, neither of us is particularly good at being serious, but—I hope you know how sorry I am. I treated our friendship carelessly.”
“You mistake me, Charlotte. I am too good at being serious. This is why I like you—because you make it easy to forget. But I think”—those ice-bright eyes probed deep—“perhaps I mistake you, too? In any case, I am not one for holding the grudges.”
Charlotte dashed impatiently at her eyes. “God, Misha, don’t be too kind. I can’t stand it.”
The prince offered her a hand and led her out of the Grand Salon, pausing just before they reached the bright chatter spilling out from the dining room.
“Tomorrow I shall leave, but tonight…” His voice went low, each word dipped in mischief. “Tonight, we amuse ourselves at a duke’s expense?”