Chapter 3 #2
She looked up at the man beside her. How did one manage to be so simultaneously handsome and formidable? She couldn’t at all decipher what he was about, coming to Bellevue in such a way, but she sensed—and she believed Mary would agree—that it was unlikely to be motivated by charitable reasons.
Well, whatever he expected from this visit, Charlotte had no intention of making it easy for him.
“Not Miss Mandeville, then,” Mr. Yorke said, glancing at her.
“One of the Misses Mandeville, but no, not the Miss Mandeville. Lillian is the eldest.”
“A misunderstanding on my part which, I gather, almost cost you dearly.”
She kept her gaze straight ahead. “I haven’t any notion what you mean.”
Even in her peripheral vision, she could see one of his thick brows cock. “You make a practice, then, of forcing your hand into men’s, obliterating whatever object they are unfortunate enough to be holding at the time, and then compelling them to kiss your hand?”
Charlotte stopped and pulled her hand from his arm, her nostrils flared and her cheeks filling with heat.
Mr. Yorke turned slowly, regarding her through those penetrating eyes. They reminded her of the nearby pond on a particularly gray day. She hated particularly gray days.
“Have I misunderstood?” he asked, though his amusement made clear it was a merely rhetorical question. “Do you, in fact, have no notion why I have come? I confess I find it difficult to believe given the marks you so generously engraved into my hand with your nails.”
His words acted like flint on the steel of Charlotte’s pride. “You must make allowances, sir. I was acting out of a desire to protect my sister.”
His dark brows drew together. “Protect her?”
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Yorke.”
There. She had caught him off his guard with that, at least. In point of fact, she had only a vague awareness of what his reputation included, but her imagination was lively enough to supply a number of ideas for a man so attractive and, as Mary had suggested, so ruthless.
“Well,” he said, the surprise masked as quickly as it had appeared, “I admire your pluck. It is not every young woman who, fearing a man’s evil designs upon her elder sister, would so quickly and tenaciously offer herself in her place.”
Charlotte stiffened. When he put it that way, it certainly made her seem loose in the shaft—or simply loose.
Who did he think he was, appearing at her home without any prior acquaintance and nearly ruining her chances at saving her family’s future?
But she knew the answer: he was just like all of his ilk.
The wealthy, well-connected, and influential did as they pleased, and they did it without regard for anyone they deemed below them.
It mattered not that Charlotte was a gentleman’s daughter.
The Mandevilles lacked the pedigree and money that would make them acceptable to the ton’s most powerful.
“What do you want, Mr. Yorke?” she asked stonily.
“Only our mutual benefit,” he replied with a hint of a smile and a glint in his eye.
Charlotte’s lips parted, her gaze becoming intent. Mutual benefit. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Could he possibly be suggesting . . .?
He pulled the caricature from inside his coat and held it up. “I assume that, when he gave this to you, the artist did not intend for you to convey it to me.”
Charlotte’s brows drew together. He? The artist?
She stared at Mr. Yorke. Evidently, he did not know she was the artist. Why would he make such an assumption? Did he think a woman incapable of intelligent and stimulating art? Of course, this was hardly the epitome of her best work, but still; it was the principle of the thing.
Her pride in her work warred with the good sense telling her to be grateful for his ignorance rather than trying to correct it.
“No,” she said slowly, resignedly allowing sense to overcome pride. “He did not. But neither did I convey it to you.”
“Not purposely, perhaps. But I am in possession of it despite that. And you have something I want. Nay, need.”
Relief that her secret was at least partially intact was instantly supplanted by the reminder that this viciously handsome man meant to hold the caricature over her head—and, from what she could tell, he meant to do so for purposes that made her feel faint and wonder if she had perhaps allowed their stroll to take them too far from the safety of Bellevue.
Surely, he wouldn’t kiss her or ravish her here and now, in such proximity to her own house, though.
What, then, would he propose?
A little shiver ran through her. Would her choice be between surrendering to his baser instincts or having her secret revealed? Either way, her reputation would be forfeit.
Well, she would rather the latter than the former. There was at least some dignity in putting her name to her work. There was none at all in submitting to Mr. Yorke’s nefarious designs upon her person.
“Mr. Yorke,” Charlotte said icily, “you may hold my reputation cheap, but I assure you I do not.”
His brows snapped together. “Your reputation?” His eyes searched hers. “What the devil do you think I mean?”
Charlotte’s righteous anger flagged at his confusion. “I thought . . .” The speculation hung lame and unfinished. She couldn’t possibly voice that she had assumed he wished to enter into some sort of . . . intimate arrangement with her in exchange for the caricature’s return.
This was what came of living her life with all the scandal of the ton floating around in her head all day.
“Miss Mandeville,” Mr. Yorke said firmly, “allow me to be clear. I believe you have a diary in your possession. A diary that belongs to me. I am here to return this caricature in exchange for it.”
“Diary,” Charlotte repeated in a soft and bewildered voice. The diary in her drawer belonged to him?
No. That couldn’t be. It said quite plainly that it belonged to Mr. Marlowe.
Mr. Yorke watched her intently. Very intently, in fact. This diary which decidedly did not belong to him must be important. Important enough that he had come to the home of a stranger for it. What could he possibly want with another man’s personal record?
Charlotte’s curiosity was immediately piqued. “It is not your diary.”
A muscle in his clenched jaw jumped. “Neither is it yours.”
Well, she couldn’t argue with that.
“Miss Mandeville,” he said, “allow me to impress upon you the gravity of your situation. This caricature”—he patted his chest—“was given into your care by the artist—someone who clearly wishes to keep his identity a secret. Through your actions, it has come into my hands. Something tells me he will not be thrilled with this carelessness on your part.”
Charlotte met his gaze, unflinching. The diary became increasingly of interest to her with every word Mr. Yorke said.