Chapter 8 #2
The fire of the torch reflected in his disbelieving eyes. He stepped toward her until her back bumped against the balustrade, then he put out a hand for the diary.
Charlotte kept still, her heart leaping wildly as he loomed over her. Her fingers grasped the leather as her reluctance to surrender it to him loomed large. “What do you intend to do with it?”
“That is none of your concern,” he replied, his hand still out insistently.
“I shan’t give it to you unless you tell me.”
His brows drew together. “You expect me to tell a gossipmonger what I intend to do with it?”
Gossipmonger. The word stung, but when she opened her mouth to refute it, no sound emerged. He was right. She had become a gossipmonger. “Do you intend to harm anyone using it?”
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “You do.”
“No one who is not deserving of it.” He reached around her for the diary, but she pressed it between her back and the wall.
“And you think you are the best judge of that?” she asked, stalling as she tried to determine what to do.
He met her gaze squarely. “I do.”
How could he be so unabashedly cold about doing someone an injury?
“We had an agreement, Miss Mandeville,” he said. “I have done what I told you I would do. It is your turn now.”
“If I give you this diary knowing you mean to harm someone using it, that makes me your accomplice.”
Anthony let out an impatient breath. “Miss Mandeville, I have nothing against you. I don’t particularly like you, but other than your aggravating stubbornness, I have no reason to wish you ill.
However,” he said with his eyes fixed significantly on hers, “we had an agreement. If you continue to refuse to hold up your end of it, you leave me little choice.”
Charlotte’s brows snapped together. “Is that a threat?” It was not a surprise, for it was not the first time he had employed such tactics.
“Without question.” His gaze held hers. “Mr. Robbs seems quite taken with Miss Tabitha, does he not?”
Charlotte swallowed.
“Something tells me he will be less likely to pay her a visit if he discovers the rift between his parents is your doing.”
Charlotte shifted nervously but kept her gaze fixed on his. Lamentably, Anthony was right, but she had no intention of letting him know that.
“Or,” he continued, taking another step toward her, “Imagine if Lord Finsworth knew you were responsible for the depiction of his . . . cavorting—something he believes caused his bill to fail in Parliament this week. I doubt he will still see to it you and your sisters are invited to the al fresco party he mentioned.”
Charlotte’s skin pricked with guilt, but she raised her chin, defiant. “Is it my fault Mr. Robbs was untrue to his wife? Or that Lord Finsworth was engaged in unsavory endeavors?”
“No,” he replied, “but surely you can see the irony of lecturing me on harming others when you have been engaged in precisely that.”
Charlotte’s blood boiled. “You are all the same, do you know that? You behave despicably, but rather than take responsibility, you blame the person who brings your depravity to light.”
His brow darkened. “And in what way am I accused of behaving despicably?”
Charlotte scoffed. “You cannot be in earnest! Since the first time I met you, you have threatened me, physically detained me, and insulted me.”
“And you have thwarted me at every turn, made a public laughing stock of me, and used me for my connections.”
Charlotte’s chest rose and fell quickly as she met his gaze, again without a defense.
“Now,” he said. “The diary. Before I lose my patience.”
“Promise me you will not harm anyone using what is written within it.”
Anthony took a final step nearer her, until their faces were just inches apart. “I do not wish to use force, Miss Mandeville, but I will if necessary.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, hatred for him bitter on her tongue.
He reached an arm around her until his fingers covered hers, grasping the journal. Their chests rose and fell against each other as they stared at one another mulishly.
“Men like you are everything that is wrong with this world,” Charlotte spat.
“Men like me?” Anthony challenged, hovering over her so she was obliged to lean back to maintain even a few inches between their faces.
“Men like you,” she repeated. “You are the reason my sisters and I must all but beg to be invited to a party like this, the reason I am, as you so politely phrase it, a gossipmonger. Nothing matters but your own selfish desires, and you trample anyone who stands in your way. Men like you,” she said, shaking with mixed exhilaration and fear, “are the reason my father is dead—the reason we have nothing through no fault of our own.”
His gaze flickered, and his hold on her hand and the diary slackened as his dark eyes searched hers. He was closer than Charlotte had ever been to a man, but there was no fear inside her. It was anger and anger alone that made her eyes sting.
She would rather die than cry in front of Anthony Yorke, however, so she clenched her teeth and stared at him, matching the intensity in his gaze.
“Charlotte?”
Their heads whipped toward the baffled voice. Tabitha stood in the doorway of the nearby balcony that led from the drawing room, her mouth open in surprise.
Behind her, Mrs. Ashby’s head appeared. Once her gaze found Anthony and Charlotte, she pushed past Tabitha.
“Anthony!” she hissed.
But Tabitha’s exclamation of surprise had drawn more attention, and other attendees began to appear in the doorway to see what the fuss was about—and why Anthony and Charlotte were pressed up against one another alone on another balcony.
Charlotte’s heart beat against her ribs painfully.
This was the end. Whatever she and her family had accomplished tonight, it was all for naught now. Her reputation was in tatters.
Feeling sick to her stomach, she loosened her grip on the diary. It seemed so inconsequential now.
Anthony’s gaze darted to hers, and she turned her head to avoid his gaze.
After a moment of excruciating silence, he pulled the diary from her hand. She released it willingly, no longer caring what he did with it.
He stepped back, his eyes still fixed on her.
“What is the meaning of this?” his aunt demanded.
There was something strange in Anthony’s eyes, but Charlotte hadn’t the heart to care. She had ruined everything.
All her work, all her saving was for naught.
“Aunt,” Anthony said, stepping toward Charlotte so that they were shoulder to shoulder. “I beg leave to present to you my affianced wife.”