Chapter 3 #2
Charlotte exhaled sharply, pain and indignation twining within her chest. Was it truly so difficult for him to inquire after her well-being?
Turning her head, she sought her maid. “Sally!” she shouted. Relief swept through her as she spotted her standing on the rear step beside a footman, appearing unharmed.
The comfort was fleeting. Already a small crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the spectacle of a broken carriage and a furious lord.
Curious eyes peered from the pavement and whispers carried on the air.
Charlotte’s cheeks warmed. She loathed being gawked at like a play staged for their amusement.
Worse still was Lord Welker’s booming tirade.
His harsh words cut the driver to pieces, though the poor man could hardly be blamed for a wheel snapping on London’s rutted streets.
Servants deserve better than this, Charlotte thought grimly.
“My lord,” she interjected, her voice sharp enough to cut through his rant.
Lord Welker turned, his eyes blazing, his temper not yet spent. “What is it?” he snapped.
She inclined her head towards the onlookers. “Perhaps this is not the place to discuss such matters.”
His nostrils flared, but after a moment, he relented. “You are right.” He pivoted back to the trembling driver, his tone no less menacing. “We shall discuss this later. For now, replace this wheel at once.”
Charlotte’s lips tightened. The man was impossible.
Gathering what dignity she could, she accepted the footman’s steadying hand and stepped carefully down to the pavement. Her boots stepped onto the worn cobblestones as she moved to stand out of the way, her chin high, her expression composed as if none of this had unsettled her in the least.
And then—because fate clearly had a wicked sense of humor—Lord Luca appeared.
He emerged from the crowd with maddening calm, his brow lifted in amusement, as though he had been summoned purely to witness her mortification.
His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough for her to know he had taken in everything.
“Miss Winslow,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “What an interesting predicament you have found yourself in.”
Unable to stop herself, she rolled her eyes. Of course he would appear at this precise moment.
Miss Winslow’s frown was almost instantaneous.
Ah, there it was—the familiar disdain that never failed to amuse him.
He should not take such perverse delight in unsettling her composure, but he did.
Still, he reminded himself sternly that his purpose was not to provoke her but to gain her favor, or at the very least, her tolerance.
Luca turned his attention to the broken wheel, splintered at a dangerous angle, and the cluster of servants attempting to manage the chaos.
The delay would be considerable, and the onlookers were multiplying by the minute.
Every second Miss Winslow remained stranded on the street gave the gossips more fodder.
He knew better than most how swiftly whispers turned into a printed scandal.
Smiling, he offered, “My coach is just up the street. Would you care for a ride home?”
She stiffened immediately. “No, thank you.”
He arched a brow. “So you would rather remain here and be the subject of unrelenting gossip and whispers?”
The flicker of hesitation in her eyes betrayed her. She was wavering. “No, but I do not wish to abandon Lord Welker.”
He allowed his gaze to slide towards the earl, who was still engaged in a loud tirade against the hapless coachman. Luca lowered his voice and said, “Your lord is too busy shouting at his servants to notice your absence. Has he even bothered to inquire after your well-being?”
Her lips pressed thin. “No, but—”
“It is merely a ride I am offering. Nothing more.” He let the words hang between them, gentle but insistent.
Her normally guarded eyes shifted, indecision lingering there before she at last conceded. “Very well, but he is not my lord. Furthermore, my maid will accompany us for propriety’s sake.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
Her frown deepened. “Wait here. I will inform Lord Welker of my decision.”
Luca watched her glide towards the earl.
Her words were hushed, but the sudden snap of Lord Welker’s gaze towards him was anything but subtle.
Luca caught the narrowing of the man’s eyes, sharp and brief, a warning in their depths.
It was evident the earl was not pleased by this turn of events.
Good. Let him stew. He never really thought highly of Lord Welker anyways.
When she returned, she asked briskly, “Where is your coach?”
He gestured up the street and offered his arm. “It isn’t far, I assure you.”
She gave his arm a pointed look. “I can walk perfectly fine without your assistance.”
“I am trying to be a gentleman, Diamond.”
“I have a name, you know.”
“I know, but Diamond suits you.”
With an exasperated huff, she swept past him. He matched her stride easily, his longer legs carrying him beside her with no effort.
“How did you enjoy your carriage ride with Lord Welker?” he asked, deliberately casual.
“It was pleasant.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. If you expect me to say anything disparaging about Lord Welker, you will be disappointed.”
He shrugged. “You should know he has placed a wager at White’s. He intends to marry you.”
The faintest shadow of distaste crossed her face. “Then he shall be disappointed.”
“Ah, but he is a wealthy earl. What objections do you have?” he asked, half-teasing, half-earnestly.
Miss Winslow’s reply was curt. “I do not need to explain myself to you.”
“True,” he allowed. “But what else are we to talk about on this pleasant stroll?”
Her glare flicked towards him. “I would prefer we walk in silence.”
“But silence is overrated,” he teased, and glanced behind them.
Miss Winslow’s maid had fallen back slightly, distributing coins into the hands of ragged women and barefoot children who had drifted near.
He turned back to Miss Winslow. “Are you aware that your maid is giving money to the poor?”
“Is she?” she asked, sounding utterly uninterested.
Luca studied her expression, or rather her lack of one. “It is far too much coin for a maid to possess unless she is stealing from you.”
Her huff carried all the force of impatience. “She is not stealing from me.”
“Did you give her the coins?”
She stopped abruptly, turning towards him with annoyance in her eyes. “And why, pray tell, is it any of your business what my maid is doing?”
He lifted his hands in mock defense. “I am merely curious.”
“Well, you will be curious longer,” she shot back and resumed walking.
He pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”
“You will live.”
He fell into step beside her once more. “Most young ladies of the ton would not even glance at the beggars, much less offer them coins. Yet your maid distributes freely and you say nothing.”
“I never said that.”
“No, but your actions speak otherwise. What do you gain by this generosity?”
Keeping her gaze straight ahead, she asked, “Why do you assume I gain anything?”
“Because you are spoiled and the very epitome of what every debutante wishes to be as the diamond.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “If you must know, I take all my earnings from my writing and give them to the poor. It isn’t much, but if I can ease their burdens, even for a moment, it is worth it.”
Luca stared at her, startled into silence. That was not the answer he had expected. Miss Winslow, the very image of vanity and hauteur, giving her secret earnings to the destitute? There was far more to her than her carefully polished exterior.
“That is admirable,” he admitted, unable to help himself.
“I don’t do it for approval—least of all yours,” she said. “Besides, I don’t need the income.”
For the second time that day, Luca caught himself wondering if he had misjudged Miss Winslow entirely.
She was not merely the glittering diamond of the Season, nor the vain, sharp-tongued beauty she pretended to be.
No. There was something else beneath the polished veneer, something he had not accounted for.
“You are an anomaly, Miss Winslow,” he said at last, unable to contain the thought.
She huffed, her chin lifting with practiced hauteur. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Baffled, he asked, “Like what?”
“Like you admire me.” The words almost came out as an accusation. Then, softer, with something approaching regret, she continued. “I wish I could do more, but without my brother knowing what I am about.”
“Would it be so terrible if Alcott discovered your secret?”
Her lashes lowered, shielding her gaze. “It would. He would start asking questions—questions I have no intention of answering.”
“I see,” Luca murmured, though in truth he did not see at all. There was a puzzle here, and puzzles begged to be solved. He leaned forward slightly, pressing just enough to test her defenses. “Would your brother object to your giving coins to the poor?”
“No.”
“Then why the secrecy? What reasoning lies behind it?”
She raised her eyes. “Why are you so insistent on the matter? It doesn’t concern you in the least.”
“Perhaps not,” he conceded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I find it remarkable.” He nearly said I find you remarkable but swallowed the words. Too soon, too bold. She would bristle at the sentiment, and he had learned that bristling often ended with her storming away.
Before she could reply, his coach came into view. Relief flickered across Miss Winslow’s expression, though she did not voice it. He stepped forward swiftly, opening the door with a practiced hand and offering the other to her.