Chapter 9

 

Lady Butler and her family lived in a large house on Grosvenor Square. Tonight the doors were thrown open and light blazed from every window on the first floor. People thronged outside, some attending the ball, some there to gawp at the guests. Charlotte would give them something to gawp at. Although her father had complained about the unsuitability of her hair, Charlotte had pointed out that it was too late to powder it and apologized humbly, even though the words stuck in her throat. But if she had not, he could have forbidden her presence. Then he asked her about the gown, and she repeated what she’d told Hunter, that Val had sent it to her. “I believe he means it as a parting gift, your grace. We do not want him to take one of his pets, do we?”

However, when he said, “I wish you to be at the very least respectable. That gown is far too extravagant. I do not like it. When you remove it tonight, send it to me. We will burn it together,” rebellion, fiery and shockingly sudden, burst into full flame inside her.

She had thought of telling him she had a cut on her head and the powder irritated it, or that she had simply run out of hair powder, but she had eventually decided that such tactics were below her. Instead, she informed him that her natural color enhanced her gown more than powder did and left him thinking of a suitable response.

Then she went upstairs and in a frenzy of anger, altered her appearance. Wrapping a heavy cloak around her, she went downstairs to the waiting carriage.

He spent the whole of the journey here scolding her and threatening to send her home, despite the presence in the coach of two of the guests from dinner. They listened largely in appreciative silence, only agreeing with the wisdom of the duke and admiring his manner of taking no nonsense from his children.

Tonight he would take all the nonsense she could put his way.

Despite the warmth of the evening, Charlotte had worn her heaviest cloak because it was the only one that covered her gown adequately, but the journey was a short one, and she was not too badly discommoded.

She did not loosen the ties, or let go holding the front together until they had entered the house and her father had doffed his hat, leaving his guests and his daughter to follow meekly behind him. Her heart in her mouth, Charlotte asked for the ladies’ room.

There, she found a maid to take her cloak and hat, and then she put the final touches to her appearance.

The fichu had gone. Once she’d torn it off, she revealed the low neckline of her gown, enhanced only by a narrow frill of lace which drew attention to the bare flesh rather than concealing it. Studying her reflection, Charlotte smiled when a lady glancing over at her gasped. She didn’t care if she never saw that kerchief again. Instead of the full white cap with lappets, she had reduced her head wear to a mere scrap of lace. And her petticoats were gone, all but the one that came with the gown. She’d hastily stepped out of them just before she’d left her room to get into the carriage. All she had under her finery was her shift, and she’d pulled that up and tucked it under her stays until she was barely decent. Most of her legs were on blatant display, shadowed by the gown, but unmistakable in bright light. She wore a little face paint, where her complexion was usually bare.

Anything more different from the scraped-back hair and boringly modest gowns of her usual attire was hard to imagine.

Sucking in a breath, she watched her bosom swell enticingly above the tight-fitting gown. Her temper still simmered under all that silk, adding fire to her eyes and a snap to her stance. She would use every weapon she had at her command tonight. She knew exactly what she wanted to achieve.

Her anger with Val and her father’s threat to destroy such a lovely thing had combined to make a combustible forest fire, and now it was fully ablaze. Years of oppression, of forcing herself into molds that did not suit her, that hurt to maintain, gave her the impetus for this one night of rebellion.

So the Marquess and Marchioness of Strenshall wanted a sensible, biddable woman for their son, did they? She was about to show them that she was nothing of the kind and never meant to be.

She had not expected her father to wait to escort her into the ballroom, so she was not disappointed when she entered the room alone. The Butlers were possessed of a fine suite of rooms on the first floor of their grand London mansion, and they had enhanced the grandeur with a multiplicity of candles and enough flowers for a state funeral, with some left over. They must have stripped every greenhouse and garden on their estate to obtain this amount of roses, lilies, and Lord knew whatever else flowers. All, interestingly, in white and pink.

Their hosts must have commandeered every white and pink flower in the whole of Covent Garden market for a week or more. Heady scent filled the room, chokingly sweet. Or maybe that was just her. She was definitely feeling queasy. As her nervousness increased and her temper subsided, her stomach made its presence felt.

Reality sank in. Her temper had led her into this. After years of suppression, it had broken free into one fiery act of defiance, and now it was declining just as quickly. She should go home, claim sickness, and retire. But even when she thought it, defiance returned to challenge her. If she left here, she would never trust her own judgment again. She had no choice but to go on.

Lifting her chin and forcing an expression of calm on to her face, she entered the packed ballroom.

Any expectation she had of passing unnoticed melted the moment she met the startled gaze of Lord Ivan Rowley. His darkly handsome eyes widened slightly before he bowed. “My lady, I am delighted to see you looking so well. Won’t you allow me to take you onto the dance floor?”

That suited her perfectly. She did not particularly want to converse. Not yet, at any rate. Not until she’d regained some of her usual level bearing. She had not felt like this in public for a long time, if ever. From childhood on, her father had trained his children to bear the still and unfeeling exterior of a statue. It had become second nature to her. Appearing in this way made her feel vulnerable as never before.

As Lord Rowley took her into the center of the polished wooden floor, several pairs of eyes tracked her progress. Her vulnerability was overlaid by a sense of triumph, newfound confidence giving her a new and different kind of shield. Attracting attention drew its own kind of protection; she had never realized that before.

His lordship drew her around, and she concentrated on getting her pose correct. Not only correct, but graceful, turning her hand elegantly as she had seen other ladies do but rarely attempted herself. The gesture was easy. Her confidence building, her pleasure rose. She knew this dance, a country dance that meant she would change partners during its course. She did not have to concentrate on the steps, so she could refine them. She enjoyed that, but her father probably would not. She did not seek him out but replied to a remark her current partner made with a brilliant smile. She didn’t have an inkling what he’d said, but it didn’t matter.

People stared at her, or rather, they did the polite equivalent—glancing at her, glancing away, and then back when they thought she wasn’t looking. Charlotte pretended she didn’t care. When the dance was half over, she truly did not care. A sense of exhilaration took her.

When the dance concluded, she knew she had made an impression. Her work here was done, but she did not want to leave. She had never enjoyed herself at a ball like this before, never felt this sense of freedom. It was new to her, and she reveled in it. Before tonight she’d been too busy doing the right thing, behaving the right way, but she had nothing to lose now. The evening might have dire consequences, but she would deal with them when they happened.

If her father sent her sister away, she would fight his decision, work to prove that Louisa was no more mad than she was. He would not punish her as he used to, either. And she would not allow people to decide her life for her. True, she might have to obey him until she married, but Hervey, gentle, kind and considerate, would treat her with respect. He had pledged himself to her, gone down on his knees to do so. All she had to do was persuade Val to let her go, and she would have the life she wanted.

Wouldn’t she?

Hervey waited for her at the edge of the dance floor, but to her surprise, Lord Rowley stayed with her. She would have expected him to relinquish her to her next partner, but he did not do so. When she tried to remove her hand, he merely tightened his hold on her. She didn’t even know Lord Rowley very well. Why would he suddenly behave so possessively? She could not believe that a change in hairstyle and a new gown would have such an effect on him. But he was obviously refusing to leave her, even though Hervey tapped his foot impatiently.

The next set had already begun so they could not excuse themselves and join it.

“I trust I find you well, sir?” She offered Hervey her hand.

Hervey glanced at Rowley, his glare challenging the man to stay a moment longer. His opponent did not appear the least disconcerted.

Hervey bowed over her hand, dropping a light kiss on to the back. “All the better for seeing you.”

Perhaps not the most original of comments, but she appreciated it. That was, until his eyes widened and he took in her complete appearance. “Has your father decided on a change in style?”

“No, I did.”

“Charming, the effect a new gown can make,” Lord Rowley commented. He took an enamel snuffbox from his pocket and helped himself to a pinch, accomplishing the feat far more elegantly than her father could. He snapped the box closed and returned it to his pocket without offering it to Hervey, a studied insult.

Hervey did not deserve that treatment. Charlotte glared at Lord Rowley, who gave her a sweet smile in return.

Hervey’s second perusal of her appearance was decidedly less approving than his first. His fine blue eyes narrowed and his mouth turned down at the corners. Hervey had probably seen the shadows of her legs behind the fine fabric of her petticoat when she’d shifted slightly.

Inside, she groaned. Why had she done that? Added to the sheer effect of her petticoat, every time she breathed, her bosom rose from the tight lacing of her bodice, the upper slopes bare except for the teasing frill of lace. She must appear an absolute wanton. Hervey didn’t like it, and now she was not sure she did either.

The pleasure she’d taken earlier that evening faded away under Hervey’s sharp and disapproving glare. She didn’t like his assumption that her father had imposed the changes.

“I would ask you to dance, but perhaps you would prefer to accompany me into the supper room,” Hervey said gently. In the supper room he could find her a table to sit at and hide her shame.

No doubt he could feast his eyes on her swelling bosom. Breathing shallowly did not help, either. It merely made her breathe faster. Why, oh, why had she done this?

Her father would never allow her to wear this gown again. As well as its scandalous appearance, it was far too fashionable to meet with his approval. She had seen his disapproving glares over dinner, and that was before she’d rid herself of the kerchief and petticoats.

A movement caught her attention. Her father was heading in her direction, a grim expression on his face. He would have no compunction in manhandling her out of the ballroom and home, now he’d seen her. If he could catch her, that was.

Forcing a smile, aware she needed to do something to get away, she reached out to Hervey again. “I would love to dance with you,” she said simply.

He could hardly withdraw his offer, although he tried. “You are sure you don’t wish to take supper?”

She lifted a shoulder and shook her head. “It is far too early for supper, sir. I would much rather dance.”

If she had not made Hunter lash her into her stays with a firm hand, she would not have risked herself to the jolly bouncing country dance that the quartet was striking up. However, if she did not move, her father would reach her.

Hervey blinked and smiled back. His gaze turned speculative. What he was thinking she had no idea, but at last he took her hand and led her on the floor. The dance commenced, and they moved around the floor with increasing vigor as the country dance went for its climax.

Charlotte had never entered into the spirit of the dance so thoroughly. She lifted her skirts to point her toes, hopped, skipped, and capered along with everyone else, garnering more than a few admiring gazes, mostly from gentlemen. She even began to enjoy herself. Nobody had told her how heartening collecting such admiring glances could be. It built her confidence so she almost forgot her state of near-undress. Not quite, though, especially when she glanced down to see her breasts almost bursting from her bodice. But not quite. They would not leave the confines. At least she did not think so.

Then another partner whirled her back into the dance by his quirky smile and his touch on her hand. It only took that one touch to realize that her betrothed had joined the dance. He let his gaze drop. It washed over her half-naked breasts.

His attention had the effect that none of the others had. Heat flowed over her. Shame, pride, and defiance, in a confusing combination, mingled so she could not tell which was dominant and which she should suppress.

They came together briefly, and he said something, but she couldn’t hear what it was before she passed on to her next partner.

Moderating her movements, aware as she had not been before, she smiled and danced and responded to her other partners until the circle was done and she returned to Hervey. He should be a steadying presence, as he had been in the last few weeks, but somehow he joined with the others—an admirer, a man with hot eyes and a loose mouth.

Where was Val? If she had not felt that thrill when he touched her she would have thought she’d imagined him. The room was so full she could not see him in the throng of gaily dressed, loudly chattering people. Colors mingled, clashing and harmonizing, a combination of exquisite fabrics and breathtaking jewels. The world she had grown up in was full of extravagance and excess, so much that she hardly noticed, except at times like this when she was looking for one person in particular.

She had spent too much time standing against the wall with the older ladies and the unmarriageable. Whatever happened next, she would not do that again.

Hervey had her arm and was almost dragging her toward the supper room. Charlotte was not ready to go. He would probably hustle her out of the building and home, if the set of his mouth and the gleam in his eyes were any judge. She dug in her heels, bringing him to an abrupt stop. The people gathered around, exchanging polite conversation stared. Some giggled.

“What are you doing?”

He turned to face her, exasperation pressing a frown between his brows. “Charlotte, my love, you may not know this, but your gown is not…suitable for a young lady such as yourself. You should not allow people to ogle you so blatantly.”

Charlotte flicked out her fan and did her best to give a roguish look over the top of it to a beau who was blatantly examining her through a quizzing glass. “I am no more unsuitably dressed than many of the women here.”

He groaned. “But you are not them,” he said through his teeth, forcing a smile, probably for the sake of the spectators. “You are a sweet, well-brought-up young lady, and you demean yourself by stooping to their level.”

“I rather enjoy it,” she confessed. The feelings washing over her were not all pleasant, but most were. “Why should I not act my age instead of someone twenty years older?”

“Your father—”

She caught her breath, but after swiftly glancing around she could not see him. “What about him? He is here somewhere.”

“Do you wish to betray him by this unseemly display? Truly, if I were not so totally devoted to you, I would wonder at your conduct tonight. No doubt reports of your behavior will be all over London tomorrow. How can you wish for that? You are a goddess, far above the other women here.”

“Is that why I usually spend every ball bored to tears, propping up the wall and discussing politics and embroidery with the other rejected spinsters?” She shook her head, her curls bouncing silkily against her neck. She loved the feeling, much more than the sensation the heavy greased and powdered locks gave. She’d had to pull down a few curls herself and do her best with her fingers to turn them into ringlets, since Hunter had tried to pull her mistress’s hair back into its usual tight unforgiving knot.

“It is better to set a good example than a bad one.”

“Is that so?”

The voice breaking into their conversation had all the timbre and throbbing intensity Charlotte wanted. Even though Val’s behavior since she’d asked him to break their engagement confused and angered her, his presence still held the magic it always had. Her body responded as if trained to the task, softening and opening for him in a way that made her yearn to lean into him, to feel his body surrounding hers.

Arrant nonsense, she told herself roundly. She would not succumb to the wiles of any man tonight, least of all Val Shaw. She turned so the men faced each other and she stood between. “You have rushed over here just for the pleasure of dancing with me? How flattering.”

“Something of that nature. I should have known you would be here, and I should have arrived earlier, but I was detained.”

“By your mistress?” The smile she gave him was as sweet and sugary as she could make it. Several people standing by them gasped. Ladies were not supposed to mention such matters, at least not in mixed company.

He returned her smile in full measure and added a swift lowering of his eyelids. “Not at all. I gave my last mistress her congé a long time ago.” Catching her hand, he lifted it to his lips. “I devote myself entirely to you, my love.”

Hearing that endearment on his tongue drove her back into anger. “How pleasant. Perhaps you will become bored with me before long.”

“How could I ever do that? You are a fountain of invention. You surprise me more every day.” Stepping back as far as he could, which was not much because of the crush, he surveyed her, taking a leisurely perusal of her appearance. “I have never seen you so fine before.” He released her hand as she snatched it back and she nearly overbalanced.

“Do you recognize the gown?”

His smile broadened, which she would not have considered possible a moment ago. “Indeed. It is the Cerisot, is it not? I told you her creations would do you justice. Indeed, I wonder you will go anywhere else. You appear to great advantage, my dear.”

They were peppering their words with endearments, but Charlotte did not fool herself that they were anything to do with her. Battle was joined.

“You hold on to Lady Charlotte as if she is a prize to be won,” Hervey remarked. “I would treat her as a woman to be cherished.”

“As do I,” Val agreed smoothly. When he turned his head the light from above glinted on his beautifully dressed dark hair in vivid contrast to the powdered heads around him. “I will do my best to cherish her in the years to come.”

“A word, sir,” Hervey said. “In private, if you please.”

Val raised a brow. “I would not be so churlish as to leave my betrothed alone here.”

“I will restore her to her father.”

“Is he here?” Val made a great play of turning around, searching for him. There he was, ploughing through the fashionable crowd as if it were not there. He would be on them in a moment.

Val grabbed Charlotte’s hand and towed her away. She had not realized Lord Rowley and Val’s twin were standing nearby, but as Val dragged her in the direction of the nearest exit, they folded in, neatly preventing Hervey and her father pursuing her. Her protested “Val!” went unheeded, unless it served to quicken his pace.

She was almost breathless when he dragged her into the hallway and then across to the private part of the house. The grand rooms were opened for the ball and, so it appeared, were some of the lesser rooms on this floor. Open doors indicated where people were sitting around tables playing cards or where a group of women stood around chatting. Val did not stop but opened a different door and tugged her inside, closing it behind them. He turned, pushing her against the paneled wood. “I love the gown, but maybe it would be better with a little more padding,” he said.

She sucked in air, breathless after his breakneck rush to get here. “I am tired of criticism. If the gown survives the evening, you will find it on your doorstep tomorrow.”

He leaned over her, planting his hands either side of her head. He glanced down. “I love the way you blush,” he said softly.

The heat in her cheeks was not all from the temperature of the room and her breathlessness, then. “You shouldn’t make personal remarks.”

“Why not? Plenty of other people seem to be doing so.” His eyes glittered as he lifted his gaze to her face.

“Some people have the right.” Even as she said the words she wondered at them. Did anyone have that right? Only if she gave it to them, which she decidedly did not. She would dress as she chose. “Dash it, I will go to Cerisot in the morning and demand that she takes the gown back. I am a duke’s daughter. She will not deny me.”

“No, she will not.” He spoke so softly, his breath trickling over her body like a caress. “She will not because I have told her not to. I want to see you in more of these.”

“I will wear what I please.” She did her best impression of a haughty princess, calling on all her prowess. But with this man, her mask seemed to have gone. She could not muster the stiff expression she habitually wore however hard she tried. “I will not dress as you order.” Emboldened, she met his gaze. “And I will marry whom I please. That is not you, Lord Shaw.”

“Oh, is it not?” His voice softened. Cupping her chin with one hand, he moved closer.

When his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, she gasped, a tiny sound but he would be close enough to hear it. His expression turned fierce, and he turned her into jelly. His concentration on her was absolute, as was hers on him.

He lowered his head at the same time as she stood on tiptoe to meet him. She could not go another minute without his kiss.

He took her with the promise in his eyes, and the power of his desire. She flung out her arms, finding his shoulders, her fan falling to the floor with a clatter they both ignored. They were too busy devouring each other.

Sensation poured over Charlotte, a rich cascade of pure exhilaration, rising to swamp her and float her out of control.

She let him take her with him, guide her to a new place. He touched her bare shoulder and slid his fingers under her sleeve, gliding them down and tucking them under her stomacher and stays. Nobody had touched her there before. Nobody had wanted to, but the small groan he released told her that he did.

In the confines of her bodice, he worked wonders. Shuddering, she pushed her breast into his hand, trying to help him any way she could. She wanted more of this. More than that, she needed it.

He had three fingers in there now, and when he tugged, he half pulled her breast from its confines. His lips left hers, barely, and he glanced down. The heat in his eyes when he looked back at her face was almost unbearable. She felt helpless, unable to say anything or fathom where they were going. But every cell in her body pleaded for more.

He ran his thumb over the flesh he’d exposed. She shivered, and her mouth fell open as the most uncivilized sound fell from her. He responded to her long groan by kissing her again. Responding to him, she curved her hand over her waist, seeking an opening. She ached to touch bare skin, needed his warmth, the intimacy of him with nothing between them.

His kiss turned lascivious, openmouthed, and his breath came in short, choppy gasps as he pressed his mouth to her cheek, her throat and farther down to her shoulder. Although the bones of her stays dug into her painfully, she wanted more. The pain was a delicious counter to the caresses he was pressing on her, sending contrasting thrills and driving her out of her mind.

“You’re the most passionate, responsive creature I have ever met,” he muttered as he touched her skin with his mouth, as if trying to kiss every part of her he could. “And to think I nearly let you go.”

His words made her head spin. That was, until the realization slammed into her. He let her go? Yes, he did. And she didn’t want him, this man who would take her and wreck her. She had no skills, she could not hold someone as brilliant, as passionate as he was.

Her back was against the door so she had nowhere to go, but she jerked sideways. As he followed her, intent on more, she held up her hands.

“No, Val. No.”

With a sudden movement, he straightened. Tipping his head back, he sucked in two noisy breaths before he spoke, his chest expanding. “I’m sorry,” he said to the ceiling. Then he lowered his head and gazed at her, a laugh forcing itself out. Gently, he brushed her hands aside and took over the task of restoring her breast to its proper place. “Dear God, Charlotte. What were we thinking?”

“Val, I…” She tried again. The tide of passion was receding, or at least getting into controllable levels.

He caught her hands once they were free, raising one to his lips and then the other. “No, it was my fault. I should know better than that. I have no excuse, except…” He bit his lip. “No, it would be cowardly to blame this on you.”

She ploughed on. “Val, I need you to let me go.”

His eyes widened. “Even now, with this passion lying between us?”

At least she’d succeeded in knocking him off-balance, too. He’d unnerved her, which was one reason she needed to talk to him. “Yes, with this.” She made a fuss of shaking out her skirts. “Because of this.” Nothing but work but the truth, but she had not realized that articulating it would be so difficult. Lifting her head, she folded her hands before her in her usual gesture. Neatly, quietly, without fuss. Assuming her normal posture gave her strength, drew power into her. It wouldn’t be so bad. He’d understand. “It’s too much, Val. If you do this to me, I will become your slave. As I became my father’s slave. With him I had no choice. He is my father. He may rule my life until I marry.”

“Yes, until you marry. Are you comparing me with him? The Dignified Duke?” He laughed harshly as he pronounced the derogatory name society had labeled her father. “Do you think I would make you stand in my presence?”

“No. I think you will enslave me in a different way. This is more dangerous because I’m compliant with it. I’ll go willingly. I can do nothing else. Your experience, your confidence, your passion—it all goes to making me obedient. Submissive.”

A wild look sparked his eyes to life but was gone immediately. What had she said?

“You will learn. I know passion can make a person helpless, unable to break away, but that will pass, I swear.”

“That’s exactly the point, Val. You will move on. I will not.”

“No, no.”

She would not let him speak. He would persuade her, and then she’d be lost. “It’s the truth, Val. Since when have you stayed with a woman for more than a year? Six months? Your affairs are notorious. I can’t live like that, wondering who is next and where I stand in your list. You are a philanderer and worse. Only your family has kept you from serious scandal.”

His face suddenly blanked of expression. She blinked. Was he as good at hiding his emotions as she was? But no, a glimmer remained, and he sighed, shaking his head. Like everything else about him, that did not last long. “That is true. But I learned that I am not as wild as some. Not as depraved, I might say.”

She would not allow him to distract her. “Maybe, but I am not betrothed to them. Let me go, Val. Unless you want to ruin me, let me go.”

His lips firmed. “Not to Kellett.”

“Yes. He is my choice. He is gentle, kind, and true.”

Val laughed harshly and his eyes flashed. “You think so? Let me tell you something about Lord Kellett.”

“No!” She refused to listen. He would only blacken Hervey’s character, and Hervey did not deserve that. “Let me go.”

“If he’ll take you after this.” He prowled closer.

She held up her hands, warding him off. “After what?”

“After the scandal we created tonight.”

She faced him defiantly. “I set out to create a scandal. I wanted to become as notorious as you are. Then my father will work harder to release me from the contract. Your parents wanted me for you because they thought I would be a steadying influence on you. So what if I become as wild as you?”

If she hadn’t been a lady she’d have damned him to hell when he threw his head back and laughed.

“One evening dressed in a mildly scandalous manner will not accomplish that, my lady. You’ll have to work harder than that. Perhaps you already have.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Not in the way you might want. How many people saw us come in here? It only takes one, and she murmurs it to her friend, and they go about the room, increasing their story exponentially. Some leeway is allowed to us because of our betrothal but not this much.”

Shock arced through her with the force of pain, a slash of recognition. He was right. She had no idea how long they had been in here. Half an hour, perhaps? As if to mock her, the clock in the corner chimed the half hour. “I will not marry you,” she said, gasping the words as she turned and wrenched open the door, bursting out of the room before fear overtook her again.

Her father was waiting outside. He grabbed her arm roughly. “We are leaving,” he said, before dragging her away.