Chapter Twelve
September was nearly over before Rafe spoke with Charlotte again.
He’d seen her, of course—he told himself his mission involved keeping an eye on everyone, including her—but the truth was, he couldn’t keep away.
He’d been attracted to a number of women in the past—and they to him—but none had impressed him as much as Miss Charlotte Allston. She wasn’t of his lofty social class, which made her refreshingly unspoiled, and she constantly surprised him with her opinions and observations. He couldn’t condone her support for the smuggling trade but assumed it stemmed from her being tender-hearted and naive—which made her all the more charming.
When he learned of the ball at the Assembly Rooms in Dorchester, sponsored by Lord and Lady Culverdale, he made sure Charlotte would be going. He also obtained an invitation for himself, pretending to be the vicar’s long-lost cousin come to stay. The vicar, of course, knew nothing of this.
A masked ball was the perfect opportunity to glean information while remaining incognito. And it would give him a chance to see Charlotte again—hopefully even dance with her. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be kept in his present posting, so this might be his last chance to hold the intriguing miss in his arms.
Goves had warned him against going. Someone only needed to rip off his mask, and he’d be exposed. In such a throng, there were bound to be members of the upper classes who’d recognize him even more readily than Mrs. Allston had.
Rafe had argued he deserved some pleasant diversion for once. He’d worked unceasingly for weeks and had already succeeded in finding one of the hidden beacons. It was only a matter of time before he or his men found more and could then establish the pattern of their placement. He wouldn’t take any risks at the ball, just listen to conversations, dance a little, and play a few hands of cards.
Having promised Goves to tie his tragic mask so tightly not even a sailor could undo the knot, on the day of the ball he convinced Hamblett, his valet, to fashion him a Greek chiton and a laurel crown. Checking the results in a mirror, he was satisfied he looked fine, but not enough to attract undue attention. The hired chaise arrived at his door to take him to Dorchester, and once there, he joined the noisy throng in the Assembly Rooms.
The evening was cool rather than cold, with a bright moon and a smattering of early stars, but these were nothing compared to the cut-glass chandeliers and candelabra inside. Hothouse geraniums, grapevines, and orchids ornamented the walls, the supper table was festooned with scented sweet peas, and with most of the company wearing white, it truly felt as if one were on Mount Olympus amongst the gods.
He accepted a glass of punch, then headed up to the gallery, whence he could examine the people below. Easily identifiable was a gaggle of gauche young men, who must be officers from the fort above Fortuneswell. Others he recognized from their forms, their voices, the way they laughed, and their mannerisms and movements.
There wouldn’t be anyone here from the taproom of the Admiral Duncan, nor were there likely to be any of the smugglers amongst the guests, though doubtless, many here were their customers.
Was the spider at the center of their web present? Rafe took a deep swig of his punch. Damn the man. How had he evaded detection for so long?
His eye shifted to the hosts of the ball, greeting new arrivals by the door. He knew Lady Culverdale only slightly—she’d always had too high an opinion of herself, so he’d avoided her social circle in his pre-army days.
Her husband was a slender, stately gentleman, wearing a gilded laurel wreath, with a golden lyre embroidered on his purple-edged toga. He snapped a bow like a rifle crack and held his head as if wearing the highest and stiffest of collars.
Both husband and wife moved in the loftiest social circles now. Lord Culverdale looked ill at ease in his classical costume compared to his wife, and none too keen on the frivolity of the ball. No whiff of scandal was attached to him, and Rafe had him marked down as a bore. The pair were easily distinguished from their guests by the individually fashioned masks they wore—considerably more tasteful than the comedic and tragic ones they’d sent out with the invitations.
When Charlotte entered the room, he knew her instantly. No one else had that sedate walk, that elegant curve of the neck, or such delightfully curled bronze-colored hair. He stood transfixed, gazing his fill and trying to steady his breath as gentleman after gentleman approached to sign their names on her dance card.
Great Moses! If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss his chance. Feeling like a lovesick fool, he hurtled down the stairs and plowed through the crowd until he stood bowing in front of her. When her eyes met his, his heart leaped to his throat.
Did she know him? Did the trembling of her fingers suggest that she did, or was she nervous for some other reason? He crushed his suspicions. This was Charlotte, an innocent young woman, not a heinous spy plotting to betray king and country. What had his time as a spy-catcher done to him? Did he suspect everybody now?
Yes, she knew him. The parting of her lips, the intake of breath, the rosy hue that stole over her heaving breast confirmed it. Gods, how he wanted to kiss those lips, press his own on the tempting swell of her bosom, and bury his fingers in those glowing curls.
All his planned speeches flew out of his head. Breath failed him. So he just signed her card and departed in search of an iced drink and some cooler air.
Once recovered, he laughed at his foolishness and realized he must dance with other ladies, too, or someone might notice his particular attention to Charlotte. But it was a torment to do so, and an enormous relief when the waltz he’d booked with her arrived.
She was noticeably aloof as he took her fingers in his, making him worry she’d not recognized him, after all. Or was she punishing him for something? For not seeking her out these last few weeks, perhaps?
If only she knew how much he’d longed to do so. But he’d steeled himself against the temptation to do anything more than just watch her occasionally from afar, to make sure she was in no danger. If the two free traders had recognized her as the woman in their cave, they might well be watching her, too. The idea horrified him.
But as much as he’d like to spend every waking hour watching over her, he’d had but few moments to spare. Thankfully, autumn was closing in and winter drawing near, thus the window of time safe for Napoleon to invade was finally narrowing. Once the winter storms set in, the government watchers around the coast could stand down—Boney would never trust his fleet to the Channel in bad weather. But for now, there was still a big chance of invasion, and the French could decide any moment to take it. He needed to find the rest of those damned beacons before it was too late.
But a crowded ballroom was not somewhere he could explain all this to Charlotte, to gain her forgiveness for neglecting her. Hoping she’d soften when he touched her, he took her in his arms, but her body felt stiff, like a wooden doll’s.
He hated her remoteness. And he didn’t like dancing with a mannequin. He needed to do something about it.
So as the first chords of the waltz were struck, he leaned in close and whispered, “I want to feel you between my thighs again.”