She hesitated, looking torn
. “Oh, do go on, E.,” Charity begged. “What has been said?”
Lady Bainbridge capitulated
. “All right. She—Lady Lamb, that is—she has been cast beyond the pale. The patronesses at Almack’s have sworn to revoke her voucher. I cannot think of anywhere in all of London she shall be able to show her face.”
“Oh, my,” Charity breathed.
Graeme noted that her expression, while understandably one of interest, also held a note of sympathy.
“’Tis all anyone can talk about,” the duchess added
. A look passed between the sisters that Graeme could not interpret.
When neither of them said anything else, he seized the opportunity to change the subject. “Your Grace, I was just telling Miss Medford of an astonishing performer who is to put on a show at Vauxhall on Thursday. I would be very much honored if the two of you would consider joining me. The duke as well. It will be a rather large group of my friends and acquaintances. Some you may know better than I, as it’s been some time since my last stay in London.”
Another look passed between the sisters
. “Charity?” the elder sister asked.
Charity moistened her lips, biting the bottom one nervously
. She nodded.
“How delightful
. I am certain we shall have a lovely time,” Lady Bainbridge said. “I hope you’ll excuse us until then, Lord Maxwell. There are several guests casting an evil glare at my sister and I for being so selfish with your company.”
The two ladies retreated gracefully
. Graeme could not help a longing glance at the delicate curve of Charity Medford’s neck, where golden tendrils curled softly against her skin. He wished his lips were in their place.
The picnic had not been a waste after all
. Not only had he seen his not-so-Indian princess, he’d garnered a promise of another night in her presence. The courtship was underway.
Miss Medford’s sister
had only been half-joking about the other guests. Even now, at least two marriage-minded matrons strode purposefully toward him, their eligible offspring in tow. Graeme steeled himself.
Chapter
5
:
In which Graeme discovers
why negotiation is often considered a fine art.
“Let me see if I follow you,” Ewan Macpherson said slowly, laying down his cards. “You do not wish to attend the Rutherfords’ ball tonight because…”
“I have already decided upon a wife.”
“I see.” Ewan nodded, his expression making it clear he did
not
see. “And how did you meet this lucky woman?”
Graeme hesitated
. “Rather by accident, actually.” There was no need to cast Miss Medford’s reputation into further doubt by explaining they’d met at the Wicked Baron’s masquerade.
“Ah
.” Ewan picked up his cards again, but made no move to play. “And the young woman agreed to marry you and move to the far, cold north just like that? What do you know of her, Leventhal?”
Graeme shrugged
. “It’s complicated.”
“She comes of good family
?”
“Of course,” Graeme replied automatically, though the interaction he’d witnessed between Miss Medford and her family made him secretly question the definition of “good
.” He gestured impatiently. “Play a card, would you?”
“I couldn’t possibly. The suspense is killing me.” Ewan joked, his grin stretching wide at Graeme’s obvious discomfort
. “Out with it. Who is the chit?”
“Miss Charity Medford.”
Ewan threw back his head and laughed. Recovering, he said, “You really had me going there, Leventhal. Thought you were serious.”
“I am.”
Ewan sobered, his eyes widening as he inspected Graeme’s face for any hint of teasing. “Good God. I daresay you are.” He sighed. “The trouble is, your intentions mirror those of a rather long line of suitors, if any of the usual gossips can be believed.”
“Miss Medford is
…what? Quite the rage, as the Londoners say?”
“Something like that,”
he said faintly. “Though to hear it, London’s darling has developed a wild streak of late.”
Well,
that
he could believe.
“Has she agreed to marry you, then
?”
“We are
…negotiating.”
“Ach.”
“Ach? What does that mean?”
“Well, you’re a fine man, with a fine title, my friend
. A name many a lass would be happy to add to their own,” Ewan said, finally laying down a card. “But if you don’t mind a bit of advice, you might as well continue looking until the matter with Miss Medford is settled. Just in case.”
“Your advice is noted,” Graeme said drily.
Ewan shrugged. “Noted, and ignored, from the look of it.”
“Stubborn as they come, my father used to say,” Graeme replied good-naturedly.
“Then may that trait serve you well.”
“You’re sure about this?” Elizabeth asked Charity.
Charity’s stomach tightened with nerves, but she willed them away. “I am. I want to go.” Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens used to be one of her favorites among London’s attractions. Now, it made her jumpy. The crowds full of strange faces, the shadows lurking beyond the pools of lantern light, had once seemed romantic and exciting. Now they signaled danger. Logically, she knew she had little to fear. But logic wasn’t always enough to quell that fear.
“You must really harbor a
tendre
for your handsome Scot.”
A warm flush swept over her
. “He isn’t
my
handsome anything,” Charity mumbled.
“Oh, come off it
. The man looked distinctly miserable at the Stowells’ picnic—except when talking to you.”
“Hmm
. I felt rather the same way.”
“Oh, but you should be feeling lucky!”
“Because of Lord Maxwell?”
“No
. I mean, yes, but also because of Lady Lamb. Please do not think me too awful, Charity, but her social demise could not have come at a better time. Everyone is so scandalized by it, they have all but forgotten the your attendance at a certain highly-questionable masquerade.”
“Nothing like a bigger scandal to wash away the smaller one,” Charity observed wryly
. Her sister spoke the truth. When Elizabeth had led her back to the main crowd of picnickers, several ladies had been so eager to speculate over Lady Lamb’s book and the resulting scandal, they’d begun doing so with Charity, completely forgetting that they’d determined her unworthy of their conversation just a short time before.
“Just promise me you haven’t done anything else
. You haven’t, have you?”
“Does that mean I should cancel my outing to go walking in Hyde Park with Lady Lamb?”
Elizabeth gave her sister a shove.
“Oh
! Who’s improper now? Aren’t you supposed to be a duchess?” Charity mocked in a lofty tone.
Elizabeth smirked
. “I
am
a duchess. And your older sister. So if you want me as chaperone and not our dear mother, you’d best hear me out.”
“Oh, stop worrying
. I don’t believe I have ever even met Lady Lamb. And I cannot think of anything else I have done that could cause a scandal.” She couldn’t help but add, “Yet.”
Elizabeth rounded on her, but Charity danced away, laughing
. “Joking, joking.”
The Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens sparkled like a fairyland when Charity and Elizabeth arrived, with brightly colored lanterns lining the paths, and colorful tents and streamers erected around the main stage
. Lord Maxwell himself greeted them almost the moment they alighted from the coach, leading them toward a gathering that included a smattering of Scots, English, noble, and merchant. Charity recognized most of the names, if not faces, save for those of Mr. and Mrs. Alasdair Maxwell, who the earl introduced as his cousins. “Respectable lot. You may have even met them before.”
“I don’t believe so,” Charity answered politely
. The mousy couple did not look even remotely familiar. She glanced at her sister, who also shook her head.
He shrugged good-naturedly
. Quietly, so only she could hear, he said, “I’m afraid those particular Maxwells are not the sort to leave a lasting impression.”
An hour into the evening, after Alasdair Maxwell’s third attempt, all equally unsuccessful, to start a conversation about a book of sermons he’d been studying, Graeme leaned over to Charity and amended the description to “distant” cousins
. She smothered a giggle.
A troupe of musicians shuffled offstage, and a drum roll from behind the curtains signaled the revelers that the evening’s main event was about to begin.
People began to clap and cheer, moving toward their seats or attempting to find better vantage points. The noise level grew—exactly the sort of thing that made Charity nervous of late.
But tonight, it also offered an excuse to lean even closer to Lord Maxwell in order to be heard
. She couldn’t resist the temptation. He smelled so…manly. Like sandalwood and soap. He dressed the part of an earl, but his body was that of a strapping warrior. His strong jaw held a trace of stubble, which Charity imagined caused no end of frustration to his valet.
“I see,” Charity
said, struggling to focus on their conversation instead of the firm mold of his lips. “Are you quite certain they are relatives?”
His brow quirked
, evidencing his amusement. “Quite. But I aim to redeem the family name by making a
very
lasting impression. The sort you will never forget.”
She averted her gaze, a smile playing at her lips
. She murmured, so low she was certain he wouldn’t hear, “You already have.”
He smiled broadly and took her arm, guiding her toward their seats
. Perhaps his hearing was sharper than she’d expected. He’d tucked her hand into the crook of his arm with a possessiveness that bespoke more than mere manners. Nothing that would even draw the attention of the rest of the group. Yet her breath escaped in a little
whoosh
, and she could feel the sizzle of attraction between them. It was there, humming, like a living thing.
As they sauntered toward their seats, Elizabeth gave her a smirk
. With Alex still out of town, Graeme’s friend Ewan MacPherson had gallantly offered to act as her escort for the evening. “Best mind your manners, MacPherson,” Graeme teased him now. “That’s a duchess walking beside you.”
“
And a bonny lass she is,” MacPherson replied irreverently. He preened, turning toward Elizabeth. “Do you think being seen with you might raise my social standing?”
She gave a choked laugh
. “You are too bad.”
“It might,” Graeme put in, “but if you walk any closer together, you’ll only enjoy it until her husband returns and calls you out.”
Since the pair was walking at a perfectly acceptable distance, and since Ewan’s social standing really needed no improvement, the whole group was laughing by the time they took their seats.
Madam Saqui was, quite possibly, one of the more astonishing performers to grace the stage at Vauxhall this season
. But Charity was not paying the least bit of attention to her.
H
eavens. Just Lord Maxwell’s presence beside her made her feel alive again. The fog of the past months receded, and all her previous, desperate attempts to escape the monotonous torture of her day to day existence seemed just that. Desperate. She
had
been worried about facing Vauxhall tonight, but the determined joviality of her companions had actually worked. She was relaxed, and having a wonderful time.
Just realizing that nearly made tears well in her eyes
. It had been so long since she’d felt like this. But seated next to Lord Maxwell, it came almost naturally.
Too soon, the performance ended
. Charity clapped enthusiastically with the others, all the while trying to think of a way to extend the evening without being obvious. Elizabeth, as usual, was a step ahead of her. “Shall we walk about? I should so enjoy the chance to stretch my limbs.”
The men eagerly agreed, and while one or two of their group wandered off to explore the other activities at Vauxhall, the majority of them strolled toward the gardens
. Lord Maxwell took Charity’s arm, leading them. Elizabeth walked just behind, doing a masterful job of tripping up her escort and distracting the group by occasionally pausing to examining a particularly lovely lantern or statue, giving Graeme and Charity the opportunity to drift farther from the main group.
Charity was not unaware of the effect Elizabeth was having
. She was just torn between appreciation and the sisterly desire to give her a good ribbing regarding her chaperoning skills—or lack thereof.
Still, when Lord Maxwell gave her elbow a quick tug, pulling her around a corner and behind a hedge that marked the end of the lit portion of the paths, she didn’t protest.
In the dark, she could just make out the trace of amusement on his features. “Her Grace will come looking for you soon, I’m sure.” He didn’t sound sure. Stopping, he turned her to face him. “All things considered, though, I could hardly pass up this opportunity.”
She leaned in,
accepting the invitation for what it was. Somehow she’d known since the picnic that he would not let another encounter slip by without stealing a moment alone with her. It might—
might—
even have been the reason she’d swallowed her misgivings about Vauxhall in order to be here tonight.
“I have been waiting to do this for days,” he told her, his already-low voice dropping even deeper.
He heard the catch of her breath. “Days?” she whispered.
“Days,” he confirmed
. “Since the night we met. Since that first, brief taste of your lips left me hungering for more.”
Her soft “oh
” was swallowed by his kiss. His lips were so firm, so deliberate. The sensation filled her, subsuming her senses until the world outside of his touch slipped away.
Graeme kissed her thoroughly, ignoring the impulse to hurry
. He’d waited long enough to want to enjoy this moment. Though that control came with a price. The taste of her intoxicated him, and blood rushed to parts too long ignored. His inner youth urged him on, wanting more, but he quelled the blood-pounding desire to plunder, choosing instead to seduce.
He smoothed his hands over her bodice, coming up to cup her breast
. Damn. This gown was far more constricting than the Indian princess costume she’d worn the other night. He missed the warm, soft feel of her flesh.
He traced the smooth swell of skin above the fabric, dipping his fingers beneath the edge the scant inch the gown would allow.
His fingers grazed down the curves at the sides of her breasts, coming back to her waist even as she pressed against him, her breathing shallow.