What Not to Bare: A Loveswept Historical Romance (17 page)

“You don’t find it too stifling?”

Only when you are pressed against me in a carriage, she thought. But that was too mean. She was not mean, she just did not wish to marry him. “No, I rather like it. I would not wish to be in London all the time, nor would I like to live in the country all the time, either. I like variety.”

“I think variety can be too distracting. One likes to know just what to expect, each and every day.”

“Oh. Does one,” she said in a flat voice, knowing he wouldn’t comprehend her tone.

“Yes, precisely.”

“What do you most enjoy about where you live, Mr. Goddard?” she asked. Who knew, maybe he would surprise her with his enthusiasm or knowledge about something.

“The hunting.” And then said nothing more. Nothing to expound on what he particularly liked, or why he liked it, or anything of the sort.

Nothing.

So he wouldn’t surprise her after all. Was it possible he was essentially not curious? How could he go through life without wanting to ask questions?

Would it be oxymoronic to ask him a question about his lack of asking questions?

“Tell me, Mr. God—,” she began, only to stop short when she saw a rider approaching on the right.

A rider on a very large, very black horse. A rider who made all other riders look like they should just go home and burn their riding hats, because he threw them all into the shade.

A rider she did not wish to see, only she did, but not in public, where she couldn’t
say precisely what she was feeling. More to the point, she could hardly start undressing at this moment so she could then get the opportunity to deliver her grand statement.

“How do you do, Lady Charlotte,” he said in his low voice as he slowed his horse next to the carriage. His eyes searched her face. Why? Did he feel sorry for her?

If he pitied her now, she would absolutely deliver a grand statement. Filled with words that ladies usually did not say.

“Lord David,” she replied stiffly. “Might I introduce you to Mr. Goddard?”

The two men bowed.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Lord David said. She felt his eyes on her, and a blush crept up her neck to her cheeks.

There was an enormous pause during which Charlotte wondered frantically whose conversational turn it was. She didn’t want to open her mouth, because she might say something she actually meant—as she always did—but neither of the gentlemen seemed to be saying anything, either.

Finally he spoke. He sounded … tentative. If such a word could be applied to him at all. “Lady Charlotte, I was hoping you might be at home later on this afternoon? I have something to return to you.”

My pride?
“You may call, although I am not certain I will be home.” She heard Mr. Goddard gasp next to her, presumably at her rudeness.

“That is unfortunate, since I have something you might wish to see.” He imbued his voice with a low, silky tone that did things far too interesting to her insides.

Was he trying to suggest something?

“And what might that be?” Mr. Goddard interjected, as though he were already trying to control her. Her throat tightened, feeling as though she were trapped between these two males, both of whom seemed to want something from her.

Neither of whom she wanted to give anything to.

Except a piece of her mind.

Which she wasn’t supposed to have, being a woman and all. A mind, that was.

“It is something for Lady Charlotte’s eyes only.”

Mr. Goddard gasped again. Was it at
his
rudeness now?
Maybe David did have her pride!
No, no, he didn’t. He couldn’t have. She’d rescued it when she’d left him on
his own on the terrace. Hadn’t she?

She had. Most definitely. “It was a pleasure to run into you, Lord David,” she said in a voice that indicated it was anything but. “Perhaps we will see each other later, when you may reveal this mysterious thing.”

“I look forward to it, Lady Charlotte,” he replied in a low, serious tone.

He tipped his hat and urged his horse forward, shooting Charlotte a last, meaningful look as he rode off. She felt her lips almost tug into a smile, then made them settle into a thin line and allowed her head to nod very slightly. He probably wouldn’t even see it.

She turned back to Mr. Goddard. And sighed. At least David was pleasant to look at. Even if she was angry with him.

“How do you know the gentleman?” he asked, sounding very proprietary.

He undid my gown and touched my behind
, she wanted to say. “My mother was acquainted with him when he was in London before. He has just returned from India.”

“I see.” His voice assured her he did most definitely not see. Not at all.

Was there any gentleman who existed anywhere who would not irritate her? At this moment, she quite doubted it.

“And he is friends with your mother, you say?” For goodness’ sake, could no one say what they meant? First David with his mysterious thing, and now Mr. Goddard.

She turned to face him. “Please, sir, do just ask. Do you want to know precisely what I think of him?” She continued without waiting for him to respond. “I will tell you. He is recently arrived from India, quite arrogant, and he seems to change his mind as often as some ladies change their clothes. He and I are acquainted. That is all.” At least from now on, she assured herself.

Mr. Goddard’s normally florid complexion turned even more florid. She liked the color on a gown, but not as much on a face. He cleared his throat, then announced, “I believe we should be returning. I have an urgent appointment.”

Wonderful. Another gentleman who suddenly recalled an appointment after being with her. At this rate, she would scare off every unmarried bachelor and she could settle into a life of being an Eternal Burden with no guilt.

And no possibility of love, or marriage, or children.

Even though the sun was still shining, it felt as though everything went cold. She drew her shawl tighter and settled back into the carriage seat, murmuring at the appropriate times as Mr. Goddard made various comments about the weather, the driving of the other carriages, and how crowded parties could be.

It didn’t even cheer her to think about pointing out that a party with only one person attending it would hardly count as a party.

Because it might very well be the rest of her life.

David flung himself off his horse, barely waiting for the footman to take the reins before vaulting into the house. He didn’t wait to hand his belongings to the butler; he just strode into the salon and headed straight for the table where his brother kept his whiskey.

“Rough day?” Gotam observed, seated in the chair she had sat in a few days ago.

David shook his head as he poured a Gotam-sized splash into his glass. He drank deeply, relishing the burn that slid down his throat.

He dropped into the chair opposite Gotam and held out the hand holding the glass, as though in accusation. “I don’t know what’s happened. It’s this place. It’s the situation. It’s—”

Gotam shook an accusatory finger at him. “It’s a woman. I warned you, didn’t I?”

David snorted and downed the rest of his drink. He could feel its effects already, the slow relaxation overtaking his body as the alcohol swirled through him. “It could be. Woman, or women. Louise is still out there, remember.”

Gotam looked puzzled. “What? I thought you were talking about Louise. Weren’t you?”

David felt his face flush and knew it wasn’t from the alcohol. “Uh,” he began, only to stop as Gotam’s expression showed he’d figured it out.

Damn.

Gotam tilted his head back and began to laugh, laugh so hard, the chair creaked and David was momentarily concerned it would collapse.

Of course, that would stop Gotam’s laughter, so perhaps that was not a bad thing.

“The Abomination!” Gotam choked out, in between guffaws. “She has twisted you inside out, and you don’t know what to do,” he said. “Mr. Gorgeous and the Abomination. It sounds like something for the stage.”

“Don’t call her that,” David said through clenched teeth.

Gotam’s laughter subsided, and he raised his eyes to his friend’s face. His own expression fell. “You actually are bothered, aren’t you? Hell, David, what did you do?”
His voice showed the concern David knew was there all the time, though Ox seldom revealed it, not unless there was a moment of crisis.

He’d last heard that tone when he’d been banished from India.

David clasped his hands at his knees and leaned forward in the chair. “I was thoughtless. I panicked, and I was thoughtless.”

“You panicked?” Gotam asked in a surprised tone of voice.

David nodded.

Silence.

“Over a woman?”

David nodded again.

“Interesting.”

Gotam still looked concerned, whereas normally he’d already be making jokes. Which revealed to David just how unusual a situation it was. As though he didn’t already know that himself.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

David spread his hands out in front of him. “I can only apologize and try to explain why it happened.”

“Will you get the chance? From what I have heard—servants gossip, you know, even around the brown foreigner—the lady is quite stubborn. Starting with her fashion choices, of course, but beyond that.”

Would
he get the chance? She hadn’t seemed in the least as though she were amenable to even speaking with him. She’d been as close to rude as a young lady could get. Closer, actually, judging by the response of the presumed betrothed beside her.

And he still wasn’t certain how he felt about her, just that he was definitely piqued now that it seemed others had discovered the diamond within the coal. Even if the coal was garbed like an inebriated cockatiel.

But he did know, for certain, that this was not the way he wanted to end their … whatever it was. With him being abrupt and dismissive, and her being hurt and confused.

So at the very least, he needed to apologize. And apologize well enough that she actually believed him.

And he no longer felt like a scoundrel.

***

“She’s here.” Gotam popped his head into the salon an hour or so later, after David had finished another healthy, Gotam-sized slug of brandy.

“Louise?”

Gotam rolled his eyes. “Not her, the other one.”

It wasn’t possible. But Gotam was still looking at him with that aggrieved, post-eye-roll expression on his face, and he heard the murmur of Charlotte’s unmistakable tone in the hallway, so … “Show her in, then.”

He rose and raked his hair back off his forehead, and sat back down again. Only to spring back up when she walked in the room.

She was still wearing what she had been earlier, some mishmash of colors and patterns, and all sorts of ribbons and ruffles.

And somehow, it didn’t matter. All he could see was her face.

Her eyes—those earth-brown eyes—looked at him with a mixture of pride, sadness, and anger.

Her hair had gotten disheveled, and one strand hung down around her chin, a brave ribbon still clinging to it.

Her hands—she’d already removed her gloves, clever girl—were curled around her reticule, clutching it as though she might bash him in the head with it.

Which might be what she was planning, he didn’t know.

“How are you, Charlotte?” He cleared his throat. “Lady Charlotte,” he corrected himself. It felt odd to call her by her formal title when so much had happened between them, but he didn’t want to do anything that might make her angrier. “Would you care to sit?” He gestured to the chair, the ricketiest one, and allowed a tiny smile to tug at his mouth.

She emitted a soft sigh, then sat, an audible thump as she planted her feet and her backside at the same time.

He sat, too, remembering what she’d said about his towering over her.

“What is it you wanted to show me?” she said in a sharp, quick tone. “I was going to wait until I saw you at some convenient time, but then I kept thinking about it, and
wondering just what you wanted, and it was driving me crazy, and so I told my mother I was going to view the statues at the museum again, and she didn’t even blink, she is that desperate for me, and so here I am, and what do you have to show me?”

He felt breathless, and he wasn’t the one who had spoken for what felt like an hour or more. Leaning forward, he reached across the space between them and took her hand. Her bare, ungloved hand.

That she had thought to remove her gloves before she arrived both touched him and let him know that things were not entirely lost between them. Of course, she wanted to ensure he would not be distracted in any way, but still. It felt … tender. Like something they shared that no one else knew about.

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. And kept his gaze fastened on the movement, knowing he was terrified of what he might see in her eyes if he looked at her face.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I lied.”

“What about? Having another appointment last evening or having something to show me?”

“Yes,” he replied, feeling as though a band across his forehead was tightening. “About everything.”

“So why?”

“Where do you want me to start?”

She yanked her hand away and stood up, which meant—gentleman that he was—he stood, too, but he didn’t start pacing the carpet as she did. Those tiny flowered slippers going back and forth, back and forth, on the equally flowered carpet.

It was a veritable greenhouse in the salon.

“I just want to know.” Her voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “I just want to know,” she said again, “what you feel about me. Why you left so suddenly. Why I feel so terrible now.” She looked at him, and he saw her eyes were sparkling with tears.

And felt as awful as he’d ever felt in his entire life.

Was this what it felt like to begin to care for someone?

He turned and put his elbow on the mantel, leaning his forehead on his hand. He
cleared his throat, at which point he could have sworn he heard a soft chuckle behind him. She was … 
laughing
?

“I didn’t wish to hurt you. In anything I did—we did—together. I don’t know how to say it, but I just want to say that I’m so sorry.”

There was a long, long silence. So long he wondered if she had wandered off or fallen asleep.

“Well. Thank you for saying you are sorry. I am sorry as well. I suppose I should be going. Since you lied again and have nothing to show me.” It sounded very much like she was trying not to cry. First laughter, then crying—he had dealt with hysterical women before, but Charlotte didn’t seem hysterical in a way he’d ever encountered.

“No, wait.” He turned back around to face her, just standing in front of her like one of those statues she was supposed to be seeing. Only much more clothed. “Wait, Charlotte.”

She raised her chin. How could she look so vulnerable and so proud at the same time?

“What is it? What more could you possibly have to say to me? You’ve apologized for being an ass, and I have accepted the apology. What else is there?”

He strode forward until he was directly in front of her, so close he could see the wetness of tears on her lashes. “There is so much more.” And he knew, at that moment, that there was. He couldn’t think about the fact that he was leaving shortly, that he was basically working for her uncle, that she was practically betrothed, that the sight of her still made him lose complete thoughts entirely. He wanted to see her, to touch her, to kiss her again.

Probably he should tell her instead of keeping it all inside, shouldn’t he?

“I panicked.” It already felt better to say it out loud. “I felt as though I was becoming … fond of you, and I panicked. I … I’ve never felt like this before.”

“How?” she asked, tilting her head in that way he didn’t realize he’d already come to miss.

“I want to know you. Completely.” Her expression grew startled, and he hastily corrected himself. “I am not asking for that,” he added, even though the thought of completely knowing her, sexually, was enticing. More than enticing; almost undeniable.

But that would definitely be something worth panicking over. For both of them.

“Oh,” she said, in what sounded like an almost disappointed voice. “How, then?”

“I want to answer all your questions. I want to explore what is so different about the way we speak with each other. I’ve never shared thoughts and ideas with a lady before.” He thought about it, then continued, “And barely with any gentlemen. Gotam is my best friend, but he mostly makes fun of me. And drinks my brandy.”

She snorted. “I don’t care for the taste of brandy, so you are safe there.”

“I just … I just want to try again. Do you think you can you trust me?”

She kept her head tilted and narrowed her eyes as though she were scrutinizing him. To discover his flaws? To see if she could tell if he were being honest?

Finally, just when he was about to confess to everything he’d ever done—up to and including wanting to have long, breathtaking sexual relations with her—she bit her lip and nodded. “Perhaps.”

It wasn’t anything definitive, but he had to persevere. To hope she would forgive him. He held his hand out. “Can we shake on it?”

She regarded his hand, as though it were a foreign object. What would he do if she refused? What if she …

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, shook her head as though annoyed, and ignored his outstretched hand. Instead, she reached her hands up to take his face and bring his mouth down to hers.

***

As habits went, it was a good habit to be in, kissing him, even though it was a habit that could come to no good—she knew that. His recent behavior told her that.

And why had she given in so readily? It was something that would bother her later on, when he wasn’t so close to her, when she didn’t have all his beauty clouding her mind.

Still, his mouth with that crooked smile, the hopeful look in his eye as he spoke, his clear worry that she would not forgive him … Well, that just made her want to kiss him even more.

Even more than she already did, which she would have thought was impossible. But if it were possible to be more than one hundred percent intrigued by the thought of kissing him, she would be. She was.

She slid her hands up his arms, which still hung straight down by his side. Unlike before, he hadn’t immediately pulled her to him, nor touched her in places she hadn’t realized men enjoyed touching.

Instead, he kissed her. Really and truly kissed her, moving his mouth over hers as though he were savoring every morsel of her lips. He nibbled at the corner of her mouth, dragging his teeth gently over her lip, then kissing where he’d nipped. He licked her lips just as softly, then widened his mouth as though inviting her tongue inside.

She did not need a second invitation.

She slid her tongue into his mouth, where it tangled with his, and suddenly the kiss was intensified. Then he did place his hands on her arms, rubbing his palms up and down them, drawing her closer with each stroke.

And she twined her arms around the back of his neck, stretching up on tiptoes to be able to reach every delicious inch of his mouth. Feeling the soft hair at his collar, how his neck moved as he kissed her.

How her body wanted to curl into him, touch every part of him, have him touch every part of her—for parity’s sake, of course.

“Oh, Charlotte,” he murmured, sliding his mouth to the tender spot just below her ear. He kissed that, too, then placed little kisses on her earlobe—surprisingly sensitive; she’d have to figure out if everyone had that reaction—and then, at last, finally wrapped his hands completely around her, clasping his hands together at her back and pulling her up and into him.

She felt how hard he was, just there, and naturally wanted to stop and ask about it—How did it feel? Why did it get so hard and rigid, anyway?—but that would mean she would have to stop kissing him, and she definitely did not wish to do that.

She did, however, start writing a mental list for future discussion.

And, because that reminded her, she moved her hands to his back, drawing up the bottom of his coat so she could slide her hands underneath. And onto his back, with only his linen—at least, it felt like linen—shirt between her and his skin. He moved his lips
back to hers and was kissing her in earnest now, his tongue doing delicious things inside her mouth.

She ran her hands all over his back, then got bold and moved her palms down to his behind.