Gossamer Wing (7 page)

So he remained where he was, as far as possible from her on the tiny bench, feeling as though the weighty matter between them might shove him straight off his perch at any moment.

At that moment the universe, in its capricious whimsy, decided to intervene.

A gaggle of three chattering maidens and one married pseudo-chaperone came prancing along the path, and among their number was a young lady who had done everything in her power to gain the newly socially inclined Baron Hardison’s attention that month. Never mind that the man was clearly attached to Lady Moncrieffe, and that rumor had them nearly engaged already. Either the girl herself or her mother was dead set on catching the elusive Baron’s eye. There were not so many single, eligible young men this season that any of them could shake this sort of pursuit, except by engagement or marriage. Even a few broken engagements had been engineered as the Season neared its closing month and the young ladies grew more desperate. It was nearly May already; by June it would be too hot, and too late by far, to find husbands for all the wilting flowers.

The tittering group drew abreast of them with a fresh spate of murmurs, giggles and apologies when the trysting pair was spied. Then, bowing and glancing over their shoulders as they drifted away, the girls launched into an analysis that was not entirely as sotto voce as propriety demanded.

The phrases “On the outs,” “So promising for
you
, Meggie,” and “Ooh, could have driven a
steam car
between them” were not quite as hard for Dexter to hear as “. . . bit long in the tooth too, don’t you think?”

Their voices echoed down the path until they were out of sight and the night’s stillness settled again. Finally risking a glance over at Charlotte, Dexter saw that she had covered her face with one kid-gloved hand. Her shoulders were shaking gently and he rushed to clasp her free hand, to reassure her, to offer a handkerchief for her tears.

“You’re never. Not in the least,” he insisted in a furious whisper.

“Wh-what?” She lowered her hand at last and he saw she was not crying. She was laughing so hard her face was turning visibly red even in the moonlight.

“You’re not long in the tooth,” he explained, unsure what to make of her reaction.

“Steam car,” she offered, waving a hand at the expanse of bench between them, then dissolved into another spate of helpless giggles.

He resisted manfully only a second or two, then joined her and laughed until his sides hurt, until the almost painful fit of mirth ebbed enough for them to speak again.

“Oh, lord. Was I ever that young and stupid?” she mused aloud, finally accepting the handkerchief from Dexter and dabbing her eyes with it.

“I doubt you were ever that desperate. So her name’s Meggie. I kept forgetting . . .”

“You’re no spring chicken either, you know. You’re older than I am by a good five years.”

“True. I’m practically doddering at thirty-two. Oh, heaven spare us, they’re on their way back if I hear correctly.”

“Give me the ring, we’ll slip back inside before they spot us again.”

“It’s no good,” he hissed, glimpsing the little group of walkers on the path directly opposite the bench from the fountain. In another few seconds they would see them again; sooner, if the faux lovebirds stood up and tried to abandon the bench. “I’m afraid there’s only one thing for it.”

“Indisputable proof of our affection?”

“If you’re game.”

“For Crown and country, Mr. Hardison?” Her smile was arch, but not at all unwilling. Dexter’s stomach did a jig as he closed the distance between them and scooped her closer with an arm around her waist. No time for finesse. A moment before the gigglers rounded the fountain, he captured Charlotte’s cheek in his other hand.

“Close your eyes and think of England,” he whispered as he lowered his mouth to hers, and he caught another chuckle trying to escape from her parted lips.

Then there was heat, and breath, and the unparalleled thrill of feeling Charlotte begin to tremble as he swept his tongue deep inside her mouth. He was scarcely aware of the girlish giggles transforming to shocked squeals across the pathway, the horrified scuttling away of dainty maiden feet, as his hand dragged itself down of its own accord to tug at filmy net and expose more down-soft bosom, to cup that softness through its layer of confining silk and tease his thumb over the harder point that seemed to flare in instant response to his touch.

More
, his body was insisting, and he probably ruined the arm of his jacket against the stone of the bench as he reached beneath Charlotte’s legs to lift her into his lap, but Dexter didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but
more
.

His hungry lips had blazed a trail down to her neckline and his hand had made a good deal of headway beneath Charlotte’s petticoats and back up her leg when her alarmed gasp broke through the lust-fog.

“That girl’s mother.
Dexter.
That girl is coming back with her mother!”

She drummed on his shoulder in a panic, and he released her and hurriedly smoothed her skirt back into place, then reached into his trouser pocket to snag the ring.

“Marry me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer or bend to one knee, just shoved the ring toward her and grabbed her free hand to pull her off the bench and back toward the terrace.

“Certainly.”

She caught up enough to loop her arm through his, and had the ring worked onto the appropriate finger by the time they passed the distressed girl and her mother who had clearly been working herself up to a fine outrage over the scandalous carryings-on in the garden.

“Lovely evening,” Dexter said, tipping a nonexistent hat to the pair and picking up his pace, though Charlotte was forced to an unsightly scamper to keep up with him. She was quite out of breath when they reached the relative safety of the terrace.

The scampering was responsible for her flushed face and slight air of disarray, and the brightness of her eyes, of course. Not what had preceded the scampering. No, surely not. She couldn’t possibly feel as flustered as he did, or as full of unsated arousal careening blindly about with nowhere to go.

“See? Our relationship is full of intrigue and danger already, Charlotte,” he said, hoping he sounded more droll than hopelessly besotted.

Her look was definitely droll, if still a bit charmingly mussed. Her lips, he noticed despite himself, looked extremely freshly kissed and no mistaking it. He decided not to tell her.

“Nonsense. It’s a highly respectable marriage of social convenience between a dull, long-in-the-tooth widow and an aging bachelor who’s finally realized he needs a woman’s touch to properly manage his ancestral estate. Nothing could be more ordinary.
Baron
Hardison.”

But then she smiled, with those delightfully wicked lips. Like magic, two utterly charming dimples materialized on her cheeks.

How long, he was already beginning to wonder, might he be able to drag their mission out?

Five

UPPER NEW YORK DOMINION

CHARLOTTE’S MOTHER WOULD
have preferred a wedding with all the considerable pomp and ceremony of her first. After all, she pointed out, the first marriage had hardly lasted very long at all, and even Charlotte’s mourning had lasted longer than her engagement and marriage combined.

“A bit
too
long for good taste, these days, dear,” she’d pointed out gently. “Although I know one can’t hurry grief.”

One can suborn grief entirely in the rush of learning to fly, and going through months of combat and strategy training, Charlotte refrained from saying. To her mother, she was a proper grieving widow. Just as her father was a proper gentleman who had never worked a day in his life.

Tell that to the French, who still spoke of him in furious hushed tones as
La Main de la Mort Silencieuse
 . . . the Hand of Silent Death. Would she live long enough to earn her own melodramatic epithet, Charlotte wondered? It seemed a less romantic prospect lately, dying for her country. She rather thought she might prefer to live to fight another day. Her course was long settled, though. Looking to the distant future was pointless.

“The dove gray is pretty with your coloring, Charlotte. Unless you’d prefer blue? I know I won’t talk you into pink. You’re still young enough to get away with it, you know. It’s quite fashionable this year.”

“Peacock blue,” Charlotte said, much to her mother’s obvious surprise. “That’s popular just now, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“And it would flatter me, I think.”

“Of course it would. Would you like me to arrange a visit from Madame Elaine?”

“I already have,” she replied, running her fingers idly over the pearly, tailored lines of the silk dress laid out on the bed beside her.

She had come out of mourning so recently that her newly made clothes could easily serve as a trousseau. Of course she had ordered them with that in mind, although her mother didn’t know that. There really wasn’t much else to do before the wedding except plan the day and pack for the honeymoon. A widow’s second wedding was far easier to orchestrate than a maiden socialite’s first.

But she wouldn’t deprive her mother of the pleasure of seeing her in a new gown, made especially for the occasion. Besides, Charlotte had to admit that the peacock-blue airship helmet had done amazing things for her eyes. She’d almost hated to send it back on that basis alone.

Not that it mattered whether her dress flattered her eyes on her wedding day. It wasn’t to be a real marriage, and would last only as long as necessary to accomplish the vital mission it had been organized to facilitate. And there would be no further emergency occasions to pretend at passion while kissing her ersatz husband in moonlit gardens.

Charlotte told herself this in a very stern voice, as she had several times a day for the past week. Perhaps she was being less stern with herself than she thought, for her mother smiled at her in a knowing way as she passed by with another gown.

“I would have liked to see a longer engagement, but I think perhaps you and the Baron are smart not to wait. People do like to talk.”

“Pardon?”

“The Vanderbilt back gardens were notorious already, dear. No need to add to their notoriety. Even in the excitement of an engagement.”

“Oh!”

She stared at her hands, not sure whether to laugh or cry from embarrassment. She should have nothing to be embarrassed about. Not only was she a widow—and she certainly wouldn’t be the first widow to take a lover—she had in fact been doing only what was necessary to secure the public awareness of the affection between herself and her apparent fiancé. Their kiss had been a sort of state secret. Only rather less secret than public.

“In his lap, Charlotte? Really? And to hear Lady Elliot tell it, his hand was halfway up your skirt and he was close to ripping your dress off with his teeth.”

“Mother!”

“I’m sure she exaggerated,” her mother said, her calm voice soothing Charlotte’s ruffled feathers as usual. “But I think soonest is probably best. So people won’t talk.”

About where the Makesmith Baron’s hand had been. Or his teeth. She didn’t explain to her mother that only one of those descriptions was at all exaggerated. He hadn’t been using his teeth at all just then. Not on her dress, anyway.

“People should find more interesting ways to occupy their time than inventing scandals.” Charlotte smoothed the dress out again and stood up, wandering over to her vanity and sitting down to fuss with her hair in the mirror. She allowed herself just a hint of smugness. “That little girl honestly thought she had a chance with Dexter, and her mother was foolish enough to encourage her. I imagine they were both having themselves a tantrum about being thwarted. Heaven only knows what the child thought she saw. And you know how these stories grow so quickly. They take on a life of their own.”

Her mother’s face appeared in the mirror over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “
Charlotte
. You really did let him molest you in the garden, didn’t you? I would never have expected that kind of coarseness from you. I do like Baron Hardison, but I’m not at all sure he’s an appropriate match if he’s going to encourage this sort of behavior.”

Startled, Charlotte met the eyes that looked so much like her own and remembered that her father had married her mother for a reason. Lavinia Hardison put on a slightly vapid, vain façade, but she had never been stupid when it came to this sort of thing. She knew people far better than she let on, and Charlotte had a history of underestimating her mother to her cost.

“Dexter is the model of propriety, Mother.”

Not quite denying, not quite confirming any illicit behavior that might or might not have been encouraged by either of them.

Her mother sighed, a long-suffering sort of sigh that Charlotte hadn’t heard since before her marriage to Reginald.

“I must go. Please be careful, Charlotte. You know, I suspect I would be much less tolerant with you—or with
him
—if I weren’t so pleased to see you happy again after all this time.”

The embrace was swift, gardenia-scented, over before Charlotte could respond. Alone in her dressing room, she looked at her reflection again and tried to see what her mother saw.
Happiness.
But it was like a game of spot-the-difference with only one picture to look at. She couldn’t see what was there now, that hadn’t been before. She saw only herself, more or less the same as she had been for years. Charlotte thought mothers probably saw these sorts of things in their children, whether they were really there or not.

If she was happy, perhaps it was because she was finally about to attempt the work she had trained for, fulfill the purpose she had pledged herself to. For herself, and for Reginald’s memory.

* * *

THE HAND OF
Silent Death had fallen into his customary postprandial snooze in the library the next time Charlotte and Dexter had a chance to speak privately.

“He’s worn himself out, poor thing,” Charlotte whispered archly, leading Dexter from the room and down the hallway to the conservatory. “Father’s quite exhausted from all his efforts to recruit you ever deeper into his network of intrigue.”

Dexter chuckled, the low tone resonating in the marble-paved corridor despite their efforts to be quiet. “Why the assiduous chaperoning all of a sudden? I must not have ruined you thoroughly enough at the Vanderbilts’, if your mother still believes there’s hope for what remains of your good reputation.”

“Oh,
please
don’t make fun,” Charlotte implored. “I know it’s tedious to string her along like this. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s necessary. One day she’ll understand.”

Charlotte thought her mother already suspected something was afoot, in fact. But she’d held her peace thus far, and the amount of gossip she’d spread about the happy couple had done more to solidify their cover than Charlotte and Dexter could ever have done themselves, had they all the time and dimly lit garden benches in the world.

She closed the conservatory door behind them and ventured farther into the room, until they were shrouded by foliage from any prying maternal eyes.

“You’re a grown woman and a widow. Doesn’t she realize I could simply visit you at your own home any time I liked?”

“She thinks she has spies in the ranks of my household staff. Here, come and sit. We can talk for a few minutes at least before it’s time for you to leave.” Charlotte sat on a wrought-iron bench, scooting to the end to leave ample room for Dexter. She enjoyed their talks, but had felt awkward and nervous with him since the night of their engagement. Now she was determined to remedy that by proving to herself that she could be alone with him and keep her head on straight.

“Your staff are loyal to you and not her, I take it?”

“To the Crown,” Charlotte corrected him. “Most of my staff are retired from government work. My late husband’s family had a longstanding arrangement with Whitehall, which I continue to honor, to provide work and homes for those agents in the Dominions who are unable to continue with field work, for whatever reason. The real wonder is that Mother never questions why so many of my domestics are sporting prosthetic limbs, or seem to do very little actual work. Most of the house is closed to visitors, of course. She’d be appalled to know it’s because the staff are living in it.”

“I suspect she knows more than you think,” Dexter mused.

Charlotte tilted her head, meeting his gaze curiously. She agreed with him in principle, but thought it was impressive that Dexter had figured out the ruse so quickly. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s not nearly as witless as she pretends to be. If she were, for one thing, your father wouldn’t pay as much attention to her as he does. I think they understand one another perfectly.”

“True. You’re very astute about people.”

“No.” He shook his head, laughing. “She just reminds me of my mother, is all.”

Charlotte couldn’t help grinning back at him. “Oh, if that’s all. You have my sympathies.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll be an equally devious mama.” He leaned closer and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

“Oh. I . . . oh.”

She sucked in a breath and tried to will her heart to stop its sudden mad thumping. Instead she caught a faint hint of Dexter’s characteristic spicy scent, and felt close to swooning as her mind whipped back to that evening at the Vanderbilts’. Her body tingled as if his hands were still roaming over it, as the idea of babies led swiftly and inevitably to thoughts of baby making.

Charlotte knew a moment of relief tinged with vague regret when it became clear that Dexter mistook the reason for her reaction.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte. Terribly sorry. It was thoughtless of me to suggest . . . had you and Reginald planned a family?”

He took one of her hands in his, throwing Charlotte’s senses into deeper confusion. She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “We had discussed it, of course. We’d thought we’d like to wait a few years. But after that, at least two. We were both only children, you know. Both of us thought it would be wonderful to have a sibling.”

“I’m fond of my brother and sister now, and I always imagine myself having three or four of my own one day, but I’m not sure I’d have agreed with you when we were all children. We fought like a pack of vicious little wolverines. I actually stabbed my brother in the back of the hand with a fork once, when he tried to beat me to the last pork chop.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did,” he swore. “He has a scar to this day. In my defense, I was only five at the time and he was a very large eight, so he was usually the one doing the injuring.”

Charlotte laughed despite herself. “I can’t picture you doing such a thing. You seem so level-headed now.”

“I was a horrible little boy,” Dexter confided. “When I wasn’t brawling, I was usually taking things apart to see how they worked, never mind that I had no idea how to reassemble them.”

“Yet. You learned at some point, obviously.”

“I learned a thing or two along the way. And stopped fighting. Or rather my brother did, when he stopped growing and I didn’t. He’s still a puny six-footer.”

She could picture it, Dexter grinning down with smug good humor at an older, shorter brother who declined to fight him; it was easy to imagine, even though she hadn’t met Dexter’s family yet. That would come soon, of course, but Charlotte was trying not to think about it just yet. It daunted her, the idea of deceiving that many people. Dexter had reassured her, with his customary geniality, that they would welcome her with open arms, and he himself would be the one to handle any unpleasantness on that front after their mission—and “marriage”—ended.

It wasn’t fair, Charlotte thought, that he should be handsome
and
personable
and
gallant. That she should yearn for his body even as she longed to talk to him about the mundane events of her day. In a way, that part was worse. She wanted to maintain a professional detachment, as she’d been trained to do. Dexter was a colleague, not a
friend
. In her experience, the two were mutually exclusive. It was best that way. Charlotte made herself recall a particularly grueling training session, a bivouac on some freezing mountainside in one of the northernmost Dominions. One of the other trainees had joked darkly about what they would do if the training exercise turned into a real survival test, if the snow continued to fall and they were unable to make their rendezvous to be transported back to the base camp.