Her Prodigal Passion (9 page)

"
We're
different. And look how well we turned out."

"We had an attraction from the start, buttercup. I couldn't keep my hands off you. Still can't, as a matter of fact."

The next instant, Percy found herself on her back on the mattress. She fought back giggles as her husband crawled over her, his expression wolfish.

"Paul likes Charity," Percy said in a breathy voice. "They've conversed and danced."

"There's making chitchat with a female ... and then there's wondering what it'd be like to tumble her." Gavin purposefully spread her thighs, heating her blood. "I'd wager a string of thoroughbreds that Fines has never thought about Miss Sparkler the way I'm thinking about you right this minute."

"What are you thinking—"

Her bantering words turned into a moan at her husband's masterful touch. With unerring precision, he played with her, rubbing and stroking and fingering until her hips arched in helpless surrender. As her mind glazed over, she made a mental promise to discuss matters with Helena and Marianne at first opportunity. If the three of them put their heads together, surely they could devise a plan to—Percy gasped as her spouse tickled an exquisite spot.

"Christ Almighty, you're wet for me. You're drenching my palm," Gavin said reverently.

The rest of her thoughts evaporated in a hot rush. In that moment, only her husband existed, the hunger and adoration blazing in his tawny gaze.

"You have that effect on me," she whispered. "Being married to you is the most exciting adventure I've ever had."

"That's good to hear, love. Makes me think you're ready for what I have planned next ..."

And her husband set about proving his point: there was, indeed, no end to his wickedly inventive ways.

NINE

That night, Charity waited until the last possible moment to go down to supper. Her dove grey skirts whispered against the polished parquet as she followed the sounds of gaiety to the main drawing room where preprandial refreshments were being served. With each step, she reminded herself of her plan.

If you see Mr. Fines, continue to act as if nothing happened. Avoid him if you can. Whatever you do, don't let him see your true feelings.

As she slipped into the crowded room, she fought for composure despite the vise clamping around her heart. The dazzling chandeliers and sparkling finery of the guests blurred for an instant before she blinked away the sheen of moisture. She'd believed that there couldn't be anything as painful as being made love to by accident and then promptly forgotten. Yesterday, Paul Fines had proven her wrong.

He was sorry he'd kissed her. He'd called it a
mistake
.

She drew a shaky breath. Forced her shoulders back.

She would not humiliate herself further. If she was meant to be Charity Garrity, then so be it. She'd embrace her destiny with dignity. She'd stop pining over someone who would, as he so charmingly put it, do the right thing—if he
had
to.

She was done tormenting herself over Paul Fines.

Speaking of the devil ... her gaze caught on his gleaming golden head by the fireplace. As usual, Mr. Fines was surrounded by a bevy of beauties. With one arm braced against the mantel and his lean virility emphasized by the stark formality of evening dress, he was the epitome of the stylish buck. He took in the scene with heavy-lidded eyes, his expression one of boredom. Rather than putting off his admirers, his jaded air stirred them into a frenzy of competitive giggling and eyelash batting.

As his eyes latched onto Charity's, she saw a flare of brilliant blue and, for an instant, forgot to breathe. Then she caught herself.

Done
.

She turned away ... and nearly collided with another guest.

"I b-beg your pardon," she stammered. "I should have looked—"

"No harm done, my dear." The lady regarded her with a faint smile. Dressed in a bold coquelicot gown that complimented her auburn coronet, the woman was perhaps in her early forties and radiated confident femininity. Something seemed familiar about her slender figure and hazel eyes, but Charity couldn't imagine where she would have met such a dashing personage.

The lady's elegant fingers brushed her large ruby pendant—and Charity remembered. Sarah had pointed this woman out at the picnic.

"You're Mrs. Stone. The famous actress," she blurted.

"Indeed. And you are ...?"

"Charity Sparkler." An awkward moment passed in which she debated praising the other's art. Having never seen Mrs. Stone perform, however, she didn't wish to pay a false compliment. So instead she said, "I'm honored to meet you."

"And I you, Miss Sparkler," Mrs. Stone said in amused tones. "A word to the wise, if I may?"

Charity blinked. "Yes?"

Mrs. Stone leaned toward her. "You seem to have acquired an admirer."

"An admirer? Me?"

"That handsome blond gentleman by the fireplace has been watching you since you entered the room. In fact, his eyes are on you right this moment." With a wink, the actress glided off.

Astonished, Charity was debating whether to risk a glance in Mr. Fines' direction when she heard Lady Helena call her name.

The sea of guests parted for the marchioness, who was radiant in topaz silk. Flanking her were Percy and Mrs. Marianne Kent. The former looked fresh and fetching in sky blue satin that matched her vivid eyes, the latter stunning in an
au courant
gown of silver-shot gauze that had other ladies casting jealous glances her way. Gentlemen, too, were staring at Mrs. Kent; a few tried to approach her, only to be shooed away like pesky insects.

In truth, Charity had always felt a tad intimidated by Marianne Kent. Not only was the lady an Incomparable with her ice-blonde beauty and willowy figure, but she was clever and sophisticated to boot.

Charity dipped a curtsy. "Good evening."

Percy took her by the arm, and the four of them headed over to an alcove shielded by an Oriental screen. In the quasi-private space, her chum said, "Feeling more the thing, dear?"

"I'm fully recovered from the accident," Charity assured her.

"Excellent. We have plans for you, Miss Sparkler," Mrs. Kent said.

"Plans?"

"Percy tells us you have changes ahead and could use a bit of guidance." Mrs. Kent's emerald gaze ran expertly over Charity's ensemble, and her lips pulled into a slight grimace. "More than a bit, I should say."

Charity shot Percy an annoyed look, but her bosom chum said innocently, "I only mentioned it because if your betrothal goes through, you'll have wedding preparations to make. Since you don't have a mama to oversee things, I thought the three of us could pitch in."

"I should love to lend a hand," Lady Helena said, "and offer any advice that I can."

"I shouldn't look that gift horse in the mouth. When it comes to winning over a husband," Mrs. Kent drawled, "Lady Harteford is our resident expert."

Lady Helena's porcelain cheeks turned pink. "You're no less qualified than I am, Marianne. Mr. Kent is positively devoted to you."

"A fact that never ceases to amaze me." Wonder softened Mrs. Kent's eyes. "After all, I did little enough to deserve it."

"Nonsense. We all deserve devoted husbands," Percy said cheerfully, "and this includes you, Charity. If you're bent on marrying this Mr. Garrity, then we'll just have to make sure he adores you, too."

Looking at the circle of smiling faces, Charity understood Paris' dilemma when he was asked to choose the fairest of three goddesses. Lady Helena, Mrs. Kent, and Percy were all so beautiful, each in their unique way; 'twas no wonder their spouses worshipped the ground they trod on.

But she, Charity, was no goddess.

"I'm not the sort a gentleman notices, let alone adores," she said quietly.

Mrs. Kent startled her with a husky laugh. "My dear girl, is that what you believe?"

"It is the truth," she said. "I know my personal charms are in short supply."

"Charity—may we forgo tiresome formality?"

Charity gave a quick nod.

"Men are, as a whole, unobservant creatures," Marianne went on. "They don't notice much at all, unless it's waved like a red flag in front of their noses and even then they might miss the mark. In short, they simply perceive what we
want
them to perceive, and you, my dear, do an exceptional job of remaining invisible."

Charity's jaw slackened.

"What Marianne is trying to say is that you are ever so lovely, Charity," Percy chimed in, "and all it would take is a little embellishment to draw the attention of my—um, Mr. Garrity, I mean. Or anyone else for that matter."

Charity knew her friend was only being loyal in calling her lovely. Yet she couldn't help but ask, "Embellishment?"

"Actually, in your case,
less
is more." Crossing her arms beneath her faultless bosom, Marianne declared, "At least two inches less at the neckline and we must do away with those dreadful sleeves altogether. As for your hair, there's simply too much of it, and the army of pins you use to keep it in place does not help matters. And do not let me get started on that
substance
polluting your coiffure. Beeswax?"

"And egg whites," Charity said in a small voice. "It's a recipe concocted by my housekeeper."

"It's a recipe for
disaster
." Marianne gave a visible shudder. "But never mind, this is where I come in: I am to fashion what Helena is to wifely virtue. With help from the two of us, you'll have gentlemen falling at your feet."

Charity's hands went instinctively to her bodice and her hair. Panic beat in her throat.
I'll be exposed. Everyone will see me ... for the weed that I am ...

"Oh dear, now you've gone and frightened her." Helena gave her friend a chiding look before saying gently, "I know that our proposal must seem overwhelming, Charity, and believe me when I say I understand. I was once a wallflower, you know."

Charity looked into the marchioness' smiling countenance and blurted, "But that's impossible. You're
beautiful
."

"No more than you. I'll let you in on a secret, shall I?" Hazel eyes twinkled at her, so inviting of confidence that Charity leaned in. "The most difficult thing to overcome is not the perceptions of others, but those of
oneself
."

As Charity attempted to digest that notion, Percy said, "Don't forget about me. I'm going to help, too. Whilst I don't have a knack for fashion and admittedly fall short in the virtue department"—she flashed an unabashed grin—"I do have one indispensible skill."

"Yes?" Charity said.

"No one hatches a plot like I do," Percy said with relish.

Now during the years at Mrs. Southbridge's, Charity had had considerable experience with her friend's high-spirited capers. More oft than not, she'd been the one to bail Percy out. Be it Chinese firecrackers released at inopportune moments or skipping etiquette class to visit a travelling gypsy caravan, Percy's ideas had invariably led to trouble.

"Er, why would I need a plot?" Charity said warily.

"Because romance takes planning and creativity. If we want Mr. Garrity—or, um, anyone else—to fall in love with you, we must devise a course of action," Percy declared.

At that, Charity stifled a grin. Percy was the dearest girl, but planning was not exactly her forte. She let her cook design the menus because she enjoyed surprises. Her idea of household management consisted of stuffing things in cupboards before the guests arrived. Not to mention the fact that she'd won her husband's heart in an impulsive wager.

Evidently, the other ladies shared similar thoughts. Helena was trying to hide a smile, and Marianne failed entirely, letting out a smothered laugh.

Rolling her eyes, Percy said, "My actions might not appear deliberate in the
traditional
sense of the word—"

"Or in any sense," Marianne said.

" … but I assure you that I can think ahead. As a novelist, I arrange all sorts of romantic adventures for my heroines. What is that, if not planning?"

"Truthfully, I'd prefer not to get locked up in a catacomb. Or caught in a runaway hackney or kidnapped by a dastardly villain." Softening her words with a smile, Charity said sincerely, "Thank you—all of you—for your generous offer. I appreciate your kindness, but I am content to go on as I am. Truly."

She touched her locket, her father's voice drilling in her head.
Modesty is its own protection, daughter. Don't forget that.

Percy looked like she wanted to argue, but the supper bell rang.

"Goodness, it's time already," Helena said. "With this crowd, it takes forever to sort out precedence and supper partners."

"You go attend to the sticklers," Marianne said. "We ragtag bunch will sort ourselves out."

"I shall see you all after supper then. And Charity?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"I have a surprise planned for the evening's entertainment, one you won't want to miss out on. Do promise you'll come to the Ivy Room after supper?"

"I'll be there," Charity said.

With a wink, Lady Helena melted into the melee.

Marianne said, "Perfect. Here come our supper partners now."

Charity's corset suddenly felt too tight, her lungs straining for air as three gentlemen strode toward them. Though Mr. Fines hadn't Mr. Kent's height or Mr. Hunt's brawn, she thought he was the most handsome—which was saying something, given the dazzling masculinity of the trio. He made an elegant leg, and his sapphire gaze locked on her.

"Miss Sparkler, I was hoping to see you. How are you feeling?" he said.

For some reason, his apparent concern chafed at her. Why did his voice have to have such a pleasant rasp to it, his eyes so sincere a gleam? What did he care how she was feeling when kissing her had supposedly been nothing more than a gross misjudgment on his part? And most irritating of all: why did her kneecaps wobble at his mere proximity?

She lifted her chin. "Your concern is unnecessary, sir."

His expression fell.

"Gentlemen," Marianne said, "you've arrived at an opportune moment. We are in need of supper partners."

"Are you, love? That would be a first," Mr. Kent said dryly.