Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance (37 page)

Meanwhile, Charlotte attended every event her mother asked her to, knowing full well that the man who would seek her out for herself was an unusual, special man.

Because she was an unusual, special woman.

Who liked to wear unusual, special clothes.

“And then you turn in your article every Thursday, by two o’clock at the latest. I can send the address ’round to you tomorrow,” she heard Emma say. “Have you even been listening?” her friend asked in an annoyed tone.

“Uh … well,” Charlotte began.

“Marchston!” her mother said in a voice loud enough to silence the room, holding her hand out to a gentleman who’d just arrived. Charlotte’s eyes slid over to see whom her mother was speaking to, and then she felt her knees buckle. And her toes tingle. And a slow curl of something swirling through her body. And it wasn’t her dinner.

This was quite possibly the most boring evening he’d spent since he’d had his first drink, David thought as he walked into the room. The same dull people gossiping about other dull people, the same petty intrigues and scandals only obfuscating the inevitable ennui that enveloped every member of Society within a few years.

No wonder he’d bought a commission so many years ago. Yes, there was the threat of dying, but at least he wasn’t
bored.
After he’d gotten injured, he and his bad leg had been assigned to India, where he’d handled delicate negotiations between the government, the company, and the local princes. Not to mention breaking more than a few hearts.

When his leg had healed enough for him to return to England, he’d discovered he’d rather stay, having found something that kept his boredom entirely at bay.

It was unfortunate for him, then, that the most recent heart he’d broken had belonged to a very important general’s wife. Coming back to England had been his only choice; that had been made very clear.

So he’d donned his knee breeches, stuck a neck pin into his cravat, and strolled right back into the same dull environs he’d left ten years ago. All of it had changed, and yet nothing seemed different.

The Countess of Jepstow was still here, wearing the result of ten years of pastries, and a tired feather bobbing from her hair like a becalmed sail. The warm look she gave him was a familiar one; he’d been getting such looks from ladies since he had turned eighteen and grown to over six feet in height.

“My lady,” he said, taking her hand and bowing over it, barely grazing her skin with his lips. She tittered and squeezed his fingers as he met her gaze.

“And so the rogue has returned. It is wonderful to have you back. London has been such a bore since you left.”

I can see that, David thought. “Surely not with you here, my lady.” His reply was automatic. Ladies flirted the same way the world over, no matter what color their skin or what rank they held.

“You are too kind, my lord,” the countess said, eyeing him as if he were a piece of meat on display at the butcher’s. She glanced over his shoulder and narrowed her lips into a thin line. “Oh, of all the—”

David turned and looked too and was rewarded with a glimpse of the most goddesslike creature he’d seen since his return. And not one of those mean goddesses, either; an Aphrodite renowned for her beauty, not a Juno famous for her temper.

“My daughter, my lord,” the countess said, her tone revealing clear frustration.

The countess’s daughter? That lovely creature seated at the table, spooning some sort of fairy food into her delicious mouth? David had forgotten just how lovely the classic English rose could be. He turned to the countess. He almost felt sorry for her, having a daughter with those looks. The comparisons would be inevitable.

“Please do me the honor of an introduction, my lady.” Unwed girls were out of David’s usual stalking area, but at the very least he wanted a closer look. He wouldn’t risk any kind of entanglement, but a flirtation might lessen his boredom.

“Of course.” Her words were clipped. She walked to the table and made a demanding gesture. “Charlotte, my dear, Lord David Marchston would like to make your acquaintance. Please come here.”

David stood beside the countess, keeping his eyes on the countess’s daughter.

And almost missed, therefore, when another woman rose and walked toward them.

Charlotte nearly fell off her chair when her mother spoke. As though she and the chair weren’t already perilously close to parting ways, after her initial sight of him.
He
wanted to meet
her
?

She stood, surreptitiously holding on to the back of Emma’s chair to steady herself.

“Lord David,” her mother said, her eyes practically demanding Charlotte behave, “may I introduce my daughter, Lady Charlotte Jepstow. Charlotte, this is Lord David Marchston.”

Charlotte held her hand out to him. He took it and bowed over it briefly while Charlotte tried to calm her breathing.

He was more stunning the closer he got. From far away, of course she’d noticed his commanding presence and brooding good looks; he’d walked into the room as if he owned it, his height and dark hair making him stand out from the shorter, lighter-haired men. Which were all of them. He was the darkest and tallest, and definitely the most handsome.

Up close, she could see that his dark eyes, which she’d assumed were brown, were deep blue, like a lake under a full moon. His hair was so dark brown as to be almost black. And his mouth, dear lord, his mouth was sinful to look at, with full lips curled into a knowing smile, which of course meant Charlotte couldn’t look away.

And he was speaking now, which meant she had to stare at his mouth, didn’t it? “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Charlotte. Perhaps you would save me a dance for later this evening?” His voice was low and husky, as though he’d recently recovered from a cough.

Charlotte wanted to giggle at the thought of offering him a poultice for his throat. “Yes, of course, my lord. I would be honored.” She stood silent, feeling as awkward as she ever had. What did a young lady say to such an impossibly handsome man?
Goodness, you are lovely. Perhaps you would care to undress so I might compare you against all those statues my mother never wants me to see?

She felt her cheeks flush a bright red; unlike Emma, Charlotte didn’t develop a delicate, ladylike blush, but instead looked as though she’d been sticking her face directly into a blazing fireplace.

“Oh,” she said, remembering Emma, “may I introduce you to my friend, Miss Emma Clarkson?” She turned and smiled at Emma, who’d finished her ice and was dabbing at her mouth with a white linen cloth. Emma rose and walked around the table to the group.

“Miss Emma Clarkson. Pleased to meet you.” Lord David’s voice sounded even deeper now, and there was a different tone to it. More intimate. He took Emma’s hand and held it for a moment, staring into Emma’s light-blue eyes.

For the first time in her life, Charlotte resented her friend’s beauty.

And then despised herself for it. Emma was nothing but a loyal friend, and she couldn’t help it that men tended to fall over their feet when they met her.

But still. Charlotte wished that, just once, a man would look at her with the same blend of longing, lust, and admiration she saw in Lord David’s expression.

“A pleasure, my lord,” Emma said. “Have you just arrived in town?”

He finally let go of her hand. If he’d held it any longer, he might have had to pay rent. “Yes. I’ve been in India for the past few years.”

India! Charlotte had always wanted to go there. Women there were allowed to wear colors as loud and garish as they wanted, she’d heard. There was the added bonus that her mother would never board a ship, so Charlotte wouldn’t have to hear about her failings. Or, scratch that, she would only have to hear about them via the post.

“Where in India were you, my lord?” Charlotte asked. Emma glanced quickly at her, approval warming her eyes. She was forever urging Charlotte to join in conversation.

“Bombay. Have you been?”

Charlotte flushed again as she met his gaze. One dark eyebrow was raised in a mocking disbelief—he was likely assuming she couldn’t possibly have gone to India. He probably doubted she’d ever left England.

Which she hadn’t, so he wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But she did want to travel. Didn’t that count for anything?

“No, my lord, I have not. But I have read about it. Is it as hot as they say?”

His eyes flicked between her and Emma. “Yes, so hot you would not be able to wear half the clothing you ladies have on.” He made it sound as improper as he no doubt intended.

“I have no desire to travel to India, or leave London at all, in fact,” Emma replied in a grumpy voice that somehow still managed to be fetching. “My sister demands my presence in Gloucester, my lord, and I do not wish to leave.”

Did he exhale in disappointment? Probably; most men did much worse when they heard Emma was leaving their presence.

“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Clarkson. My London acquaintance will therefore be reduced by a third.”

“Surely you know more people than that, my lord,” Charlotte’s mother interjected.

Lord David nodded in acknowledgment. “Yes, but the crucial question is, how many of the people I know will admit to knowing me?”

Charlotte’s mother giggled in reply, something Charlotte had never heard her do before.

I am sure anyone would be glad to know you, Charlotte thought, peeking quickly at him. In a Biblical sense, if nothing else.

The blond one was not the countess’s daughter. Pity. More of a pity that the blond one was leaving town while her friend remained in London. It was difficult to see what the countess’s daughter really looked like, she was garbed in such an outlandish—and unpleasant, actually—combination of colors and fabrics. How could the countess allow her to walk about looking like that?

She was asking him another question. Save him from inquisitive girls.

“How many years were you in India, my lord?” Her eyes, at least, were a lively brown, not nearly as dull as the mousy brown of her hair. And her mouth was wide, lush, and full, with a tantalizing mole at the corner. He felt an unexpected pang of interest.

“Three. Before that I was billeted in France and Spain, until one of the enemy decided I should hop everywhere.” He patted his thigh to indicate his injury.

“Oh.” Her eyebrows narrowed in concern. “Were you badly hurt?”

She was curious, wasn’t she? He loathed talking about himself. “Do you want me to detail precisely where I was injured, my lady?” he asked, his voice indicating clearly that he wished to drop the matter. Hopefully his bluntness would dissuade any further questions.

Instead, her expression brightened. “Yes, I would be most interested.”

Before David could reply, Miss Clarkson grabbed her friend’s arm and pulled her away. “Excuse us, my lord, my lady, Charlotte and I need to repair my hem.” Charlotte opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but Miss Clarkson had successfully wrenched her far enough away that it wasn’t possible to hear her words.

At least he got to watch Aphrodite retreat. That her friend was wearing clothing perhaps inspired by Bacchus’s worst revelry made it easier to keep his eyes focused on Miss Clarkson’s behind.