Not Quite a Lady by Loretta Chase

with him.
    “Since he is a scholar,” she told her stepmother, “I supposed he’d care a good deal more about having access to his books than about the state of the chair covers.”
    “I saw the crates,” said Lizzie. “He owns a great many books. No wonder you’re so rumpled and hot.”
    Charlotte was a strong girl, a countrywoman, as her stepmother understood. She walked a great deal more than other ladies of her social position did. Even on a sultry day like this, several hours of climbing up and down a short set of steps and putting away books, while warm work, hardly over-taxed her.
    It most certainly didn’t do to her what Mr. Carsington did when he burst through the library door. He was hatless, his gold-streaked hair windblown. He was breathing hard, his big chest rising and falling.
    Then she started breathing hard.
    Then her temperature shot up, and she began to sweat as though she’d been breaking rocks under the midday sun.
    She would like to believe she was flustered because he’d caught her misbehaving. But she’d had fun misbehaving, and being caught merely meant she needed to use her wits, which was even more fun.
    As to her playing the innocent idiot—why should her conscience take notice? Falsehoods and make believe were central to a lady’s repertoire. Pretend to be in complete control. Pretend not to notice an insult or a faux pas. Pretend not to be hurt. Pretend to be amused. Pretend to be interested. Pretend to care. Pretend not to care.
    “Ye gods,” she said under her breath. “When am I not pretending?”
    “Charlotte?”
    “Ye gods, I do need a bath,” Charlotte said more audibly, tugging at the half-undone bodice. All of her clothes stuck to her. She wished she were a boy, and could tear them all off and leap into the nearest lake.
    Mr. Carsington must have done that when he was a boy.
    Very likely he still did it.
    She could picture it: the broad shoulders and narrow hips and long, muscled legs…
    Don’t, she told herself.
    Too late.
    A wave of aching loneliness washed through her, and in its wake came longing. She saw his face as he took in her joke. How she’d wanted to laugh! She’d wanted to put out her tongue at him. She’d wanted him to pull her off the ladder and into his arms.
    Feelings, too many…old, wicked feelings she thought she’d killed and buried long ago.
    She had to get away—from him, from this house. She tried not to look impatient.
    “I’ll be ready to leave in a minute,” said Lizzie.
    “I’ll wait for you at the dog cart.” Charlotte started down the hall.
    “But Daisy is not with you,” Lizzie said. “Where is she?”
    Only then did Charlotte realize the dog had not followed her. “She must be in the library.” She kept walking.
    “Alone?” Lizzie’s voice rose. “With valuable books?”
    “Oh, no, Mr. Carsington is with her.”
    “He is here, in the house? Charlotte, will you stop? You will oblige me to shout.”
    Charlotte did not look back. “Don’t worry,” she called. “He won’t leave Daisy alone with his books.”
    She recalled what he’d said…about her letting the dog relieve herself on his books. Only he hadn’t used a euphemism, and she’d very nearly giggled, as she used to do when she heard her boy cousins use naughty words.
    Oh, he was wicked…and so was she.
    The look on his face when he comprehended her joke. She covered her mouth and hurried on to the dogcart.
    Then, when none but Belinda the mare could hear her, Lady Charlotte did laugh…and cry a little, too.
     
    Twenty minutes later
    Between the trees, Charlotte caught glimpses as she drove of Beechwood’s lake, its waters glistening in the sunlight.
    In one secluded corner of Lithby Park’s lake was a dock from which visiting boy cousins and, lately, the two older of her little brothers would leap naked into the water, as girls were not allowed to do.
    She saw in her mind’s eye Mr. Carsington, naked, running down the dock and jumping into the