love for me, or confessing to a horrific crime. Do let me know. Curiously yours, Charlotte.”
“It isn’t every day one receives a letter like that,” Harriet said. Wasn’t that the truth! The post would be so much more interesting if one did. But Charlotte would not send him a letter. She wanted to see his face, with his blue eyes and that slanting scar. She wanted to hear his voice say whatever it was he’d been about to say. She wanted to feel his caress, his lips, his …
“I should like to see him. Alone.”
“Charlotte …” Harriet warned. “You had quite a narrow escape at the Hastings garden party. And an even narrower escape at the Capulet ball. Do you not think your luck might run out?”
“I have plans. Not luck,” Charlotte replied. She knew just the way in which to secure his undivided attention.
“Are you sure? Do you really want to risk it?” Harriet questioned nervously. Again.
“Why wouldn’t I want to take the risk, Harriet Dawkins?”
“No reason …” her friend said meekly.
“Never mind that. I have the perfect plan,” Charlotte announced.
Hamilton House
The Foyer
A few days later
The duke and duchess of Hamilton and Brandon were hosting a ball in their home to celebrate … well, Charlotte wasn’t quite clear on the occasion for the event, and she didn’t quite care. James had been invited.
More important, James had replied that yes he would attend. She knew this because she had personally intercepted and perused every reply that had made it into Hamilton House.
She had to do something while waiting for him to call.
That was, besides despise the rule that IT WAS NOT DONE for ladies to visit gentlemen.
So she read other people’s mail, naturally. While James did not visit. Or write. Or in any way indicate his awareness that she existed in the world.
Logic or madness—one of the two—compelled her to recognize two facts. She had hoped he had something important to say that day. In fact, she hoped it had been a marriage proposal.
That a proposal was not issued, nor did he even pop in to chat about the weather for just a few moments, sent Charlotte spiraling to the depths of despair.
Tonight, however …
Tonight she would Take Action. While she usually abhorred standing in the receiving line with Brandon and Sophie, tonight it served to her advantage.
At 8:17 James arrived, looking devastatingly handsome in the stark black of his evening dress. His hair was brushed back, accentuating that scar which slanted across his cheek, drawing her gaze down, down, down to his sensuous mouth.
Charlotte stared. And paid no attention to Lady Layton’s polite chatter with Sophie, though something struck her as unusual.
“… what a coup that the author George Coney shall be in attendance tonight …”
Very well, that caught Charlotte’s attention. It was impossible that Lady Layton had heard of George Coney because 1) George Coney did not exist and 2) it was highly unlikely she had heard about the wager at the Capulet ball and 3) the book that was the subject of the wager, like its author, did not exist.
She must be turning into one of those idiotic misses who lost brain matter in the presence of handsome men with devastating kisses, exquisitely torturous caresses and rakish smiles that made a girl weak in the knees.
Dear Lord God Above. She wanted to slap herself. But she really wanted to be swept into his embrace as his mouth crashed down upon hers for a scorching kiss…
“Good evening, Charlotte,” James murmured, clasping her hand.
“Hello, James,” she managed to reply. Her heart was beating wildly. Her thoughts were scattered wildly and she was afraid she might be blushing.
“You look fine this evening,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” she said, doing her best to sound demure when in fact her heart was skipping beats. He thought her pretty!
And then, oh then, James’s gaze locked with hers and she ceased to notice the throngs of peers and peeresses, the
“It isn’t every day one receives a letter like that,” Harriet said. Wasn’t that the truth! The post would be so much more interesting if one did. But Charlotte would not send him a letter. She wanted to see his face, with his blue eyes and that slanting scar. She wanted to hear his voice say whatever it was he’d been about to say. She wanted to feel his caress, his lips, his …
“I should like to see him. Alone.”
“Charlotte …” Harriet warned. “You had quite a narrow escape at the Hastings garden party. And an even narrower escape at the Capulet ball. Do you not think your luck might run out?”
“I have plans. Not luck,” Charlotte replied. She knew just the way in which to secure his undivided attention.
“Are you sure? Do you really want to risk it?” Harriet questioned nervously. Again.
“Why wouldn’t I want to take the risk, Harriet Dawkins?”
“No reason …” her friend said meekly.
“Never mind that. I have the perfect plan,” Charlotte announced.
Hamilton House
The Foyer
A few days later
The duke and duchess of Hamilton and Brandon were hosting a ball in their home to celebrate … well, Charlotte wasn’t quite clear on the occasion for the event, and she didn’t quite care. James had been invited.
More important, James had replied that yes he would attend. She knew this because she had personally intercepted and perused every reply that had made it into Hamilton House.
She had to do something while waiting for him to call.
That was, besides despise the rule that IT WAS NOT DONE for ladies to visit gentlemen.
So she read other people’s mail, naturally. While James did not visit. Or write. Or in any way indicate his awareness that she existed in the world.
Logic or madness—one of the two—compelled her to recognize two facts. She had hoped he had something important to say that day. In fact, she hoped it had been a marriage proposal.
That a proposal was not issued, nor did he even pop in to chat about the weather for just a few moments, sent Charlotte spiraling to the depths of despair.
Tonight, however …
Tonight she would Take Action. While she usually abhorred standing in the receiving line with Brandon and Sophie, tonight it served to her advantage.
At 8:17 James arrived, looking devastatingly handsome in the stark black of his evening dress. His hair was brushed back, accentuating that scar which slanted across his cheek, drawing her gaze down, down, down to his sensuous mouth.
Charlotte stared. And paid no attention to Lady Layton’s polite chatter with Sophie, though something struck her as unusual.
“… what a coup that the author George Coney shall be in attendance tonight …”
Very well, that caught Charlotte’s attention. It was impossible that Lady Layton had heard of George Coney because 1) George Coney did not exist and 2) it was highly unlikely she had heard about the wager at the Capulet ball and 3) the book that was the subject of the wager, like its author, did not exist.
She must be turning into one of those idiotic misses who lost brain matter in the presence of handsome men with devastating kisses, exquisitely torturous caresses and rakish smiles that made a girl weak in the knees.
Dear Lord God Above. She wanted to slap herself. But she really wanted to be swept into his embrace as his mouth crashed down upon hers for a scorching kiss…
“Good evening, Charlotte,” James murmured, clasping her hand.
“Hello, James,” she managed to reply. Her heart was beating wildly. Her thoughts were scattered wildly and she was afraid she might be blushing.
“You look fine this evening,” he murmured.
“Thank you,” she said, doing her best to sound demure when in fact her heart was skipping beats. He thought her pretty!
And then, oh then, James’s gaze locked with hers and she ceased to notice the throngs of peers and peeresses, the
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