Anthony returned to the library to find Charity still seated upon the sofa, haloed in the light of a lamp upon the table and surrounded by a number of books. In the time it had taken to return Hattie to the nursery and place her once more beneath the care of the harried nanny—who had been preparing to organize a search of the household for her missing charge—it seemed that Charity had thumbed through an assortment of books, leaving the bulk of those she’d already examined lying open to specific pages.
“How did it go?” she asked absently, brushing away a loose curl that had bobbed before her face as she bent over the pages of the book open upon her lap.
“Surprisingly well. Evelyn was already asleep, but Hattie”—he curled his hand at his sides, still feeling the clutch of those small fingers within his own—“Hattie said she would tell her that I wasn’t so frightening as they had thought me to be after all.” He gave a small shrug of his shoulders.
“I might have promised her a puppy.”
A smile curved Charity’s full lips. “Did you?”
“If her mother agrees.”
“She will. It would be prudent of her, in her position, not to quibble over it.” She turned a page, scanned the lines.
“Close the door, if you please. Your niece has got a predilection for spying.”
“Has she? I’ll instruct the housekeeper to give me a set of keys.” A locked door wouldn’t adequately hinder an eavesdropper, but at least it would circumvent prying eyes. Especially very young ones.
“My apologies. You did not come to play nursemaid to my nieces. I’ll see that neither troubles you again.”
“I’m not troubled.” Another flick of the pages, her brows pinching in concentration.
“I don’t dislike children. It’s only that I’ve never been much in their company—or they in mine. I’m far too infamous for most to expose their precious little darlings to my influence.”
And yet, it had taken only one conversation with her to shift Hattie’s perception of him.
“Do you know,” he said, “My behavior frightened Hattie every bit as much as did my scars. She must have been skulking about when she overheard me snap at her mother for creeping up upon me where I could not see her.”
“Has it happened often?”
“More than once, I’m ashamed to say, and with nearly everyone in the house at some point or another. I have been so long on my own, it is—odd, I think, to have so many people in my vicinity.” And startling, when they appeared unexpectedly.
“Her mother told her that I might shunt them out of the house at any moment.”
“I doubt that was her intent,” Charity said, laying the book aside and reaching for another.
“But it is true enough that they are, for the moment, dependent upon your largesse. Probably she meant only to impress upon her children that they should be polite and amiable while living within your household.”
“Probably,” Anthony allowed. But the result of that instruction had been to create fear within the minds of two young, impressionable girls. And his surly behavior had not aided in that perception. He had been made into a monster in their minds, and he had with his own actions, however unknowingly, contributed to that assumption. His scars had only been the dressing upon an already-frightening unknown quantity.
“I suppose children are not renowned for their superior reasoning skills. Hattie can be forgiven for leaping to a conclusion beyond what was intended. Her life has changed so much, so swiftly.” Of course she would find it confusing and frightening. Her whole world had been upended, marred with loss and grief, her position within it abruptly tenuous.
But a little less so, now. Or so he hoped she would learn.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he crossed the floor.
“Finding some suitable books,” she said.
“It is common to share favored romantic novels and poetry.” She gave a delicate roll of her wrist toward the books she’d set aside already.
“If you would care to browse my selections.”
He craned his neck to peer down at a few books.
“Shakespeare,” he said.
“Wordsworth. Byron. Coleridge. A bit…predictable, don’t you think?”
“A bit of predictability can be beneficial. If you should share a favored poet or author with your intended, then that is something to discuss.” She set aside another book.
“Regrettably, your library is somewhat lacking in more recent offerings. But that is no matter; any bookshop is likely to sell them. Did you send flowers?”
“To Lady Cecily? Yes, of course.” As she had instructed.
Her brows lifted in interest.
“Roses, I assume.”
A predictable choice, she meant to imply.
“They seemed an inoffensive selection.” Not red, for a passion that would be insincere to claim on so new an acquaintance. Nor a juvenile pink. But white, which might yield itself eventually to any number of hues.
“I’m meant to call upon her on her next at-home day,” he said. But Charity must have guessed that much already, given that she had spent her time collecting and assessing books.
“You got on well enough, then?”
“I found her a pleasant companion.” Lady Cecily had neither gawked nor stared. She had been perfectly pleasant during their dance, skillfully carrying the conversation when he might have floundered for lack of something original or interesting to say.
“I didn’t tread upon her hem, or upon her toes. She is attractive, accomplished, and intelligent.” And as kind as had been suggested of her.
“A paragon of womanhood,” Charity suggested, with a wicked quirk of her lips.
“You see? They do exist.”
“She could not have refused a dance,” Anthony said with a sigh, swiping away a small stack of books to claim the seat beside her.
“Not without the rejection perceived as impoliteness.”
“No,” Charity allowed as she put aside the rest of the books, braced her elbow upon the arm of the sofa, and cupped her cheek in her hand.
“But she could have refused a call. It’s entirely permissible to decline the furtherance of an undesirable acquaintance. And since she has not done so, we may safely assume she found your company unobjectionable.”
Unobjectionable. Just what every man hoped to be to a potential future spouse. But he supposed, if he were honest with himself, then he had found her the same. Unobjectionable. A pleasant companion. A proficient conversationalist.
“I had hoped,” he said, “that there would be…something more. A spark, I suppose. Or a—a—”
“A bolt from the blue,” Charity suggested.
“Something like that.” But beggars could not be choosers. His options were rather limited at present. Lady Cecily, to her credit, had not stricken him straight off.
“I’m given to understand,” she said, “that a love that grows over time is often made of stronger stuff than a love that claps one over the head at first sight.”
“And you have some experience with this?”
“No; never.” She gave a light laugh and a gamine shrug.
“But my last benefactor, whom I believe you have had the dubious pleasure of meeting, certainly did not love his wife when they married. You’d never know it to see them together now, however. Besotted is not quite the word I’d use, not for someone like Chris…” She tapped the point of her chin with her index finger in consideration.
“But it comes close enough, I think. They genuinely adore one another. And my half-sister, Mercy—well, she and her husband were at one another’s throats for years before they wed, and now they are revoltingly devoted to one another.”
“Revoltingly?” A laugh caught somewhere in his throat, startled at the description.
“Well, it is revolting on occasion, when one must bear witness to such tedious activity as the rubbing of noses or the utterly unnecessary cooing of love words.” She shuddered, pulling a moue of distaste.
“I’ve not got a romantic bone in my body,” she declared.
“You have never felt fondness for any of your lovers?”
“Oh, fondness, certainly. Chris and I remain friends. But I have never been so foolish as to mistake a business arrangement for love, nor have I yet met the man capable of sweeping me off of my feet when they are so firmly planted upon the ground.”
“That’s a shame. I think I’d rather enjoy being revoltingly in love.” Particularly because it implied that there would be someone in it with him.
“We will find you someone with whom to be revoltingly in love,” Charity assured him.
“But do give Lady Cecily a decent chance, won’t you? Perhaps you will experience it with her as your acquaintance furthers—that bolt from the blue. Perhaps one day you’ll be sitting across from her in her drawing room during a morning call, and you will simply feel it.”
“Perhaps I will.” He tried for a smile at the gentle encouragement, but suspected he had fallen somewhat short.
“Suppose I should be so afflicted—and she should not.”
Charity snickered. There was no mockery to it; only a mild amusement, as if he had told an excessively witty joke.
“Come now,” she said, and she reached out to pat his knee.
“We need only make you London’s greatest lover, and as such, irresistible.”
Anthony gave a muted huff of laughter.
“London’s greatest lover,” he repeated wryly.
“You say it as if it is an attainable goal.”
“Oh, it is,” she said.
“Take it from someone with the experience to know: Men too often have unjustifiably high opinions of themselves, and there are far too many women who are too na?ve, too unpracticed to know to expect any better. But you—you have the willingness to learn, to be taught. Already that puts you well ahead of the competition.”
How odd.
“Does it, truly?”
“Of a certainty. Here, I’ll show you what I mean,” she said, and turned in her seat to face him. “Kiss me.”
***
“Kiss you?” Captain Sharp echoed.
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that.” She might have chuckled at the expression of utter bewilderment upon his face, except that she suspected he did not know he was wearing it and might infer some sort of offense where none had been intended.
“You did want to learn, did you not? How to be a competent lover?”
“I did.” A swallow rolled down his throat; a visible indicator of his anxiety. Not reticence—but the fear of censure, of judgment.
“I do,” he said, this time with some conviction behind the words.
“I don’t think I quite know how to begin.”
“That’s all right,” she said.
“Here, now, close your eyes.”
“Eye,” he corrected mildly, the shred of a sheepish smile clinging to the right-hand corner of his mouth.
“A figure of speech. Close your eye, then, if it pleases you.” And when he did, she slid closer, letting him feel the light pressure of her shoulder against his.
“Imagine,” she said, “you are riding in a carriage with your lover—”
“Alone?”
“Yes, of course, alone. Had you imagined you could kiss a woman in the presence of her guardian or chaperone without courting scandal?” She nudged him with her shoulder.
“Perhaps it is your wedding day; your first moment of true privacy.”
His brows pinched together in consternation.
“She’s past the age where she would require a chaperone.”
Charity rolled her eyes.
“Nevertheless, still she has got a reputation to protect. You might succeed in stealing a kiss prior to marriage—but only if you are very discreet. Now hush; I am setting the scene.”
“My apologies,” he said earnestly.
“Do continue.”
Charity bit her lower lip against the laugh that rose in her throat.
“Your first moment of true privacy,” she repeated.
“It is quiet. Calm. Peaceful. The air is still. The—”
His brow furrowed further.
“Have you ever been inside a carriage in your life?”
“Captain.” Though she had tried to inflect her voice with the requisite severity merited by his constant interruptions, it was growing more difficult to restrain the merriment that they provoked instead.
“This is my imaginary carriage. It is quiet and calm and peaceful if I say it is.”
“All right,” he said, though there was a notable hint of doubt within his voice.
“Quiet, calm, and peaceful. If you say so.”
“I do.” She drew in a breath and pitched her voice to a throaty murmur.
“You are alone at last with the woman who is now your wife. Perhaps you are on your way to begin your bridal trip; a leisurely journey through the most romantic cities on the continent, where you will spend altogether too much time lounging about in bed, drinking fine wine, and savoring all of the delights there to be found. But right now—right now is the very beginning of it. Perhaps she is a bit nervous herself. She takes your hand in hers.” She slid her hand into his, pleased that he clasped his fingers around her own.
“And then?”
“Well, she is a lady, you must remember. She’ll be looking to you for guidance. It’s possible that Lady Cecily—or whoever your wife might be—is a bit more knowledgeable than the younger girls. But you should expect to take the initiative.” Her fingers squeezed his.
“Perhaps you might stroke her cheek,” she suggested.
“How? I can’t see you.”
“That’s for the best. I’m not meant to be me at the moment.” Best not to ruin the illusion, when she was only a temporary occupant of the space intended for some other lady.
“We’ll say it’s well past nightfall. Too dark to see much of anything. But you can feel her shoulder against yours.” A soft, encouraging nudge with her own.
“You can hear her breaths. You know she is smaller than you are, that she is close enough to touch. You can find her face, even in the dark. You only have to do it.”
Tentatively he half-turned toward her, his lips flattened into a thin line of concentration as he stretched his free hand toward her and found—her hair. A curl slipped through the gentle grasp of his fingers.
“Damn,” he said, his shoulders sinking.
A laugh hummed in her throat.
“That’s all right. You were close enough.” She clasped his free hand in hers, brought it to her cheek. His palm was rougher than she might have expected, but his fingers were warm and strong.
Slowly, carefully, he stroked her cheek, his fingers sliding down to her jaw to the point of her chin.
“Like this?”
“Yes. Perfect.” Chill bumps rose along her skin at the gentle abrasion of his fingers on her cheek. Perhaps she had reveled in her privacy for longer than she ought to have done. If even the slightest touch could stir her senses like this, she had been far too long without a lover.
“And now—a kiss.”
He leaned in with agonizing slowness. She felt the heat of his breath upon her chin first, caught the faintly astringent scent of some liquor. His lips touched hers, warm and dry. Softer than she would have expected, even with the ridge of the scar which bisected his lips. A sweet kiss. Undemanding and gentle; almost shy in its delicacy. So different an experience from every other that it sparked a queer effervescence within her chest.
“A good beginning,” she said, and her lips brushed his as she spoke, rousing tiny flickers of sensation.
“Chaste. Innocent. Sensitive to the response of your intended. But not quite, I think, the sort of kiss you mean to learn.”
His eye opened as he drew back an inch, perhaps two, something vaguely apologetic gleaming within its coffee-brown depths. He cleared his throat.
“It’s been—”
“A very long time for you,” she said.
“I know. A proper kiss is meant to incite passion, and it’s very much like a dance. It’s done with more than just the lips; it’s done with the hands, the body. Above all, it must speak for itself of your desire. You can be by turns aggressive and coy, and you can tempt your partner to the same.” She slipped her fingers from the clasp of his and cradled his face in her hands.
“Like this.”
She pressed her lips to his, slid her fingers up and into the thick, silky locks of his hair. The scratch of her nails upon his scalp produced a shudder from him, and she smiled—and nipped his lower lip. She felt his indrawn breath, felt his lips part beneath the pressure of hers, and seized the opportunity to sink her tongue into his mouth.
She had stunned him, she thought. For a long moment he was still as a statue, merely experiencing. And then, at last, there was the touch of his tongue to hers, the uncertain parry of a teasing thrust.
“Yes,” she sighed against his lips, tasting the sweetness of brandy upon his tongue.
“Just like that.”
The praise emboldened him. His hands found her shoulders, his palms searing her skin through the fragile silk sleeves of her gown. Found the chill bumps prickling her skin above the neckline and chased them away with the warmth of his fingers. Exploratory and searching, his fingers traced subtle patterns upon her bare skin, began a meandering journey from her nape down her back. For a moment his fingers tangled in her laces, and she thought—hoped?—he might tug at the strings to pull them loose. But the anticipatory catch in her breath faded into a tiny sigh of disappointment as his hands continued their leisurely exploration, landing at the small of her back.
She had definitely gone too long without a lover.
“Now,” she whispered, charmed by the way his lips tried to cling to hers.
“Your lover is here, seated beside you. Half a world away.”
His brow scrunched again, and he flicked a glance down, judging the distance—however scant it had become—between their bodies.
“You’re practically in my lap already.”
Charity muffled a puff of laughter against his chin, let her lips just brush his cheek as she leaned closer still to reach his ear.
“No,” she breathed.
“But I could be.” She gave a delicate nip to the lobe of his ear, taking on the role of aggressor for the moment. But it was a role she knew well, played well.
A fresh shudder wracked him, more violent than she had expected. His hands, which had come to rest just at the small of her back, seized her waist to readjust her as she had suggested. As easily as if she weighed nothing at all, she found herself lifted from her seat and draped across his lap. Her skirts hiked up past her knees, though she doubted he’d noticed. Beneath her bottom, his thighs were warm and hard.
“You’re teasing me,” he accused, and there was a telling thickness to his voice as she pressed her breasts to the wall of his chest.
“Oh, yes. It’s great fun.” She relished the faint sound of displeasure he made when she extracted her fingers from his hair to toy instead with the starched white linen of his cravat, gently prying loose the complicated knot and tugging it free from where it was wound around his neck.
“There’s so many layers of clothing,” she whispered.
“You might go so far as to slip a few buttons.” She traced the point of her tongue around the shell of his ear, heard the hitch of his breath, and felt a lambent heat bloom low in her belly in response.
“Loose a few laces.”
“In a carriage?”
“Hm?” Oh, yes, her pretended carriage fantasy.
“Of course, in a carriage,” she said as she flicked open a button upon his waistcoat. Two. Three.
“It’s dark. The curtains are drawn. Who is to see? Who is to know?” She nudged the button at the collar of his shirt through its buttonhole, placed the tip of one finger against the hollow of his throat.
His hand fell upon her thigh, and for a moment he stilled at the sensation of her bare skin beneath his palm. A long swallow rolled down his throat. His fingers tightened upon her skin, and he shifted minutely in his seat, a motion no doubt meant to relieve the tightness in his trousers brought about by the swelling of his cock, which she could feel against her hip.
“The coachman, one might assume,” he said, his voice a gritty rumble.
“Only if you are indiscreet. Although,” she posited, dipping her fingers beneath his collar to toy with the coarse, crisp hair upon his chest, “sometimes that is half the fun of it. The thrill that you might be caught in an ardent embrace.”
“I don’t know that I’d much like to be caught,” he said, and in the pale glow of the lamplight she could see a fine mist of sweat shining upon his brow. Despite the formidable restraint he had exercised and his own inhibitions, still he was undeniably affected.
“But I am not feeling particularly…discreet, at the moment.”
How delicious.
“Is that so?” she purred.
“Then by all means, be indiscreet.”
Another hard swallow followed by a grave shake of his head. He tensed his thighs for a moment, as if he tightened his own leash.
“I must restrain myself if I am to learn how best to please you,” he said. Reflexively, his hand tightened upon her thigh. Relaxed it once again when he realized he had done so.
A gurgle of incredulous laughter trickled up Charity’s throat as she was struck with a sudden understanding.
“You poor, dear man,” she said.
“Did you think I was torturing you just for the fun of it?”
“I had assumed there was some manner of lesson to be learned,” he said thickly.
“Oh, there is,” she said.
“It is that this is meant to be pleasurable for both parties involved.” Such a good, earnest soul, so eager to please. Of course she would have to indulge him.
“What would please me most,” she whispered at his ear as a shiver slid down his spine, “is your indiscretion.”