Annie Burrows - Four Regency Rogues

Once he left the light shed on the garden by the lanterns close to the house, the darkness seemed absolute and he had to negotiate his way between bushes of buddleia and hibiscus, which was why he did not at first notice the dark shape on the path in front of him, a black, catlike shape. Not until she had bumped into him and he had his arms around her to save her from falling did he realise who it was.

‘Charlotte!’

She had seen him go off with Martha and had come to the same conclusion as everyone else. That he should make his offer at her ball compounded her wretchedness and, finding the atmosphere of expectation in the ballroom too much to bear, had come out into the garden to compose herself. She was angry with herself for caring so much. And now she was even angrier for blundering into him. ‘Let me go!’

He released her immediately, but as the path was narrow and he was going away from the house and she towards it, they had to pass each before they could continue. They stood facing each other, both undecided as to how to proceed.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked. The moon came out from behind a cloud and he could see her more plainly. The costume outlined every curve of her delectable figure and even the silly head that obscured most of her face only served to enhance its perfect contours. How could he have ever thought she was plain? ‘The air is still damp. Are you not cold?’

‘I am as warm as toast,’ she snapped. ‘I came out for fresh air.’

‘I am glad you did. I need to speak to you, to explain…’

‘Explain? I need no explanation. The truth is that in six years with the army you have not learned how to behave towards a lady. Oh, but I forgot, I am not a lady, I am a hoyden. Hoydens are tough as old leather, they do not have finer feelings, one may insult them with impunity…’

‘You do not understand.’

‘What is there to misunderstand? I heard you plainly enough.’

‘And have held it against me ever since.’

‘You are conceited if you think that, my lord. Until…’ She paused and gulped. ‘Until you were so ill mannered as to lay hands on me, I had forgot all about it.’

‘Lay hands on you! Is that what you call it?’

‘What else? No one has ever done anything like that to me before.’

‘No, I wager they have not,’ he said quietly, realising that in all probability she had always been deprived of physical contact, even as a child, and children needed hugs every bit as much as education and discipline. He longed to take her into his arms to try to make up for it.

She peered at him in the darkness, taken aback by his change of tone. How could he be so scathing one minute and gentle the next? He did not move out of her way and she stood undecided whether to ask him to stand aside or try to force her way past him. His very presence was upsetting her carefully managed composure. Inside the furry costume she was shaking and her breath was coming in great gulps. Anger was her only defence. ‘I am surprised you had the effrontery to attend this evening.’

‘I was under the impression I had been invited.’

‘That was before…’

‘Before what?’

‘Before you insulted me.’

‘I meant no insult.’

‘No? To kiss one woman when intent on offering for another is an insult to both in my book.’

He could not deny that without humiliating Miss Brandon. ‘You do not understand…’

‘I understand perfectly well. It is permissible to kiss a hoyden because a hoyden cannot expect the courtesy and chivalry due to a lady of rank.’

He laughed softly. ‘A real hoyden would not care so much.’

‘You are mistaken if you think I care, my lord.’

‘Oh, I think you do. Shall we put it to the test?’

Before she could do a thing about it, he had taken her chin in his hand and turned her face up to his and was scrutinising it as if committing its features to memory. She tried to struggle, but was powerless as his mouth came down on hers. His hand left her chin and went round behind her back, drawing her towards him, enclosing her in an embrace that was both powerful and tender. She felt herself slacken, felt her mouth open, felt her hands creep up around his neck, as if she had no will. He held her for a second, two seconds, a week, an age—she did not know how long it was before she suddenly came to her senses and started struggling furiously, hitting him about the shoulders and body with her fists, using words that were far from ladylike. Her hand came into contact with the hilt of his sword and she pulled it out of its scabbard and pointed it at him. ‘Come a step nearer and this will be in your black heart.’

‘Sharp as needles,’ he said, laughing and taking it from her with little effort. It was, after all, not a weapon of honed steel designed to kill, but a toy for dressing up and she could never have used it in any case. ‘You chose the right costume, I must say. A cat, a green-eyed, scratching feline. Sheath your claws, kitten, you are in no danger from me.’

‘I wish I could say your costume was equally well chosen. But St George! The chivalrous knight, the slayer of dragons, the defender of womanhood. It is meant to be a joke, of course.’

He smiled crookedly. ‘Of course.’

‘At least you are honest.’

‘Yes,’ he said, his voice suddenly losing its edge and becoming soft. ‘I am honest enough to admit my fault.’ He stood looking down at her by the light of a pale moon, which had come out from behind one of the blustering clouds. Her lovely eyes beneath the catlike head-dress were huge and shocked. ‘Charlotte, please listen to me…’

‘Go back to Miss Brandon,’ she told him. ‘I wish you happy. She will never know from me what a charlatan you are.’

He stood a moment longer, but he knew there was nothing he could usefully say, except a murmured, ‘Goodbye, Charlotte.’ Then he stepped past her and went on his way. He did not look back or he might have seen her, standing looking after him, her eyes swimming with tears. She brushed them away angrily. He had kissed her because he could, because it gave him a sense of superiority and put her in her place, no more than that. Thank goodness she had not been so foolish as to offer him Browhill. She scrubbed at her eyes and returned to the house.

How she endured the remainder of the evening, she never knew. The ball appeared to be a great success, there was dancing and laughter and gaiety and the supper was pronounced the most lavish anyone could remember, though she was aware of a certain tension in the air, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. The matrons muttered behind their fans, while the men in little groups laughed a little too loudly, and Lady Ratcliffe was as busy as ever acting the hostess and urging Charlotte to look a little more pleased with the way things were going, which she made every effort to do. It was thanks to her father’s teaching that she was able to achieve it. And when the time came to unmask, she stood beside her great-aunt as everyone revealed themselves, though most already knew each other. After that there were fireworks that rivalled even those she had put on for her workers. She smiled and received the congratulations of her guests as they departed and no one knew the misery in her heart.

When the last of them had gone, she did not stay to go over the events of the evening with her great-aunt, but pleaded a headache and went straight up to her room, where she dismissed Meg and stripped off that dreadful costume. It had not been a good idea; the Earl had made fun of it, as her great-aunt had predicted. And even in her grief she had been aware of the whispers about him and Martha. A gentleman did not take a lady off unchaperoned unless it was to propose to her. That he had done so at her ball added insult to injury as far as Charlotte was concerned. Martha had undoubtedly accepted him and in due course they would be married and live at Amerleigh Hall. How could she go on seeing him day by day, pretending civility and never tell him, or anyone, what was in her heart and mind? But there was no alternative and she must bear it. She had said she did not care, so now she must prove it.