Nancy Warren - A Valentine from Harlequin - Six Degrees of Romance

Charlotte’s words finally seemed to penetrate Dulcie’s drink-befuddled brain. She swallowed hard, then lurched back into the ballroom.

Charlotte was about to follow her when James barred her way. He reached back and closed the balcony doors. “Let me pass,” she ordered.

He shook his head and stepped closer. “I have waited a long time to have a moment’s word with you.”

She inched away from him, until her back was against the wall and the ivy covering it. The foliage wasn’t the only reason the flesh there tickled, as James came closer until his body was mere inches from hers.

Summoning her courage, Charlotte squared her shoulders. She would not let James’s predatory attitude frighten her. “If the wait was troublesome, perhaps you should have returned to England sooner. There was nothing to prevent you, especially when you inherited your title and the family fortune.”

“A fortune you did not get your greedy hands on, after all.”

Charlotte gasped. “I was not marrying your brother for his wealth!”

James’s face betrayed his skepticism. “No?”

“Certainly not!”

He sidled closer, trapping her between the wall and his broad-shouldered body like a doe run to ground between a cliff and a pack of dogs. “Then why did you agree to marry him?” he asked in a husky whisper.

“Because…because I loved him!” She put her palms on James’s chest and shoved, but it was like trying to budge a boulder.

He caught her hands in his powerful grasp. “Love?” he scoffed. “What do you know of love but this?” he demanded as he hauled her close and captured her mouth with his.

She had thought James cold? She had thought him lacking in passion? As James’s lips moved over Charlotte’s with firm and fiery purpose, she realized how wrong she had been

How very, very wrong…

Which did not give him leave to kiss her, or her to enjoy it.

Before she could shove him away, the balcony doors burst open. “Charlotte!” Uncle Malcolm cried as he stepped outside. “What are you doing?”

While she stared, equally horrified, at her uncle and the well-dressed people crowding behind him, James moved away. He faced her uncle and quite calmly adjusted the cuffs of his waistcoat. “We were kissing.”

Uncle Malcolm’s jowls quivered with an indignation that matched Charlotte’s, now that the initial shock of discovery had passed. “Then, sir, you have not behaved like a gentleman!”

“Indeed, he has not,” Charlotte seconded, preparing to march past James, her uncle, and through the avidly curious onlookers. She could hear the scandalized whispers that would follow in her wake. Her reputation was already sullied by her fiancé’s death, for surely the love of a good woman should have saved him from such despair. Therefore, the reasoning went, there must be some flaw in her. And now, to be found kissing her late fiancé’s brother—!

James’s hand held her back and looked into her eyes, his gaze searching. “I have never claimed to be a gentleman.”

“How could you, since you are not? Now let me go!”

He did not loosen his grasp as he once again faced her uncle, whose cheeks were getting progressively more flushed. “Gentleman or not, I am quite prepared to do the honorable thing, Mr. Duncan, and marry your niece.”

Charlotte stared at James. She couldn’t marry him! She hated him! And she had done nothing wrong here to cause her to be imprisoned in a marriage. “I would rather die!”

“Like John?”

His words pierced her heart like the thrust of a rapier. “How…how dare you!” she whispered as tears of anger and dismay leaped into her eyes.

“I dare because you as good as held the gun that killed him when you broke his heart.”

“ I ?” she gasped, incredulous. “I broke his heart?”

“Your Grace, Charlotte,” Uncle Malcolm said, obviously attempting to control his temper, “this is hardly the time or place for such accusations. I suggest you retire, Charlotte. As for you, Your Grace, you will please leave my house. You may call upon me at my offices tomorrow morning, where we shall discuss what is to be done. Now, Your Grace, I give you good night.”

James, the Duke of Broverhampton, smiled and inclined his head, then strode through the crowd which parted for him as they might a pauper who had intruded into their midst.

Sitting in his barouche outside the offices of the Duncan Distillery, makers of Fine Rum and purveyors to the Royal Navy by the appointment of His Majesty, King George III, James wondered—and not for the first time—what the devil he was doing here. He should order his driver to take him home. Or to his club. Or even the closest tavern. Anything but beard old Malcolm Duncan in his den and explain that he did not wish to marry Charlotte. The offer had been made in the heat of the moment.

And what heat. What unexpected, overwhelming heat. Charlotte clearly possessed the ability to drive a man to passionate ecstasy, if that was how she kissed when she supposedly did not want to be kissed.

Or maybe she had. Could it be that despite her apparent animosity, she was setting her sights on the man who now had the wealth she craved? He mustn’t forget that she was a greedy, grasping creature who had broken his brother’s heart and destroyed his spirit when John had realized she was only marrying him for his title and money. That knowledge, and his shame at being duped, had driven John to take his life.

If he married her as he had impulsively suggested because of some last, lingering vestige of chivalry called forth by the vulgar fascination on the faces of the guests last night, he might be playing right into her soft, yet avaricious, hands.

Therefore, he must go to Mr. Duncan and rescind his offer. Such a thing would not enhance his reputation, but he could not concern himself with that.

What he should concern himself with was making sure Charlotte knew he knew the kind of woman she was, despite his momentary lapse into forgetfulness, and that he intended to make sure the rest of the world knew it, too. That was why he had followed her out onto the balcony, or thought he had.

He had mistaken Dulcie for Charlotte. The cousins looked enough alike that, attired in similar gowns and with their blond hair done in similarly Grecian styles, it was easy to mistake one for the other, especially across a crowded ballroom.

So he had followed “Charlotte” and could not resist the urge to announce his presence with a kiss, only to realize the moment his mouth touched Dulcie’s that either he was kissing the wrong woman—for it was no secret that Charlotte didn’t drink because her father had died after falling from his horse while inebriated—or else he had his lips on a rum bottle.

Whatever had happened last night, he finally decided, he could not and would not marry Charlotte.

He alighted from the barouche and strode into the distillery, heading directly for Duncan’s office. He marched past the startled bevy of clerks perched on stools as they toiled at their high desks and entered the office without so much as a rap on the door.

To find that Charlotte was already there. Or maybe it was Dulcie facing her father with her whole body rigid, her hands on her hips, and her bonnet’s white feather dancing.

The young woman whirled around to face him, and he discovered it was indeed Charlotte. “What do you want?” she demanded, glaring at him.

As always when faced with a nerve-racking situation—which was always the situation when he was near the vivacious Charlotte—he summoned up a mask of calm indifference, and answered truthfully. “I’ve come to tell your esteemed uncle that I have changed my mind and cannot marry you.”