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

“Call it what you like, it adds up to the same thing.”

“It was necessary for both our sakes,” he said reasonably. “You needed time to establish yourself as an independent entrepreneur, and I needed assurance that you’d recovered from your brief infatuation with Weatherby before I declared myself.”

“You’re very sure you’ll have things your way, aren’t you, Paolo Angelli? What are you going to do if I don’t fall in with your plans—throw me over your shoulder and carry me off to your cave?”

“I’m no Neanderthal, Charlotte. If I’ve presumed too much, I apologize and will, of course, withdraw from the picture.”

He paused, giving her time to consider before she framed a reply. The music slowed to a stop. Couples started drifting back to their tables. Finally she and Paolo were the only two left on the dance floor and still she hadn’t answered. She stared at the front of his dress shirt and tried to be sensible. To behave like a mature, intelligent woman.

“Well, Charlotte? Have I misread the signs? Shall I thank you for the dance, escort you off the floor, and disappear from your life for good?”

She met his gaze. His eyes, blue as his Adriatic Sea, smoldered with fire. As for his mouth…oh, a woman could weave a lifetime of dreams around that mouth! “Everything’s happening too quickly, Paolo,” she whimpered. “You’re asking for too much.”

“I’m asking you to take a leap of faith,” he said. “To join me on a journey that stands a very small chance of coming to nothing but is far more likely to lead to a future together. I won’t tell you I love you or that I want to marry you. Not yet. Not until I’m ready to say the words and you’re ready to hear them. But in the meantime I will court you, if you’ll let me, Charlotte. Is that so very much to ask?”

He pulled her closer, close enough that she could feel the hard, male angles of him pressed against her. Close enough that she could feel the beat of his heart beneath her hand. She knew a stirring in her blood, a sense of hovering on the brink of wonderful discovery.

“When you trust me enough, I will make love to you,” he went on, his voice a seductive whisper in her ear. The promise alone was enough to cause a spasm of delight to uncurl within her and leave her moist with anticipation. “I will hold you in my arms throughout the night and cherish every moment we share. I will respect and honor you. And if, after all that, you decide I’m not the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, I will let you go. The question is, has that moment arrived already?”

The answer came to her not in a rush or a flood, but with a slow, tingling warmth that seeped along her veins with quiet deliberation and the promise that the best was yet to come. “No,” she said. “I want to take that journey with you, Paolo. I believe in our tomorrow.”

Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society.

Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte’s pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss.

“I’m sorry.” The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart.

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. “John! I thought you were dead!”

Two azure blue eyes flashed in a face so handsome it could take a woman’s breath away. “John is dead. I’m James.”

Charlotte breathed again. Of course this wasn’t John. John was dead, and by his own hand. This was his twin brother, who had gone off to fight with Wellington while John had stayed home. This was the brother who had stayed in Europe after her fiancé’s death, who had written that terrible, accusing letter that had arrived when she was still full of sorrow and remorse.

This was the brother who knew so little of her relationship with John, yet who derided her, and blamed her for something she had not foreseen. She would have prevented John’s death if she could have; she did not need to feel more guilt from someone who had not seen his brother in over five years.

And who was now the Duke of Broverhampton, heir to a vast estate and fortune, as well as the title.

As Charlotte fought to regain her composure, James’s gaze meandered over her simple silk gown, lingering for the briefest of moments on the embroidery around the neckline—or her breasts—before returning to her blushing cheeks.

Angered by his impertinent scrutiny, she quickly closed the doors behind her, shutting out the music heralding the start of a quadrille. She wanted no one to hear them, or come out to see what was going on. And she wanted to know what the long-absent James was doing on the Duncans’ balcony with her cousin, Dulcabella—besides the obvious.

Dulcie Duncan giggled and swayed, clearly the worse for the powerful punch full of rum, which was how their family had made their fortune, one large enough to overcome the stigma of having earned it in trade. The Duncan Distillery had even been granted a Royal Warrant to supply rum to the British Navy.

“I just came out for a breath of air and he grabbed me and kissed me,” Dulcie explained with a sodden grin. “I quite liked it.”

“Indeed?” Charlotte inquired as she regarded James, not troubling to hide her annoyance. “I daresay you did, for I have heard that the duke is quite accomplished in that, if nothing else.” She took hold of her cousin’s arm, intending to lead her inside. “Come along, Dulcie. I think you should bid good-night to your guests.”

“Running away, are we?” James calmly inquired in his deep, husky voice -- the thing that distinguished him most from John. Otherwise, both men had the same dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, and brilliant blue eyes.

Charlotte slowly wheeled around to face him. “I think if there is a person here who could be accused of running away, it would not be me, Your Grace.”

She watched as her words brought, for the briefest of moments, a look of what might have been remorse to those bright blue eyes. Yet if the Duke of Broverhampton felt anything deep in his cold heart in response to her accusation—one she had been waiting years to make—it was quickly gone, replaced by the cool tranquility he had always possessed, even in his youth. John had been all fire and light and music; James had been dark and silent and cold as snow in January.

Her cousin feebly yanked her arm out of Charlotte’s grasp, the action making her totter like a pile of teacups. “I want to schtay right here!” Dulcie protested as she grabbed on to James’s black waistcoat.

“I think you should retire, cousin,” Charlotte said with a tone of firm command.

Dulcie pouted and stamped her slippered foot. “I don’t want to.”

“Dulcie, I really think you ought—”

“Well I don’t!” Stamp!

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw James’s lips jerk up into a smug grin, as if he was enjoying this show of defiance from the usually docile Dulcie.

“Dulcabella, you should go before the ladies begin to gossip about the time you have been out here and with whom. Unless you want your season ruined before it is well under way, I suggest you go back into the ballroom, and preferably to bed. You have had too much punch.”