Lady Canby--too thin. The garter would have slipped straight off her leg, like a barrel rim placed over a lamppost.
Miss Caroline Fairchild, the vicar's daughter--highly unlikely, given her dearth of romantic imagination.
That had left only two: Mrs. Charlesbridge, the doctor's wife; and Cross, the lady's maid. Both of whom had been ruled out by the perfume merchant. Neither had dark hair.
Charlotte sighed. There were only two possible reasons for this stalemate. Either her deductions had gone wrong somewhere, or she'd overlooked a suspect.
Perhaps there was another female guest at the party . . . Someone with a C that she'd missed. Maybe one of the ladies had a maiden or Christian name that hadn't appeared on Lady Parkhurst's list of invitations.
It seemed a stretch, but at least it gave her another avenue to investigate. To follow that path of inquiry, she needed a book. The one book her mother actually urged her to read, and the one Charlotte had stubbornly refused to ever peruse.
Debrett's Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage, and Companionage.
The list of everyone who was anyone in Britain.
Once the idea had seized her, there was no chance she'd be able to sleep. She rose from bed and wrapped herself in a dressing gown before gathering a candle. Then she quietly ventured out into the corridor.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. The library was to the right, but she felt certain she'd seen a copy of Debrett's in the drawing room. It was the sort of book certain families liked to have close at hand. How else would Frances keep all those venomous rumors straight?
She turned left--then paused.
The doors to the drawing room were open, and a faint wash of yellow lamplight spilled out into the corridor. From within, she heard a light rustle of paper and the scratch of a quill.
Perhaps she ought to retreat and save this errand for the morning.
However, even Charlotte--poor investigator that she'd proved to be thus far--could deduce that there was only one soul in this house who would still be awake and working at this hour.
A peek around the doorjamb confirmed it.
Of course it was Piers.
He sat at the escritoire, his back to her. And what a fine back it was--his strong shoulders defined by a crisp linen shirt, and a buttoned waistcoat tapering his torso to a trim waist. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and a tower of half-opened correspondence loomed on the corner on the writing desk. As he sliced open a sealed envelope, his physicality was palpable. He might have been a stonemason, settling down to build an empire with bricks of paper and mortar made from ink.
First, she'd slipped in through his window. Then, he'd surprised her in the garden a few nights ago. It was her turn again.
Charlotte set the candle aside. Then she walked on tiptoe, crossing the carpet as though the embroidered medallions were steppingstones across lava, holding her breath and coming to stand just behind his tufted leather chair.
She placed her fingers lightly over his eyes, like a blindfold. "Guess who?"
Except that it came out more like "Geh--ack!"
In a swift motion, he shoved his chair back from the table and grabbed her by the forearms. She found herself inverted, pulled directly over Piers's shoulder. She landed in his lap, both her arms pinned with one of his, breathless.
And with every racing heartbeat, a cool, metallic point throbbed against her pulse.
He had the letter opener held to her throat.
"Charlotte." He cast the impromptu weapon aside, releasing her. As she started to breathe again, he rubbed his face with his hand. "Jesus."
She was dizzy, still a bit breathless from her somersault. Her shift had tangled about her legs, and her hair was everywhere. She laughed a little, as was her habit in moments of awkwardness.
"It's not amusing," he said.
"I know."
"I could have hurt you. I could have . . ."
Killed you.
She realized for the first time what should have been obvious since he'd dismantled the cutpurse in that alleyway.
In all likelihood, given his chosen duty, Piers had taken lives.
It was a sobering thought. But on reflection, it didn't make him any different from most men of his generation, thanks to England's endless wars on multiple continents. She doubted he'd found any pleasure in it. So few of them had.
He ran his hands down her arms, scanning her body for injuries. Now that the clamor of her own pulse had quieted, she could feel the rapid thump of his heart. The tension coiled in his arms and shoulders.
"I'm not hurt," she said. "And I'm not frightened. I'm fine."
"You must stop creeping up on me like that."
"But it's the only way you'll let me close."
He smelled of brandy and warm linen and the musk of his skin. The collar of his shirt hung open, and she could see the muscles of his neck, the dark hair on his chest.
She slid her fingers under his shirt, gliding an exploratory touch along the ridge of his collarbone. "What are you doing up so late?"
"Just going over correspondence."
"Correspondence?" She raised an eyebrow. "And what kind of correspondence would that be? Diplomatic affairs? Parliamentary business? Or encoded spy letters, written in invisible ink?"
He flipped open a leather folio and fanned the contents with one hand. "See for yourself."
Charlotte looked at the papers splayed across the desk blotter.
They were architectural plans and decorative schemes. Diagrams of a building, floor by floor. Interiors painted in washes of color with samples of fabric attached. All of it tasteful and surely expensive. She sifted through the sketches until she located a view of the exterior: a grand facade with Grecian-inspired columns and large, modern windows. The cost of glazing those windows alone . . .
"Is this Oakhaven?" Despite herself, she was a bit dazzled by the idea of being mistress of such a place.
"No, no. That's the dower house."
"Dower house?"
"It's a mile or so down the lane. Close enough for visiting, but well out of earshot. Surely you didn't think I'd permit your mother to live with us? God, no."
He chuckled. Could it be that after the better part of a week, this was the first time she'd heard him laugh?
He had a lovely laugh, too. Deep and warm. He really ought to use it more often. She would have to work on that.
He plucked a paper from beneath the others and drew it to the top. "That's Oakhaven."
She looked at the drawing, alarmed. "Goodness. It's enormous. Whatever do you do with it?"
"Not much of anything, lately. It's rather a lonesome place for one."
As he sorted through the drawings and diagrams with one hand, his other hand caressed her back. His fingers traced up and down her spine, treasuring her vertebrae as though they were pearls on a string.
"The furnishings are in good condition, of course, but you'll likely find them outdated in style. You'll see potential for a great many modernizations and improvements, I hope."
I hope.
Her heartbeat caught on those two little words. Did he hope, truly? Could he want a lifetime with her--even see her companionship as a way to make his vast, grand, important life a bit less cold and empty?
The idea touched her.
And so she touched him, more boldly this time, easing his shirt aside and adjusting her position on his lap until she straddled his hips.
The searing heat of his mouth met hers, and she melted into it, giving herself over to the mastery of his kiss and the warmth of his embrace.
Oh, this man. He'd built a wintry fortress around himself--whether out of desire, necessity, or both, she didn't yet know--but inside it, he was anything but cold.
He broke the kiss. His eyes were lit with blue flames. Possessive, desirous.
Even his gaze could arouse her, all on its own.
"Go to bed, Charlotte," he said.
She poised herself to remind him that commandin
g her to do one thing was the surest way to make her do the opposite, and really--he ought to know her better by now.
But then it struck her.
He wasn't a fool. He did know her better by now.
He must understand that commanding her to go was tantamount to daring her to stay, and he intended to provoke precisely that rebellious response.
He wanted her here. With him.
She wanted the same.
She lifted his hand and cupped it over her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple through the fabric of her shift, sending ripples of pleasure through her.
Bending her head, she kissed his throat. The underside of his jaw was deliciously rough with whiskers. She shifted in his lap and nestled closer still.
The swelling ridge of his arousal pressed against her thigh.
She teased it, dragging her knee a few inches up . . . then down.
The motion was like dropping a spark on dry tinder. In an instant, his hands were on her, all over her, possessive and claiming. Gripping and twisting the linen of her night rail, cupping her backside and bringing her hips flush with his.
He kissed her deeply, moaning into her mouth as he guided her hips up and down, rocking her against the hard, thick ridge of his erection. The rhythmic pressure sent bliss swirling through her.
"It's good?"
She nodded, breathless. "Yes."
"When we're wed," he said huskily, sliding his hand under her shift, "it will be even better. I'll be inside you. Here."
His fingertips slid up the quivering slope of her thigh, until they found the center of her. His touch teased up and down her sex until she thought she would go mad. She could not have brought herself to ask for what she needed, but her body knew. And so did he.
She ached to be filled.
At last, he slid one fingertip inside her. She whimpered with relief, wrapping her arms about his neck and clinging tight.
"Like this," he whispered against her ear, moving his hand in a firm rhythm. "Deep. And hard. Over and over."
"Please . . ." She gasped. "Don't stop."
"Never. I'll never stop until you come." His thumb circled the swollen bud at the crest of her sex. "You do understand what that means? You've touched yourself here?"
Charlotte nodded, breathless. "Innocent, not ignorant."
"Good."
His approval emboldened her. She began to move with him, seeking more of the exquisite pleasure he gave. She did understand the paroxysm of pleasure a woman's body was created to feel, and she had learned how to bring it about herself. But it had never, ever been like this.
Her body was aflame, alive with need. It seemed unfair, his ability to drive her to distraction while remaining so cool, controlled . . .
Relentless.
She bit her lip.
"That's it. I need to feel you come for me."
All the rebellion had been sapped from her, washed away in the encroaching tide of desire. She rode his hand, shameless, climbing to a peak so devastating she was certain to cry out.
He captured her mouth in a kiss, and she sobbed into it, grateful, clutching his neck tight while the climax dissolved her to jelly from the navel down.
When the waves of pleasure subsided, he gathered her in his arms, drawing soothing circles on her back as her breath calmed and her pulse slowed.
As she returned to herself, a small sense of mortification whispered at her from the shadows of her upbringing. His fingers had been inside her, slick with the moisture her body had created. She held fistfuls of his shirt in her hands, and perspiration had broken out on her brow.
It was all very unladylike. But she wasn't supposed to be a lady in times like these, just a woman.
She wanted to see Piers like that. Stripped down to a man--raw, elemental, animal. Panting and damp with sweat. She wanted to see him lose himself. She wanted to break through his defenses like a blazing meteorite and leave nothing but a smoking ruin.
She wanted him. More than she'd ever wanted anything.
Her heart swelled with a sudden, bewildering tide of affection.
"Piers?"
He must have heard the confusion in her voice.
"Hush." He stroked her back in that same, calm rhythm, ignoring his unsatisfied arousal. Denying his own needs while tending hers. "It's natural to feel a rush of sentiment afterward. Women often do. It will pass."
Would it pass?
Or would it deepen, like a hole widening in the earth? One misstep, and she would tumble and fall in love with him forever?
She wasn't feeling terribly bold or clever any longer. She felt small and fragile and very confused.
"I don't suppose this is why you came downstairs." He brushed the hair from her brow.
"No."
"Was there something you needed?"
She nodded, willing her muddled thoughts to clear. "A book. The Peerage. I need to check again for C's."
"Charlotte." He tipped her face to his. "You don't need to do anything of the sort."
The meaning in his gaze was clear. He'd just spread on this desktop, in black and white, the proof that he intended to provide handsomely for her, and for her family, as well. He'd given her both searing pleasure and tender protection. He'd whispered those intriguing words: I hope.
And maybe--just maybe--he'd made her start hoping, too.
Charlotte could all but hear her mother's voice: Foolish girl, what more could you want?
Love.
Love was what she wanted. What she'd always wanted. More than fine houses or the title of marchioness. Even more than breathless orgasms, lovely as those were.
Could she come to feel love for Piers? Could he ever feel the same toward her? He kept his heart so closed off, so walled away. If he'd courted her purposely, that might have given her a foundation to build dreams upon, but there could be no assurances in a forced match.
She could hope all she wished, but before surrendering her life to a man, Charlotte needed to know.
"I . . ." She pushed herself off his lap, arranging her shift and dressing gown as she stumbled to the side table and gathered the book. "I just want to be sure. That I haven't missed anything. Good night."
She clutched the book to her chest and hurried from the room.
She needed this book. She needed to find the mystery lovers.
She needed certainty, now more than ever before.
Chapter Twelve
Charlotte was going cross-eyed.
Debrett's Peerage was a book of nearly nine hundred pages, all of them printed in minuscule type. Despite the free time afforded by another rainy day, she still had more than two hundred of them to search.
The ladies had assembled in the drawing room, just as they had for the past two days of foul weather. Mama was nibbling squares of shortbread and leafing through a ladies' periodical. Delia sketched, Frances worked at a bit of embroidery, and Lady Parkhurst played solitaire at the card table.
Charlotte sat alone by the rain-streaked window.
"I'm so glad you are finally taking an interest in that book," Mama remarked.
"Is this a recent development?" Frances asked. "I would have wagered you had your own copy memorized. If not annotated."
Charlotte ignored the baiting comment. Frances would not distract her from the task at hand.
It would have been much easier if she knew the C corresponded to a surname or title. But it was just as likely to correspond to a Christian name, which necessitated scanning each page and, when she located a C, flipping back to the peer with whom she was associated and checking the location to see if the lady might reside anywhere nearby.
And of course, if the woman in the library was not somehow related to a peer, baronet, or knight, the entire exercise would have been a waste of time.
Weaver, Lady Catherine . . . Lincolnshire.
Westwood, Hon. Cora . . . Devon.
And then . . .
Then!
White, Hon. Cornelia . . . Nottinghamshire.
/> The name White was familiar to her. She thought she remembered seeing it on Lady Parkhurst's guests--but then it was such a common name, she might be imagining it.
"Lady Parkhurst, was there a Mrs. White at the ball last week?"
"Nellie White?" Lady Parkhurst looked up from her cards. "Oh, yes."
Nellie. Short for Cornelia. She must be the one.
Charlotte tried to rein in her excitement. It might come to nothing, after all.
But all the signs were there. Mrs. Cornelia White had been at Parkhurst Manor. She had the right initial. Did she have dark hair?
"I'm trying to picture her in my mind. Was she the one with the . . ." Charlotte gestured toward her head.
"Dreadful yellow turban?" Lady Parkhurst sighed. "Yes. I have tried to talk the dear thing out of it, but she won't be moved."
Drat.
Though Charlotte was encouraged by the indication that the lady preferred bright colors.
"I don't suppose we could pay her a call," she said to Delia.
Delia made a face. "Why we would do that?"
"Well . . . we had a brief discussion of books. She mentioned a novel that sounded so interesting, but I've forgotten the title. I'd like to ask her."
"She lives all the way over toward Yorkshire," Delia said. "Much too far away for a morning call, I'm afraid. Perhaps you could write to her."
Oh, yes. Charlotte could write to the woman she'd never actually met, inquire after a book that didn't exist, and ask her to kindly enclose a lock of her hair with the reply. That would be well received.
"No need to write." Lady Parkhurst turned over a card. "You may ask her at the hunt."
"The hunt?"
"Father hosts a foxhunt every autumn and invites all the gentlemen from the area," Delia explained.
"It will take place the morning after next, if the weather clears," Frances said. "The ladies don't ride to hounds, of course. We ride up to Robin Hood's Hill and observe the spectacle."
Delia shuddered. "The bloody, violent spectacle. I despise hunting."
"Perhaps you could take your watercolors and paint the countryside," Charlotte suggested.
"I've painted the view from that hill a hundred times, in every light and every season. I'd much rather stay home."
In any other situation, Charlotte would have gladly stayed home with her. But this could be her only chance to see Mrs. White again.
"What about you, Miss Highwood?" Lady Parkhurst asked. "Will you stay back, too?"
Charlotte gave Delia an apologetic look. "I . . . I think I would like to go. I've never seen a hunt before, and I'd love to walk in the footsteps of Robin Hood. Only, I don't have my own horse."