a complete disgust of me.”
"Is that what you wish?"
"It would certainly be for the best. For both of us.”
She looked up at him in the lamplight. She could see the imprint of her hand quite clearly, and it shocked her. And pleased her.
The street was solid beneath her feet, and she locked her knees so they wouldn't betray the lingering weakness. "Goodbye, Lord Rohan," she said. The door to Lina's house stood open, the footman waitig patiently. "I don't expect we’ll see each other again.” His smile was slow, mocking, irresistibly devilish. "Would you care to wager on that, my love?"
18
To Charlotte's relief Lina hadn't returned home yet. She wouldn't have to make excuses as to where she'd been, and by the time Meggie appeared from belowstairs, looking both rumpled and pleased with herself, Charlotte had managed to get her tears in check and regain some measure of composure. Her body still felt on the very edge of exploding, but by taking calm, deep breaths she seemed to be able to maintain her calm. To fight the crazed, irrational urge to run out the front door and down the streets back to Adrian's house.
"You've been tupped," Meggie said flatly, taking one hard look at her. "Miss Charlotte, I thought you knew better—"
"I certainly have not!" she said, managing to sound both innocent and indignant. "Lina and I got separated and I took a hackney home." She took a closer look at her lady's maid. "If anyone's been misbehaving, it's you. I thought you swore off men.”
"Have you seen the new undercoachman?" Meggie said with an appreciative smirk. "He could tempt a saint to lift her skirts, and Lord knows, I'm no saint. But don't try to change the subject. You've got that look about you."
"'That look comes from being tired. I just want to go to bed."
"As long as you promise you haven't already been to bed," Meggie said smartly.
"Or what? You'll refuse to serve me?"
"Don't be daft. Miss Charlotte," Meggie said, her voice softening. "You need a nice cup of tea, don't you? I can have Cook—"
The knock on the door stopped her in the midsentence, and Charlotte's heart flew into her throat. It was Rohan, come back for her. It didn't matter why or how, she'd do anything he wanted. No one would make a social call at this hour—there was no one else it could possibly be.
She jumped to her feet, moving toward the door, when Meggie moved in front of her, a troubled expression on her face. "Mr. Jenkins will answer the door, Miss Charlotte," she said. She felt herself flush. At this rate she'd never be able to fool anyone. She sat back down, determined to be calm.
Why had he come back? He must have been feeling as bereft as she was. Was there any way she could throw herself into his arms and beg him to carry her off and finish ravishing her?
Of course there was. All she had to do was ask. Tell him. Proving to everyone she'd finally lost her mind.
Jenkins appeared at the salon door, his long face showing no reaction to the unexpected visitor.
"The Reverend Simon Pagett to see Lady Whitmore. I explained she wasn't at home, but he's asked to wait, and I wondered if you might be willing to receive him in her place. Miss Spenser."
Not by a blink of an eye did she show her reaction. And yet Meggie moved close enough to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Sorry, love," she whispered.
Meggie had always known more than she should, and been far too quick to guess the rest. Charlotte straightened her back, cursing herself for a fool. "Of course we'll receive him, Jenkins. Lady Whitmore should return at any time now."
A moment later the vicar was ushered in, and Charlotte had her first chance to gel a good look at him. She'd seen him at a distance when she'd arrived back at Hensley Court, bruised and battered and badly shaken from her fall, but she hadn't been able to form an opinion. Now she needed a distraction quite badly, so as she rose and curtsied she took covert stock of him.
Interesting. Lina had told her he was old, and sour, and mean-spirited and quite the most miserable human being she had ever met, and if she never saw him again she would be very glad.
She'd lied. Simon Pagett was probably somewhere short of forty, with a lean, wiry body and the kind of face that