their arcane jokes. It didn’t really, but she didn’t care. The laughter was exhilarating, and she seemed to have been effortlessly accepted as part of the group.
At one point, a frowning older woman came by and extracted Lydia Trent, leading her away like an erring child. Everyone seemed to find this hilarious. Charlotte’s glass never emptied, somehow, no matter how often she sipped. The food was exotic and delicious. This was the kind of evening she’d imagined, Charlotte thought, years ago in Hampshire, stuck miles from any sort of true society. Here were people with a sense of fun, ready to enjoy themselves and happy to welcome others with the same bent. She grew giddy with the sheer joy of it. She laughed along with them at the jokes she didn’t understand and joined the numerous toasts that Tony proposed. He seemed to have a penchant for toasts.
Much later, driving home, very correctly, with Lady Isabella, she found it hard not to giggle at everything she said. Fortunately, her hostess was preoccupied by some juicy anecdotes she had picked up during the evening. She dropped Charlotte at the Wylde house without lengthy farewells, departing as soon as she saw the front door open.
Charlotte danced in and stopped dead when she discovered that Sir Alexander was the doorkeeper. “Where’s Ethan? Or the other one—what’s ’is name? James. That’s it. Same as your father.” She giggled.
“I sent them to bed. It’s very late.”
“So late it’s gone to early,” she agreed. This had been a phrase of her father’s. “You’re playing footman?” She giggled again.
“I take it you had a pleasant evening?”
“Wonderful!” Arms outstretched, she spun. “If only there’d been dancing. Can’t dance, though. Must mourn for Henry. Stupid!” She twirled faster, loving the way her velvet skirt belled around her, feeling her shawl slip, and letting it. The floor seemed to tilt suddenly; she missed her footing.
Sir Alexander caught her, held her effortlessly upright. She gazed up at him. “You’re frowning. Why frown so fierce?”
She swayed, and his arms tightened. They felt very right around her. Somehow her arms moved of their own accord. Her hands slid over his broad shoulders and laced behind his neck. The evening had been a mere taste of life and happiness. She wanted more.
“You’re… drunk.” Sir Alexander sounded strange.
“Not used to champagne,” Charlotte admitted. She giggled yet again. “It’s lovely, though. All those bubbles.” Moved by hope or impulse or desire, she stood on tiptoes, tugged him down, and kissed him.
It was sheer lunatic experiment at first. She wanted to know what it was like—a proper kiss, and a kiss from this particular man. Her only previous such experience had been with an awkward young man at a country assembly, and it had not gone very well. Charlotte knew there must be more to it, the way people spoke of passionate embraces.
Before she could think any more, Sir Alexander jerked her tight against him and took control of the enterprise with a demand and heat that melted her bones. No, she’d never been kissed before, hadn’t understood the meaning of the word. His mouth educated her, and she rushed to learn with every fiber of her body. This was lightning; this was glory.
Then it was over. He pushed her away, balanced her at a distance with a hand on each shoulder. Bereft, she reached for him. He let her go completely and stepped back. Charlotte swayed a little, mainly from disappointment.
“Can you get to your room without help?” He sounded furious. “Or must I ring for a servant?”
“Of course I can! I am not… drunk.”
“You’re giving a fine imitation of it then.”
Charlotte’s buoyant mood collapsed at his critical tone. He’d begun to sound like his uncle again. “Don’t you ever have fun? Just forget about everything and… and… revel in the moment? You’re so…”
“Unwilling to speak with you in this condition,” he interrupted.
“The condition of enjoying myself?” she taunted.
“I hope you enjoy tomorrow’s headache as much!” He turned on his heel and walked away, heading toward his study despite the hour. The door closed with a censorious snap behind him. Charlotte gathered her skirts and marched up the stairs, refusing to accept the possibility that they were tilting, just a little, now and then.
After a few minutes, Ethan eased through the swinging door at the back of the hall, walked quietly to the front door and shot the bolts. He hadn’t meant to spy; he’d only stayed up, despite the master’s permission to retire, to be