One Night Is Never Enough Read online

  “Charlotte.”

  She waited a moment, unwilling to break her vigil, then turned to observe her father.

  His shirt was slightly unkempt. Undoubtedly, he was fetching her after spending the night with his mistress. Consoling himself in the woman’s arms, as usual. His marriage bed cold and fallow, as it had been for as long as Charlotte could remember.

  “You are well?” he asked gruffly.

  Charlotte often saw her father’s mistress on the edges, in the market, at the theater, in the crowd at Vauxhall, waiting for the family to leave, eager, almost desperate, to service her longtime lover in the dark walks as soon as he broke free.

  Her knuckles fell from her lips, fingers curling more tightly over the chess piece. “He didn’t beat me, if that is what you are asking,” she said in a voice as dismissive as she had ever dared with her father.

  His hands fisted. “That wasn’t what I was asking.”

  “Ah. Then in any other instances of wellness, I assure you that I am as fine as I can be, given the circumstances. He didn’t touch me.”

  She resisted the urge to brush her lips again. He hadn’t touched her in the way her father was thinking, at least.

  Her father’s worn features relaxed a measure. “Good.” Though she wasn’t sure if he believed her words or if he just wanted to believe them. “I tried to bargain him out of it. To offer . . . other things. But he refused. I will remember better in the future.”

  She again wondered what else her father could have offered. The danger of her words of assurance hit her a second too late. She could see his thinking twisting to assume there had been nothing wrong with what he had done.

  Something about the night, about the strange and twining conversations she had had with Roman Merrick, wedged within her, in part confusing her and in part giving her added strength.

  “R—Mr. Merrick seemed to think of the situation as a lark.” She kept her voice as even as she could, for nothing about Roman Merrick’s eyes had indicated anything of the sort. “But, if you do such a thing again, I will not save you.” She said it calmly, making him meet her eyes. “I will let you burn.”

  “You—” His voice was clipped.

  “No.” She smiled without humor. Her father’s actions had led to her spending one night with the man, a night on the edge of scandal and ruin. Her own actions had promised her to him for another. “You have nothing to say to me on this matter, Father, unless it is to tender an apology. I will marry well. For the family. For Emily and Mother. But you will have to save yourself next time, Father.”

  The carriage pulled to a stop, and she exited without turning to see the expression on his face.

  She opened the front door. Her father had wisely dismissed their four servants the night before—giving them a rare night off. All had been eager to take it. For every servant her father dismissed added additional burdens to the others.

  He closed the front door behind them. “Charlotte.”

  There was an appeal there, wrapped in the hard dignity that continued to break and crumble around him with each passing day. An appeal for which she had so desperately yearned a year past. One that promised more pain should she open herself to the plea. She hardened her thoughts instead. Survival.

  She would be the proper daughter. The proper society miss. The proper hostess. All she had to do was wrap her mantle of cold dignity tight across her shoulders. And that included shutting out anything that caused pain.

  If there was one thing the night and events surrounding it had taught her, it was that she needed to secure Emily’s fate herself before anyone else did it for her.

  She clutched the chess piece in her grip as she headed for the stairs without turning. “Good day, Father.”

  Charlotte held herself firmly upon the edge of the embroidered seat, chin set, as she accepted a saucer and cup from the hostess. She offered the illusion of a smile and crisp words of thanks, as the hostess preferred. Charlotte balanced the delicate china upon her knee, calmly surveying the dozen other women, young and old.

  Looking for any sly glances or uncontrolled body positioning that would suggest that one of the women had something to reveal. News that would indicate last night was anything other than a strange dream of hers alone. That the knowledge of her night in Roman Merrick’s lair had escaped into the rumor mill.

  It had taken every ounce of courage to come here, her first and most important stop. The place where ladies were broken every day.

  Miranda, Lady Downing, took her offered cup more enthusiastically and immediately lifted it to her lips, as two of the other ladies had done. Before she could take a sip, she caught Charlotte’s eye over the rim, caught the slight signal Charlotte was sending, and set the cup down without a taste, making the china give a tinkle. Miranda didn’t quite cover her chagrin, and Charlotte sought to direct attention elsewhere.

  “What a lovely new stitch, Lady Hodge.” She nodded toward the delicate webbing on the table. “I regret that I haven’t quite mastered the turn of a needle so well. Your work is to be admired and studied, as always.”

  “Nonsense, Miss Chatsworth.” The woman smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile, but neither was it the cold one she had leveled on most of the others in the room. “I have seen your pieces, and they are the work of a budding lady of great import. If only all of the young ladies held such an eye or grace.”

  The older woman cast a dissatisfied look upon a few of the young ladies, who sent discreet glares in Charlotte’s direction when the hostesses holding this “social” weren’t looking. But Charlotte was well used to the glares. And was simply grateful they weren’t accompanied by the smugness of knowledge awaiting revelation.

  She didn’t let her shoulders droop in relief, nor any other expression of release cross her features. Indeed, she strangely felt more tight. The balloon distending further.

  She shook the peculiar reaction aside. What mattered was that Miranda’s blunder had been forgotten. Downing would sneer that his wife didn’t have to please or impress anyone. But Miranda had confided a week ago, at the beginning of the season—Miranda’s first, since she hadn’t been a part of society before marrying Downing, and they had taken a year after their marriage to tour the continent—that she was determined to breach the inner sanctum of one of the strictest matrons in society in order to make things easier for some of her husband’s scandal-ridden family members, a notion Charlotte was quite familiar with. And here, impeccable manners spoke for themselves.

  A plate of wonderfully fragrant scones was spread on the table—smelling of cinnamon and sugar and fresh-from-the-oven sin—and Miranda’s shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly, nose edging toward them. Charlotte tipped her head a fraction to the left, and Miranda straightened with a wistful look. She copied Charlotte’s posture, squaring her shoulders, ramming steel down her spine.

  Charlotte withheld a grim smile, partly from amusement at her friend’s response but mostly from an edge of irrational anger at the game she was forcing her friend to play. She pressed the thoughts down, into the void, and tipped her head to the right and “Mmmm’ed” in feigned curiosity to another lady’s comment on a painting. A neutral gesture that withheld judgment but didn’t show support. The other woman would do well to stop speaking.

  “It is a piece with great composition and detail. Why look at how the tree sits just so,” the woman said, words tripping over each other as she gathered momentum and took the gathering silence as support. “It must have been in your family for generations.”

  “Lord Hodge picked it up last weekend.” Cold scorn underlined each word. “Wretched new painter with none of the classic strokes. As soon as a requisite amount of time has passed for Lord Hodge to forget about it, I shall have it removed posthaste.”

  The matrons exchanged coldly amused glances about the nature of “handling” husbands. But Lady Hodge sent a frigid glance to the woman who had made the comments. The woman blanched. Miranda looked at her sympathetically.

/>   Charlotte felt the emotion too, but knew that to display such would only cause anger. Miranda could express sympathy. From Charlotte, people interpreted it as scorn.

  They saw what they wanted to see. And she didn’t possess the emotional skill to pull people into a warm embrace. She hadn’t even known how to properly hug another person until Emily had come into her life. She was . . . broken. Uttered in the dark of night, but true nonetheless, no matter what Roman Merrick said. Destined for a pedestal and a glass case. To be taken and displayed, coldly admired, then returned.

  Miranda opened her mouth to say something but quickly shut it again when Charlotte tipped her head left. Her friend looked as if she wanted to sigh, but gave an infinitesimal nod and held still.

  Miranda wanted the constraints. But she could play within them as soon as she wanted. Could cast them aside completely, should she choose. She was a viscountess, and she’d be a marchioness someday, married to a man powerful in his own right. For her, this was a case of dressing up, learning what society dictated, and shedding her domino should she decide she wasn’t having fun anymore.

  Miranda enjoyed that freedom because of her position. And that was directly due to whom she’d married.

  Charlotte gripped the edge of the delicate china. Emily would be able to do the same, would be able to revel freely in her emotions, when Charlotte established them so deeply into the ton that a typhoon wouldn’t shake a leaf from their tree. It was the promise she had made to herself. There was more than one woman in present company who got by on her sister’s reputation or that of her family. It was the way of the world. Leeway was given to those attached to the favored and to those in power.

  But such a path wouldn’t work for Emily or for Charlotte if Charlotte didn’t marry well and secure that legacy. Her present existence in the ton was based on future goodwill. People expected her to marry well and were trading on her future status.

  “And you, Miss Chatsworth. Are you recovered from whatever ailed you last eve?”

  Charlotte looked at her questioner. Bethany Case hated her with a depth of feeling that Charlotte didn’t think the woman even possessed for her own child, born a few months past.

  “I am. Thank you, Mrs. Case. It is kind of you to ask after my well-being. Merely a headache of the variety we’ve all experienced.” She dipped her chin but didn’t fiddle. Didn’t allow the thought that her whereabouts last night would destroy everything.

  In direct contrast to Emily’s fate given her success, should the tide turn, her sister would be drowned in the same. Emily’s fate was tied to hers. Should anyone find out about her father’s bet or about Roman Merrick . . .

  No. Her stomach gave a vicious squeeze. She wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  The conversation continued. Waits and feints, thrusts and parries. Some were brutally slashed, withering in their chairs, while others gained courage in given praise or known standing.

  “The lovely purples of the season are sinfully delicious,” said the daughter of a duke, who could get away with a bit of fast language.

  “Yes, though it’s unfortunate that some are so set in their ways that they will turn up their nose at the rest of us,” Bethany Case said. A number of the women smirked and nodded without looking anywhere in particular. It was the fifth such snide comment directed toward Charlotte.

  The barbs were meant to sting. Charlotte let them wash over her, having long practice in doing so. Let them flow off to join the gathered ice at her feet. The matrons watched, weighing and waiting.

  No matter her favored status, they wouldn’t “save” her; nor did she wish them to. How she handled conflict and jealousy was part of what would gain her their ranks. Besides, she didn’t allow Bethany Case’s utterances to hurt anymore. At one time she had wished to be Bethany’s friend, but she had come to the realization deep in the night that there were some women who were not meant to be her friends. That she would never overcome certain perceptions or insecurities. And that she had plenty of her own issues to deal with without shouldering someone else’s.

  Only the thought that Emily could be hurt by Bethany’s younger sister, and the other women in the room, if there wasn’t a shield hovering in the shadows, made her wish to prostrate and sacrifice herself. But she could be patient and wait. And they would deal with her in the same way they tiptoed around Lady Hodge.

  Charlotte smiled. “Lilac is a lovely color that will look well against your features, Mrs. Case. I have always thought your eyes a lovely shade. Soft purple will only enhance their color.”

  This is what she’d been bred for. What she knew. Where she excelled. A respected husband would cement her place. Allow her to build a fortress. A cold, wintry stronghold surrounded by a Stygian trench.

  Her teacup gave a tiny jerk on her knee, unnoticeable to the assembly, and she steadied it quickly, smiling. This was her stage. And every actress suffered from nerves, or so she had heard.

  She’d rule with kind words, underlined, if needed, with steel. But it was far too late for kind words to matter between Bethany and her. At least on Bethany’s side. Charlotte could find it well within herself to forgive Bethany if for no other sake than her sister’s. Still, kind words uttered did far more good than savage responses in a game like this.

  Lady Hodge’s teeth gleamed their dull gold. Bethany looked as if she had bitten straight through the rind of a lemon.

  “Kind of you, Miss Chatsworth.” Having to utter those words just about brought Bethany to her knees in distaste. And everyone in the room knew it.

  Game to Charlotte.

  Talk revolved around fashion for a few minutes before Bethany skillfully, with the determination of Sisyphus, got another chance.

  “I heard a rumor that the Shooves are bound for the Continent.” Permanently went unsaid. The couple had been in deep debt for years and had finally reached the end of their very long, knotted rope.

  Talking about it specifically was vulgar. But Bethany uttered it in such a way that she could have been simply saying that the couple was going to France or Italy for a monthlong visit. For she’d never say anything so rude.

  Bethany smiled at Charlotte. “Miss Chatsworth, I heard mention that your family was also interested in a trip to Paris.”

  Point to Bethany.

  Bethany continued. “It would be lovely for your mother to have an extended vacation. Such a dear woman, taking care of your paternal great-aunt so devotedly.”

  Two points to Bethany. The wretched woman had always dug as deeply as she could into why Viola Chatsworth was absent so frequently in society.

  Charlotte inclined her head. “Mother would love to see the Louvre again, of course.”

  “We were just discussing a trip,” Miranda said brightly. “Paris is fabulous. And in the summer, the Seine simply sparkles.”

  Charlotte felt a tendril of warmth curl, easing her stomach a smidge. She had been on her own for so long in this arena, it was hard to remember that she had an ally.

  “That is right, you were there, were you not, Lady Downing? Before your marriage?” Bethany’s voice sweetened though her words were pointed all the same. After all, Miranda had traveled to Paris after publicly showing herself as Downing’s mistress, then leaving him.

  “I was.” Miranda smiled brightly, then deliberately took a sip of her tea, something wicked shining in her eyes. “And Lord Downing wooed me back after our nuptials. Paris is a beautiful place to be in love.”

  More than one of the older women showed their distaste, yet Charlotte knew her own expression was just as wistful as those gracing the faces of the younger women.

  Bethany’s eyes narrowed before she smiled again. “How sweet. You are such a lovely new addition to our social gatherings.” A subtle reminder that Miranda was an interloper—another point to Bethany. “I’m so happy that those awful rumors of bets at White’s turned out to be false.”

  “Did they?” Miranda sipped again, eyebrow raised. “Perhaps they didn’t. What bets migh
t you be referring to?”

  Bethany set her teeth behind her smile, obviously having expected her comment to simply pass by. “Oh, I wouldn’t give credence to such things by speaking of them.”

  And Charlotte knew better than to say a word, but the words emerged anyway. “But you’re speaking of them right now, Mrs. Case.”

  If there was one thing someone like Bethany hated, it was to be directly confronted. “I am decidedly not, Miss Chatsworth. It is obvious that Lord and Lady Downing have a happy marriage, not in the least influenced by vulgar rumors of their prior relationship.”

  Charlotte said nothing more, for Bethany would simply snake through more passive, sickly sweet language designed to cut and entrap. Designed so that she could claim victimization—that her words had been taken out of context.

  Charlotte fleetingly imagined beating Bethany to a social pulp by taking the reins and getting Marquess Binchley to offer. Or finding the Duke of Knowles and dragging him to the altar.

  Or better yet, perhaps Roman Merrick might be enticed to “take care” of the woman. He was unlikely to require marriage to do so.

  The thought of marriage to him froze her stiff, so much so that she barely participated in the conversation for the rest of the visit.

  Miranda bumped her shoulder companionably as they walked down the path to the street. “You are going to the Delaneys’?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am as well. I can’t wait to see what they have in mind for the new charity center. Share a carriage?”

  Charlotte smiled, relief and uncertainty flowing through her equally. “That would be lovely.”

  It wasn’t an unusual request, or unwelcome. And far better to discuss anything . . . disgraceful . . . in the closed confines of a conveyance. It was that she would be asked questions at all . . . questions she wasn’t sure she could answer . . . that provoked the uncertainty.

  “The long way around, Giles, Benjamin,” Miranda called. Both men nodded, and Benjamin helped them ascend, then jauntily shut the door. The carriage moved slightly as Benjamin hopped into place next to the driver up top. Miranda turned back to Charlotte as they settled into place on the comfortable cushions. “I requested the closed carriage today on purpose.”