“You’re not going to have an easy time of it,” she noted.
The viscount curled his lips in a wicked little half-smile. “I sincerely hope not.”
Rolling her eyes at his rakish reply, Charlotte glanced back along the path to see that the trio of young ladies were angling toward Lady Delia and her companions as if they intended to join them for a bit.
“Please, excuse me,” the viscount said with a short bow of his head before stepping away.
Charlotte wasn’t terribly concerned by his abandonment. Her attention had already inexorably shifted back to the marquess. Though he’d approached Lady Byrne and Lady Henmere to offer a polite greeting, he remained a few steps away and did not make any attempts at small talk. The awkwardness of that moment was palpable. Charlotte should have expected her aunt’s next move, but it still caught her off guard.
“Lord Redington, I do not believe you’ve been introduced to my niece,” she said with a wide smile, gesturing to where Charlotte stood off to the side. “Allow me to present Miss Charlotte Dickson. My dear, this is his lordship, the Marquess of Redington.”
As he turned to face her more fully, Charlotte lowered her gaze and quickly dropped into a curtsy. She would have wished to avoid this encounter altogether, but perhaps it was best to get it over with. She wasn’t worried that he’d recognize her from the Lyon’s Den—not with the mask and other distractions of that evening. But surely, he’d recall their collision at the Byrne ball.
“Miss Dickson. A pleasure,” he muttered, his tone as dull as everyone claimed him to be. It seemed he didn’t recall her at all.
Charlotte quickly straightened from her curtsy and lifted her chin to give him a stony stare. “Is it? Really?”
He’d already started to shift his gaze elsewhere when she spoke, but her contentious words brought his dark eyes swiftly back to her. She could see her aunt, standing slightly off to the side, eying them with concern, but she ignored it. There was nothing that would stop her from calling the man out for his previous treatment of her.
Never mind that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had already given her a taste of revenge…which didn’t go at all as planned. Charlotte was the only one who knew aboutthat, which meanthestill required a firm reprimand, lest he think his behavior that night should be allowed to go without comment or censure.
“Excuse me?”
Arching her brows and widening her eyes, Charlotte replied, “Oh, now you show contrition.”
He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate. His expression was tense and his stare dark when his eyes collided rather forcefully with hers.
Her body flooded with heat as a vision suddenly flashed in her mind. Him, on his knees. Head bowed, half naked, muscles trembling with tension.
Chapter Eight
Sangbleu.
Charlotte wanted to look away. She silently ordered herself to do so—was practically yelling in her own head.
For nearly a week, she’d managed not to think too deeply on the details of that evening in the Lyon’s Den. Yet now, in the middle of Hyde Park, she couldn’t keep the memories at bay. In an instant, she could feel the soft silk of the black chemise against her skin, the satin mask concealing her features, the heat of the moment making her sweat.
Desperate to restore her composure, Charlotte broke their eye contact, directing her gaze beyond him into to the line of trees in the distance.
“Have I offended you in some way?”
He spoke in a low tone that suggested he wished to keep their conversation contained. Glancing to her aunt, Charlotte noted that she and Lady Byrne had taken a few steps away from them. Had the countess maneuvered that on purpose? Traitor. No doubt she thought she was doing Charlotte a favor in allowing them a bit of privacy.
Lady Byrne’s daughter and Redington’s two cousins were also a little way off. His sister, however, stood off to the side,engaging in a private conversation of her own with Waring. Interesting.
Forcing a false smile that was one hundred percent for the benefit of anyone who might glance their way rather than the man at her side, she replied, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t even recall the incident.”
His tone was weighted with annoyance. “What incident?”
The odious arrogance in his voice was exactly what she needed to bolster her irritation and fend off her unwelcome rush of attraction.
Charlotte’s smile held firm as she replied, still without turning to look at him. “No doubt, I was simply one amongso very manychits constantly throwing themselves at you.” She suspected by his short, swift inhale, that he remembered the collision and his choice words. “It’s a good thing I wasn’t injured, not that you displayed even a moment of concern.”
“Are you saying I owe you an apology?” the marquess inquired, his tone slightly annoyed.
“Are you seriously suggesting you do not?” Before he could reply, she went on in a hushed but furious accusation. “Even if I had instigated the unfortunate encounter at Lady Byrne’s ball—which I did not—the most basic manners would dictate that you respond with at least a modicum of chivalry and respect. You, my lord, offered only derision and scorn, both of which were witnessed, I might add, which only compounds your offense.”
There was a tense silence, during which Charlotte expected the man to either berate her for her insolence or turn on his heel and walk away. When he did neither, she found herself holding her breath.
