His father lowered the fork, his brows drawing together. “Confused? Why would you say such a thing?”
Charlotte fixed him with her chocolate-brown gaze. “I assume you’re a little befuddled, my lord. Why else would you walk around here in your housecoat, with no idea if you’ve had your dinner, eschewing good manners for impolite words and wearing your slippers in mixed company. And all the while able to speak cleverly about great literature.”
Charles’s mouth dropped open. She had managed to insult the earl every which way while putting him in his place and sounding like a charming guest at the same time. Not to mention finishing with her warm smile and practically a compliment. Then she sipped her wine.
He wanted to say, “Brava!” but held his tongue.
His father looked put out. “I am neither confused nor befuddled, young lady.”
“Then how do you explain your behavior?” she asked, tilting her head in a pretty fashion.
All of a sudden, this had become interesting, Charles mused.
The earl opened his mouth, then shut it. He would have to confess either to being a rude old codger or a befuddled one.
“I suppose I owe you an apology,” he muttered at last. “In my defense, we never have guests and this one,” he jerked a thumb in Charles’s direction, “never has a female ‘friend’ over. The only people who ever come in here are Pelham and Waverly. And you were right, the strawberry tart is delicious.” He turned to Charles. “You forgot to order me a glass of wine. Hurry, I’m parched. Now, what was this legal matter?”
To Charles’s amazement, the three of them had a brief but civil discussion about Rare Confectionery, and his father thought any expansion on New Bond Street to be “a capital idea.” Basically, although unasked, he gave Charlotte his blessing.
In another hour, with more wine having been drunk, Charles offered to take her home.
“It was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Rare-Foure,” his father said, standing to see them out.
“It was a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord,” she returned.
“Of course it was,” Charles muttered in her ear as they descended the staircase.
CHARLOTTE LAUGHED AND hugged the books to her chest. “Itwasa pleasure,” she insisted. “Your father is delightful.”
Lord Jeffcoat draped her cloak around her shoulders. Behind her, she felt him shake his head. “He was not,” he said close to her ear.
His breath tickled, but she didn’t move away as a frisson of excitement snaked down her spine.
“Not at first,” she clarified, “but after.”
“After you turned on your charm,” he insisted.
She couldn’t hold back her laugh. “I am known for it,” she confessed, hoping she didn’t sound boastful.
His lordship’s butler appeared. “Your carriage is ready, sir.”
“Thank you, Phelps.”
Charlotte abruptly realized how far she was stretching the bounds of hospitality. Whirling to face the viscount, she had to protest his next act of kindness.
“You mustn’t take me home. I showed up here uninvited, and yet you helped me with my legal concerns, you fed me, and you even lent me some books.” She patted the top volume. “I can easily hail a hackney.”
“As my best friend’s sister-in-law, I do consider you a friend,” Lord Jeffcoat told her, his blue eyes holding her gaze. “Besides, Pelham would throttle me if I let you go off into the darkness alone. Or the duchess would. Come along. It’s a short jaunt to Baker Street.”
“Precisely,” she protested, “so hardly worth you harnessing your horses.”
“Already done, and not by me, I assure you.”
The butler opened the door, and Lord Jeffcoat —Charles, as she now knew him to be— held out his arm to her. She placed hers through his and let him escort her down the two steps and along the short path to the awaiting carriage.
“After all,” he continued, “it’s not as if I went out to the mews to harness the mounts and put bits in their mouths.”
She hoped she hadn’t offended the viscount by inferring he had to do any menial work, but when he helped her into his clarence, which was lit inside and out, she could see that wasn’t the case.
