“Be well, Miss Rare-Foure.”
“And you, my lord,” she returned, aware of having to brush past him. She even caught scent of his cologne, turning her face toward him for the briefest moment before strolling out into the dimming light.
As she hurried toward the academy, wishing she were already there and not missing a minute of Lionel’s company, strangely instead of anticipating the evening ahead as usual, she was recalling the incredibly intoxicating aroma of Lord Jeffcoat, a smoky gingerbread scent with a hint of rum. Her father, who had made a good living trading in sugar, often had West Indies rum in his study, and naturally, Charlotte had tasted it with a squeeze of lime.
Most unusual and delicious, she mused, then shook her head to clear it of the image of the viscount.What on earth had got into her?
Chapter Two
Lord Charles Jeffcoat knew he was in trouble. Although he’d been in the company of Charlotte Rare-Foure on numerous occasions and even partnered with her at Pelham’s dinner table when his friend was still chasing that shallow earl’s daughter two years earlier, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really seen her before.
At the fancy dress ball at Marlborough House seven months prior, she’d looked pretty, of course, in colorful Turkish garb, with a mid-length blue skirt putting on display her brightly colored yellow and green silk pantaloons, along with allowing a hint of her ankles. Along with every man in the room, he’d also noticed her low-cut scarlet bodice — apropos to the costume, of course — showing off her shapely bosom. He hadn’t been able to forget the vision of her.
Beyond her looks, however, every time they’d met, he’d considered her to be a little light between the ears, wide-eyed at everything, elated by the duke’s dining room, thrilled at her sister’s wedding reception, and even spinning like a top to show off her silks at the costume ball. He’d considered her practically a child, except for her distinctly feminine attributes, and also a tad vain.
Today, watching her handle difficult customers and witnessing her extreme kindness to the boy, he realized Charlotte was a grown woman with something quite special about her. He could hardly credit himself inviting her spontaneously to the dowager duchess’s party the night before, but he hadn’t wanted to say goodbye.
Waverly would never let him live it down. Charles had tried to ignore his friend’s ribbing all evening and his muttering under his breath, “Come to dinner, saucy shopgirl, oh, do, please!” Charles nearly stabbed him with a fork by the end of therelevéscourse.
Now, in the light of day, seated at a table in the library at Lincoln’s Inn of which he was a member and had received his training, Charles had trouble keeping his mind on the law and off the impressive Charlotte. Taking off his spectacles, he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
She was not his usual cup of tea, to be sure. He had escorted a few women over the past few years, a head-strong granddaughter of a duke, a tart-tongued baronet’s sister, and, once, a Spanish princess to whom he’d almost given his heart, but she’d longed for home and he was an Englishman through and through.
Last Season, he’d avoided the debutante events and been mostly occupied with studying the law and the baronet’s sister. Her sharp tongue eventually sliced him one time too many, and he found he preferred the quiet of his own company, the solitude of his law books, or the irreverent and jolly fun of Waverly. Moreover, he’d been called to the Bar at Michaelmas and could now practice the profession.
Drawing a new pen from his pocket, he turned the page on his tablet of paper, put on his glasses, and went back to scrawling notes about his latest case. Unlike Pelham and Waverly, Charles knew his future was not in Parliament but in the courts. If his friends passed the bills, then Charles wanted to see the laws of the land upheld by arguing each case and demonstrating the right of it. Eventually, perhaps he might even become a judge.
“Why not?” he asked himself as long as he didn’t let a distraction like the tempting Miss Rare-Foure get in his way. At that moment, he realized he had sketched a pair of long-lashed eyes and a set of full lips on the top of a page that should already be filled with notes.
On the other hand, a man had to have balance in his life. She might have been busy the night before, but she might be open to him escorting her to a concert or a play. He supposed the only way to know was to ask her.
CHARLOTTE COULD BARELY drag herself into work, walking with sluggish feet down New Bond Street. She would have begged off work due to an aching head, which was the truth, and stayed home if she hadn’t loved her family so much. She simply couldn’t leave her mother and sisters short-handed on yet another busy day of Easter week.
In fact, she’d left for the shop earlier than usual to avoid any discussion over breakfast. Nevertheless, she walked reluctantly, not eager to be anywhere in particular. Her head down, staring at the pavement, Charlotte noted for the first time how gray it was. Everything in London was gray in fact. The buildings, the sky overhead, her reflection in the windows, the other people coming toward her or passing her by. Moreover, she seemed to have gained an enormous amount of weight overnight. Not only were her limbs leaden, her heart felt like a massive stone in her chest. Beyond all that, her eyes were the consistency of overcooked coddled eggs as she’d spent more of the night crying than sleeping.
Again, as countless times over the last few hours, her thoughts turned to Viola’s stricken visage when Charlotte had entered the art studio five minutes late.
Instead of being shocked that Viola had returned to class, she glanced past her to look for Lionel. Last night, however, he’d been absent from his spot, just an empty stool and easel. Then she’d really taken note of Viola. Something awful had happened, and her heart had tightened.Was Lionel hurt? Taken ill?
“What’s wrong?” she’d asked, scarcely able to breathe, not sure she wanted to hear.
“It’s my brother. He’s gone.” A tear had slid down Viola’s cheek.
Ignoring the fact that their teacher and all the other students were listening in, Charlotte gasped.
“Gone? Where? For how long?”
“To the Continent. Forever, I think.” Viola dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “He ran off with the model.”
“Mymodel,” their teacher had interrupted, derision in his tone.
Charlotte brought to mind the woman who often sat in the middle of their easels, her blonde hair over one shoulder in a cascade of riotous curls or up in an imitation of a Grecian style, and her attractive body draped in any manner of materials, sometimes velvet, sometimes silk. At times, their teacher gave her a vase to hold, or a mirror or even a piece of fruit.
In all the hours Charlotte had spent observing Lionel, she’d never noticed him paying special attention to the model. Not once. She, herself, didn’t even know the woman’s name.
“Miss Rare-Foure,” the teacher had said to Charlotte, his tone remaining irritated, “would you model for us tonight?”
She’d reared back, still shocked by the suddenness of Lionel’s departure. The enormity of his betrayal rained down upon her like a sudden London shower.Why had he kissed her if not to start something wonderful?
