“Well, it would have been nice to have been invited.” She knew Edward was about to scold her, and she interrupted before he could. “In my own home. After all the dinner parties I’ve thrown on your behalf, you can’t even invite me to this one.”
“Char…” There was a faint note of warning in his tone. They had argued about John before. Edward had a ridiculous notion that she and John would not be a good match, which might have been true when John was a second son who never ventured out into society, but he was the viscount now. And in London. He would have to be out in society. John would be a perfectly acceptable match.
“Theleastyou could do is inform me that we’re having guests for dinner, given that it will throw my entire meal plan off for the week.”
“He is not for you and you are not for him,” Edward said bluntly, ignoring her comment.
Charlotte’s face heated. “You’re being quite presumptuous to think that he’s even on my mind.” But of course, he had been. The moment she’d heard of the previous Lord Harrow’s passing, the possibility of John returning had wormed its way into her brain.
Her silly little heart had leapt and the equally silly voice in her head had whispered that he was who she was waiting for. He was why she’d never accepted a proposal, even when she’d decided she would. He was why the wordnohad snuck out of her mouth every time, unbidden. She’d never have admitted it to herself when he was gone from England and unlikely to return, but now that he was home, she couldn’t hide from the fact of it.
And Edward suspected the truth. She was sure that he did. She would not give him the opportunity to wrest it out of her, though. “Good night, brother,” she said before their conversation became a spat that the duke would inevitably win. “I’m going up.”
***
John’s cheeks burned the entire walk home. It wasn’t a long walk—Harrow House was on the other side of the Mayfair block. The two homes even shared a garden wall—and by the time he strode up the front stairs, his embarrassment had not abated.
His behavior had been unacceptable. It had been unacceptable for a viscount, who would be expected to manage basic conversation, and unacceptable for a gentleman, who would be expected to treat his friend’s younger sister with at least a modicum of cordiality.
But John hadn’t been prepared to talk with anyone other than Wilde and Fi tonight. Socializing with strangers consumed an enormous amount of energy, and untangling his brother’s financial knots had left him with little to spare. The sight of Charlotte, grown now into a woman, had felt—big. Consequential. He couldn’t accurately describe it.
It was as though the very sight of her burned through every molecule in him and hearing her voice would burn through the remnants of that, leaving him changed in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
Perhaps, if the conversation had started out more benignly—a “Good evening. How do you do?”—he might have mustered up a few lines before excusing himself.
What are you doing here?
Lady Charlotte’s terse inquiry had been a sharp reminder that he was unlikely to find an easy welcome in this society. Not from people who adored Walter, who mourned his passing and likely resented John’s presence. Not from people expecting a lord and getting a poor facsimile instead. And apparently not from someone who, had he thought about it, might have been predisposed to give him a chance, given his close relationship with her family.
Had Charlotte crossed his mind at all in the past few years, he would have hoped that during their first encounter in almost a decade she’d have been a little less…frosty. As it was, the appearance of Edward’s sister had come as a complete surprise. More surprising was the realization that the child who’d hung in the peripheries during his youth was a child no longer.
No, Charlotte was all grown up. Tall, willowy, with a jaw as stubborn as her brother’s, a complexion that had flushed pink as she’d seen him, and penetrating deep blue eyes that had, for a brief moment, stolen all breath from him.
Had she crossed his mind at all in the years since he’d seen her, he’d have anticipated that she’d be a beauty. It was logic. She shared the striking Wildeforde features.
She hadn’t crossed his mind, though. In his head, Charlotte had remained a spindly young girl in braids, a pinafore, and pantaloons. Perhaps it was that dissonance that had thrown him off. Rarely was his brain so out of step with reality.
He pulled a large key from his coat pocket. Yesterday, upon returning to Harrow House for the first time in a decade, he’d been forced to let go the people who worked there. It had been regrettable. He didn’t like to put anyone out of work, but he couldn’t pay the wages for more than a skeleton staff. He would make do with a butler, a housekeeper, and a cook. That was still three more servants than he was used to. Three people with whom he shared his space.
Given he’d been opening his own front door since he left for Oxford, he’d discharged Mosely from that duty, along with most other duties as recompense for the half pay. The butler could attend the door for visitors, but John needed no such assistance.
Besides, the fewer people forced to live his odd hours, the better.
He unhooked a lamp from beside the front door and lit it using the sole burning wall sconce. With his financial situation the way it was, there was no budget for leaving rooms and hallways lit when he wasn’t home.
He made his way to the study, smiling to himself as a loud, snuffling snore broke the silence. Newton, the Scottish deerhound whose long body stretched the entire length of the chaise longue, had his head propped up on the arm of it. He opened one eye as John placed a lamp in the corner of the desk, and his tail waved slowly, before his eyes closed again and the snoring resumed.
There was just enough light from the lamp for John to read. To distract himself from his misstep with Charlotte. The new edition ofGerman Review of Physicssat on his desk between his correspondence with a biologist from Paris and the latest business reports from the engineering firm he shared with Fiona and their business partner, Benedict Asterly.
The firm was on track to deliver its next shipment of steam engines by the end of the year. There would be a lump sum payment on delivery, but that was too far away to be of any use to John’s current situation. They had discussed the idea of expanding the firm’s production capabilities, but that would require an upfront injection of cash—an investment he was no longer in a position to make.
Damn.He pushed away from his desk and stood at the tall windows that looked out into the darkness of the garden. As he rested his arm against the glass and his head on his arm, the trappings of a London town house almost disappeared. He could pretend for a moment that he was back in a small, one-room house on the outskirts of Boston.
***
She couldn’t help it. Charlotte had gone back to her rooms in a huff and had been about to climb into bed when she’d noticed a flare of light from the darkness outside her window. Habits formed a decade ago kicked in. She quickly padded to the window.
Her bedroom, on the topmost floor of Wildeforde House, directly overlooked Viscount Harrow’s backyard. Nothing of interest had occurred in that garden for years—not since John had left for Oxford. Walter, the last viscount, and his father before him had occasionally taken a stroll along the manicured paths, but neither had caught Charlotte’s attention. The thirteenth Viscount Harrow had been old and mean, and the fourteenth Viscount Harrow had been all too aware of his own good looks and supposed charm. London had fallen at Harrow’s feet and the women of her acquaintance had fluttered and fawned at his attention, but he’d always given Charlotte the shivers.
