infatuation . . . but if so, it was infatuation with all the weight of unreasonable hope to lend it substance. Whether or not her father liked it, Charlotte, Lady Moncrieffe, was a significant inducement to him. She had a heady blend of physical and mental attractiveness that seemed custom-made to entice Dexter into taking foolish risks. And then there were the details of the mission itself to consider. The very pressing danger that the French might be on the brink of developing a weapon of devastating power. An undersea station, and some puzzle still to be solved there about which Charlotte hadn’t yet learned the particulars. He could swear his fingers itched with eagerness to get his hands on the inner workings of such a structure.
By the time he finished his relaxing beverage and set off once more, Dexter was beginning to wonder why he had hesitated even a moment in agreeing to the proposal. He would write Lord Darmont his formal acceptance the moment he reached home.
Four
NEW YORK CITY
ACCOMPLISHING A BELIEVABLE sham marriage was a good deal more complicated than either Charlotte or Dexter had anticipated. Subterfuge usually was.
First there was a new wardrobe for Charlotte to acquire, completely free of black and pewter and the ghastly dull lavender that had never suited her. Then there were parties and outings to attend with Baron Hardison, so that the always inquisitive folk of high society would see them together and not view the coming engagement as sudden or in any way suspicious. Charlotte had expected to hate every moment of this plunge back into the social whirl, but somehow it all seemed easier with Hardison there. He was so open, so friendly, and as he rarely left her side she always had somebody to talk to. Somebody interesting to talk to, at that. Dexter seemed to enjoy her company, which Charlotte found flattering if a bit disconcerting. She felt strangely inclined to giggle and bat her eyes at him, and had to remind herself often that it was all for show.
Their timeline was necessarily shorter than most courtships, given their need to sail to France as soon as practicable. A month or so into their dealings, there was a ball to attend, and a proposal to fake while there.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Hardison reassured her, scanning the crowd briefly as they waltzed around the perimeter of the Vanderbilts’ ballroom. “It’s too cold for the garden to be very crowded tonight. We nip out for a few minutes, then we’re back in. You’ll be wearing a ring and a blush, I’ll be looking unbearably smug, and the world will never know it isn’t all as authentic as can be.”
Charlotte nodded, her lips tight. She wanted to relax, to enjoy the night instead of just pretending to enjoy it. She had always loved dancing, and had had so few occasions to do so with Reginald.
This felt disloyal. While Reginald had certainly been a competent dancer—all properly raised gentlemen were competent dancers—the great clumsy bear who held her now had turned out to be head and shoulders above any man who’d ever ferried her around a dance floor. Figuratively and very nearly literally. Even in heeled slippers, Charlotte was short enough in comparison to Dexter that the top of her coiffure barely reached his shoulder. And the Baron, it transpired, was far more than a merely competent dancer. He could . . .
dance
.
He wasn’t clumsy at all, she had learned, despite his size. His body was as careful, as deliberate and gentle in its movements, as his hands had been on her head. She could still recall that moment in the stable yard so clearly, even a month later—the odd stillness that had overtaken her when he touched her, the funny little twist in her stomach. She’d felt taken over, and she felt taken over again in the waltz tonight. Dexter’s hand on her waist was as solid as a building, his firm grip on her gloved hand not painful but simply inexorable. He led, and she must follow. She
By the time he finished his relaxing beverage and set off once more, Dexter was beginning to wonder why he had hesitated even a moment in agreeing to the proposal. He would write Lord Darmont his formal acceptance the moment he reached home.
Four
NEW YORK CITY
ACCOMPLISHING A BELIEVABLE sham marriage was a good deal more complicated than either Charlotte or Dexter had anticipated. Subterfuge usually was.
First there was a new wardrobe for Charlotte to acquire, completely free of black and pewter and the ghastly dull lavender that had never suited her. Then there were parties and outings to attend with Baron Hardison, so that the always inquisitive folk of high society would see them together and not view the coming engagement as sudden or in any way suspicious. Charlotte had expected to hate every moment of this plunge back into the social whirl, but somehow it all seemed easier with Hardison there. He was so open, so friendly, and as he rarely left her side she always had somebody to talk to. Somebody interesting to talk to, at that. Dexter seemed to enjoy her company, which Charlotte found flattering if a bit disconcerting. She felt strangely inclined to giggle and bat her eyes at him, and had to remind herself often that it was all for show.
Their timeline was necessarily shorter than most courtships, given their need to sail to France as soon as practicable. A month or so into their dealings, there was a ball to attend, and a proposal to fake while there.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” Hardison reassured her, scanning the crowd briefly as they waltzed around the perimeter of the Vanderbilts’ ballroom. “It’s too cold for the garden to be very crowded tonight. We nip out for a few minutes, then we’re back in. You’ll be wearing a ring and a blush, I’ll be looking unbearably smug, and the world will never know it isn’t all as authentic as can be.”
Charlotte nodded, her lips tight. She wanted to relax, to enjoy the night instead of just pretending to enjoy it. She had always loved dancing, and had had so few occasions to do so with Reginald.
This felt disloyal. While Reginald had certainly been a competent dancer—all properly raised gentlemen were competent dancers—the great clumsy bear who held her now had turned out to be head and shoulders above any man who’d ever ferried her around a dance floor. Figuratively and very nearly literally. Even in heeled slippers, Charlotte was short enough in comparison to Dexter that the top of her coiffure barely reached his shoulder. And the Baron, it transpired, was far more than a merely competent dancer. He could . . .
dance
.
He wasn’t clumsy at all, she had learned, despite his size. His body was as careful, as deliberate and gentle in its movements, as his hands had been on her head. She could still recall that moment in the stable yard so clearly, even a month later—the odd stillness that had overtaken her when he touched her, the funny little twist in her stomach. She’d felt taken over, and she felt taken over again in the waltz tonight. Dexter’s hand on her waist was as solid as a building, his firm grip on her gloved hand not painful but simply inexorable. He led, and she must follow. She
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