Three Schemes and a Scandal by Maya Rodale Page B

Charlotte cry was when George Coney had died. No, that wasn’t quite right. When he laughed at her for thinking to bury the beloved pet with hymns and a recitation of memories. The worst, of course, was when she had encountered Dudley. With her pet. Over an open fire.
    The doctor actually sedated her with laudanum. The boys were soundly punished, and sent back to school early … before Charlotte had awoken.
    He’d always felt shame about how he acted that day.
    While he had not taken a bite, he had not tried very hard to stop Dudley, who threatened each and every day to dunk James’s head in the privy. He was a bully to this day, which made the whole thing worse. James had hurt the fragile feelings of a really terrific girl to impress a bloody idiot.
    And now tears were perched menacingly and he would be damned if she cried because he hadn’t defended or befriended her again.
    So he tugged her into the alcove so they might have some privacy. Immediately, he regretted it. There was barely enough room for them both and it was impossible to forget that she was no longer a girl, and very, very, very much a woman. Especially as every slightest movement resulted in a complete caress.
    “Charlotte you must not let him get to you,” he said. “My father is an arse.”
    She sniffed, and blinked back the tears. He allowed a small exhalation of relief.
    “He’s so ungrateful! The lengths I went to in order to issue a heartfelt apology! I invented an architectural motif for him, ” she hissed.
    “Upon which he lectured at length further solidifying his reputation as London’s architectural expert. You are too kind,” James said. She was either kind or insane; at the moment he was feeling charitably toward her for he could see the marvelous chain of events she had set in motion so that he and his father might mend their rift.
    “I know that. But why doesn’t he see it?” she asked, miffed.
    “Because he cares only for blocks of stone, architectural whatever and Gideon,” James said frankly. Beyond their alcove, the room was steadily emptying as Lord Capulet herded them out.
    “Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked, peering up at him with her big blue eyes. He would swear that she could read minds, and see through carefully constructed facades. No wonder so many men were terrified of her.
    “Not so much anymore,” James said with a shrug. It was a mild annoyance that he had reconciled himself to, like a blister that becomes a callus.
    A woman’s laugh punctured the silence that had fallen upon the room.
    James ducked his head out and saw Lady Layton and Lord Beaverbrook stumbling into the now empty library, clinging to each other in a manner than left no question as to their intentions.
    “I want to see the Eversham Motif,” Lady Layton giggled.
    “I’ll show you my motif,” Lord Beaverbrook growled. James thought he might be sick.
    James also realized that unless they acted now—
    Too late. Lord Beaverbrook locked the library door. And then he bent Lady Layton over the desk.
    James quickly yanked the sashes holding the curtains back, and the heavy velvet drapes fell together, enclosing him and Charlotte in a dark, secluded alcove in which it was impossible for them to stand without touching each other.
    “Well, this is compromising,” Charlotte remarked, uttering the understatement of the nineteenth century. They were stuck together in a small, dark space with another couple making loud, adulterous love on Lord Capulet’s desk.
    “It we get caught,” he clarified. It was their only hope. And then he prayed they would not get caught. How long could Lady Layton and Beaverbrook go at it? They just needed to wait them out and sneak out undetected. And pray no one looked for them in the meanwhile.
    “What about—” Charlotte asked, inclining her head toward the amorous couple, who were now loudly declaring the pleasure that they wrought upon each other.
    “If we just remain quiet, they won’t notice us