It had only been three days since the queen’s edict, and suitors already dogged his steps, clogged his street, and generally made a bloody nuisance of themselves, all because he couldn’t say no when the dowager wrote and begged him to stand in for Julian and field the many, many offers made for Charlotte’s hand.
Had the scandal put off no one? It didn’t seem so from the surge of men who’d stepped forward when the queen dangled an heiress before the ton.
At the foot of the stairs to his club, he turned around to face the weedy man who’d followed him since Pall Mall and was now hunchedmiserably against a wrought-iron fence across the street and clutching his hat. “You there!” Wolfgang bellowed. “The answer is no!”
The weedy man seemed to expect nothing less. His chest deflated, he jammed on his hat and slunk off without a word.
Another man, rounder and entirely more pleased with himself, took the opportunity to step forward. “Allow me to present myself, Your Grace. The Honorable Digby Barnabas-Jones, son of—”
“No!”
“But, Your Grace—” began the man, before wilting to a halt under the heat of Warrick’s glare.
The Honorable Digby Barnabas-Jones was a large fellow, although Wolfgang still thought he might be able to turn him upside down and truss him to a lamppost, his arms tied tight but his mouth left free so he could warn other would-be suitors away.
If the magistrate raised concerns, Wolfgang could sit him down and ask him when, precisely, a homicide was justifiable. He could present as evidence the long line of men waiting outside his doorstep, or worse, the sonnet that some fool had thrust into his pocket only the night before. Surely poetry that bad was an extenuating circumstance?
Barnabas-Jones seized his courage. “Your Grace, I—”
Wolfgang narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, Jones, are you acquainted with Lady Charlotte?”
The man blinked. “I—well, not assuch. But once at Ascot I had the very great pleasure of standing somewhat near her.”
“Go toss yourself into a river, Jones.”
The man paled. “Pardon, Your Grace?”
“Toss yourself into the Thames before I’m tempted to do it for you.”
Wolfgang strode up the steps and into the blessed quiet of the club, in search of Lysander.
Damn Charlotte!
She’d been his own personal disaster from the moment they met, three years earlier, on a summer day down at Clare soon after he returned from Waterloo.
The first he’d seen of her was her hair. She was sprawled out on a settee, possibly napping, with the back of her head toward him so his vision filled with black curls, thick, rioting, and barely restrained by their pins.
When she heard the door open, she didn’t sit up or look over her shoulder. Instead she took the laziest option, letting her head fall over the settee’s arm so her forehead greeted him first, and then a pair of slanted, sleepy green eyes that went suddenly wide, and two lips stained purple-pink as if she’d just come in from nibbling blackberries, and finally the point of what looked like a decidedly stubborn chin. When those blackberry lips slowly curled into an upside-down grin, crooked and criminal, something turned over in Wolfgang.
There you are, rumbled a voice from deep inside, and for the first time since he’d realized how ill John was, the crushing worry Wolfgang carried lifted—just for a moment—and moved over to make way for a flicker of joy.
The tips of her toes peeped out from beneath her hem, and he saw a pair of ridiculous pink-and-gold slippers kicked under the table, and the thrust of—he’d given a jerky swallow—a pair of fucking perfect breasts. He’d taken in the outrageous puff of her sleeves and the frenzy of lace frothing up from her neckline, and for the first time he’d wondered if clothing, of all things, might have a sense of humor.
He found himself drinking in every detail of her, from the embroidery hoop on the floor next to her where she’d been stitching—he squinted and coughed back a laugh—what seemed to be dead frogs, to the way she managed to look lively while flat on her back, just as puppies carry a hint of their playfulness even in sleep. But what struck him most were her eyes. As she blinked outof sleep, he could almost watch her mind wake up behind them, whip-smart, curious, and just a bit restless, as if she were looking for a worthy opponent and had never quite found one.
How many men stood up straighter, trying to live up to those eyes?
Wolfgang had leaned back against the wall and crossed one boot over the other. “Lady Charlotte, I presume? I see I’ve caught you napping.”
What he meant was,Shall we cross swords?
That crooked grin of hers had widened. She’d sat up and raised her arms for a good, long, and frankly insolent stretch before peeping over her shoulder at him. “What you call napping, I call a prudent rest before battle.”
He laughed. “If that’s a challenge, I accept.”
What he meant was,When I play, I aim to win.
It was Charlotte’s turn to study him. “Whoareyou, sir?”
