Chapter 29
The remainder of the day unfolded in the endless fashion peculiar to country house parties, where every amusement seemed designed to last twice as long as any reasonable person could endure.
There was croquet (tedious), luncheon under the marquee (more tedious), and a promenade about the gardens in which Lottie was so stiffly supervised by the Duke of Morleigh that it might as well have been a military parade (more aggravating than tedious).
She had also endured Jasper Deverell’s infuriating gallantry, and so, when night fell and the household was at last quiet, Miss Charlotte Tolliver did the only thing a reasonable young lady could do in her situation: she slipped from her chamber in her nightrobe and went to collect her forfeit.
It was worth noting that Tollivers were not born for stealth, though Lottie rather thought she was. She stubbed her toe against a chest, stumbled over a rug, and nearly sent her candlestick clattering into a suit of armour that had beenfoolishly stationed in her path. Nevertheless, she pressed on, muttering oaths unbecoming to a young lady and congratulating herself on her forbearance in not kicking the armour outright.
Fortunately, Lady Tolliver had announced over blancmange that Mr Deverell had been given the charming blue chamber overlooking the south lawn, “such a distinguished suite for such a distinguished gentleman,” which only proved that Providence occasionally favoured women bent on revenge.
Thus, she arrived at the appointed door, cheeks flushed, candle wobbling, and heart thumping with indignation and anticipation both.
There are few spectacles more improper than an unmarried young lady in her nightrobe standing before a gentleman’s bedchamber—but then, there are few Tollivers who ever allowed propriety to stand in their way—and it is at this juncture that we must abandon Miss Tolliver’s candlelit plotting, and peep instead into the thoughts of Mr Jasper Deverell.
Jasper had not yet fallen asleep. He seldom slept well in country houses. The walls were thin, the beds were scented with lavender and damp feathers, and one could never be certain whether Lady Malverne herself would come marching in to rearrange the draperies.
Tonight, however, sleeplessness had little to do with strange pillows. He had spent the evening not only thinking of Charlotte Tolliver, but ofmarryingCharlotte Tolliver.
Ask for her hand, or you will not see her again.
The thought of never seeing her again was untenable…
And yet—if she must marry, why not him?
Why not him, who would not mind if she climbed trees, shot pistols, argued with dukes, rode astride, gambled in moustaches, or set the very laws of polite society on fire? Why not him, who liked her best when she was impossible? The trouble, of course, was that Charlotte would hear his offer of marriage and think he sought to manage her. And perhaps she would be right.
He had thrown the match that afternoon because he had wanted her to win. He had truly wanted the crowd to cheer her, her father to beam, Captain Greaves to choke upon his own moustache. And perhaps also because some tender part of him had thought: let her have this. Let her stand there in the sun and be victorious.
It was then that he heard three light raps upon his door.
Jasper rose, barefoot upon the carpet, and drew open the door.
Charlotte Tolliver stood in the corridor in a white nightrobe, candle in hand, hair braided loosely over one shoulder, looking like vengeance had borrowed the face of an angel and misplaced all sense of propriety.
He leant against the doorframe, because standing upright suddenly required more discipline than usual, and summoned a lopsided smile. “My dearest Charlotte. How very obliging of you to bring yourself to my chamber. I had expected to be summoned for my punishment, not delivered it.”
Her chin lifted. “Do not be absurd. I am here to discuss your cowardice.”
“Cowardice?” His smile widened. “You wound me. I thought it gallantry. Besides…” he let his gaze sweep from candle to braid to the shadowed curve beneath her robe, “one could hardly call me a coward, not when I have already braved your imaginative forfeits.”
“Stop it. Let me in,” she said, pushing firmly against his bare chest.
He lifted his hand from the doorframe, letting her push him aside. Obedience had never come naturally to him, but with Miss Tolliver storming into his chamber at midnight, he found himself positively eager to yield.
She set down her candle on a side table, turned on him with fire in her eyes. “I am still furious that you threw the match. You robbed me of my victory.”
“Robbed?” He affected shock, pressing a hand to his heart. “My dear girl, I surrendered. All I did was step aside so your glory might shine all the brighter.”
Her eyes flashed. “Do notdear girlme. I wanted to beat you.”
“And so you did,” he said, softer now. It mattered very much to him that she understood. “Make no mistake, Charlotte, I am vanquished. I only thought…” He trailed off, running a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly less certain than he ever was in a gaming hall or ballroom. “Well, it hardly matters.”
The words hung there, heavier than his usual drawl, and for a moment he feared he had given away too much—that she might see how very much he admired her, how his jesting concealments were beginning to fray.
Lottie narrowed her eyes, suspicious, unconvinced. “Or perhaps you feared to lose. I would have beaten you fairly.”
“Oh, I am losing, Charlotte. Every moment in your presence costs me dearly.”
