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“Ignorant leisure?” she whispered in stunned echo. “Is that what you think of me? That I am ignorant? That my life is without blemish?”
“You’re free to do as you please.”
Charlotte straightened in her seat, feeling suddenly quite offended. “If that is what you believe, then you are the one who is ignorant.” She ripped the kerchief from his hands to get his attention. “You’re right, in that my life is one of leisure. I will not claim to struggle as much as you, never. I do not want for food or money, and my heart goes out to you; really it does. That does not mean that I am happy, and it certainly does not mean that my life is my own, that I am free, as you put it. Case in point, my poems.”
She recoiled at his silence. After a long while, he spoke again. “We’re at an impasse.” He took the kerchief back from her. Her fingers burned where his knuckles grazed them over her gloves. “Let’s come to some sort of agreement before you get so cross you assault me again. Tell me what you want.”
Charlotte didn’t know what to answer. She had wished for the truth and presumed to have received it. She had wished for him to agree to end his charade, and she presumed to have received that, too. Why, then, in the very pit of her stomach, did it feel like she was entertaining a great evil?
“I cannot find it in myself to add to your misery.”
The attic fell deadly quiet for her confession. “Lady Charlotte—“
“Say nothing more, or I will take it back.” Her voice was a whisper. She stared at the wooden planks overhead, lacing together a holed blanket for Fletcher’s roof. She swore she could see stars between the cracks in the wood. “You may claim the rights to Huxley’s work for as long as we are acquainted.”
He parted his lips to speak but appeared to trip over his words inwardly. “You mean to tell me that you jeopardized your reputation coming here tonight for things to remain exactly as they were?”
Charlotte smiled. “Would you say things are exactly as they were between us, Mr. Fletcher?”
He shook his head, and his expression softened. “How do you intend for this to work?”
A plan began forming in her mind, and her body tingled. There was a way she could twist their debacle into something quite profitable indeed. “I intend to allow you to collect my revenue for as long as you can. I intend to provide you with whatever poems I can recall, should that revenue falter. I do not intend to be on your leash or at your beck and call in any way. Should I decide at any point to give up my craft, you will accept it without contest.” She rose to her feet softly, feeling the need to move about again. “But I have a few conditions for our partnership.”
“Anything,” the man said, and it seemed as sincere as a prayer. “Tell me.”
“First, you will call me Charlotte,” she declared. “You have not bothered with manners before, and there is little point in feigning formality.” Her toes curled in her boots. She didn’t know what she was doing. It felt like breaking all the rules at once, and there was triumph in her rebellion.
“Charlotte,” he mouthed. Her name sounded like scripture on his lips—forbidden. “Then I insist you use my given name as well.”
“Second, Benjamin, you will do nothing to besmirch the good name of Charles Huxley. You will act the perfect gentleman until such time is required for you to slip quietly away. You will dress as a gentleman and attend functions as a gentleman; you will not cast Huxley into rakishness or scandal. Naturally, this entails telling no one of our agreement—least of all my involvement.”
“I understand.”
“There is another matter to round out the affair, but I fear you will not much like it.” She ambled over to one of the candle sconces he had lit, the wick all but burned to a stub. She took a deep breath, summoning as much courage as she could muster. “My father, though well-intentioned, seeks to marry me to a man I cannot stand. He has agreed to a grace period of one final Season, during which I might try to secure a love match to stall the arrangement. Truth be told, I have no interest in a match of any sort.”
“You wish to change his mind. And how, pray tell, do I figure into this part of your plan?” he asked, though his tone was knowing.
“You do not, Mr. Fletcher.” The order filled the space between them. “Mr. Huxley, on the other hand, shall figure in quite nicely.”
“Surely, you cannot mean…“ He trailed off, coming to stand.
Charlotte smiled dourly. “If I am to forestall my marriage indefinitely, I shall require a man with whom to placate my father and brother. Who better than a man of my own making?”
Benjamin paced back and forth, a hand on his hip. He turned to face her once steam ceased rising from his head. “You would entrap me in a pretend betrothal until the day you choose to cast me aside?” He held out his hands as though sense might fall from the heavens. “No, Lady—“
“Charlotte.”
“No, Charlotte,” he corrected, his voice tinged with exasperation.
“Do not flatter yourself thinking I am eager to suffer your company overlong.” He scoffed disbelievingly. She continued, “We shall play the part of sweethearts for a month, a few at most. You may use some of the money from my poems to outfit yourself, to live the life of a peer. You will compromise me before we make it to the altar, and the scandal shall be so grand no man will think to make a wife of me until I am deep into spinsterhood.”
“You would rather all that over a marriage?”
“You would rather crime over ruin, would you not?”
Benjamin flicked his head away with a groan. She had not expected him to undertake the lie happily, but she deserved his cooperation and more for what he had made her suffer.
“Know this, Benjamin—you may think that I am a woman who merely plays at life, but this is not the case. There is a deep upset within me, it is true, and no doubt a naivete I am not cognizant of.” She took a confident step toward him but kept her hands to herself. He could strike her if he so desired. She would not flinch. “But that does not mean I am without resources should nothing come of our plan.”
