The man she had meant to avoid at all costs.
Oh, Lord.
She had the lapels of his coat clutched in her hands. His arms were around her, tight. His hands rested flat against her back—one at her waist, the other between her shoulders. She stared directly into his immaculate white cravat.
Despite the awkwardness of their position, Charlotte vowed not to move or make a sound. If they were discovered like this, she would never recover. Her mother would sink her talons into Lord Granville and refuse to let go. That was, if Charlotte didn’t expire of mortification first.
However, as the moments crawled past, it seemed increasingly unlikely that she and Granville would be discovered.
Two people had entered the room, and they wasted no time making use of it.
The sounds were subtle, hushed. Muted giggles and the rustling of fabric.
Perfume filtered through the draperies in a thick, pungent wave.
She slid her gaze upward, searching the darkness for Granville’s reaction. He looked directly ahead, impassive as that ice sculpture again.
“Do you think he noticed?” a male voice murmured.
In reply, a woman’s husky whisper: “Hush. Be quick.”
A sense of dread rose in Charlotte’s chest.
The dread was compounded by several moments of soft, distressingly wet sounds.
Please, she prayed, squeezing her eyes shut. Please don’t let this be what I suspect it to be.
Her prayer went unanswered.
Rhythmic noises began. Rhythmic, creaking noises that she could only imagine to be originating from a desktop—one being rocked violently on its legs. And just when she’d steeled herself to endure that much—
That was when the grunting started.
The human body was such a strange thing, she mused. People had eyelids to close when they wanted to rest their sight. They could close their lips to avoid unpleasant tastes. But there was no such appendage to block out sounds.
Ears couldn’t be shut. Not without the use of one’s hands, and she didn’t dare move those. The window seat was too narrow. Even the smallest motion could disturb the draperies and give them away.
She had no choice but to listen to it all. Even worse, to know that Lord Granville was listening, as well. He too must be hearing every creak of the desk, each animalistic grunt.
And, within moments, every keening wail.
“Ah!”
Grunt.
“Oh!”
Grunt.
“Eeeeee!”
Good heavens. Was the woman reeling with pleasure, or reciting vowels in grammar school?
A mischievous tickle of laughter rose in Charlotte’s throat. She tried to swallow it or clear it away, to no avail. It must have been nerves or the sheer awkwardness of the situation. The more she told herself not to laugh—reminded herself that her reputation, her journey with Delia, and the entirety of her future rested on not laughing—the greater the impulse grew.
She bit the inside of her cheek. She pressed her lips together, desperate to contain it. But despite her best efforts, her shoulders began to convulse in spasms.
The lovers’ pace quickened, until the creaking became a sharp, doglike, yipping noise. The unseen man released a throaty crescendo of a growl. “Grrrraaaaagh.”
Charlotte lost the battle. The laughter erupted from her chest.
All would have been lost, if not for Lord Granville’s hand sliding to the back of her head. With a flex of his arm, he brought her face to his chest, burying her laughter in his waistcoat.
He held her tightly while her shoulders shook and tears streamed down her cheeks, containing her explosion in the same way a soldier might leap on a grenade.
It was the strangest hug she’d ever experienced in her life, but also the one she’d most desperately needed.
And then, mercifully, the entire scene was over.
The lovers engaged in a few minutes of parting whispers and kisses. Whatever fabric had been shoved aside was gathered and rearranged in place. The door opened, then closed. Only a faint whiff of perfume lingered.
There were no more sounds, save for a fierce, steady thumping.
Lord Granville’s heartbeat, she realized.
Apparently his heart wasn’t buried in the Arctic Circle after all.
Drawing a deep, sudden breath, he released her.
Charlotte wasn’t sure where to look, much less what to say. She dabbed her eyes with her wrists, then ran her hands down the front of her gown, making sure she was all of a piece. Her hair had probably suffered the worst of it.
He cleared his throat.
Their eyes met.
“Dare I hope you’re too innocent to understand what just went on here?” he asked.
She gave him a look. “There’s innocent, and then there’s ignorant. I might be the first, but I am not the second.”
“That’s what I feared.”
“Fear is the word for it,” she said, shuddering. “That was . . . horrific. Scarring.”
He tugged on his cuff. “We needn’t speak of it further.”
“But we’ll think of it. Be haunted by it. It’s burned in our memories. Ten years from now, we could both be married to other people and have full, rich lives of our own. Then one day we’ll meet by chance in a shop or a park, and”—she snapped her fingers—“our thoughts will travel immediately to this window seat.”
“I heartily intend to banish this incident from my thoughts forever. I suggest you do the same.” He drew aside a fold of the drapery. “It should be safe now.”
He went first, making the large step down to the floor. She was amazed again at how he’d managed to hide them both so quickly. His reflexes must be remarkable.
He found the cord for tying back the draperies and began to secure one side in place.
Charlotte gathered her skirt, preparing to make her own descent from the ledge.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
But she’d already begun, and what was meant to be a graceful step turned into a clumsy tumble. He lunged to break her fall. By the time she’d found her feet and steadied herself, she was right back in his arms.
His strong, protective arms.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling overwhelmed. “Again.”
He looked down at her, and again she caught that hint of a sly, appealing smile. “For a woman who wants nothing to do with me, you fling yourself in my direction with alarming frequency.”
She disentangled herself, blushing.