“I can’t agree to a convenient arrangement, my lord. Your devotion to duty may be admirable, but ‘lie back and think of England’ simply isn’t for me.”
His voice became low and dark. “I cannot promise you everything you might wish, but I promise you this: When I take you to bed, you will not be thinking of England.”
“Oh.”
When he’d spoken of bedding last night, he’d left her speechless.
This time, he left her breathless.
She was not the most beautiful of the Highwood sisters—that honor belonged to Diana. Nevertheless, Charlotte knew herself to be pretty enough, in the standard English way. She’d known the admiration of the opposite sex—even been kissed a time or two. But those admirers were all boys, she now realized.
Lord Granville was a man.
Beneath that exquisitely tailored morning coat, he would be all sculpted muscle and sinew drawn tight. His body would be hard everywhere hers was soft. He would have dark hair scattered in intriguing places.
“Charlotte.”
She jerked to attention. “Yes?”
Good Lord. She’d been picturing him undressed again.
This room was unbearably warm.
“It simply isn’t fair,” she said, inwardly regretting how childish she must sound. “We didn’t commit any sins. Why don’t you tell Sir Vernon the truth? That you went into his library to . . .” She cocked her head, puzzled. “What were you doing in his library, anyhow?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I suppose not. What matters is that some other couple had a scandalous tryst on the desk. We shouldn’t be punished for it.”
His gaze caught hers. “If we don’t marry, only one of us will be punished. And it won’t be me.”
“I know.”
The world congratulated men on their sexual exploits, but it was cruel indeed to women who dared behave the same. He could walk away from this situation unscathed. She would be ruined. Friendless. Loveless. Grand Tour–less.
Miserable.
Lord Granville must be truly decent, if he was willing to do this for her. The perfect gentleman.
He reached forward and took her hand in his. “Here is what I propose.”
Please, don’t propose. Not now, when my resolve is so weak.
“An understanding,” he said.
She peered at him. “What are we understanding? Or what are you understanding, I should say. I’m lost.”
“We will assure your mother and Sir Vernon that we have an understanding. A private understanding, to be kept between us until the end of my stay. Announcing an engagement after one night would only invite more gossip. After a fortnight, however . . . no one will question it.”
She laughed aloud. “Everyone will question it. Have you forgotten my reputation? They will never believe you proposed to me willingly. They will consider you fortunate to have preserved all your limbs.”
Despite her objections, Charlotte knew this was the best outcome she could expect from the conversation. This “understanding” he suggested . . . it wasn’t a true solution, but at least it bought her some time. She would have a fortnight to find another way out of this.
And she must find another way out of this, somehow. For the good of them both.
Colin’s words came back to her. I do believe you, pet. But unless these mysterious lovers come forward to take the blame, no one else will.
The mysterious lovers weren’t likely to come forward. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be found. This was the country, not London. The possibilities were limited. If Charlotte could discover their identity and force them to confess . . .
Then she and Lord Granville would be in the clear.
Two weeks. That would surely be enough time. It had to be.
“Very well, an understanding it is.” She rose to her feet and gave him a brisk handshake.
As she turned to leave, he kept hold of her hand.
She looked at his hand, then at him. “My lord?”
“They will be waiting on us, your mother and brother-in-law and Sir Vernon. I can’t let you leave the room looking like that.”
Self-conscious, she touched a hand to her hair. “Looking like what?”
He pulled her into his arms. “Unkissed.”
Chapter Three
Charlotte looked up at him, shocked. Surely she hadn’t just heard him say “unkissed.” But what else could it have been? Untwist, unhissed, un-Swissed . . . nothing else made sense.
She asked, “You mean to kiss me?”
“I believe that’s what I just said, yes.”
“Here. Now.”
He nodded. “That was the idea.”
“But . . . why?”
He seemed bemused by the question. “For the usual reasons.”
“Persuasion, I suppose you mean. You must think me easily swayed. One dose of your masculine lip elixir, and I’ll be cured of any doubt, is that it?”
He briefly stared into the distance before returning to meet her gaze. “I’m going to kiss you, Charlotte, because I expect to enjoy it. And because I expect you’ll enjoy it, too.”
His low voice did strange things to her.
“You seem very certain of yourself, my lord.”
“And you, Miss Highwood, seem to be stalling for time.”
“Stalling for time? Of all the things to say. I’m not stalling for—”
He lifted an eyebrow in accusation.
“Fine.” She was out of excuses. She hiked her chin, resigned. “Very well. Do your worst.”
The worst kiss was what she expected. That was the only reason Charlotte was allowing it, she told herself. One cold, passionless embrace would affirm the truth—that there was nothing between them. If they lacked the warmth to fuel a kiss, how could a marriage work?
Perhaps he would abandon the idea, here and now.
But it went all wrong, and long before his lips touched hers.
The simple power in his arms as he pulled her close—it sent a girlish, giddy thrill chasing through her body.
She looked up at him, unwilling to appear afraid. However, that motion exposed the wild beating of her pulse, making her feel more vulnerable still.
So she dropped her eyes to his mouth. Another mistake. The jaw which looked stern from afar framed a mouth that was wide and generous this close.
So close.
And then, just as she was reminding herself that this was meant to be an emotionless, unexciting embrace, she panicked and made it even worse.