Do You Want to Start a Scandal

There was one other confession from this evening that she would not only keep to herself, but take to her grave:

Mama’s “marital duties” lesson had come in useful after all.

Chapter Sixteen

When Piers opened the door of his bedchamber later that evening, he’d scarcely shaken his arms free of his topcoat before he noticed a small, folded paper had been pushed under the door.

He hung his coat on a peg with one hand, unfolded the paper with the other, and read the single line of script:

I need to speak with you.

It wasn’t signed, but he knew it could only be Charlotte. And if she’d risked this method of communication, the matter must be urgent.

Seeing that the corridor was empty, he wasted no time. He knocked lightly on the door of her chamber.

No answer.

He rapped again. “Charlotte.”

Nothing.

He tried the door latch.

Locked.

He freed his stickpin from his cravat and inserted the sharp end in the lock. He was typically able to keep impatience and frustration at bay, but this time they slipped past his defenses. His fingers fumbled with the stickpin, and the damn thing clattered to the floor, rolling into a darkened crack between the floorboards. Curse it.

Piers stood back from the door. He wasn’t about to get down on hands and knees to search for the pin, and he wasn’t going to head off in search of another one, either. She ought to have heard him and opened the door by now, unless . . .

Unless there was something wrong.

He shifted his weight to his left leg and delivered a swift kick with his right, breaking the door latch and sending the door swinging inward on its hinges. Not the most surreptitious way of breaking into a room, but undeniably effective.

As usual, her chamber looked to have been ransacked. His mind told him the reason for the shambles was untidiness rather than life-and-death struggle—but his heart wasn’t so easily convinced. His pulse accelerated as he searched the room.

“Charlotte?”

The carpet was littered with piles of discarded clothing. A pelisse and bonnet draped over a bedpost gave the look of a scarecrow. A hodgepodge of hairbrushes, ribbons, and tins of dusting powder covered the dressing table.

As he made his way to check the window, he tripped over a boot and went sprawling. Luckily, a heap of petticoats and chemises broke his fall. He struggled to regain his feet, a task which required disentangling himself from yards of sweetly scented linen. “Godforsaken son of a—”

“Piers?”

Charlotte stood in the doorway that led to her suite’s small dressing room. She looked first at the broken door. Next, at the flouncy lace petticoat in his grasp.

And then, finally, her gaze met his.

“Piers, what on earth are you doing?”

Excellent question.

Going mad, perhaps. Losing the cool detachment and sharp instincts he’d amassed over the years, certainly.

He couldn’t even enjoy the relief of seeing her in nothing but a thin, half-unbuttoned chemise, her unbound hair tumbling below her shoulders in thick waves.

“What am I doing?” He tossed aside the petticoat. “What the devil are you doing? You didn’t answer the door.”

“I didn’t hear a knock.” She nodded toward the attached dressing room. “The maids prepared me a bath.”

“A bath.”

“Yes. A bath. Water, soap, tub.”

Well, that . . . was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Damn it.

He pushed both hands through his hair, dislodging an errant stocking in the process. The garment slithered to the floor, and his last shred of dignity went with it.

Charlotte sealed her lips over a laugh.

“This isn’t amusing,” he said curtly.

“No,” she said, with affected seriousness. “It isn’t. To begin with, I don’t know how I’m going to latch my door now.”

He picked up her dressing table chair with one hand, carried it over to the door, and propped it under the broken latch. “Like so.”

“Why were you rifling through my underthings?”

“I wasn’t rifling through your underthings. I was being attacked by them.”

She shrugged. “You know tidiness isn’t one of my virtues.”

“There’s untidiness, and then there’s . . .” He gestured at the room. “. . . a linen death trap.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“No.”

She pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth and smiled behind it.

For God’s sake. This was all so amusing to her.

Piers tried to remind himself that she didn’t understand. That he didn’t want her to understand. If he was serious about his responsibilities, she—and anyone in his keeping—would never comprehend the vigilance that went into ensuring their safety.

If protection wasn’t a thankless task, that meant he wasn’t doing it right.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help lecturing her. “I like things in their places. That way, I’m ready to react. In a moment. In the dark. On any occasion. Especially an occasion when you declare that you need to speak with me.”

“I didn’t mean to alarm you. I hoped we could chat tomorrow. I had no idea you’d come straightaway.”

“Of course I would come straightaway.” He caught her gaze and held it. “If you tell me you need me, I would never delay.”

“But you’ve been ignoring me for days. Ever since we . . .” She didn’t complete the sentence. She didn’t need to. “You’ve scarcely acknowledged my presence.”

“Believe me. I’ve been aware of your presence.”

Constantly, exquisitely, achingly aware.

He couldn’t escape it. She’d begun recalibrating his senses the moment she came through that library door. His peripheral vision was now trained for flashes of golden hair; his ears, trained for her melodic laugh. He found himself following the drifting scent of her soap and dusting powder, like a dog panting after the butcher’s wife.

He had years of experience and training. She’d unraveled them in a week, and he was left at loose ends. This distraction, this madness of desire and yearning—it was everything a man in his position needed to avoid.

On second thought, perhaps his senses hadn’t been muddled. After all, they had been meticulously attuned to detect the slightest hint of peril.