Do You Want to Start a Scandal

“I think you’ve gravely miscounted your natural talents.”

She pressed a smile to the crown of his head. Perhaps there was something unique to her after all. “Well, that’s a comfort. I’d given up on being an accomplished woman, much less an exceptional one.”

“You are anything but unexceptional.”

“You needn’t flatter me.”

“I’m serious. How many hours have you spent humoring your mother? Or listening to your rock-mad sister, or staying indoors with the one who was ill? Think of all the years you lived in Spindle Cove when you would have rather been in London. Most would find that boring indeed. That’s where you’re exceptional. The art of people.”

“You truly think so?”

“I know so. Because dealing with this particular person”—he pointed to himself—“requires a virtuoso.”

She laughed.

“I’m not joking. I haven’t met the woman who could do it yet.”

“You’re lucky I came and found you then.”

His praise settled around her like bathwater, soothing and warm. Quite different from the stiff, shiny fabric of compliments.

It wasn’t as though she suddenly believed in herself because Piers pronounced her worthy. But he’d reasoned his case well, and she’d come to trust his powers of observation—especially when they agreed with her own.

He hadn’t made her feel exceptional. They’d arrived at the conclusion together. And that was something altogether different.

It was, she decided, exactly what she’d been hoping for in a partner—what she couldn’t have known how to put into words, but had been willing to wait years and years to find.

Which meant she was lucky to have found him, too.

Perhaps she was even fortunate to have a meddling, scheming mother.

No.

No, that was going too far.

Then an idea—a spectacular, perfect idea—blazed through her mind like a comet and struck a fire in her chest.

She sat back and looked at him. “Let me be your partner.”

“I thought that much was already agreed.”

“No, not only your wife. Your partner in”—she gestured vaguely—“your work. We’d have so much fun together.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then slicked back his wet hair. “No. Out of the question.”

“I could make a brilliant spy. Think about it. I love a good puzzle. I can gain people’s trust. I know my way around weaponry. I’m clever and daring. I . . . I can sneak through windows.”

He chuckled a bit. “It’s not like you’re imagining. You’d find it dull. Espionage is mostly reading paperwork and writing reports and listening to mind-numbing conversations at parties. It’s nine-tenths pure boredom.”

“Everything worth doing is nine-tenths pure boredom. Think of your brother the prizefighter. I’d wager he spends weeks and months of preparation for just one hour in the ring. Or my sister the geologist. She’ll sift through mountains of dirt to find one ugly little fossil. Even Delia makes dozens of sketches before she even begins to paint.” She paused. “No pursuit ever called to me that way before. But this could be it. My true talent. My passion.”

He only shook his head.

“Can’t you see what ideal partners we’d make? We fill one another’s shortcomings so perfectly.” She reached for his hands and squeezed them. “Send me to the Continent with Delia. While she’s sketching, I can work on my languages. Practice my etiquette. I . . . I’ll even learn to hang things on pegs.”

“Charlotte . . . it would be much too dangerous.”

“Hanging things on pegs?”

“Working with me.”

“But you just told me it’s all boring paperwork and parties.”

“It is. Except for the times when it isn’t.” He stood up, stepped out of the tub and reached for a towel.

She took a moment to admire his hard, masculine body, glowing like bronze in the flickering candlelight. The lean muscles of his shoulders and back. The dark hair on his forearms and calves. His male organs, resting sated in their nest of shadow. He shook his hair, spraying droplets about the room, then scrubbed the towel over his face and dried the spots behind his ears.

The whole ritual was intimate and normal. Rather endearing, as well.

He was only a man, after all. A strong, powerful, complicated man—but human, just the same. Made of skin and bone and sinew and heart.

There was love in him somewhere, tightly bottled and waiting, like a rare vintage of wine. It might take her months or even years, but Charlotte was determined to search the man to the deepest, darkest cellars of his soul—and pull the cork.

He slung the towel over his shoulder and offered her his hand. “Take care. The floor is slick.”

Once she was out, he snapped open another towel and wrapped it about her like a cabbage leaf, tucking in the ends securely. He was treating her like a swaddled babe.

“You don’t believe I could do it,” she said.

“I didn’t say that.”

You don’t have to.

She was wounded by his lack of confidence, but she couldn’t blame him for doubting. What did she have to recommend herself? A habit of laughing at inappropriate moments and a few not-quite-solved mysteries in her pocket?

“Please,” she said, looking up at him through her wet eyelashes. “Give me a chance to prove myself. Just don’t make any decisions tonight.”

He exhaled heavily. “Too late. I’ve already made a decision.”

“Oh?” She cringed. “What is it?”

“This.”

He plucked her off her feet, slung her over his shoulder like a bundled sheaf of mowed wheat, and carried her to the bed.

Chapter Eighteen

Charlotte woke alone in her bed, sunlight streaming through the windows. It had to be mid-morning, at least.

She had no recollection of dressing herself in a night rail, much less being tucked securely beneath her coverlet. But then, she did always sleep like a stone. Piers must have been unwilling to disturb her.

Piers.

Piers, Piers, Piers.

Her bearings sorted, she fell back against her pillow and pressed both hands to her heart.

Last night hadn’t been a mere moment of weakness in a meadow. It had been a revelation. She’d glimpsed new facets of Piers, and of herself, as well. A whole world of possibilities had opened.