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  “As you say.” Lindsey signaled for more liquor. “I must wonder what has brought about this perpetual state of vacillation and doubt. I’ve known you to be quite the Lothario over the years. Shall I remind you of that actress you snuck into the dorms at Eton? We all carried on with her, though you seemed the most taken. In the end, she threw you over for Adams, didn’t she? Not that anything could come of it. Still, I haven’t found another female who can—”

  “I need no detailing of my history. Are you striving toward some convoluted discussion point, or do you aim solely to annoy me?” Patience thin, Dearing’s question came out with a growl. Reference to meaningless tomfoolery from years gone by did nothing but irritate at the moment. He experienced no difficulties with women when nothing was at stake, but the opposite held true concerning his wife.

  He kept to business because it was quiet, unobtrusive and didn’t force him to examine heartfelt emotion. And that was exactly what he’d experienced when he first saw Charlotte. His chest tightened, his breathing stalled. A reaction strong and tangible rushed through him and left him forever changed. In that instant, he knew he had to have her at any cost.

  “True, who gives a tuppence about the past? Especially with the distasteful ending that episode entails. You’re no fun at all these days, though I’ve regaled half of society with that story.” Lindsey accepted a second glass from the footman and sobered. “All I’m saying is, this entire situation has changed you, and not for the better. I assume you find your wife attractive.” He waggled his brows, as if the insinuation wasn’t crystal clear.

  Dearing leveled a stare that could not be misconstrued. “This is different. My wife isn’t some nameless actress at Eton. She’s important.” The lady owns my heart.

  “And so, you prove my point. Every business dealing is equally as rich and significant. Handle this venture in the same manner.”

  Nothing was said for a minute or two.

  “And how do you propose I accomplish this? We both know what’s at stake.” Nothing so fundamental as a share in a railroad company. Dearing shook his head in dismissal. Had he really voiced that question and encouraged Lindsey’s counsel?

  “Negotiate. Persuade. Invest, and then leverage that same collateral with an ultimatum.” Lindsey settled back against the cushions. “This could prove great fun.”

  “It’s not meant to be. You have no idea—”

  “Oh, I beg to differ. I wouldn’t look into the betting ledger if I wore your boots. Take my advice and capitalize on it. It pains me to see you so morose.” Lindsey hardly looked pained. “What’s the first rule when exploring a new investment venture?”

  “Know your opponent,” Dearing answered with a grumble of tolerance, reluctant to add fuel to his friend’s persuasion.

  “Exactly.” Lindsey paused to take another swallow of brandy. “Learn everything there is to know about your lady. It’s as simple as that.” He snapped his fingers, much to Dearing’s annoyance. “Do it soon, before today becomes yesterday and desire becomes regret.”

  “Are you suggesting I investigate my wife?”

  “In a strictly personal capacity only.” Lindsey smiled that crooked grin, warmed to the subject. “Learn her habits, her likes and dislikes. Does she prefer tea, coffee or chocolate in the morning? Blancmange or plum tarts after dinner?”

  “I couldn’t say.” Dearing grimaced. His lack of knowledge concerning Charlotte proved abominable.

  “Which flower does she fancy? Which scent? Is she an early bird or a night owl?” Lindsey’s glib questions peppered the air between them.

  “I don’t know.” Derisive contempt cooled Dearing’s tone. “Enough.”

  “Truth is, you’re rubbish at romance.” Lindsey raised his brows as he lounged in his chair, at ease with the predicament. “You have your work detailed for you, so rely on the facts of daily living. I’m certain you must have observed something.”

  “Charlotte is dedicated to her music.” Dearing’s expression eased. “Every afternoon she plays the pianoforte.”

  “Then buy her a new one.” Lindsey spoke the words slowly, as if explaining the dangers of fire to a young child. A young, daft child.

  “What?” Dearing almost laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with the instrument we have now.”

  “That’s not the point.” Lindsey chuckled. “How you’ve reached the age of twenty and eight without the most rudimentary understanding of the female species baffles me. Women enjoy gifts. Little, delicate tokens and big, heavy pianofortes. Mark my words.”

  “Thank you.” Dearing didn’t say more. Any compliment would further inflate Lindsey’s robust self-importance, and the earl already carried a bit of the dandy in him, impeccably dressed with a gold pocket watch and chain to match his exclusive Mayfair address. Regardless, he raised several points worthy of consideration.

  In truth, Dearing’s experience with women was limited to casual, inconsequential dalliances, as if he’d unknowingly reserved his heart for Charlotte. But now, when he must overcome his infuriating shyness, when his very future lay at stake, he needed to act. No more time could fall prey to ambivalence.

  If only Dearing’s tongue didn’t knot itself whenever he stood near Charlotte’s person. Her light floral scent and delicate blush were his utter undoing. From the first moment he’d seen her, he’d known without a doubt he had to have her. Somehow, when he’d viewed her across the room, she’d reached inside him and claimed his heart, though they hadn’t been introduced, never conversed, not one word. There was no explaining it, and he hadn’t wasted time trying to unriddle the happenstance. From that point on, he’d thrust himself into a rash series of events he refused to consider this evening. More importantly, what had he accomplished since?

  Lindsey stood, off to create more mischief, no doubt. He threw Dearing a careless grin with a few parting words. “Get on with it, Dearing.”

  And that was the wisest advice the earl had offered all evening.

  Chapter Four

  Charlotte untangled the kitten’s claws from the tattered hem of the bed’s counterpane. At one time, the lace formed a delicate scallop pattern, but the last two days had brought with them irreversible change. She hadn’t named her pet as of yet, but Tragedy, Disaster and Calamity were under deliberation. Thankfully, her maid had taken an immediate liking to the kitten and kept its existence a secret, supplying food, milk and repair as needed. Despite Jill’s greatest effort and supervision, with remarkable speed, the kitten had shredded two embroidered reticules and chewed several holes through the toes of Charlotte’s silk slippers.

  “You’re an adorable bit of trouble, aren’t you?” She lifted the warm bundle into her arms and leaned into the pillows strewn across the headboard. Disappointment at spending another evening alone overrode her desire to practice the pianoforte, so after a quiet dinner, she’d come upstairs earlier than usual.

  Now, the silent stillness of the house mocked her. How could one find utter elation—the way Dearing had stroked her wrist, not once as required to loosen the button but twice, bespoke desire—only to fall straight to bottomless despair. He fled the foyer as if his boots were afire.

  Was it so very wrong to want happiness? To believe were they to know each other beyond formality, friendship would form and affection might grow? Didn’t their relationship warrant a fighting chance? He’d sought her out. She believed it proved his dedication. But had she blinded herself with hope and wishful thinking? Her parents were a love match and her father had reassured her not all successful loving relationships began with eloquence.

  If she didn’t believe, if she didn’t encourage optimism and pray and seek more, then what of her future? Would her life be composed of endless nights of intolerable silence and regret-filled conversations with cats? She sucked in a frightful gasp. Perhaps Amelia already foresaw the future. Perhaps this little annoyance covered in black fur and whiskers was the beginning of a depressing collection of feline companions meant to occupy hours of mar
ital loneliness, and Amelia, with well-meant intentions, sought to prepare her for that fate.

  No. Charlotte shook her head to rid the ghastly conclusion from her brain. Amelia would never perpetuate such an outcome.

  Amelia had met the Duke of Scarsdale and, despite enormous obstacles and scathing odds, conquered his reluctance and won his heart. It was a veritable love story complete with a happily-ever-after conclusion.

  Charlotte wrapped an arm around her stomach and closed her eyes. If only she could lie with Dearing and conceive a child. As desperate as the wish, a babe would at least ease the pain in her heart. A child would cement their marriage, secure his companionship and offer a chance at happiness, if nothing more than a life with their son or daughter were Dearing to leave again. She recognized these ideas as distressing and lonely, the hope of a woman who’d surrendered, but some part of her yearned for the connection a baby would bring. Unconditional love and a relationship free of judgment were gifts a child could offer.

  Breathing deeply, she expelled the negativity anxiously waiting to flood her soul. She wouldn’t allow it. The kitten wriggled free from her hold and bounded across the mattress in a series of frenetic hops.

  “Perhaps I should write to Amelia.” Somehow voicing it aloud strengthened the idea. “And you . . .” She shook her finger in the kitten’s direction with the reprimand. “Were you not so clever and adorable, it would be easier to give you back or set you free.” She collected her pet and brought it nose forward for further conversation. “What would Amelia do in a situation like this? If only to have her abundance of spunk and fortitude. With certainty, she would not lock herself away in her bedroom, isn’t that true?”

  Dearing seemed determined to keep their relationship formal and conversation sparse. That needed to change. He must want more from a wife. He’d incurred financial loss and rescued her family. It had to mean something. The man couldn’t be as cold as he’d like her to believe. And she knew that to be true because when her button had snagged, she’d noticed otherwise. She saw the same emotion she’d glimpsed when they’d recited their vows at the altar. That one fleeting moment when his eyes held her in complete adoration.

  A smile broke loose of its own volition and tiny sparks of anticipation fired within. His nearness did strange things to her. The scent of his hair and shaving soap, the broad expanse of his shoulders, even the masculine angle of his chin, caused a swirling of excitement and unexpected hope deep within her belly. How wonderful it must feel to be held in his embrace.

  And when he’d said her name . . . His deep tenor rang across the foyer like music set free. It reached for her, tugged at her heart and demanded she listen. Unfortunately, it was followed by the harshest dismissal.

  Setting the kitten atop the counterpane, she closed her eyes and attempted to bring the moment back to life, but the image proved elusive, overcome by the too-much emotion abloom in her chest. A series of different scenes materialized. Scenes she cherished as a voyeur rather than a participant. Images she gleaned from the inside out, collected while her husband was unaware she watched, sometimes through a nearby window or door left open a mere few fingers’ width.

  There was early-morning Dearing, his hair damp from his valet’s attention, chin clean shaven, impeccably dressed in calfskin breeches and waistcoat. And midday Dearing, poring over his business correspondence, embroiled in fervent argument with Faxman or, sometimes, at intense study of an unrolled map atop his enormous desk. Or evening Dearing, the shadow of fresh whiskers dusting the slant of his jaw, the creases of work and related concerns at the corners of his eyes. She wished she could feel the stubble on his skin as he kissed her, or learn the worries that kept him tense and withdrawn, but instead she had only a disjointed collection of images and wishful actions, devoid of experience. A picture book, not a love story. How she yearned for something different. A life full of affection and laughter, similar to childhood dreams and womanly ambition.

  The kitten meowed loudly and brought her sorrowful thoughts to an end, yet one question persisted. What would Amelia do? With certainty, her friend would not lock herself in the bedroom and accept a dissatisfying future.

  No, Amelia would devise a plan.

  * * *

  It was late the following afternoon when Dearing breeched the connecting door that led to his wife’s bedchambers. Charlotte practiced her music belowstairs, and despite hours in his study reviewing contracts and correspondence with Faxman, he’d found not one shred of concentration, intent on stealing into his wife’s rooms to gain a new understanding of her in ammunition of furthering his cause. To this date, their marriage was an abysmal failure. Without consummation, any pastor or judge could annul their vows and wipe clean the slate, setting her free.

  The thought of Charlotte as anyone else’s wife kicked up his temper another notch, anger at himself and the clumsy handling of their relationship already a constant fuel. Why had he allowed it to become so complicated, weighted by the realization that once Charlotte learned the truth she would abhor him? Inevitably, someday he would be exposed despite how hard he worked to bury the past, both recent and distant.

  Yet Lindsey’s sharp questions and logical assertions prevailed. Why not attempt to enjoy the spoils while they existed within reach? Perhaps when the dreaded day of his exposure arrived, and Charlotte refused to speak to him, he could look back and grasp hold of the experiences collected beforehand.

  Bloody hell, she hardly spoke to him now.

  Or what if a stranger fate awaited? What if his lovely wife forgave his calculated deception? Surely the narrow possibility existed. Could he convince her somehow to trust him, or dare he consider a deeper emotion? Either path led to unanswered questions and further annoyance.

  No matter. It was time for a change.

  Assured his wife’s lady’s maid remained in the kitchen, he twisted the knob and opened the panel of Charlotte’s bedchambers. Motionless within the doorframe, he paused for a deep breath and entered, careful to step over the pale area rug and leave no trace of his trespass. This was Charlotte’s personal domain and he’d never seen it. Never smelled her perfume as it lingered in the air or traced his fingers over her belongings. Didn’t know which flowers she preferred on the bureau or how she arranged her wardrobe, by color or article.

  Lindsey was correct. How dismal and unacceptable these beginning months of his marriage. But all was about to transform.

  He noticed first the tidy manner in which his wife kept her room. Everything seemed to have its place, with not a pillow angled or hairpin discarded wrongly. Much like her person, the room was neat and orderly. It was the reason he felt driven to assist with her gloves, her expression troubled and her hair slightly mussed from the effort.

  He strode toward the vanity and breathed deeply, rewarded with the light resonance of gardenia and other florals. His groin tightened in reaction. She was lovely, his lady wife, in appearance, fragrance and musicality. She perfumed her hair. At least he assumed so from the few times he’d stood close enough to notice. He’d much prefer to smell the scent upon her skin, mixed with the musky evidence of desire and lovemaking. His body concurred.

  Like an unexpected visitor with the devil on his shoulder, Lindsey’s words resounded in his head. Get on with it already.

  From there on, Dearing needed no encouragement. He stroked his fingers over her bed linens, peeked into her wardrobe and noted the items on her bedside table. Charlotte read poetry; several volumes filled her bookshelf. She favored pink with accents of celery green and white eyelet, the bedlinens a testament to that preference. Her toilette appeared simple: scented soap, lemon sachet and a light perfume that seemed as ephemeral as the curve of her smile or the light in her eyes. Additionally, he noted the silver hand mirror had a small chip in the lower left corner and her hairpins were terribly mismatched.

  Women enjoy gifts. Little, delicate tokens and big, heavy pianofortes.

  Refusing to overstay his visit and be caught—or wors
e, have strange voyeur added to the oddities his wife likely listed after his name—he turned toward the adjoining door in preparation to take his leave. It was there he noticed a dodgy furred shadow peeping from beneath the counterpane.

  A kitten. A kitten? Charlotte kept a kitten? Hadn’t she asked his permission at one time and he’d dismissed the idea without thorough consideration, his personal concerns in a quagmire? He paused, the surprising realization enough to evoke laughter. Perhaps his wife was not as silent and obedient as he perceived. She’d secretly defied him, and for some strange, unexplainable reason, the notion delighted him most of all. Especially as he now saw the absurdity of the walls he’d constructed between them.

  With a quick bend of his knee, he collected the kitten and brought it to his chest. “Aren’t you the unexpected revelation, spying from the shadows and no bigger than a cricket?” His words were met with a mewl that could have signaled agreement, hunger or distress. “I wonder what Charlotte has named you?” He rubbed between the kitten’s ears, much to the animal’s delight, or so he presumed until the kitten twisted in his grasp and sank two sharp fangs into the pad of his thumb. With slapdash reflexes, he abandoned the ferocious kit to the mattress and gingerly thrust a finger into his waistcoat pocket in search of a handkerchief. It would serve no one to leave a drop of blood on the ivory carpet in evidence of his intrusion. Most especially as the area rug remained in front of the adjoining door to his bedchambers.

  Quick to blot his wound and wrap the cloth around his thumb, he narrowed his eyes at the kitten, sprawled lazily atop the bed. Then he strode toward the door, his mind pensive with all the information he’d gained.

  * * *

  Charlotte ended the complicated operatic composition midway through, too distracted to concentrate on chords and progressions. Practicing her music had always proven an escape. A chance to lose herself in melody when other circumstances disappointed. The last few months, she’d all but worn her fingers to the bone, yet the same restlessness and helplessness lived within.