"There's no love involved here! We barely know each other. He doesn't want this match any more than I do."
"Oh, I doubt that."
"Why?"
He tilted his head. Lord Granville sat in an armchair at the other end of the long, narrow room. She hadn't noticed him come in. Had he been sitting there the entire time?
"Because the way he's been looking at you makes me want to bludgeon things."
"Colin. You're not the bludgeoning sort."
"I know! Believe me, I'm just as disturbed by these changes as you are."
"What wretched timing, too."
Colin put his hands on her shoulders. "Hear him out, pet. Considering what hangs in the balance, you owe yourself that much. I'll support you in any decision you make. But you must be the one to make it."
She nodded.
When he married Minerva, Colin had become the man of the family. However, he'd never been much of an authority figure. And as much as Charlotte prized her independence, she had almost been disappointed.
She'd never known her father. In her youth, she'd longed for a steady, male presence in her life. An older brother, an uncle . . . even a cousin would do. Just a man who could sweep into the room, with wisdom and command and only her best interests at heart, and say--
Go upstairs and rest, Charlotte. I'll take care of everything.
"Go upstairs and rest, Charlotte." Lord Granville rose and crossed the room. "I'll take care of everything."
No, no, no.
That was the wrong man.
And why was he addressing her as Charlotte? As proper as he was, he ought to know better. That degree of familiarity was reserved for family.
Or couples who were betrothed.
She stared at the carpet. "We are not engaged, my lord."
"I suppose not. But that won't take long."
Colin kissed her on the cheek. "I'll leave the two of you alone."
"Don't," she hissed at him, reaching for his sleeve. "Colin, no. You can't leave me."
But her efforts were in vain. Her brother-in-law escaped her clutches, deserting her.
Left with no other choice, she turned to look at the marquess. Judging by the weariness around his eyes, he hadn't slept any more than she had last night. He had, however, found the time to bathe and shave, and change into a dark blue morning coat, paired with immaculate buff breeches and polished boots.
Charlotte never trusted people who looked this good first thing in the morning.
She tucked an uncooperative strand of hair behind her ear. "You can't possibly mean to propose marriage to me."
"I can mean, and I do mean. I have given my word to your mother, Sir Vernon, and now your brother-in-law, as well."
She shook her head in disbelief. "This situation is intolerable."
He made no reply.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean that to sound quite so insensitive. It's not as though you're the last man on earth I would choose to marry. I'm not stupid enough to assert anything of the sort. I always find it ridiculous when ladies say such a thing. The last man, truly? I mean, the world has a great many criminals and dullards in it. And even eliminating those, there must be millions who scarcely bathe."
"So you're saying I rank above the median."
"In the top quartile, solidly. But that's precisely why you deserve better than marrying the first impertinent girl who literally flung herself at you."
His lips quirked in a subtle smile. "What makes you believe you were the first?"
Oh, dear. There he went, being likable again. It was much too early in the day for his subtle humor. She hadn't readied her defenses.
"You're a marquess and a diplomat."
"But not an amnesiac. I do recall who I am."
"Then you should recall this: You need a wife who is elegant and accomplished. The consummate hostess."
His gaze settled on her in a most unsettling way. "All I truly need from marriage, Miss Highwood, is an heir."
She swallowed, audibly.
"I have no need to marry for money or connections," he continued. "You, however, could benefit from mine. On my part, I require a young, healthy bride--preferably an intelligent and good-natured one--to bear me children and ensure the succession of my line. This situation we find ourselves in, though unexpected, can work to our mutual advantage."
"So it's a marriage of convenience you're proposing," she said. "A simple transaction. Your wealth for my womb."
"That's a rather crass description."
"Is it an honest one?"
Perhaps he truly didn't need a worldly, elegant partner. Perhaps he found his needs of companionship met in other places, and all he wanted was a fertile bride without the inconvenience of a courtship.
All the more reason to get out of this.
He led her to a pair of chairs and motioned for her to sit. Charlotte's body felt numb.
"Although this is not the match you might have envisioned," he said, "I suspect you will find it a satisfactory one. As Lady Granville, you will have a fine home. Several of them, in truth."
"Yes," she said weakly. "I seem to recall the number five."
"You will also have pin money, a legacy, and entree into the highest echelons of society. When children come along, you need not be a servant to their upbringing. In short, you will have everything you could possibly desire."
"With one rather notable exception," she said.
"Tell me, and it will be yours."
How could it not be obvious? "I would like to fall in love."
He paused, considering. "I suppose that might be open to negotiation. After you've given me an heir, of course, and only if you can promise to be discreet."
She was incredulous. "You've mistaken me, my lord. I would like to fall in love with the man I marry. And what's more, I would like to be loved by him in return. Don't you want the same when you wed?"
"Quite honestly, no. I don't."
"Don't tell me you're one of those bullheaded men who refuses to believe in love."
"Oh, I believe love exists. But I have never desired it for myself."
"Whyever not?"
He looked aside, as though he were choosing his words carefully. "Love has a way of rearranging a man's priorities."
"I should hope it does," Charlotte said, laughing a little. "If it's done right."
"That's precisely why love is the one luxury I can't afford. I have duties and responsibilities. A great many people depend on my clear judgment. There's a reason the poets say 'falling in love,' and not 'climbing.' There's no controlling it, no choosing where one lands."
She supposed he was right, in a way. But even if she could bring herself to disappoint Delia, endure the gossip, and give up everything she'd thought she wanted . . . she couldn't imagine agreeing to marry without love.
You can't eat love, she heard Mama's voice insisting. But then, she couldn't hold a conversation with a heap of coins. She couldn't find tenderness or passion in a vast, empty house. Or even five houses.
She knew herself too well. A polite marriage wouldn't remain polite for long. She would try to make her husband love her, and if that attempt failed, she would grow resentful. They would end up despising each other.
This was why--no matter what her mother schemed and planned--Charlotte had promised herself she would only follow her heart.
"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 kn
own 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.
She wet her lips with her tongue.
Charlotte, you fool.
Maybe he hadn't noticed?
Oh, he'd noticed.
He would see everything now. Her willingness. Her curiosity. The tiny shivers of anticipation racing up and down her spine. She might as well have stood naked before him.
"Close your eyes," he said.
"You first."
She glimpsed that subtle curve of a smile.
Then his lips were on hers.
The kiss . . . oh, it was nothing like him. Or nothing like anything she'd known of him thus far. By all appearances, he was restrained and proper. But when his lips met hers, they were warm, passionate. Teasing.
And his hands were everywhere the perfect gentleman's shouldn't be.
His hand slid slowly down her back--not tentative, but possessive. As if he was determined to explore every inch of what would be his. His touch left a wake of sensation rippling through her body.
Then his hand claimed her bottom and squeezed, pulling her into his strength and heat.
She gasped, shocked by his boldness.
His tongue slid between her lips. Gentle, yet insistent. Exploring a little deeper with each pass. Goading her into kissing him back.
So she did.
Heaven help her, she did. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him in return. Just trying to behave as if she had the slightest inkling what she was doing.
Whatever she was doing, he seemed to like it. A soft groan rose from deep in his chest. It was a heady thrill--the knowledge that she could provoke such a response in such a man. She clutched his shoulders tight.
Something within her had awakened. An awareness, a yearning . . . a glimpse of some future Charlotte she wasn't quite certain she was ready to be.
Later, when she had a moment alone, she needed to relive every second of this encounter. Where exactly did her knees go weak? How did he make her want these things? Most worrying of all--
When had she started to want him?
The wanting didn't take Piers by surprise.
He'd found her attractive at first glance, and tempting within minutes of their acquaintance. He'd felt the slight, feminine contours of her body pressed against his in the library window seat. All those mental exercises he'd been t
rained to use in case of capture and torture? He'd performed every last one of them behind those draperies, just to avoid becoming aroused.
Today was different, however.
Today, he needn't hold back. And once the floodgates were open, a veritable deluge of need poured forth.
No, the wanting didn't surprise him.
But the needing? That shook him to his boots.
She'd been correct; this was meant to be a persuasive embrace. He needed to convince Charlotte Highwood to accept his hand--both to preserve his sterling, upright facade and to ward off questions about his true purpose here.
Kissing her was all in the line of duty.
But work had never tasted so much like pleasure.
The muslin of her frock was worn to softness, and enticingly frail. She felt perfect against him, ripe in his hands.
And she tasted so damn good.
He never took sugar in his tea, didn't care for syrupy chocolate. But she'd been sipping something sweet. Was it treacle? Honey? Perhaps it was just her natural essence. Whatever it was, he couldn't get enough. He hungered for her.
"Charlotte," he murmured. He paused a moment to gaze on her upturned face before kissing her cheek. Then her soft, pale neck.
And though it wasn't required--or even advisable--he tugged her closer still and renewed the kiss.
It had been a long, long time since he'd done anything purely because he wanted it. He'd earned this much, hadn't he? A sweet, enticing woman in his arms.
It wasn't fair to her, but life wasn't fair. Everyone learned that lesson eventually, and she would come out better for it than most--a marchioness, with wealth and rank at her disposal. Left to her own devices, she could--and likely would--do far worse.
He pushed the guilt aside.
And he sank deeper into her.
This wasn't her first kiss. He could tell that much, though he doubted any of the young men who'd kissed her had known what the hell they were doing. He felt a vague, stupid sort of rage toward them. It made him all the more resolved to make this kiss sublime. Sufficiently long and slow and sweet and deep to obliterate those embraces from her memory.
From this day forward--when she thought of kisses, she would think only of him.
He could sense the moment she recalled the world around them. She stiffened in his arms.
No, no.
He clutched her tight. She wasn't getting away from him. Not just yet.
He changed to light, teasing kisses. Brushing his lips against her sweet, lush mouth again, then again. Just one last time . . . and then one time more.