Page 9 of Unmasking the Diamond
“That is more than fair,” he responded, rising from his chair as though she had just bestowed a great gift upon him.
Charlotte rose as well and ignored his proffered arm. “I can walk perfectly well on my own, my lord. I do not require an escort to my own gardens.”
“I was attempting to be a gentleman,” he protested lightly.
“Why start now?” she retorted. “Come along, so we can end this charade.”
Alistair’s voice interrupted. “I will send a maid out to ensure you are properly chaperoned.”
“Wonderful,” Charlotte muttered under her breath.
As they walked towards the rear of the townhouse, Charlotte’s regret deepened with every step. How could a man so handsome, with his perfect smile and confident stride, be so utterly maddening? Did he practice vexation or did it simply come as naturally to him as breathing?
A footman opened the door, and the crisp morning air brushed her face as they stepped onto the veranda. Together, they started down one of the gravel paths.
Lord Luca tilted his face skyward. “It is quite lovely today.”
“It will no doubt rain,” Charlotte replied, folding her arms.
“Most likely,” he agreed. “Still, thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I do so love the time we spend with one another.”
“It is not as though you gave me a choice,” she said. “And do not waste time with false flattery.”
“Who says it is false?”
Charlotte turned her head away. “You are the last man I would ever consider as a suitor.”
“Am I?” His tone was curious, not wounded. “And what have I done to earn such ire?”
Her eyes snapped back to his. “You do not remember?”
“If I did, I would not be asking.”
“You laughed at me,” she said, the memory still sharp after all these months.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“When I was presented to the queen. You laughed loudly when my name was read aloud. It was mortifying the way everyone stared at me after that.”
He looked at her, stunned. “That is why you dislike me?”
“That,” Charlotte said curtly, “and many other reasons. You vex me in more ways than I can count. Would you like me to create a list?”
Lord Luca’s lips twitched. “I am flattered you think about me so often.”
Charlotte halted mid-step and she turned to face him fully. “I hardly give you a thought,” she retorted, though her pulse betrayed her with its sudden quickening. He did not need to know that she had, in fact, thought of him—most often with irritation.
“It sounds,” he drawled, “as though you do.”
Her mouth tightened. “Then I am sorry I gave you the wrong impression.”
He stepped closer, the gravel crunching beneath his boots, the air between them tightening with awareness. “And I apologize,” he said, “for laughing when your name was read at Court. I assure you, it was not directed at you.”
For a heartbeat, her breath caught. That moment—her presentation before the queen, her gown so carefully chosen, her nerves strung taut as a bowstring—had been forever tainted by his stifled laughter in the gallery. She had never forgotten it. And now here he was, speaking of it as though it were nothing at all.
Not quite ready to forgive, she tilted her chin. “Thank you for that, my lord. But that is not why you are here. Is it?”
His smile faded, replaced by a seriousness that unsettled her. “No,” he admitted. “I wanted to speak to you about Mr. Fairchild.”
