Page 15 of Unmasking the Diamond
Charlotte’s back grew rigid. She longed to tell him that a woman’s pen could be sharper than a man’s sword, that words could change lives, that passion mattered far more than gossip and gowns. But what would be the use? His ears were closed, his mind made up. Still, she said, “I agree to no such thing. She may well find a gentleman who admires her passion for writing.”
“Not a man worth having,” he scoffed.
The sting of his words settled over her like a chill. It was not the first time she had heard such dismissals, and yet they cut anew each time. If only he knew how close his sister’s ambitions mirrored her own. But Charlotte had worn her mask for too long to let it slip now.
A lazy smile spread across his lips, as though their little debate had never occurred. “I do believe I failed to mention how lovely you look today.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He leaned closer, and the sour tang of his breath washed over her. Charlotte fought the urge to recoil, every inch of her body taut with restraint. “I can see why the queen named you the diamond. You are perfect,” he said.
“No one is perfect, my lord.”
And least of all me, she thought.
Before Lord Welker could utter another ridiculous compliment, the carriage lurched violently to one side. Charlotte’s breath caught as she was thrown against the paneling, her ribs slamming into the wood. The air rushed from her lungs in a sharp gasp.
The horses screamed, hooves clattering in panic. The coach shuddered, groaned, and then—sudden, dreadful silence.
Charlotte pressed her palm to her side, willing her racing heart to calm. For one dreadful moment she imagined the entire carriage collapsing in on itself. She leaned forward and saw the rear wheel had splintered nearly in half.
Lord Welker muttered a curse and leapt out without hesitation. He did not glance back at her. Did not ask if she was hurt. Did not so much as acknowledge her existence. Instead, he stalked straight to the driver and began bellowing insults, his voice rising above the rattle of the restless horses.
Charlotte exhaled sharply, pain and indignation twining within her chest. Was it truly so difficult for him to inquire after her well-being?
Turning her head, she sought her maid. “Sally!” she shouted. Relief swept through her as she spotted her standing on the rear step beside a footman, appearing unharmed.
The comfort was fleeting. Already a small crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the spectacle of a broken carriage and a furious lord. Curious eyes peered from the pavement and whispers carried on the air. Charlotte’s cheeks warmed. She loathed being gawked at like a play staged for their amusement. Worse still was Lord Welker’s booming tirade. His harsh words cut the driver to pieces, though the poor man could hardly be blamed for a wheel snapping on London’s rutted streets.
Servants deserve better than this,Charlotte thought grimly.
“My lord,” she interjected, her voice sharp enough to cut through his rant.
Lord Welker turned, his eyes blazing, his temper not yet spent. “What is it?” he snapped.
She inclined her head towards the onlookers. “Perhaps this is not the place to discuss such matters.”
His nostrils flared, but after a moment, he relented. “You are right.” He pivoted back to the trembling driver, his tone no less menacing. “We shall discuss this later. For now, replace this wheel at once.”
Charlotte’s lips tightened. The man was impossible.
Gathering what dignity she could, she accepted the footman’s steadying hand and stepped carefully down to the pavement. Her boots stepped onto the worn cobblestones as she moved to stand out of the way, her chin high, her expression composed as if none of this had unsettled her in the least.
And then—because fate clearly had a wicked sense of humor—Lord Luca appeared. He emerged from the crowd with maddening calm, his brow lifted in amusement, as though he had been summoned purely to witness her mortification. His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough for her to know he had taken in everything.
“Miss Winslow,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “What an interesting predicament you have found yourself in.”
Unable to stop herself, she rolled her eyes. Of course he would appear at this precise moment.
Miss Winslow’s frown was almost instantaneous. Ah, there it was—the familiar disdain that never failed to amuse him. He should not take such perverse delight in unsettling her composure, but he did. Still, he reminded himself sternly that his purpose was not to provoke her but to gain her favor, or at the very least, her tolerance.
Luca turned his attention to the broken wheel, splintered at a dangerous angle, and the cluster of servants attempting tomanage the chaos. The delay would be considerable, and the onlookers were multiplying by the minute. Every second Miss Winslow remained stranded on the street gave the gossips more fodder. He knew better than most how swiftly whispers turned into a printed scandal.
Smiling, he offered, “My coach is just up the street. Would you care for a ride home?”
She stiffened immediately. “No, thank you.”
He arched a brow. “So you would rather remain here and be the subject of unrelenting gossip and whispers?”
