Page 2 of Charlotte's Kisses

Hugh’s unwitting dupe sprang to his feet, his fists raised. Make that a Brobdingnag-sized man with fists the size of elephant feet.

“Hey, mate,” Hugh called to his fuming pawn. “Those men in the capes told him to throw the mug.”

Nostrils flaring, forehead forward, impersonating an angry bull, the man charged toward the closest Cape.

How perfect. Beyond brilliant. “Fight!” Hugh hollered.

Tankards, chairs, tables, and fists flew as war broke out.

Hugh would congratulate himself on his genius later. Right now, he needed to get the hell out of there. Snaking between patrons and avoiding a few fists, he dashed toward the back exit and threw the door wide.

He inhaled a breath of refuse-infused air. Blasted dirty city. Then he was off, sprinting through the back alleys of London,dodging crates, barrels, and rats as footsteps pounded behind him.

Hugh kept running until his lungs burned, and a pinch in his side made movement almost impossible. He ducked into the shadows of a massive tree. With his back against a thick trunk, he leaned forward, hands on his knees, and attempted to catch his breath. Meanwhile, he searched his surroundings, finding himself in unfamiliar terrain. On his honor, he had no idea why they’d chased him for so long, but he was no longer in the heart of the city.

Once his breathing steadied, he stood tall and left the cover provided by the tree. He hadn’t taken more than a few steps when something hit him from behind. Pain seared into his brain, and his world went black.

Chapter two

Charlotte Beckett should leavethe masquerade ball before she poured Ratafia over her evil stepmother’s head. After years of abuse, something in her snapped, and she could not take one more insult from the odious woman.

Just moments ago, the marchioness had swept up to her and loudly proclaimed, “Charlotte, you do look a fright in pink.”

’Twas truly heartbreaking since Charlotte felt lovely. Silver threads shimmered from the flowers embroidered into her gown, and the crystals on her mask sparkled. There were even diamonds around her neck, in her hair, and along the edges of her pink satin gloves. Besides, she was certain the woman who should care about her as if she were her daughter had secretly destroyed her favorite gowns. They had disappeared, then reappeared with holes poked in the skirts. It had been a mad scramble to have this one ready in time. In Charlotte’s humble opinion, the modiste deserved a ribbon for this design.

She shook off the barb and made her way to the refreshment table, where the marchioness again ambushed her.

“You eat as much as four men. Put down that tart, or whosoever will ask you to dance?”

A trio of unkind women, all influential members of theton, laughed as Charlotte’s cheeks caught fire. Why did her stepmother hate her so? And why were the ladies who attended parties at their home so cruel?

Three months after her mother’s death, Papa presented his new wife. “Meet Suzannah. We have loved each other from afar for years,” he’d declared so relaxed it was as if he were discussing the weather.

But what about her late mother? Left speechless, all Charlotte could manage was a gasp.

Alexander, her brother, had not seemed surprised in the least. “I can no longer keep count of them all, Father,” he’d said before returning his attention to his book.

Although she didn’t fully understand its meaning, the comment left Charlotte with an unsettled stomach.

Their new mother—not that she acted maternal in the least—hired the best modists, insisted on three lady’s maids to wait on her, and hired a staff that was akin to a small army to help her “rule her kingdom.” Harassing their tenants seemed to be one of the woman’s favorite pastimes, second only to abusing her stepdaughter. Charlotte deserved some credit since she’d held her tongue on all matters Suzannah. The unbearable woman was a marchioness, not a dashed empress.

Although Charlotte had long since put down the apricot tart, she still eyed the serving dishes. Meanwhile, her stepmother leaned close to whisper, “I see what you are up to. Make no mistake, you will not get away with it.”

Surely, the marchioness was not referencing the saliva Charlotte swallowed as she fixated on the pastry. Or did the comment stem from the drink Charlotte clenched so tightly that her knuckles cramped? If only she had enough spirit to go through with it. All it would take was a quick flick of the wrist. How satisfying it would be to watch the Ratafia drip from the marchioness’s coiffure to soak into her silk gown.

But Charlotte had no spirit these days. Oh, she’d once been a happy child, but the marchioness had stamped every bit of personality and passion from her, and at two and twenty, she felt like a shell of a woman.

Perchance, the early autumn air and a trip to check on Cricket would quell Charlotte’s rising temper.

“Please excuse me, my lady. I find I require a turn in the garden.” She stared longingly at the colorful display of sweets before abandoning her drink on the table and turning toward the terrace.

“If her dress was any tighter, she’d look like a sausage,” her stepmother proclaimed to her chittering companions.

Charlotte quickened her pace, dashing past Alexander. Completely unaware of her humiliation, he stood indecently close to a woman wearing a mask made of peacock feathers. For a second, she thought he might be talking to the wallflower, Emily Coldpepper. The reticent woman had been declared on the shelf three seasons ago and spent social gatherings in the company of ancient spinsters talking about books and science. But this woman had on a low-cut gown and was smiling at her brother. Nay, this was someone else, for Alexander would never be interested in a Bluestocking.

Swallowing her tears, Charlotte fled into the night.

Chapter three