Page 44 of Charlotte's Kisses

“Lady Charlotte,” someone called from behind her.

She turned. Lord Nash strolled toward her, his walking stick digging into the grass. What in the dickens was he doing on the back lawn? Had he been following her? Fighting her desire to flee his presence, she waited for him to catch up to her.

“I spent the afternoon speaking with your father. I dare say, you were quite difficult to find,” he said.

“Why are you trying to find me? We really should not be alone without a chaperone.”

“And yet you sneak off with that devil Fletcher, whenever you have the chance.”

She should deny the accusation, but what was the point? She sucked on her jaw until her temper was in check and then calmly asked, “Lord Nash, have you been following me?”

“I would prefer you call me George now that we are officially engaged.”

“But we are not engaged.” And they never would be.

“Indeed, we are. That is what I spoke to your father about, and he has given his consent.”

A fire-like rage burned behind her eyeballs. “But I have not consented.”

“Your father and I agree, ’tis in your best interest. Sometimes women need the men in their lives to make the important decisions, especially when a chit is young and misguided.”

At a loss for words, Charlotte stared at the bacon-headed idiot.

His knuckles turned white as his walking stick dug a hole in the grass. “I am sure that once you spend time with me, you will come to love me.”

Never! Not when he thought her a misguided chit and did not give two farthings about her opinion. Not if he were the last man on Earth.

“Please excuse me.” She turned on her heel and stomped toward the house.

“I dare say, Charlotte, do calm yourself,” he called after her. “And you would do well to remember that I forbid you to go near Hugh Fletcher.”

“Bugger off, Lord Nash. And you would do well to remember not to follow me,” she called back.

Dinner was unbearable. At least the guests who had overstayed their welcome had finally departed, and Lord Nash was not in attendance. Although the despicable beast would probably tell her father about her unladylike language the next time he visited.

Lady Chesterhill’s pointed glares filled Charlotte with dread. Even from across the table, Charlotte felt vibrations from Alexander’s tapping foot. And as usual, Papa stared into space, preoccupied with something. At least the silence allowed her to concentrate on her plan as she pushed fish and potatoes around her plate.

Once Papa dismissed them for the evening, she dashed down the hall and up the stairs. Thankfully, Lucy sat beside the balcony window, a pink silk gown upon her lap. A cool breeze blew across the chamber, changing Charlotte’s misgivings to hope.

Lucy held up the frock. “Almost like new,” she said. “But I am afraid your emerald gown is damaged beyond repair. ’Tis as if a pirate slashed it with his sword.”

“Lucy, would you do something for me?” Charlotte asked.

“Of course, my lady. Anything you need.”

“May I borrow your dress and cloak?”

“But it is a bit warm for a cloak.”

“It matters not,” Charlotte said.

“If you wish. But I have repaired so many of your dresses, and they are lovely. Surely, you do not want this. ’Tis from last season.” Sighing, Lucy peered down at the skirt of her light blue dress that had once belonged to Charlotte.

Dare she trust Lucy with the truth? Charlotte only needed to study Lucy’s concerned countenance for a moment to reach her conclusion.

“Lady Chesterhill means to keep me a prisoner in this house,” she declared.

Lucy’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “She is a disagreeable woman, indeed.”