“Come now,” Lorameh said. “You’ll feel better after some fresher air and a bit of wine.”
Staying here, watching the two of them, would do nothing except put him at risk of jeopardizing everything. Richard turned, snapping the chain of jealousy and pain that anchored him in place, and followed Lorameh into the castle, where drinks had been set out.
*
CHARLOTTE wiggled her toes in the ceramic footbath. Dancing barefoot across the ancient stone wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences. She’d stepped twice on some sharp pebble, and the dirt of the stones, although they had been cleaned, was now permanently embedded in her feet. She’d soaped them, scrubbed, and even tried a pumice stone, but the dirt remained. Finally, she had resorted to soaking.
It went so much better than expected. She had made an impression on Brennan and coincidentally a favorable impression upon the Marchesa. Brennan was feeling distinctly possessive. He held on to her a few moments too long after the dance and seemed unwilling to step away from her side. She finally excused herself to the washroom. He waited nearby, but she’d bet that a lone royal cousin wouldn’t remain unattended for too long, and she proved right. A group of Louisianan ladies surrounded him, and she quietly made her escape.
She found Sophie at Spider-Sebastian’s table, attentively listening as he debated some point of Louisianan politics with some older man and his entourage. While they made their good nights and said thank-yous for the stream of compliments received, Charlotte composed a devastating chewing-out in her head, which she delivered the moment they stepped into their quarters and shut the door. Sophie listened to every word and at the end hugged her, said, “Thank you, you’re the best,” and disappeared into her room.
Charlotte stood by the door, staring at it for a little while, not sure what to do, and went to take a shower. And now she was soaking her feet.
Charlotte slumped back in her chair. The room was quiet and dark around her. The glass doors to the balcony were open, and the night wind sifted through the gauzy white drapes. A big, pale moon lit the sky and the stone rail of the balcony. Beyond it, the river stretched, reflecting the moonlight.
How did she even end up here? Eight weeks ago she was just plain Charlotte living her life quietly in the Edge. Now she was attending a royal wedding, her name out in the open. She thought of Lady Augustine. Her surrogate mother wouldn’t have approved of airing out the name. The moment her adoption was made public, she’d become a target for the enterprising social climbers. But then the name was the least of her worries. She’d broken her oath. Lady Augustine would be horrified to know how far her star pupil had fallen.
A rope dropped from above, stretching to the balcony.
Charlotte blinked.
The rope was still there.
Feet in dark boots slid into her view, followed by long, lean legs, followed by narrow hips, a muscular chest clothed in dark fabric. Richard.
Her heart pounded in her chest. She tried to get up and splashed water all over the plush white rug. Damn it. And now she was swearing in her head. Wonderful.
Charlotte stepped out of the bath and ran to the balcony on her toes.
He landed on the rail.
“What are you doing?” she hissed in a loud whisper.
“I had to see you.”
“What? Get on that rope. You’re going to ruin everything.”
“Brennan isn’t everything.”
His face was sharpened, almost contorted, by desperation.
“What is it?” she whispered. “Did something bad happen? Are you hurt?”
He jumped off the rail, pulled her inside the room, and clamped her to him. His mouth found hers, hot, possessive, and demanding. He kissed her as if this was the last time he would see her.
For a moment she almost melted, but alarm won out. “Richard, you’re scaring me.”
“Let’s go away,” he whispered. “Let’s just leave, you and me.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t want to lose you. I love you, Charlotte. Come with me.”
She studied his face. “Are you jealous of Brennan?”
“Yes.”
Oh, for the love of . . . “Richard!”
“I know that I can’t give you a title or riches or—”
She put her hand on his mouth. “Shut up. I have a title and riches. You don’t get to abort the plan because you didn’t like that I danced with him.”
“You liked it,” he said through her hand.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You looked like you were enjoying it.”
“I was supposed to look like I enjoyed it, you moron. It’s called ‘acting.’”
He looked at her, clearly at a loss for words.
“If you can go under the knife risking death, I can dance with Brennan and parade in front of him in my underwear.”
“What?”
She shouldn’t have said that.
“Charlotte?”
“I let him see me half-undressed. I’ll model it for you later if you wish. Now you need to get out!” She pushed him onto the balcony. “Get out, get out, get out. And take your rope with you. You’re too old for this. I’m too old for this.” She shut the glass doors.
He stood for a long moment, then jumped, caught the rope, and pulled himself up.
Charlotte fell backward onto the bed. Idiot. Moron. He scaled the wall for her like some sort of robber-prince from an adventure novel. Climbed a rope in a fit of jealousy. Really, who climbs a rope?
A knock sounded through her door. Now what? She walked over, pulling her thin robe tighter around herself, and checked the glass window in the door. Brennan.
“This is highly improper,” she said through the door.
“I’m a highly improper man.”
“Who shall remain in the hallway.”
“Charlotte, I just wish to talk.”
“One moment.”
Charlotte walked over to a communicator and dialed the castle staff. The gears spun and a man’s face appeared above the copper half sphere. “At your service, my lady.”