He wasn’t clumsy at all, she had learned, despite his size. His body was as careful, as deliberate and gentle in its movements, as his hands had been on her head. She could still recall that moment in the stable yard so clearly, even a month later—the odd stillness that had overtaken her when he touched her, the funny little twist in her stomach. She’d felt taken over, and she felt taken over again in the waltz tonight. Dexter’s hand on her waist was as solid as a building, his firm grip on her gloved hand not painful but simply inexorable. He led, and she must follow. She didn’t even think about the steps.
It was like floating, or flying. Like the Gossamer Wing, without the nausea.
For that reason, Charlotte could not feel at ease. Dreams rarely ended well for her, and she didn’t trust herself when life felt too ethereal or pleasant. She tried to remind herself that people were never what they seemed, and this was all make-believe. But Dexter felt so real, so solid, from the deft grip of his hand on hers to the uncompromisingly hard muscle of his shoulder. Based on the dimensions she’d been able to glean thus far, Charlotte thought Dexter must have the approximate build of a Greek god as depicted in early marbles. Not one of the youths, but somebody fully ripened into manhood. Poseidon, possibly.
“Charlotte?”
The sound of her name drew her attention back to her partner, away from inappropriately specific thoughts of his body. She tipped her head back—and back, and back—to look up at him.
“Dexter.”
They had been practicing, the better to lend an air of genuine affection to their engagement. See, her tone of voice told him, I can say your first name with no hesitation at all, because I have taught myself to say it as part of my duty to the Crown.
“Are you feeling quite well?”
She tried to think how to explain what she was feeling, but decided against it and went with a shrug instead.
“I’m not used to being back among so many people yet, I suppose.”
“Steam car outings and salons aren’t really adequate preparation for this, it’s true,” he sympathized. “I’d much rather be in my workshop. I’ve always hated these things.”
His voice was mild, pleasant. He seemed to be enjoying himself well enough. Perhaps he was simply as good an actor as he was a dancer.
Charlotte allowed herself the luxury of a slightly longer look at her partner while he steered them around a tricky knot of fellow revelers. In the gleam of the gaslight, she could see the russet tint that softened the black of his hair and brows. Clean-shaven in the current fashion, hair neatly trimmed. The dark gold figured brocade of his waistcoat played up a golden hue she hadn’t noticed before in his complexion. The Chen influence, she supposed, recalling Dexter’s Chinese ancestry. His features were pure Hardison, however, elegant but just a bit boyish. It would have made an ideal face for a rake, had he chosen to wield it that way.
He didn’t, of course. As far as she knew, he had never dallied indiscreetly, never played the cad, never so much as publicly sullied the reputation of the local barmaid her father had informed her was the occasional companion of the Baron’s nights. The Viscount had had a man check on that sort of thing, apparently.
Dexter had given the young woman a generous settlement the day after Charlotte demonstrated her airship to him. That was before he had even spoken with the Viscount and given his official pledge of participation in the charade. He hadn’t been seen in the barmaid’s company since, her father had reported.
“It’s time,” Dexter whispered in her ear as the last few bars of the waltz drew the crowd to a halt. While the others applauded, Dexter led Charlotte quickly out to the terrace. As they descended the steps and headed for a secluded corner of the garden, she told herself that her shiver was only a result of the late April evening’s gathering chill.
He pulled her to a halt around a corner formed by a boxwood hedge and an overflowing herbaceous border. A starlit fountain surrounded by low-growing white roses greeted them with charming sound and scent. There was a bench, of course, placed advantageously for courting couples. The Vanderbilts’ townhouse was somewhat infamous for the convenience of its gardens when trysting was on the agenda.
“Shall I kneel?”
“Whatever for?” She looked back toward the house, to the relative safety of the lights and crowd, visible in twinkling glimpses through the spring foliage.
“Veracity,” he said with a shrug. She could tell he was stung.
“I apologize.”
“No, no. I didn’t mean to be flippant. I know this can’t be easy for you. I’ve never been married, much less . . . well. I shouldn’t jest.”
That hurt more, his being kind for the sake of her feelings. She couldn’t allow that. “No, you’re right. By all means, let’s get into the spirit of the thing.”
“Are you sure—”
“Quite sure, Mr. Hardison.”
“Dexter,” he reminded her.
Charlotte was glad for the night, for the cover of shadow in the secluded little lover’s nook. Dexter had been so unfailingly kind, so courteous and thoughtful, these past few weeks. Ushering her into and out of steam cars, holding her chair, opening doors and fetching her drinks. Making painfully polite conversation with her mother and her mother’s friends, always behaving as though he were eager to get back to her side.
He was the hero who had brought her out of mourning, the knight in friendly bear’s armor who had won her from her dark castle of grief with his gentle, determined charm. For a novice, Hardison seemed brilliant at the long game.
Charlotte’s mother had exclaimed with joy when Charlotte confessed to her—per the plan—that Dexter intended to propose at tonight’s ball. And she had completely mistaken the reasons behind Charlotte’s subsequent tears.
Charlotte had known Reginald for eight years, been courted by him for two of those years, and was married to him for fewer than seventy-two hours. Three nights. Theirs was a reserved but friendly courtship, and she had enjoyed his company in bed by that third night.
She had loved her husband, and welcomed his affections eagerly, if shyly. But she had never felt this. Charlotte had never felt a fraction of the huge, unnamable thing that overcame her when Hardison was anywhere in the vicinity. She had never breathed Reginald in, or felt his absence like the absence of some essential element in the air whenever he left her side. During their courtship, she had never missed Reginald like a limb when he went home for the day, or even when he went off to spend several months in Europa. Perhaps because she had known him so long, she had been unable to imagine that he might not return.
Reginald had never loomed the way Hardison—Dexter—loomed over her now without even trying, in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the sheer physical magnitude of the man. Immense though he was, Charlotte couldn’t lie to herself about the real reason he seemed so terribly real, so terribly present next to her in the dark.
She wanted him. She lusted for him, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
It was new to her, such uncontrollable physical desire. And like all things she couldn’t control, she distrusted it. She distrusted herself when she felt the pull of it, and she felt guilt beyond measure for never having felt this way about her actual husband. What had she been depriving Reginald of, by not responding this way to him? How had she deprived herself? Had Reginald known what they were missing? Surely he must have, men always seemed to know those sorts of things, no matter how new they were to the whole business. Had he cared? Whether she wanted to or not, Charlotte found she cared. Now, after the fact, when it was too late by five years. She cared very much.