“Success!” she whispered and pushed the door open.
“Do you always sneak about other’s houses, opening doors without knocking?”
Charlotte jumped, slammed the door shut again, and spun around. Dewhurst was standing across the hall, leaning on a doorjamb, his expression a cross between amusement and exasperation. Her first impulse was to apologize, but she didn’t give in. She’d done nothing wrong. Instead she said, “I was not sneaking around. I was looking for you.”
He inclined his head. “You’ve found me.” And she had. Her heart was only now slowing to a pace that allowed her to take him in. George, but he was magnificent. He wore a dark blue double-breasted coat, buff pantaloons, and polished Hessian boots. His shirt was fine white linen with a frill at the neck and collar. The points of his stand collar almost grazed his ears, and his cravat was stiff and intricately tied. Even his golden hair had been tamed and pulled back into an artfully careless queue, and his jaw was clean-shaven. How in heaven had he had time to wash, shave, and dress?
Her heart thumped heavily in her chest. How was it possible that a man—an Englishman— could be so sinfully handsome? He really did appear every inch the archangel. It was so unfair—beside him, all her faults felt so keenly apparent. She’d never been a beauty, and even with the most exquisite coiffure and the finest clothes, she would never measure up.
“In the future,” he said, interrupting her examination, “I’d appreciate it if you confined your snooping to your room or the drawing room. The rest of the house is mine.”
Already on the defensive, Charlotte bridled. “Need I remind you that in the eyes of the rest of the household, this is my house as well as yours? I have every right to any and all rooms.”
He gave her a long, hard stare, then stepped back. “Very well, then, come in. But I warn you not to become too comfortable. You’re not staying.”
“You couldn’t pay me to stay,” she retorted, stomping in after him.
“No? Then I shall pay you a thousand pounds to go.”
Charlotte knew she had walked right into that one, but she might have thought of a biting rejoinder anyway, except that she lost all vestige of cogent thought as soon as she saw the room.
His room.
Her first impression was that she had taken a wrong turn and stumbled into the royal palace. The room was that sumptuous. All crimson and gold, Dewhurst’s suite dripped dignity and majesty. In the center of the room, large but by no means overpowering the capacious suite, was a tester bed, which looked to be antique. The headboard was paneled walnut, intricately carved, and the foot posts were supported by pedestals, which in turn supported the heavy velvet weight of scarlet bed hangings. Charlotte supposed that had she been more familiar with the English design periods, she could have placed the furnishing as from the era of Henry VIII or Louis XIV—or was Louis from France?
On the far side of the bed, in a corner, were a cheval mirror and mahogany clothespress. The mirror was freestanding, decorated with ormolu, and had what appeared to be adjustable candle arms on the posts. Behind the clothespress were large windows overlooking the garden, the red and gold damask drapes tied back to allow the pale gray light into the room.
Charlotte took another step inside and peered around behind her. On this side of the room were the fireplace, a high-backed, rounded chair, and a small kingwood urn table on which stood a bottle stand with cabriole legs and paw feet. The stand was full, and there were two additional decanters beside it. Farther along the wall, Charlotte took note of a satinwood house desk and a Chippendale chair with claw feet. The room was not carpeted, instead there were various fine rugs interspersed throughout. But the last items in the room stood on the gleaming wood floors—a large mahogany washstand with a bowl and pitcher.
Charlotte looked back at Dewhurst in his perfectly tailored clothing and his carefully tousled hair. Here in this ornate, ostentatious room, she realized again that he was everything she detested about the British. He was the embodiment of her disgust for a nation that had tried to exploit and suppress her own for purely selfish reasons. Unfair, crippling taxes, restrictions on trade, unlawful seizing of ships and sailors. The British and their misguided sense of superiority!
Dewhurst gave her a lazy smile, and she was tempted to cross the room and smack it off his full, sensuous lips.
She gripped her skirts, forcing a grip on her thoughts as well. He was a handsome man. That could not be denied. Neither could she allow it to cloud her senses or make her forget her purpose here.
“Well?” he finally said, making a sweeping gesture to encompass the room. “Is it all you’d hoped when you were sneaking about, trying every door handle?”
She glared at him. “I was not sneaking about. I was looking for you, Mr. Dewhurst. A task that would not have been necessary had you not abandoned me downstairs with that ogre of a housekeeper.”
“It’s Lord Dewhurst,” he said and arched a brow. Charlotte’s gaze flitted to his eyes and was caught. His brows, just a shade darker than his golden hair, framed his eyes—amazing dark green eyes that had so captivated her even on their first meeting. Eyes half hidden under his heavy eyelids and framed by thick lashes, he watched her as a cat does its prey. His gaze was slow, unhurried, and distinctly predatory. He would not be rushed. This was a man who preferred to tease his quarry before giving the deathblow.
Charlotte blinked, unnerved at the train of her thoughts. He was a powerful man, indeed. She had seen past the puffed-up clothing and overdone suite to the warrior underneath. She would have to be careful. Charlotte cleared her throat. “Mr. Dewhurst,” she began, averting her attention from his eyes. “I—”
“It’s Lord Dewhurst,” he said again.
“I know. I choose not to use that title.” She waved her hand dismissively, and he shot to attention.
“My title is not a luxury to be used when the mood strikes. It is an absolute. As are all the titles of the aristocracy. If you wish to damn this venture before we even begin, then by all means, continue to disregard my rank.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Very well, I shall make more of an effort to remember.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not good enough.”
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte said indignantly.
“Unless you intend to insult half the people you meet and alienate me from my friends and acquaintances, you must learn the order of precedence inside and out. Backward and forward. If this ruse is to work, you must know it as well as your own name. As well as—”
“I take your point, Alfred.”
