Finally they reached the landing, and Freddie threw open a door, pulling Charlotte in behind him. He slammed the door shut, and the small parlor immediately took on an intimate feel. A brace of candles burned near a small gold upholstered chaise longue in the center of the room; otherwise, all was darkness and shadows. How was she ever to find Cade when her husband had her locked away like this?
Freddie rested the palms of his hands on either side of her shoulders and leaned against the closed door.
“What are you doing?” Charlotte wiggled in the confined space and tried to tug on the doorknob. “Surely this is improper.”
“Shockingly so. We are hopelessly unfashionable now, my little Yankee.”
“I’m a Southerner, not a Yankee, and since I have never been fashionable, I couldn’t care less. But you”—she ran her gaze over him, then raised a brow—“you have your reputation to worry about.”
“I shall take the risk, I think.” He smiled down at her, then removed one arm from the door and pulled at his cravat. It fell in a snowy white tumble down the dark blue of his tailcoat. Leaning forward, he cupped her cheek, and kissed her.
When they parted, she said breathlessly, “Are you mad? You can’t possibly think to—to—”
“Make love to you?” He took one of her curls in his hand and seemed to test its weight. Mesmerized by the elegance of his long, aristocratic fingers, Charlotte forgot what they had been discussing. But when he moved to kiss her again, she abruptly sidestepped.
“Not here!”
“You prefer another room then?” Bringing the curl to his nose, he inhaled deeply.
“I prefer—” Charlotte had to tear her eyes from his molten gaze. Cade. She had to remember Cade. “I prefer that we return to the ball immediately. Sir Sebastian mentioned that Cade might be in attendance this evening.” Charlotte ducked under Freddie’s shoulder and scooted away.
“I see.” Freddie crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “And you hope to see him.”
“Of course. Isn’t that what I’m here for?”
His warm green eyes turned steely gray, and he said, “Yes. How could I forget your lover or the one thousand pounds I owe for your services?”
He reached up and viciously yanked at the top button of his white lawn shirt.
“Stop calling Cade my lover. You know that’s not true. And as for the money, I—I don’t care about that.”
Freddie’s hands stilled and he eyed her narrowly. “Not at all?”
It was true, but she didn’t want to contemplate that right now. Instead she said, “Cade was—is my friend. I have to help him or else he’ll be—”
“Drawn and quartered most likely.” What looked like anger flitted across Freddie’s face. “Treason is a serious matter.” Freddie tugged another button open.
“Treason!” Charlotte felt her heart lurch into her throat. How could Dewhurst speak of capital punishment and torture so lightly? “But Cade’s an American. If he’s a spy, it’s not treason but an act of patriotism.”
“Patriotism?” Freddie barked out a laugh. “If we excused every spy who argued patriotism, Napoleon, not Prinny, would be redesigning Carlton House right now.”
“And perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad turn of events. You English would do well to be brought down a notch or two.”
Freddie’s eyes slitted. “You hate us that much, do you?”
Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, to give her usual rejoinder. Her hatred of all things British had become almost a mantra to her. But for the first time, it brought her no peace. “No. I don’t hate all of you.” Finally she looked into her husband’s eyes—rather, the man who’d played the role of her husband, for better or worse—and said, “Not all of you.”
Her words hung in the heavy air between them, and then she was pressing herself into his embrace. His arms around her felt strong and safe and . . . almost like home. He held her so tightly, so tenderly that it made her want to weep. She didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to have her father’s business, didn’t want Charleston back without Freddie. But did he feel the same, and was it enough to make her happy here in England?
“Charlotte,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. This will all be over soon.”
She stiffened at his words but held on to a fragile slice of hope that what was burgeoning between them would survive whatever happened when they found Cade. Would Freddie want her to stay with him? Make her his wife in truth?
Cupping her face in his hands, he leaned down and kissed her slowly, teasing her lips apart. She wanted to resist, tell him all her fears, but she couldn’t muster the willpower. Before she realized what had happened, she was relishing once again the taste of him, the feel of his lips on hers, the growl in the back of his throat when she ventured to run her tongue lightly over his lower lip.
She felt his control shatter. It smashed into a thousand pieces and then his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss that he deepened until she responded hungrily. She moaned when he ran his hands along the slope of her neck to the arches of her shoulders. She cried when, with the pads of his fingers, he traced the sensitive skin, teasing and cajoling each sleeve down her arm. Gently breaking the kiss, he bent down and curved his mouth over one shoulder, his hands moving to caress her hips and pull her intimately against him.
Charlotte felt the proof of his arousal, and reason made one last bid for attention. “We must stop.” She tore herself from Freddie’s tantalizing kisses, straightened the sleeves of her gown, then pressed her palms against the heated flesh of her cheeks. “If we’re found, what will people say?”
