Free The Temptation of the Night Jasmine by Lauren Willig Page B

had always been a bit wild – or, as disapproving chaperones put it, fast – but since Henrietta’s marriage, she had thrown herself into the pursuit of her own ruin with single-minded efficiency. Sometimes, Charlotte felt as though she were trying to slow down a runaway carriage by clinging to the boot.
    Henrietta leant forward, effectively lodging herself between Penelope and Miles. ‘I want to know more about Charlotte’s duke.’
    ‘Charlotte doesn’t have a duke,’ said Charlotte. Since that hadn’t come out quite as effectively as it had in her head, she added, ‘Well, I don ’ t .’
    ‘Don’t you?’ said Penelope, lounging back in her chair like a dangerous jungle cat. The glass in her hand was quite, quite empty.
    ‘No, I don’t,’ Charlotte repeated, twitching the gauze overlay of her skirt. ‘Just because—’
    Colouring, Charlotte broke off.
    ‘Aha!’ Henrietta jabbed a finger in the air. ‘Just because what?’
    Penelope cast her eyes up to the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, reciting in a monotone monologue, ‘Long walks together, domestic interludes at the breakfast table, tête-à-têtes in the library …’
    ‘It was hardly a tête-à-tête!’ protested Charlotte in a fierce whisper, desperately craning her neck in the fear someone might have heard. ‘We simply happened to be alone in the same place at the same time.’
    ‘Same place. Same time. Alone.’ Penelope ticked the words off on her fingers. ‘How else would you describe a tête-à-tête?’
    ‘Exactly as it sounds. Head-to-head. And ours weren’t. They were quite properly on opposite sides of a table.’
    ‘Hmm,’ said Penelope.
    Miles pushed back his chair with an exaggerated scraping sound.
    ‘Right,’ he said, holding up both hands and backing slowly away. ‘I know when I’m not needed. I’ll be in the card room if anyone wants me.’ He dealt Charlotte an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘Best of luck with your duke, old thing.’
    ‘I don’t have a duke,’ repeated Charlotte. It sounded less and less convincing each time she said it. It would save her considerable time and energy to embroider the phrase on a sampler and hang it around her neck. ‘This is beginning to sound more and more like a game of cards,’ she added, to no one in particular.
    ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Henrietta. ‘That would be kings, not dukes, and we don’t have any of those here.’
    ‘Just jacks,’ put in Penelope, her lip curling as her gaze made the circuit of the men scattered about the room. Neither Charlotte nor Henrietta was under any doubt as to what she meant. The jack was also commonly known as the knave. ‘We have plenty of those.’
    ‘Well, Martin Frobisher, surely,’ said Henrietta, surveying the assemblage. Charlotte would never forget the memorable occasion where Martin Frobisher had attempted to make an improper suggestion to Henrietta and been rewarded with a sticky stream of ratafia all down the front of his new jacket. He had never tried that again. A least, not with Henrietta. ‘And Lord Henry Innes. They’re as thick as thieves. And I’ve heard all sorts of stories about Sir Francis Medmenham, but other than that …’
    ‘Don’t forget our duke,’ added Penelope.
    Charlotte didn’t like the way Penelope’s lip curled as she said it. ‘Robert isn’t like them.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘No,’ said Charlotte vehemently. It was one thing for Penelope to put on worldly airs, but quite another for her to insinuate untruths about someone she barely knew. Penelope didn’t know him; she did.
    ‘He hasn’t been back in the country long enough to do anything appalling. Has he?’ asked Henrietta with interest. ‘Unless you heard something about his time in India.’
    Penelope nodded in the direction of Sir Francis Medmenham. ‘Just look at the company he keeps.’
    ‘What other company is he meant to keep?’ argued Charlotte, as much for herself as for Penelope. ‘They’re the only ones