A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

curious onlookers. She could hear the scandalized whispers that would follow in her wake. Her reputation was already sullied by her fiance’s death, for surely the love of a good woman should have saved him from such despair. Therefore, the reasoning went, there must be some flaw in her. And now, to be found kissing her late fiance’s brother—!

James’s hand held her back and looked into her eyes, his gaze searching. “I have never claimed to be a gentleman.”

“How could you, since you are not? Now let me go!”

He did not loosen his grasp as he once again faced her uncle, whose cheeks were getting progressively more flushed. “Gentleman or not, I am quite prepared to do the honorable thing, Mr. Duncan, and marry your niece.”

Charlotte stared at James. She couldn’t marry him! She hated him! And she had done nothing wrong here to cause her to be imprisoned in a marriage. “I would rather die!”

“Like John?”

His words pierced her heart like the thrust of a rapier. “How…how dare you!” she whispered as tears of anger and dismay leaped into her eyes.

“I dare because you as good as held the gun that killed him when you broke his heart.”

“I?” she gasped, incredulous. “I broke his heart?”

“Your Grace, Charlotte,” Uncle Malcolm said, obviously attempting to control his temper, “this is hardly the time or place for such accusations. I suggest you retire, Charlotte. As for you, Your Grace, you will please leave my house. You may call upon me at my offices tomorrow morning, where we shall discuss what is to be done. Now, Your Grace, I give you good night.”

James, the Duke of Broverhampton, smiled and inclined his head, then strode through the crowd which parted for him as they might a pauper who had intruded into their midst.

* * *

Sitting in his barouche outside the offices of the Duncan Distillery, makers of Fine Rum and purveyors to the Royal Navy by the appointment of His Majesty, King George III, James wondered—and not for the first time—what the devil he was doing here. He should order his driver to take him home. Or to his club. Or even the closest tavern. Anything but beard old Malcolm Duncan in his den and explain that he did not wish to marry Charlotte. The offer had been made in the heat of the moment.

And what heat. What unexpected, overwhelming heat. Charlotte clearly possessed the ability to drive a man to passionate ecstasy, if that was how she kissed when she supposedly did not want to be kissed.

Or maybe she had. Could it be that despite her apparent animosity, she was setting her sights on the man who now had the wealth she craved? He mustn’t forget that she was a greedy, grasping creature who had broken his brother’s heart and destroyed his spirit when John had realized she was only marrying him for his title and money. That knowledge, and his shame at being duped, had driven John to take his life.

If he married her as he had impulsively suggested because of some last, lingering vestige of chivalry called forth by the vulgar fascination on the faces of the guests last night, he might be playing right into her soft, yet avaricious, hands.

Therefore, he must go to Mr. Duncan and rescind his offer. Such a thing would not enhance his reputation, but he could not concern himself with that.

What he should concern himself with was making sure Charlotte knew he knew the kind of woman she was, despite his momentary lapse into forgetfulness, and that he intended to make sure the rest of the world knew it, too. That was why he had followed her out onto the balcony, or thought he had.

He had mistaken Dulcie for Charlotte. The cousins looked enough alike that, attired in similar gowns and with their blond hair done in similarly Grecian styles, it was easy to mistake one for the other, especially across a crowded ballroom.

So he had followed “Charlotte” and could not resist the urge to announce his presence with a kiss, only to realize the moment his mouth touched Dulcie’s that either he was kissing the wrong woman—for it was no secret that Charlotte didn’t drink because her father had died after falling from his horse while inebriated—or else he had his lips on a rum bottle.

Whatever had happened last night, he finally decided, he could not and would not marry Charlotte.

He alighted from the barouche and strode into the distillery, heading directly for Duncan’s office. He marched past the startled bevy of clerks perched on stools as they toiled at their high desks and entered the office without so much as a rap on the door.

To find that Charlotte was already there. Or maybe it was Dulcie facing her father with her whole body rigid, her hands on her hips, and her bonnet’s white feather dancing.

The young woman whirled around to face him, and he discovered it was indeed Charlotte. “What do you want?” she demanded, glaring at him.

As always when faced with a nerve-racking situation—which was always the situation when he was near the vivacious Charlotte—he summoned up a mask of calm indifference, and answered truthfully. “I’ve come to tell your esteemed uncle that I have changed my mind and cannot marry you.”

Her green eyes flickered and a sardonic smile curved her full lips. “Good, because I am here to tell him the same thing.”

How her emerald green eyes sparkled like jewels when she was angry! How lovely she looked in that charming ensemble, including the ridiculous plume bobbing about like a writer’s quill penning a screed of its own volition. “Excellent. Then we are agreed.”

“Yes!”

“So I see no need to remain here any longer.”

“Nor do I,” Charlotte declared, pushing her way past him and slamming the office door with a bang like a cannon shot that probably sent the clerks scrambling for cover.

Taking a deep breath, James bowed at the openmouthed Mr. Duncan. “Good day to you, sir, and I regret any inconvenience.”

Before he could turn away, Duncan heaved himself to his feet with surprising speed. “Not so fast, Your Grace. I would speak with you.”

James suppressed a sigh as he waited for the man to proceed. No doubt Duncan intended to berate him, and soundly, too.

“You will either marry my niece, or I shall take you to court for breach of promise.”

Chapter Three

James stared, slack-jawed, at Charlotte’s uncle. “Breach of promise?” he repeated in an incredulous whisper.

Malcolm Duncan smiled with malicious pleasure. “Exactly. Several people heard you offer to marry her last night.”

“She didn’t accept!”

Duncan waved his plump hand dismissively as he returned to his seat. “Women are fickle creatures, apt to change their minds.”

“But you can’t be serious! She hates me.”

“Does she?”

James’s eyes widened even more, and even though his mind told him it must not, the small, hidden place in his heart where his hope had been buried cracked open. Charlotte had been living with her uncle since her father’s demise years ago; it could be he knew her well enough….

It didn’t matter. “Of course,” he replied, burying the long-denied hope back where it belonged. “You heard her say she’d rather die than marry me.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Duncan said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers, “the fact is, you’ve compromised my niece’s honor. Your family has already done her harm, and it’s about time one of you made it right.”