“He asked your permission? When you were what, fifteen?”
“Sixteen, I think.”
“And you gave it.”
“Of course I did, and gladly. I’m so happy for him and Diana. I’m happy for Colin and Minerva, too.”
“But their happiness has made it more difficult for you to seek your own.”
She leaned one elbow on the table, then propped her chin on her hand. “To the contrary, seeing them marry for love is the best thing that could have happened. It taught me to believe I can find love, too. And if the circumstances of their marriages present a hurdle to prospective suitors . . . that’s doing me a favor, as well. I needn’t waste my time with gentlemen who are easily discouraged.”
He regarded her intently.
There was something new in his eyes, behind the dispassionate appraisal. A hint of ruthlessness.
“What is it?” she said.
“I’m trying to decide whether you truly believe that little speech you just gave. Or if it’s merely a thought that comforts you when you’re watching yet another quadrille from behind the potted palms.”
She was taken aback. Yes, in a few weak moments, she had stood forlorn in a crowd, indulging in the worst sort of self-pity. Much to her shame.
“When you’re a marchioness”—he lifted his ale to take a casual sip—“you’ll have your revenge. You’ll show them all.”
This must be his secret. How he bent kings and despots to his will. By seeing inside them and using their own broken dreams as leverage. The most dangerous weapon is the one that strikes closest to the heart.
“You’re wrong,” she said.
He lowered his glass. “Hm?”
“There’s a flaw in your plan, my lord. Becoming a marchioness would only convince the ton that I am everything they believe me to be. A shameless schemer, willing to debase myself to catch a wealthy, well-placed husband. Unless . . .”
“Unless?”
“Unless the marquess in question fell madly, irretrievably, publicly in love with me.”
He seemed to choke on his ale.
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow. She could be ruthless, too.
She didn’t need to be rescued by her family, or Piers. Once she’d learned the identity of the mystery lovers, she would convince her mother and Sir Vernon that Piers had no responsibility toward her. By next season, she would be exploring the Continent with Delia, and London would find a new laughingstock. When she returned, having broadened her experience and her mind, she would be free to marry—or wait—as she chose.
Thump.
The most enormous hand she’d ever seen clapped on Piers’s shoulder, startling her in her skin.
The enormous hand was connected to an enormous man. One with broad shoulders and dark, wavy hair. “Piers. I thought it was you.”
Piers pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. “Rafe.”
The two men shook hands warmly before turning to offer Charlotte introductions.
As if she would need introductions. All England knew this man by name and reputation.
“Miss Charlotte Highwood, allow me to present Lord Rafe Brandon. My brother.”
“You left out ‘Heavyweight Champion of Britain’ and ‘Proprietor of England’s Finest Brewery,’ ” Charlotte teased. To Lord Rafe, she said, “What an unexpected pleasure, my lord.”
She extended her hand, and the broad-shouldered giant bowed over it before pulling up a chair to join them.
His manner was as easy and informal as Piers’s was proper and restrained. Charlotte liked him at once.
“I hope that’s Champion Ale.” Rafe nodded at his brother’s glass.
“Always.” Piers sounded offended to have his loyalty questioned. “Are you in the area collecting new accounts?”
“I’m scouting locations for a regional brewery. Clio’s keen to expand operations northward.” He motioned to a serving girl for a fresh round of drinks.
“She’s well, I hope.”
“Oh, yes. Though she works herself harder than I’d like.”
Charlotte was surprised at how easily the two men discussed her, considering that Lord Rafe had married Piers’s former betrothed. Piers didn’t appear to bear them any ill will.
“What a coincidence to find you here.” Lord Rafe leaned back in his chair. “Funny isn’t it, how often business puts us in the same place.”
“Oh, Lord Granville isn’t here on business,” Charlotte said.
Lord Rafe looked from her to Piers, amused. “So it’s pleasure, then.”
Her face warmed. “I didn’t mean to imply that, either. We’re both guests of Sir Vernon Parkhurst for the fortnight. Lord Granville was kind enough to bring the ladies into town for some shopping, but there was an incident and we had to separate into two groups for the return trip.”
“An incident, you say.” Rafe accepted his drink and downed half of it in one swallow. “I know how often ‘incidents’ happen around my brother.”
“Whatever frequency that may be,” Charlotte said, “they occur doubly often around my mother. Lord Granville can attest to the fact.”
Piers shrugged. “Mrs. Highwood believes her daughter deserves the admiration of highly placed gentlemen. As well she should.”
She put her fork down and smiled. “Now, really. Why are you taking her side?”
“I beg your pardon. I believed I was taking yours.”
Charlotte blushed a little, and had to look away.
Lord Rafe cleared his throat. “Well.”
“Come back with us for dinner,” Piers said. “Sir Vernon would be glad to meet you, and he has a son who could do with some distraction.”
Charlotte doubted the invitation was for Sir Vernon or Edmund’s benefit. Piers might be restrained, but even he couldn’t conceal true brotherly affection. She was comforted to know that he had this much love in his life, at least. After losing his parents, his betrothed, and even his dog—he needed it.
“Afraid I can’t,” Rafe said. “I’ve promised to start back this afternoon.”
The brothers chatted for a few minutes longer, exchanging news about their homes and business dealings. Piers excused himself to settle the bill.
When they were alone, Rafe turned to Charlotte and lowered his voice in confidence. “Forgive me for leaving so quickly, but it’s not only my brewery that’s expanding. My wife’s doing a bit of enlarging, too. To put it delicately.”