She glanced at him from beneath her lashes.
He was so close. Close enough to kiss if she so chose. If she could simply gather up her nerve and do so.
Except, apparently, she did not choose. She could not do it.
She did not choose William.
Her stomach twisted in on itself. If she couldn’t bring herself to kiss the man, how could she marry him?
It was most troubling. She could almost visualize Nora nodding smugly at her. Perhaps it was time to consider that she and William might not be as well suited as she had always thought.
She faced forward again and gave an affirming nod of her head as they approached the back of the house. “Everything is splendid.”
The word splendid failed to ring convincingly even to her ears.
Apparently William thought so, too. He stopped and turned to face her, taking her hands in his.
She ducked her gaze to stare down at their linked hands. It was the most familiar they had ever been. She frowned. She had known him all her life and this was the most intimate act ever shared between them.
“You seem distracted of late, Charlotte.”
For some reason she felt surprise over his observation. William had never been the most perceptive soul. Even as children, he viewed everything at surface value. He never dug too deeply, never dared to pry into her feelings. If she wasn’t willing to volunteer information, he never probed. She’d thought she liked that about him. He was uncomplicated, and she preferred things to be uncomplicated.
Except everything felt suddenly complicated.
She gave his hands an encouraging squeeze. “I’m fine.”
He stared back at her dubiously.
Tinkling laughter drifted toward them, floating on the air. Charlotte turned as a pretty maid emerged on a path leading to the kitchen. She recognized her as one of Cook’s assistants.
The girl wasn’t alone, however. Samuel walked beside her, his arms bulging impressively in his jacket as he carried a basket full of vegetables, presumably for Cook’s assistant.
She did not think most gentlemen could be bothered to help a servant. Certainly, he was not like most gentlemen. She already knew that much about him. Even in their short acquaintance, she judged him to be kind enough to assist a female of any station.
And yet she couldn’t help wondering . . . was he helping this particular servant because she was pretty?
A flash of jealousy rushed through her. She fought back the hot wave of emotion. It was wrong. She had no right to harbor such feelings in relation to him.
Still, her gaze followed the pair avidly. They had not yet noticed Charlotte or William. They talked amiably, their words undetectable across the distance. Charlotte’s face burned to think their conversation might be half as suggestive as what passed between Charlotte and Samuel.
The girl laughed anew at something he said, reaching out and brushing a hand along his arm.
The hot blade of jealousy forced a small whimper from her throat. Senseless, she knew. Inappropriate. She had no right to feel jealous of Samuel.
“Charlotte?” William queried.
She didn’t turn to look at him. No, she froze, prey caught in a hunter’s sights as Samuel’s gaze found her just then.
He’d spotted her.
She swallowed, forcing back any further sound.
William followed her gaze. He lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello there, Mr. Kingston,” he called out cheerfully, oblivious to the tension stiffening her. She resisted the unladylike impulse to kick her betrothed for calling attention to them. He was only being polite.
Samuel paused, his gaze skimming over William before coming to rest on her. He missed nothing. Certainly not their joined hands. His eyes narrowed there. She attempted to swallow again, but a boulder had inconveniently taken residence in the middle of her throat.
She sniffed and squared back her shoulders. How dare Samuel look so very . . . disapproving? She was doing nothing wrong. At least nothing wrong to Samuel.
Poor William was the one she had betrayed.
She was merely standing with him, her husband-to-be, her hands very chastely clasped in his. It was completely acceptable.
Except . . . it felt wrong.
Across the distance, Samuel’s bourbon eyes took measure, probing, making her suspect he knew her feelings. Ridiculous, of course. He couldn’t read her mind. He couldn’t know of her intended kiss.
The kiss that had never happened because she couldn’t do it.
She couldn’t force what was not there.
She’d dallied with another man but could not bring herself to kiss William. How was that fair to William? Guilt plagued her.
Clearly her betrothal was a damaged thing . . . now she simply had to decide if she needed to officially end it. What was the proper thing to do here?
“Mr. Pembroke. Miss Langley,” Samuel called in return with a nod of his dark head. A tremor bolted through her at this first sound of his deep voice.
His manner was utterly circumspect. Laughable, when she considered how very not circumspect he had been with her on almost every occasion.
Those bourbon-hued eyes clung to her before returning his attention to the eager young maid beside him. The girl beamed up at him as they resumed their way toward the kitchen.
And that was it.
She stared after him, feeling unaccountably . . . dismissed.
The wretch.
“Charlotte?” William inclined his head toward the house. “Shall we return to the drawing room?”
“Yes. Of course,” she hurriedly answered, looking away from Samuel and the cook’s assistant. The girl was welcome to him. He was a bachelor, after all, and virile. She knew that firsthand. If he was interested in another female—a female who wasn’t her—then all the better. Perhaps he would cease his inappropriate advances on Charlotte. Yes, indeed. That would be welcome.
If the thought produced a little pang in her chest, she ignored it.
Facing forward, William tucked her hand in his arm again with a small pat and went up the winding steps that led to the drawing room balcony.
Soon she was seated in the drawing room again, surrounded by the Pembrokes and her sisters, the same unkissed woman she had been when she departed for her stroll with William. Her shoulders slumped.
She could not kiss William.
All was not well.
Chapter 16
Kingston had scarcely taken three strides down the corridor from his bedchamber when his stepbrother materialized before him.
“Kingston?” Warrington’s voice matched his somber expression.
In fact, his stepbrother’s tone and mien reminded him of when he had been called into the headmaster’s office as a lad.
He crossed his arms and lifted his chin once in a semblance of a nod, not about to be daunted. “Lying in wait, were you, Your Grace?”
“A word, please?”
Kingston had retired to his room after spotting Charlotte with Pembroke—holding hands. The pair of them had been holding hands. A growl rumbled from somewhere deep inside his chest. Even now, remembering it, seeing it in his mind, made him feel . . . hell. It made him feel.
The sight of them together in such an easy, familiar way had caught him like a blow. It shouldn’t have. She and the lad were betrothed. He knew that, but somehow he continued to forget it. Because it was something he wanted to forget.
Mere hand-holding should not have jolted him so much. Not when he had done far more intimate things with Charlotte. He had no right to feel this possessive toward her . . . but he felt it nonetheless.