Page 5 of Tamed By a Duke
"I really don't think this the right meeting, Miss Drew," Ethel piped up nervously beside her, having finally been drawn away from her crochet work by the shouts.
"Nor I," Charlotte whispered back.
She glanced toward the doorway, which was some way away. Would they be able to leave unseen? She doubted that the crowd would take kindly to interlopers, though surely they would not harm two innocent women?
As she turned her head, Charlotte caught the eye of the gentleman who had slipped in late, and her stomach gave a funny squeeze. His blue eyes, so vivid when set against his tanned skin and black hair, were mesmerising, until she saw that they were narrowed in annoyance as he looked at her.
Goodness, she thought, as she registered his fierce glare; was he going to denounce them as spies?
This alarming thought, unfortunately, coincided with the beginning of a scuffle at the front of the room. Two gentlemen—for want of a better word—appeared to have come to blows, and within seconds the rows of benches were pushed back, as the crowd gathered around cheering encouragement to the wrestling men.
She had only wished to go to a political meeting, Charlotte thought with despair, yet somehow she had ended up at a brawl.
Worse still, as more of the crowd began to argue and fight, she realised that it might soon turn into a riot.
"I think it's best we leave, Miss." The stern voice in Charlotte's ear was accompanied by a firm hand gripping her elbow.
Before Charlotte knew it, she was being frogmarched outside by the blue-eyed gentleman who had been watching her moments before.
"Unhand me, sir!" she demanded, as the gentleman hauled her through the door of the church and out into the London streets.
"I will, once I am certain you are safe," her assailant replied, in an accent that was most definitely Etonian in its origin.
The man continued to march Charlotte away from the church, trailed by a slightly startled Ethel, only stopping once they reached a secluded courtyard, some distance away.
"I demand to know the meaning of this," Charlotte demanded, with more bluster than conviction, once they had come to a halt.
Her assailant, if one could call him that, cast her a quelling glare, his blue eyes like ice.
"And I demand to know what you were doing at a meeting of known radicals," he countered, his hand still gripping her arm, "You are aware that sedition is a hangable offence?"
"Sedition?"
Ethel, poor dear, swooned at the very word, and Charlotte's captor relinquished his hold on her, in order to catch the lady's maid before she fainted to the floor. Charlotte's stomach lurched as she noted the man's arms, which bulged under the fine wool of his jacket as he clutched Ethel close. For a moment, as her stomach filled with butterflies, Charlotte wished that she had brought Helga along instead, for the formidable Swede would never dream of fainting. Nor would she allow a gentleman to clutch her in his strong arms in such a blatant display of masculinity. It was unseemly, Charlotte thought prudishly, as she felt her mouth dry, to be so well endowed.
"I did not think we were attending a meeting of radicals," Charlotte bristled, as the man helped Ethel—who was blushing furiously—back to a stand. "I had thought that we were attending—"
"A discussion on crocheting," Ethel interrupted, stooping to take the doily she had been working on from her basket. She waved the article—which, Charlotte had to admit was quite beautiful—in the air, as evidence that their only motive for being there was the pursuit of craft and not the pursuit of rebellion.
"Crocheting?"
The raising of an eyebrow did not take much effort, but Charlotte found herself thoroughly distracted by the minuscule movement. That it was accompanied by a slight, amused quirk of sensual lips, did nothing to help her from her state of confusion. Which, in turn, left her feeling more than a little bit irritable.
"We are quite the enthusiasts," Charlotte sniffed, brushing down the sleeve of her jacket, as though it had been sullied by his earlier clutching of her arm. "It is unfortunate that we were so mistaken with the time and venue of our meeting, but luckily no harm came of it. Those poor gentlemen; perhaps if they were to take up a restful pastime like crocheting, they would not be quite so rabid."
Charlotte flushed as the man's sensual lips quirked again at her sarcastic quip, though this time they were unable to resist being pulled into an amused smile, a smile which could only be described as wolfish.
"I shall petition the government at once," he replied dryly, "To set up a committee to investigate the benefits of needlework on dulling rebellious ideals."
"Think of the money that would be saved on military wages," Charlotte snipped, not liking his attitude, which had now become laconic and almost flirtatious in nature.
"And who is it that I should credit these governmental savings to? I am sure Prinny would wish to know the name of the woman who saved him a fortune."
In Charlotte's world, introductions were made in ballrooms, not back-alleys, and they were usually made to insipid sons of the aristocracy, not strange men with devilishly handsome faces.
Her captor—or rescuer, it was all so confusing—waited expectantly for Charlotte's reply. He wore the impatient look of a man who was unaccustomed to being kept waiting, and Charlotte was forced to trod heavily on Ethel's toes as she saw that the lady's maid was about to answer for her.
"I have no wish to be honoured by the Regent," Charlotte demurred, "Serving one's country is honour enough."
