A Valentine from Harlequin

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.”
    “My family did her harm?”
    “Aye,” Duncan said, grave and firm as the bricks of his distillery. “She loved your brother and she was heartbroken when he died. And she’s blamed herself for far too long for what your brother did. Her reputation has suffered for it, too.”
    “She did not love my brother, and she is to