It wasn’t eloquent, and it wasn’t quite a declaration of love, but Charlotte was charmed nevertheless. “Are you trying to say you want to have a real marriage?”
“Bloody hell, I suppose I am.”
Her expression grave, she twisted to face him. “You cannot change your mind tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
“We are still going to get mad at each other and fight.”
His eyes gleamed. “I hope so. I don’t like it when you are quiet.”
“And I do not like it when you ignore me as though I do not exist.”
The smile that had crept into the corners of his mouth abruptly faded.
“I know,” he said solemnly. “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you.”
She touched his jaw. “I am sorry for the hurt I have caused you.”
“We have not been kind to each other.”
“But we can start today.”
“We can start today,” he agreed.
Suddenly aware of both her nakedness and his, Charlotte leaned provocatively forward and brushed the tips of her breasts against his chest.
“We could start right now,” she whispered.
Gavin’s grin was positively wicked. “We could.”
Laughing, they fell back onto the bed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The next two weeks were not without their trials and tribulations.
Shire House rang with the sound of Gavin and Charlotte’s shouts as they argued over one thing after another, from the repainting of Gavin’s study (“Don’t you dare touch a bloody thing in here,” he had blustered before storming out) to more serious matters, including Charlotte’s brief, albeit quickly abandoned, idea of moving her mother in with them (“Bloody well try it and see what happens,” Gavin had threatened).
Yet every night, no matter how much they clashed during the day, they fell into each other’s arms and woke side by side each morning.
In those quiet moments as the sun rose outside their bedroom window and it seemed as though no one else in all of London was awake except for them, they gazed into each other’s eyes and knew complete contentment.
Bit by reluctant bit, Gavin divulged more information about his past, and Charlotte came to appreciate him all the more. She loved him fiercely, both the boy he had been and the man he had become. She understood him as she had never been able to before, and in understanding did not press him for more than he was capable of giving her.
What would it take, she wondered one morning as she plunged her hands into the cool earth and buried a seed deep into the dark soil, for him to tell her that he loved her? To commit himself to her not only with his actions, but also with his words. To erase the apprehension completely from his eyes. To give her all of himself and hold nothing back.
A miracle.
It would take nothing short of a miracle.
Could she be content with what she had? It was already so much more than she ever dreamed. People went their entire lives without knowing true love and she held it in the palm of her hand. But love belonged in the heart, and as Charlotte rocked back on her heels to survey the neat row of bulbs she had planted, she could not help but yearn for what was still beyond her grasp.
“Be content with what you have,” she told herself sternly as she dusted her hands off on the smock she had borrowed from Tabitha and stood up, shielding her eyes against the bright afternoon sun.
With the maid running errands, Dianna visiting relatives in Scotland, and Gavin conducting some sort of business meeting or another, she was alone for the entirety of the day. Never one to sit idly by, Charlotte had been gardening since dawn, and as she took a step back to view the results of her hard labor she felt a wondrous sense of pride at what she had accomplished.
Instead of being overgrown with weeds, the courtyard was now blooming with life. The bushes had been trimmed back (with the help of the gardener, a sweet, elderly man by the name of Mr. Boggs), the flower beds had been weeded, tilled, and replanted, and the stone had been brought in from a local quarry to create a wandering walking trail through all the beauty. Come next spring, when the bulbs bloomed into a colorful array of tulips, it would be positively heavenly, and as Charlotte returned inside to cool herself off she absently plucked a white blossom from a newly clipped barberry shrub.
Twirling it between her fingers, she went first to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and then to the linen closet for a rag to wipe along her perspiring brow. She came across two scullery maids, both of whom lowered their eyes the moment they spied her, muttered a quick greeting, and fled.
Swallowing back a sigh, she wandered into the library and perched on the edge of a chair to stare broodingly at the dormant fireplace. While her relationship with Gavin had improved tenfold (almost) overnight, the staff were more distant than ever. In her husband’s presence they were cordial, but when he was gone…her mouth twisted into a rueful smile. When he was gone, she might as well have been invisible.
It was a problem that would have to be addressed at some point or another. Nothing would be gained by pretending as though everything was fine, and yet that was exactly what she continued to do, day after day. She supposed a small part of her had hoped she would eventually be accepted, but Dobson’s loathing of her had not eased. If anything, it had grown worse, and the only one oblivious to it was Gavin.
She had tried to make peace with the surly butler time and time again, but had been met with resistance at every turn. The man was impossible, and short of letting him go she did not see a ready solution to her problem. Relieving Dobson of his post, however, would mean admitting failure to Gavin; something she was still not quite ready to do.
“Lady Graystone?”
Charlotte turned automatically at the sound of her name, and blinked in confusion when she saw a maid standing in the doorway. Short and petite, the maid wore her dark hair tucked neatly up beneath a white cap and appeared visibly agitated.
“Yes, what is it, Beatrice?”
The maid’s eyes widened. “Ye know who I am?”
Charlotte stood up. “You work in the kitchen. You have been here seven months. Your older sister, Annie, works upstairs.”
“How do ye know all that?” Beatrice asked in amazement.
“I am the lady of this household. It is my business to know.” Her tone was short and clipped, but not unkind. “Do you need something?”
“Ye ain’t at all like he says you is,” the maid blurted out.
“Who?” Charlotte took a step forward. “Who says, Beatrice?” As if she did not already know the answer. Dobson, she thought furiously. The man was a tyrant and he needed to be stopped. Enough was enough. It was high time she took control of her own household and she already knew what her first act of business was going to be: tossing the butler out on his ear.
She was tired of the sideways glances and the whispers. Tired of the maids scattering when she entered a room as though they were little mice and she was a big angry cat. She knew most women would have complained to their husbands and been done with the whole messy affair weeks ago, but she was not most women. Charlotte preferred to handle her own problems, thank you very much, and if she needed to physically escort Dobson from the estate herself then she would bloody well find the means to do so.
Realizing she was scowling when Beatrice gave a frightened squeak, she carefully relaxed her facial muscles and even managed a pleasant smile.
“You can tell me,” she coaxed the nervous maid. “You will not get in trouble. I promise.”
But Beatrice was already shaking her head. “Mr. Dobson would like to see ye.”
“Oh he would, would he?” Picking up her skirts, Charlotte marched to the door. This was finally going to end, she decided, once and for all. “Where is he?” The mangy cur, she thought, silently repeating Dianna’s preferred name for him.
“In the rear parlor,” Beatrice murmured before she fled across the hall and disappeared.
Dobson was indeed waiting for Charlotte in the rear parlor. A small, windowless room with a meager collection of mismatched furniture, it was rarely used for anything save a place to store unwanted belongings. Charlotte was considering turning it into a water closet, but with so many other renovations still ongoing it was on the bottom of a very long list.
Stepping around a high backed chair that needed new upholstery, she fixed Dobson with the coldest of stares.
“What do you want?” she asked.
Dressed in his customary attire of a black jacket, vest, white shirt, and pressed trousers, Dobson looked every inch the respectable butler…until you glanced into his frigid blue eyes and saw the belligerence and disgust he did not bother to hide.
“I never liked you,” he sneered.
Refusing to be intimidated, Charlotte crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “The feeling,” she said scathingly, “is quite mutual. This will not continue on, do you understand? I have given you every opportunity to—”
“Oh, shut your damn trap.”
“E-excuse me?” she sputtered.
“You heard me.” His gaze deliberately insolent, Dobson looked her up and down, and when his eyes lingered on the curve of her breasts Charlotte could not suppress her shudder of revulsion. “You haven’t stopped talking since the moment you arrived. Changing this, changing that.” His lip curled. “Shire House was perfect before you and your meddling husband took over.”
“Shire House was falling apart and were it not for my meddling husband you would have been out of work months ago! You need to leave, Dobson. At once. Your employment here has ended.” The butler was beginning to make her very uncomfortable and extremely aware that with Gavin away, she hadn’t a single ally.
She had always thought of Dobson as harmless. Horrible, certainly, but harmless all the same. Now she suddenly saw the butler in a different light, and the prickle of unease at the nape of her neck had her taking a step closer to the door.
“My employment was over the moment Graystone purchased Shire House. Lord and Lady Manheim would be rolling in their graves if they knew their estate had fallen into the hands of a half blood mongrel and his whiny bitch.”
Charlotte didn’t slap the butler.
She punched him.
Without a thought to the consequences she rushed forward, balled her right hand into a fist, and swung it wildly at Dobson’s head. It glanced off his cheek and she felt a second of immense satisfaction before he retaliated. She tried to jump away, but her foot caught on a blasted piece of furniture and she stumbled, wind milling her arms in a desperate attempt to find her balance.
Dobson was on her in an instant.
Before she could even draw the breath necessary to scream, he had his hands wrapped around her throat and she was slammed against the wall. Her head bounced painfully off the hard plaster, sending bits of it crumbling into her hair like freshly fallen snow. She bit her tongue and the taste of blood flooded her mouth, hard and metallic. In front of her Dobson looked like a man crazed. His eyes were rolling, his face a deep, mottled purple. He shook her like a dog would a bone, jerking her from side to side.
“Bitch,” he snarled. Long lines of spittle flew from his mouth. “Whore. This house doesn’t belong to you. It will never belong to you. NEVER!”
Dobson continued to rant and rave until his voice was only a dull buzzing in Charlotte’s ears. She clawed frantically at his hands, her throat convulsing as she tried to suck in air.
“Killing… Me…” she wheezed. For one horrifying moment she thought Dobson was going to tighten his grip and end it, but with an exclamation of disgust he let her go.
She collapsed to her knees in a fit of coughing that wracked her entire body. The floor seemed to swim in front of her eyes as the colors of the room blurred and distended.
Grasping her bruised neck she massaged the trembling muscles and knew the skin would be bruised to black by evening. She peered up at Dobson. He towered above her, his face a mask of fury, his arms rigid at his sides. A light blazed in his eye that was not completely sane. It spoke of anger and greed and madness.
Once she’d thought him simply bitter and drunk on his own power. Now she knew he was more. So much more, and the knowledge of what he was truly capable of chilled her to the bone.
“I have been patient.” The muscles in Dobson’s face tightened and twitched as if something crawled beneath his skin. “I have waited and watched. Your husband is a stupid fool grasping beyond his means. He should be the one bowing and scraping to me!”
“You hate him,” Charlotte rasped painfully. A line creased her brow as she struggled to puzzle out the reason for Dobson’s madness. Shifting onto her hip, she leaned against the wall, too weak and dizzy to stand. “All this time, you have always hated him.”
“Of course I have!” the butler howled, throwing his arms wide. “He doesn’t deserve this house. He doesn’t deserve this life. He is not a lord. He is nothing. He is no one!”
Even after being strangled half to death, Charlotte could not help but leap to Gavin’s defense. He was her husband and she loved him. All the way to her last breath, if it came to that.
“Gavin worked for what he has,” she croaked. “Lord or not, he has earned every bit of it. Why would that matter to you? He let you stay on as head butler. He paid you fair wages. You have no reason to complain. No reason to…to do this.”
“Because it should have been me!” Sinking down into a chair, Dobson buried his head in his hands. “It should have been me,” he muttered between his fingers. “Me, me, me.”
Charlotte glanced past him to the door. It wasn’t so far away. Three yards at the most. At least now she knew why he had wanted to meet her in the back parlor. It was isolated from the rest of the house and the street beyond, but if she could somehow get through the door and down the hall…
“Why should Shire House belong to you?” Keep him talking, she thought. Keep him talking and you will have a chance at escape. Going so slow as to barely be moving, she began to inch her way to the left, keeping her eyes trained on Dobson the entire time. “You are not a lord, either.”
“Not a lord?” His head jerked up. The whites of his eyes flashed. More spittle flew from his mouth. “He was my father. His blood is in MY veins.”
“Whose blood?”
But Dobson did not seem to hear her. He was talking to himself again, lost in a world Charlotte could not begin to fathom, let alone understand. She had always known the butler was a mean man. Ill-tempered and short with his word. But how had he hidden such madness? From her. From Gavin. From the rest of the staff. Unless they knew…and that was why they obeyed his every word without question.
The door was so temptingly close. It had to be now, or not at all. Dragging her limbs into a crouching position, Charlotte moved her skirts to the side, gave one more cautious glance at Dobson, and sprang to her feet.
She heard his chair crash to the floor as he lunged towards her. She darted to the side and he plowed into a desk with a howl of fury, his shins cracking sharply against the polished mahogany. Her breaths came in shallow pants as she raced for the door. She collided against it at full speed, her fingers scrambling frantically across the smooth wood to find the knob.
The creak of a floorboard was her only warning.
She screamed when she felt Dobson’s hands tangle in her hair. Screamed again when he yanked her backwards. Pins scattered, pinging off the walls. With a strength Charlotte never dreamed Dobson possessed he flipped her onto her back. She landed on the ground hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs. Bright flashes of light flew in front of her eyes. Then he was on her, his larger body easily pinning her down. Still she fought, kicking and slapping at any part of his anatomy she could reach. Sucking in a mouthful of air, she screamed again. Dobson brought the backside of his hand crashing across her face, stunning her into silence.
“You’re only making it worse for yourself,” he chided. His gaze was unfocused. His tone
mild. He even smiled slightly, his lips pulling back to reveal a line of crooked teeth.
“What do you want?” It was, Charlotte realized dimly, the first time she had asked. Most likely because she was afraid of the answer. Dobson must know what he risked by attacking her. Gavin’s wrath was no small thing. He would see the butler beaten within an inch of his life, or worse. Which meant Dobson did not care what happened to him. Which meant he did not care what happened to her.
“Just let me go,” she whispered when he continued to stare blankly at her. “Let me go and I swear I will not tell anyone. I swear it.”
His smile widened. “Do you think I am stupid?”
“No, no of course—”
“Yes you do. You do,” he insisted even as she shook her head from side to side, “and in your blind ignorance you have sealed your own fate. I won’t be able to stay in London. I know that. But I’ll go to America. Start a new life where I’m given the respect I deserve. And Shire House will burn,” he said dreamily. “She will be turned to ash and your husband will never touch her with his filthy hands again.”
Charlotte’s vision was going in and out; one moment clear, the next blurry. Her ears rang and her head pounded as though someone was striking her repeatedly with a sledgehammer. It was difficult to focus on anything except the pain of being held to the floor against her will, and the knowledge that she was at the mercy of a madman.
“Who?” she asked, her voice little more than an aching rasp that burned up through her throat and spilled out the side of her mouth. “Who are you doing this for?”
“Who am I doing this for?” Dobson’s head tipped to the side. He seemed oblivious to the fact that his knee was digging into her abdomen and his forearm was pressed tight against her neck. They could have been discussing china patterns in the drawing room, and the nonchalance of his tone frightened Charlotte far more than anything else. “For myself, first. You’ve had your nose stuck up in the air since you came here. Nothing has been good enough for you. Shire House hasn’t been good enough for you.” He leaned his weight into the arm he held against her throat. The foul scent of his breath clogged her nostrils and she gasped for breath, her body writhing and contorting against the floorboards. Just as her vision began to darken completely, Dobson sat back on his heels.
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