1794_Charlotte

by Karen Hawkins

  He yanked his hands from his pockets and stalked after her, but she sprinted around a pole in the center of the room, her skirts fluttering as she whisked herself to the farthest corner where she stopped near a lamp and looked at the pages she’d stolen.

  “Give those back!”

  “No.” Her gaze devoured the pages as she turned through them. “They’re wonderfully done.”

  He lunged for them, but she spun out of reach, dashing to the other side of the workshop without taking her eyes off his drawings.

  “You’re going to trip and fall.”

  “You’ll catch me.” She didn’t even look up as she said it.

  He scowled, even as he acknowledged she was right. If she fell, he would catch her. Every time, for as long as I’m able.

  She reached the final page. “I had no idea you could draw as well as this.”

  “They’re not well drawn when your father is a world-famous painter.”

  “I can’t imagine he’d have anything negative to say about these. They’re so vivid.” She held up the sketches he’d made of several different types of mouths. “I never knew there were so many types of lips, and they’re all drawn so realistically.”

  He tried to drag his attention from her mouth and failed. There may be a hundred different types of lips, but only one set beckoned him, tormented him, bewitched him.

  She lowered the pages. “You’re trying to design the faces for your pillars.”

  He held out his hand. “I’ll take those.”

  She made a face but brought him the pages.

  He took them and then, to put a safe distance between them, he turned on his heel and carried them back to his work table.

  To his chagrin, she followed, stopping just short of him, her gaze locked with his.

  He cursed under his breath, wanting her so badly that he burned with it. “You are killing me.”

  “Good.” She frowned. “I thought I overthought things. That is one of my flaws. But you . . . you are much better at it than I could ever be. Marco, don’t do this. We should take what happiness we can. And if, at the end of your time here, we decide the cost is too high, then we’ll deal with it then.”

  “That will only entangle us further, and you know it.”

  “So?”

  “So the pain will be that much more. Charlotte, what if that short span of time costs us the happiness of the rest of our lives? Every time I see you, it’s not enough. I think about you constantly when I’m awake, and you visit my dreams when I’m asleep. I’m already aching with wanting you, and aching at the thought of leaving you. I don’t know if this is love or passion, or if it will last to the end of the month, or carry us forever.” He spread his hands wide. “All I know is that seeing you more and then leaving you will cut my soul until it begs for release.”

  She’d paled as he spoke, and now she whispered, “I feel the same way. It’s horrible and wonderful at the same time.”

  “Which is why we should end this now, before it’s too late.”

  She looked at him, her eyes suspiciously bright. After a long moment, she whispered, “If that’s how you feel, then there’s nothing more for me to say.”

  His throat ached with tightness, but he nodded.

  “Fine.” Her movements tight, she swept past him and grabbed her bonnet and slapped it on her head, the ribbons trailing over her shoulders.

  She started for the door, but then spun to face him. “But I’m going to say one thing first. You told me that your father spent all that time painting portraits of people who were rich with gold and poor with happiness. You are consigning us to that same fate, a life of unhappiness. I don’t deserve that, and neither do you. And don’t say we have responsibilities to our families, for I’m well aware of it. But if our families cannot accept us finding our happiness, then our efforts need to be directed toward helping them to do so, not in abandoning what we’ve found.”

  God, was she right? “Charlotte, have we found happiness? Or is it just a temporary fascination? What if we act on this and then, months from now, we realize we’ve made an error?”

  Her eyes flashed, and she lifted her chin until she looked like a mighty goddess ready to toss a thunderbolt. “If you don’t know what you want, and you don’t believe we are worth fighting for, then there’s nothing more I can say.” She picked up the damp blanket and opened the door, the downpour roaring.

  He watched her, the lump in his throat growing until he couldn’t breathe. His heart begged him to stop her, to say something and say it quickly, while his head reminded him of the icy realities of the choice they faced, of the life he’d be condemning both her and his family to if he stole her away. No love could survive that.

  Not even this one.

  Lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder that made the ground tremble. Rain roared down.

  “Wait.” He took a step forward. “The lightning is close. Stay here until—”

  She whisked her blanket over her head and plunged into the rain, the empty doorway standing open behind her.

  Chapter 11

  Charlotte crossed her arms behind her head and stared up at the blue sky, the hum of bees melding with the scent of sun-warmed grass. This, she decided, just might be her favorite place in the world. She was stretched out on her back in the field near the lake, hidden away by a wall of golden grasses. She’d made a bed for herself by walking in a circle until the grass had flattened. Then, for comfort and to keep the still-damp ground from seeping into her gown, she’d thrown her cloak over the crushed stalks. Now she had a secret, cozy nest with nothing but blue sky overhead.

  When she’d been younger, she used to make these nests all of the time. But it had been years since she’d bothered. She crossed her bared feet at the ankles and brushed away an errant ant trying to climb up her sleeve.

  It was lovely today, and warm, and so long as she didn’t think about Marco or Caroline or the sudden dreariness of life in general, she could hold the tears at bay. She had better things to do than think about those things, anyway.

  She plucked a stalk of grass and ran it through her finger, the prickly seeds scattering, drops of gold that glistened in the sun as they fell. Some grains disappeared on the ground, while others clung to her skirts like so many seed pearls. It was nice to be alone, truly alone, with no dark, disturbing eyes watching her and making her feel things she shouldn’t.

  Yesterday, for the first time since Caroline’s death, as Charlotte had dashed through the rain to visit Marco, she’d been happy. But he’d cut her euphoria short in the cruelest of ways. “Scoundrel,” she muttered, reaching out to yank another long blade of grass from the stalks around her.

  She supposed it was flattering that he feared he’d already come to care for her too much. It softened her wounded pride a little, although the comfort was scant. “Bloody fool!” she announced, startling a beetle that had been crawling on the grass near her head to swoop up into the air and fly away.

  Scowling, she plucked two more stalks and braided them together. What would I be doing about this horrid situation if Caroline were still alive? Would I be here, in the grass, plaiting grass? Or would I be in Marco’s workshop, making it very hard for him not to fall in love with me?

  Charlotte knew the answer and was certain Caroline would approve. Much to Mama’s chagrin, Caroline had grown starry-eyed every time a maid from Nimway had fallen in love with a footman. When she could, Caroline had taken great pleasure in assisting those romances, passing notes and finding ways to get the lovebirds together without Simmons being any the wiser.

  Charlotte tossed the plaited grass blades away and crossed her arms back under her head, wondering why she’d allowed Marco to talk so much. I could have changed his mind with a kiss, I know I could have. Why didn’t I think of that? It was a sad fact of life that one often thought of the perfect reaction to a situation well after it was over.

  The next time she saw Marco, she would let him know that while she apprecia
ted his candor, she wasn’t going to disappear into thin air. She wasn’t a meek and mild miss, not any more.

  Caroline would approve of that, too, Charlotte realized with a smile. Caroline had always said that Charlotte’s happiness would never be encased in silks and satins. No, her happiness lay in the stream of sunshine spilling over her face, the feel of grass beneath her bare toes. And now her happiness lay in the deep brown eyes of a forbidden man.

  “But why must he be so bossy?” Charlotte asked a butterfly as it flittered softly overhead. The comforting buzz of bees and the mesmerizing sway of the grass soothed her irritation, as the warm sun made her eyes heavy.

  She was so sleepy. She let her eyes flutter shut, just for a moment . . .

  She awoke to the sound of dripping water.

  Confused, she looked around her and her memory came flooding back. Ah yes, she was still in her nest. She sat up, shading her eyes as she glanced up at the sun. It was much later than she’d expected.

  The slow drip that had awakened her became a splash. What is that?

  She rose up on her knees and peered through the grass toward the lake – and there he was. Marco was waist deep in the blue water. He’d chosen a corner far from Nimway, hidden from the house behind a screen of trees, but entirely too visible from where she sat. Bold, beautiful, and as naked as the day he was born, he washed his chest with a cake of soap, the sun glistening off his wet shoulders as suds slid down his broad, defined chest.

  Charlotte blinked, unable to look away and unwilling to move, she stayed where she was.

  He lifted the wet cloth over his head and squeezed it, water streaming onto his head and down his face. He had such a fascinating face, all hard planes and straight lines. His jaw was as marked as they came, his nose bold, his mouth hard. She wondered what it would be like to be in the lake with him, to feel at the same time, the coolness of the water and the heat of his skin.

  She bit her lip. She’d wager ten guineas that even in cold water, his skin would be warm – searing, even. She parted the golden grasses for a better view, admiring the muscles of his shoulders and arms, the dark hair that traced over his broad chest and then thinned into a line that lead down his stomach to disappear into the water. She lifted up on her heels, trying to see—

  “Miss Charlotte! Hello?” Simmons called from the direction of the Hall.

  Charlotte dropped lower in the grass.

  His voice came closer, alternating between shouting her name and speaking to someone who seemed to be following him. Charlotte glanced up at the sky and winced. The modiste had arrived and now the search was on.

  Charlotte peered through the and caught sight of the butler as he marched down the path toward the lake, Aunt Verity scurried behind, her face flushed as she fanned herself with a lace handkerchief.

  “This is a travesty!” Aunt Verity said in a waspish tone. “She’s been gone for hours. Was no one worried about the poor thing?”

  “We worry about her all of the time! But as you know, it is Miss Charlotte’s way to disappear for hours on end.”

  “On a horse! The groom said Angelica hasn’t been ridden today.”

  “We didn’t know that, did we?” he snapped back. After a moment, he said in a tightly controlled tone, “I’m certain we’ll find her at the lake. She used to come here often, and most likely still does.”

  Oh no! They are going to the lake and Marco is— She turned to peer back at the lake and was relieved to find him gone. The only evidence he’d been there was the trace of bubbles floating on the water as it lapped gently against the bank.

  Was he even now heading toward the stables? She lifted higher on her knees, ready to drop back into the grass if Simmons or Aunt Verity turned her way. Perhaps he’d gone by—

  A strong arm wrapped about her waist and pulled her to the ground. She was now on her back, held against a large, warm, damp body as she stared up at a head outlined by sunlight. “Mar—”

  He placed a finger over her lips. “Shh!”

  And indeed, she could hear Aunt Verity’s drawling tones much closer now, asking why on earth Simmons had thought to find Charlotte in such an untamed, damp place as a lake.

  Marco kept his finger against her lips as he bent close to whisper, “We must be quiet. They will leave soon.”

  Charlotte nodded, noting that he’d managed to put on his breeches, but not his shirt and his bared skin rested against her arm. She grasped his wrist and tugged his hand from her mouth. “You knew I was here,” she whispered.

  Reluctant amusement warmed his eyes. “You are not a very good spy.” His warm breath tickled her ear.

  “I wasn’t spying,” she whispered back, irked because he was partially right. “I was here first. I fell asleep and when I woke up, there you were.”

  He didn’t look as if he believed her, but wisely, he didn’t say so.

  Nearby, Aunt Verity was still chastising Simmons, but having found no evidence of Charlotte at the lake, they ever already heading back to the Hall.

  Charlotte and Marco waited. She’d been right about his skin. Even fresh from the cold lake, he was as warm as the sun. His bare chest pressed against her arm, and she had to fight the desire to turn toward him. He would push you away. He’s already decided how this relationship will end.

  She frowned. She was tired of Marco deciding everything for them as if he were the only one capable of decisions. It was time she made some decisions of her own. They might only have a week and a half left, but if she had her way, it would be the best week and a half they’d ever had. And if, at the end of that time, they were forced to end it . . . No. She refused to bow to a mere threat of impending sadness. By God, she was a Harrington, and Harringtons never flinched.

  She found herself smiling. It felt so good to be herself again, to push against the norms and the expectations and the rules that tried to hem one into place. And with that return to the old Charlotte, came the familiar urge to break every code of behavior society forced upon her. To laugh louder, dance faster, and talk more than was permitted.

  A door closed at the Hall, and she could no longer hear either Aunt Verity or the butler.

  “There.”

  Marco started to get up, but she was quicker. She slipped her arms around his neck and held him there. “You invaded my fort, so now you must pay the price.”

  He blinked down at her, his brows drawn. “Charlotte, don’t—”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. Pay the price or else.”

  He thought about standing and walking away, she saw it in his eyes, so she rolled toward him, pressing her chest to his.

  His gaze darkened. “What’s your price?”

  Ah, sweet success. She smiled. “A kiss. Two, if you don’t do it properly the first time.”

  “I . . .” He pressed his mouth into a firm line. “No. I can’t.” He tugged her arms from his neck. Freed, he sat upright and started to stand.

  “Wait!” She sat up, too, and yanked at the lacings of her gown, undoing them so fast her hands blurred.

  “Charlotte,” he hissed. “What are you doing?”

  “You can see what I’m doing. I’m untying my gown.”

  “Why?” He had the same look in his eyes as the deer she sometimes startled when riding through Balesboro.

  She tugged her gown free, pulling out one arm, and then the other, shivering more from her boldness than anything else. “You bathed naked in the lake. Now it’s my turn.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be safe. Someone might see you and—” He clamped his mouth closed, looking adorably mulish. “I won’t allow it.”

  “I either want to bathe in the lake, or I want a kiss.” She pushed her gown to her hips and then stood. The heavy skirts fell to her ankles. She kicked them to one side and then unlaced her underskirts. They quickly joined her gown, leaving her wearing nothing but her thin, lace chemise.

  Marco groaned. “You can’t do this
.”

  “Watch me.” Chilly from the breeze, she reached for the tie at her neck.

  “You won’t do it,” he said desperately, as if his harsh tone would make it happen. “No well brought up young lady would ever—"

  Her chemise fell to her feet, the fine lawn ruffling in the breeze.

  With a muffled curse, Marco grabbed her and swung her back to the ground, his warm body covering hers. His face was dark with fury. “What are you doing?”

  “This.” She slipped her arms back around his neck and kissed him. She didn’t kiss him gently, but with the blazing passion that even now flooded through her. God, but she’d wanted this, needed it even.

  Marco moaned once and then, lost forever, he followed her into her sweet madness. His hands moved over her, cupping her breasts, sliding down her stomach and then back. His bared skin against hers felt deliciously decadent and she urged him on, following instincts as old as time, seducing him even as she was seduced.

  For the life of him, Marco couldn’t remember a word of their last conversation. Right now, all he could think about was how sweet she tasted, how her breasts filled his hands when he cupped them, how the silk of her skin drove him mad. She was as succulent and honeyed as a ripe pear, and he was determined to taste her.

  She ran her hands over his chest, each stroke driving him mad. He moved a hand to his breeches and, without breaking the kiss, loosened the button and shoved them off. Now he felt all of her, naked and writhing, and damned it if it still wasn’t enough.

  Charlotte reveled in the rough skin of his hands, in the wildness of his kisses. His tongue met hers, and she answered him with such fervor that he moaned against her. She had no fear, a slave to her own wild, heated passion. Her thighs grew slick with her desire, and she moved restlessly, pressing her hips to him.

  He broke the kiss and lifted up on his elbow, panting heavily. His eyes had never been so dark, his expression so intense. “Roll over,” he whispered.

  “What?”

  A wicked smile touched his lips.

  Trepidation flickered through her, as heady as their passion. God, but she loved the uncertainty of life, of love, of this man. She rolled to her stomach, and he pushed her hair to one side and kissed her shoulder. She shivered as he slid his kiss to her neck. With one kiss after another, he made his way down her back, to the rounded cheek of her ass, murmuring her name, and telling her in bold detail all of the things he wanted to do to her. He told her the ways he would take her, and how many times he would make her cry his name. Each kiss was both torment and tease. And she was possessed, fully and completely, her body heating as, aching with need, she writhed under his ministrations.