Caroline Linden

by What A Woman Needs

  “Tell me,” she said slowly, to keep her voice steady, “did you think I would take you back, after the way you lied to me? Did you think the foolish child you seduced wouldn’t grow wiser in all these thirteen years? What makes you think a woman of my experience would want a man like you?” Charlotte laughed in scorn. “It was a lark to you. A country escapade to pass the time, or a quick path to riches, whichever way it turned out.”

  “Don’t blame me,” he retorted. “You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Your fortune was attractive, I grant, but you were a beautiful young woman, and not a child.”

  “I was barely seventeen.”

  His jaw tensed, then relaxed. “That was, as you say, thirteen years ago. You have, as you say, grown up. I have a fortune of my own now. We could explore the possibility that things might have ended differently, if your father hadn’t—”

  “Hadn’t saved me,” she cut him off. “The next time I see you I will have my own pistol ready, and I haven’t my father’s restraint.” She dashed the contents of her glass into his face, too enraged to savor the incredulous fury that contorted his expression. “May you burn in hell.” She dropped the glass at his feet with a splintering crash, turned on her heel, and walked away.

  She did not see Stuart on her way from the ballroom. She did not see Lord Robert, or the Duke of Ware, or anyone she recognized. She barely saw where she was going. Somehow she walked out of the Throckmorton home and down the steps, and when she found herself at the Drake house, she hardly knew how she had gotten there.

  The footman opened the door at her knock, and seemed surprised to see her again so soon. Or maybe not; Charlotte didn’t pay him much mind as she brushed past him, ignoring his confused look when he realized she hadn’t come in a carriage or worn her wrap home. The numbing shock that had sustained her so far was wearing off, and her only wish was to reach the privacy of her room before she broke down.

  Charlotte stumbled up the stairs, her breath coming in painful gasps. Her throat felt closed, as if she were choking, and she yanked at her necklace until it came off. She was ruined—unquestionably, irredeemably ruined. Her foot caught on a stair tread, and she fell onto her knee, slumping against the wall. Everything she held dear, gone. Every hope and dream, dashed. Every repentance and regret, wasted. When she had left England the first time, she had been too young and stupid to consider such far-reaching consequences of her actions. When the shock of being sent away had worn off, Charlotte had vowed to live her life day to day, enjoying whatever came her way. She hadn’t intended to become wild and immoral; it had somehow happened a little bit at a time without her noticing how far from her upbringing she had strayed. And once there, it was too hard to go back.

  The news of George’s death, and her consequential guardianship of Susan, had sobered her. It had come close on the heels of Piero’s death, when she was at loose ends already, and Charlotte had seen it as her chance to start again. Her home and family, through her brother’s trust, had been restored to her, along with a great responsibility. But though she had tried and tried, her every action since had been wrong.

  She leaned her forehead against the baluster, engulfed in despair. She had meant to be a kind and loving guardian to Susan, and the girl had despised her and run away. She had meant to be chaste and respectable, and had fallen into an affair with Stuart, who had made no secret of his plan to marry someone else. She had meant to live quietly, above reproach, and now Jeremy Hyde-Jones would drag her name back down into the mud.

  Two maids descended on her then, exclaiming in concern. Charlotte paid them little heed; what did it matter if her gown was crumpled, when her life was coming apart at the seams? She let them help her up to her room, too shattered to protest. Then she sent them away, refusing tea, brandy, and a hot bath.

  When the maids had gone and the room was quiet, she sat and considered what she should do now. She couldn’t leave without finding Susan and ensuring her safety, but neither could she allow Stuart to continue helping her. The sooner she parted from him, the better; with luck, he could claim to have been mistaken in her, mislead and deceived. People would believe it, once Jeremy spread tales of her supposed depravity. She knew Stuart was unlikely to accept the necessity of that pretense, though, so she would have to persuade him. And it would take all her strength to do it.

  Stuart jostled his way through the crowd to where he had last seen Charlotte and Fairfield. Neither was there. He looked around, and caught sight of Fairfield among the dancers. Charlotte must be with the duchess, he thought, but no: Her Grace was still holding court across the room, alone. Where the devil had she gone? Stuart saw the terrace doors, a mere twenty feet away, and took a step in that direction, his pulse quickening at the thought of intercepting Charlotte in the garden, and with such news from Pitney. Before he could take another step, however, something else caught his eye.

  Two servants were falling over themselves helping a man wipe wine from his clothes and face. Jeremy Hyde-Jones, livid with fury. Another servant crouched nearby, sweeping something into a dustpan. Stuart’s blood chilled. It didn’t have to involve Charlotte. The man could have offended anybody in the room. But Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. And she had almost married him years ago.

  “Drake, there you are.” Fairfield came up beside him, pausing when he saw what Stuart saw. “Is something wrong? Where is Madame Griffolino?”

  “I was pondering that very question.” Stuart watched, stone-faced, as Lord Throckmorton himself strode over, his face creased with polite concern. Hyde-Jones spoke to him with an angry gesture, then calmed down, speaking for another minute. Throckmorton listened and frowned, then nodded and went back the way he had come.

  “I left her here, Drake,” said Fairfield in an undertone. “I expected you would return at any moment, and she urged me to go.”

  “Never mind,” murmured Stuart. “See if you can find her, and stay with her until I find you.” Fairfield nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Stuart took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back until the tension eased slightly. He forced a careless smile to his lips and sauntered over to Hyde-Jones, who still bore a dark red stain down the front of his waistcoat. “I say, terrible waste of good burgundy, Hyde-Jones.”

  The man looked up, his scowl fading when he recognized Stuart. He smiled. In fact, he positively gloated. Stuart’s hand fisted in spite of himself, and he shoved it into his pocket. “Ah, Drake. How fitting. Your countess has shown her true color: scarlet.” He indicated his waistcoat as he dabbed one more time at his face before tossing the towel at one of the servants. “But then, perhaps you don’t know her sordid history.”

  Stuart’s eyebrows shot up. “Sordid? You must be joking.”

  Hyde-Jones laughed softly. “Thought you’d found a wealthy widow, did you? She may be, but mark my words, that widow is black through and through.”

  “See here,” protested Stuart. “You ought not to say such things about a lady.” Hyde-Jones sent him a sharp glance. “She has a past, I admit,” he added, “but sordid? Black through and through? Surely that’s overstating the matter.”

  Hyde-Jones tilted back his head to look down at him. “Ah, yes, your father is another martinet,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t look fondly on a whore in the family, would he?”

  Stuart didn’t have to feign his astonishment. “I beg your pardon.”

  “A whore,” repeated Hyde-Jones with relish. “Whatever she’s told you, I assure you the truth is ten times worse.”

  “Good Lord. I’d no idea.” Stuart gestured toward the terrace doors. “Shall we ... ?”

  Hyde-Jones smirked. “Of course.” He strolled out, and Stuart followed, meeting the Duke of Ware’s eyes across the room for a second. Robert Fairfield was at his side. Stuart pushed the terrace door gently closed behind him.

  “I pity you, really,” went on Hyde-Jones in the same patronizing voice. “How disappointing it must be, to discover she’s beyond the pale.”

  Stuart counted
to five. “But she has other charms, of course.” He lifted his gaze to the sky, nodding as if in fond remembrance. “Other delightful charms. A man in my position can’t be too particular. Surely you understand.”

  “The charms are real enough.” Hyde-Jones chuckled. “And more bountiful than I remember. I enjoyed them myself once.” He raised one hand, palm up. “But if you dislike sharing them ...”

  He couldn’t stop the fury that must have darkened his face. Stuart was a very good liar if he did say so himself, but he couldn’t quite control himself in this. Hyde-Jones, though, seemed amused.

  “No more, no more,” he said, smiling broadly. “Although she did seem amenable to the possibility, if you take my meaning. Perhaps if she reverts to form, we both might.” Stuart’s jaw had gone numb from being clenched so hard. Hyde-Jones stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with malice in the moonlight. “She whored for her living, all those years abroad,” he said softly. “How else does a disgraced woman support herself in such luxury?”

  “How, exactly, was she disgraced?” asked Stuart through his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ware step onto the terrace and close the door behind him.

  The man’s eyes shifted to the duke, then back. “She was wild and immoral even then. Her father disapproved and banished her.”

  “And you, no doubt, were devastated to lose your bride.” Stuart flexed his fingers. “What very bad luck you’ve had, losing brides.”

  The other man’s expression hardened. “I resent your implication. I spoke only as one gentleman to another, intending to spare you the shame of making a fool of yourself over her.” He turned on his heel, back toward the ballroom, and came face to face with Robert Fairfield, who was standing in front of the door, arms folded across his chest. Hyde-Jones hesitated, darting a quick glance back at the duke, then started walking toward the steps down into the garden.

  “How did you discover her true nature?” Stuart followed him. Hyde-Jones frowned over his shoulder. “Did her father tell you when he banished her? Surely a man wouldn’t spread tales of his daughter’s misbehavior.”

  Hyde-Jones stopped at the bottom of the steps. “It was clear what had happened when she vanished and never came back.”

  Stuart arched one brow. “Indeed. And you didn’t wish to hear your intended bride defend herself? Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding.”

  Anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “There was no misunderstanding,” he snapped. “She seduced me. I knew what sort of woman she was.”

  “Seduced you? A girl of seventeen seducing a man of thirty or more?” Stuart moved closer. “What kind of fool do you take me for? I suppose your first wife simply tripped on a bit of loose carpet, and your second wife jumped out of a speeding carriage of her own volition.”

  “How dare you?” said Hyde-Jones through clenched teeth. He was shaking, with fury or fear, Stuart didn’t know. Or care. The sick feeling he had had from the moment he realized Charlotte had disappeared had blossomed into rage, and he didn’t need to hear any more. He could kill the man for nothing more than the fact that he had ruined Charlotte when she must have been a young and trusting girl, just as romantically foolish as Susan.

  His first punch carried them both to the ground, rolling into a nearby hedge. Hyde-Jones was a well-built man, but in the style of a poet: tall and lean. Stuart, who had never pretended to such elegance, was built broader and heavier, as well as ten years younger. He barely even felt the blows Hyde-Jones managed to land. When Ware pulled Stuart back, Jeremy Hyde-Jones lay on the ground, bleeding from the nose and mouth and holding his stomach.

  “Enough,” murmured Ware, hauling him to his feet. Stuart shook him off, but didn’t make another move. He yanked at his jacket, setting it right.

  “I suggest you enjoy the Continent,” he said to the man on the ground. “If we meet again, I might be inspired to see if I, too, can get away with murder.” Hyde-Jones made a muffled growling sound, but wisely stayed on the ground. Stuart glanced at Robert, who shook his head, and turned to Ware. “Would you ... ?”

  The duke nodded, watching Hyde-Jones grimly. Ware would make sure the man either left town or got what he deserved. Stuart would have no qualms telling people Hyde-Jones had confessed to murdering his wives; spreading gossip was not illegal. It was almost certainly true, anyway, and Hyde-Jones couldn’t refute it without reigniting curiosity and renewed interest in events he surely wanted to languish in obscurity. The man was hoisted by his own petard, threatening to spread tales of Charlotte’s past. Stuart muttered an excuse to Ware and headed back into the house.

  He hammered on the door of his parents’ house twenty minutes later. “Has Madam Griffolino returned?” he demanded, pushing past Frakes. One of the Throckmorton footmen had seen Charlotte leave without her cloak and on foot. Stuart was at the end of his rope; if she weren’t here, he didn’t know where else to look.

  “Yes, sir. She has retired for the evening. Sir! Mr. Drake!” The butler sounded scandalized as Stuart took the stairs two at a time. He tapped at her door, then pushed it open.

  She was standing at the window, her back to the door. She was still gowned in her blue silk, but Stuart could see the tension in the set of her shoulders and in the hand that gripped the drapes.

  “Charlotte?” With a small start, she glanced over her shoulder.

  “Mr. Drake. What will people think?” The muted mockery in her tone made him pause. “I have retired for the evening,” she said, turning back to the window. “Good night.”

  “I had to see you,” he said, closing the door and removing his hat. “Are you all right?”

  “You had to?” She gave a short laugh. “Come back when you can afford me, Mr. Drake. I paid my wager in full.”

  Stuart stared. This was not his Charlotte. This was the woman with the heart of stone who had gossiped him out of Kent, who had accused him of getting ahead on his looks and charm. This was the woman who had infuriated him, and inflamed him, with her scorn. “I am not here because of that. I want to talk—”

  “I know what men want,” she said coldly. “Don’t pretend you don’t want the same.”

  “Stop it,” he said in a low voice. “I care about more than getting you in bed.”

  Her eyebrow went up, and her lip all but curled in disdain. “More? How demanding. Take care to marry a very wealthy woman, who will be able to support your care for ‘more.’”

  Hyde-Jones must have hurt her terribly to make her act like this. She was baiting him, trying to lull him into revealing something. She had done it to him before, in the Kildair library. But what was she after now? Surely by now she had come to see him as more than just a man who wanted under her skirts. “Why? How much would it take?” he asked, watching her closely. Not a quiver or a flinch disturbed her stillness. Except for the rise and fall of her bosom, she didn’t move at all.

  “More than Susan has,” she said. “I meant everything I said before: I’ll put a pistol ball in you before I let you marry her.”

  He told himself she was angry. He told himself it was because of Jeremy Hyde-Jones. He told himself it was the strain of Susan’s disappearance. It didn’t matter; her words still stung. He stripped off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat, buying time to restrain his temper and keep himself from lashing out in retaliation. “The thing is,” he explained slowly, “I don’t want her. Not now.”

  “Your good sense is commendable, if long overdue.” She turned back to the window. From the neck down she was perfectly reflected in the glass; only her face was hidden, shadowed by the draperies. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling, nothing at all of the woman she was inside. All he saw was a woman’s lushly curved body, elegantly gowned. How many men had seen her only this way, he wondered suddenly, how many men had never cared to discover the real Charlotte inside the siren’s façade?

  Slowly he crossed the room to stand behind her, the way he would approach a spooked horse. She didn’t move. Lightly, he laid his hand on her
shoulder. Although she appeared calm, her muscles were taut, her body rigidly held. He eased closer, letting more of his hand rest on her. Still she didn’t move. Don’t be angry at me, he wanted to say. Tell me what’s upset you, so I can slay your dragons and comfort you. But who would believe that of Stuart Drake, reckless ne’er-do-well who lived on the edge of trouble and scandal? Even he couldn’t believe it.

  “Better overdue than never,” he said instead, lamely trying to lighten the mood. At his words, she jerked away from his hand.

  “Do not patronize me,” she sneered. “I am not a child to be jollied into acquiescence. How dare you laugh at me for showing some sense of honor and keeping Susan from the likes of you!”

  “Charlotte,” he said evenly, his patience running very low in spite of his best efforts, “calm yourself. I’m not making sport of you.”

  Her eyes narrowed, glittering, but not with tears. “Go home, Stuart. I don’t want you here.”

  “I know you saw Hyde-Jones tonight,” he said, making one last attempt at reason. “I know you knew him years ago.”

  “I have nothing to say about that.”

  Stuart swore. “What am I supposed to do? Leave you here to lick your wounds in misery while I go home and wonder what he did to you, to make you turn against me like this? Do you think I could, after what’s happened between us?”

  “Nothing has happened between us,” she snapped. “Nothing!”

  Stuart stopped, poleaxed. It wasn’t nothing to him; it was the very opposite of nothing. It had come to be everything to him: seeing Charlotte, making her smile, appreciating her sly wit and dry humor. He would rather be here, quarreling with Charlotte, than in bed with any other woman. And it couldn’t mean nothing to her. He knew there was more between them than that. “Don’t say what you don’t mean, Charlotte.”