Charity and The Devil (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 11)

by Emma V. Leech

  Kit sat back, frowning at her as he crossed his legs. “You’d not last a month,” he said, the words full of understanding. “It would be like caging a bird.”

  Charity smiled and gave a little huff. “Well, nothing half so romantic, but yes. But if that was the only reason then I would try, Kit. For him, I would try.” She reached out her hand and he took it, the pity in his eyes making her heart ache. “They would never accept me. You know how cruel people can be, Kit. They would cut him, ridicule him, and if that happened he would come to resent me. Even if he didn’t, I… I would know everything he’d lost on my account and I couldn’t bear it.”

  Charity burst into tears and Kit got to his knees, hugging her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, holding her tight. “Damn it, this is all my fault. I saw the way it was between you, I saw the way you looked at him from the start. I should have made him leave before this began.”

  There was anguish in his voice and Charity looked up at him, astonished.

  “How can you, of all people, say that to me?” she demanded, pushing at his shoulder and staring down at him. “I love him, Kit. I love him with all my heart, so much that the pain of it is tearing me apart, but I’ll leave him because I love him. I’ll let him go because it is better for him if I do. Isn’t this what your poems are all about?” she said, becoming strident now as Kit’s eyes glittered with emotion. “Isn’t this the great love that people die for? The all-consuming emotion you’ve longed for? I found it, Kit. Me! Charity Kendall, who never set foot farther than Tillforth.” Charity let out a breath, a tremulous smile at her lips. “You should celebrate for me, you know.”

  Kit laughed, though she knew his heart was bleeding for her. She could see the pain in his eyes, and perhaps a little envy at having found what he’d been seeking.

  “Charity,” he said, his voice low, “did he know you would say no before…?”

  “Before he took me to bed?” she asked, making him sigh at her plain speaking. “No. I didn’t give him an answer, I just—” She avoided Kit’s eye, knowing he could tell when she was lying. “—prevaricated, and then I left while he was still sleeping.”

  Kit cursed and rubbed a hand over his face. She knew his desire to break her lover’s nose warred with his own beliefs about love and life. It was clearly harder to enforce such rules when they applied to one’s sister.

  “Tell me he was careful, at least,” he said, his voice a growl as he glanced up at her.

  Charity opened her mouth and then felt the blush that scalded her cheeks.

  Oh.

  She’d been so caught up in the moment she’d not even considered…. So much for being the practical one.

  “Oh, for the love of God!” Kit exclaimed, throwing up his hands now. “Charity!”

  Charity opened and closed her mouth, too appalled herself to reply.

  “I’ll kill him,” Kit said, getting to his feet, his mouth thinning into a hard line that sat ill on his beautiful face.

  “No, you won’t,” Charity said, standing and clutching at his hand. “He wasn’t to know I’d refuse to marry him, or that I’d run away from him. This was my doing, Kit. My choice, not his. I wanted to be with him, just once before… before….” Her voice quavered, and Kit’s face softened, understanding in his eyes.

  “Oh, Charity.” He pulled her close and stroked her hair. “My heart is breaking for you, truly, but what if you’re with child? That would change everything. It would have to.”

  Charity shrugged, knowing if she was carrying his baby, Luke would move heaven and earth. He’d stop at nothing before she agreed to marry him. Yet she could raise a child alone if it came to it. She kept such thoughts to herself, knowing Kit would not be so sympathetic if a baby was involved.

  “Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” she said, giving him a crooked smile before letting go of what remained of her control and crying her heart out.

  It would be the only time she showed such weakness, she promised herself. From now on, she would be strong, determined. She would need to be, for she knew he’d be on her doorstep soon enough, demanding that they marry. This was only the beginning of her fight, and one she must be strong enough to win, for both their sakes.

  ***

  Kit escorted her home to Brasted Farm and saw her settled before returning himself to London a week later. Charity worried for him, for the strain of the journey on his health, and the fact he’d be alone in London with no one to check he was looking after himself. His publishing house had requested him to attend a meeting, though, and Kit was full of excitement, and yet afraid to leave her alone. It was his big chance to be a real success, a famous poet, and Charity knew he couldn’t miss out on it, no matter the cost.

  “Go!” she said, exasperated, as Kit dithered on the doorstep.

  “But…” he began, aware that she’d cried herself to sleep every night since they’d left London. “I can stay. You might need me if—”

  “Kit!” she said, a warning note in her voice now. “This is your big moment, and I might remind you that we need the money you bring in. Don’t you dare spoil it now.” She leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “Go. I will be here when you return and none the worse for your absence, I promise you. You’ll be famous, Kit, I know you will, and I’ll be so proud of you. So, run along now, and make sure you take care of yourself. No walking in the rain or going to sleep in damp sheets, make sure your bed aired and keep that chest of yours warm.”

  Kit groaned and rolled his eyes as she knew he would.

  “Fine,” he grumbled, before raising a finger to point at her, narrowing his eyes. “But you stop crying now, you hear me?”

  Charity nodded, her expression solemn, though it was a promise she would be unlikely to keep. “I will.”

  She watched him ride away, sitting on the low stone wall surrounding the farm as his figure grew smaller and smaller and finally disappeared. The rain had stopped at least, and it was warmer, if damp. The clouds hung low in the sky, promising that the sun was not to be seen again for some time, and that more rain would come soon enough. She prayed Kit would make his journey without getting wet. The damp was terrible for his chest and she knew damn well he’d not heed her words and take care of himself.

  At least the weather was good for the garden, she assured herself. For her own part she was relieved that the sun had stopped shining. It would be all too easy to remember Luke here, working in the sunshine, stopping what he was doing to smile at her, or give her a cheeky wink.

  If she was honest it surprised her that he hadn’t turned up yet. No. Not surprised, shocked. She’d assumed he’d come here directly after her having left him in such a way. So far, however, there had been no sign of him. Not even a letter.

  Perhaps he was angry with her. Perhaps he was so angry he no longer wanted to marry her. Perhaps, a spiteful voice murmured, perhaps he’d not wanted to marry her at all and was no longer interested now he’d had what he’d wanted.

  No.

  She’d not believe that. It was easy enough to believe he was angry though, so angry he didn’t want to see her again. For if not, why wasn’t he here? Why hadn’t he come to demand to know why she’d left?

  Why wasn’t he putting up a fight?

  Charity frowned, not understanding it. Not that it mattered. If he didn’t come, it made her life easier. If he didn’t come, she’d not have to persuade him of all the reasons they couldn’t marry. She could avoid the emotional scene she’d been dreading. That should put her mind at ease… and yet, it did not.

  ***

  Dev smiled at the serving girl and refused a second helping of stew. His appetite had deserted him the moment he’d awoken to an empty bed. The first helping he’d forced down was sitting in his stomach like lead as it was. He stared out of the window, a tankard of ale in his hand. Charity was an hour’s ride in that direction. If he made haste, he could be there before it got dark.

  With a heavy sigh he lifted the tanka
rd and drained it. There was no point in seeing her yet. He knew it, but it didn’t stop the longing for it turning his chest inside out.

  Tomorrow he had meetings all day again, and at least that kept his mind busy. His plans were becoming reality, albeit gradually. Slowly, slowly catchy monkey, he reminded himself, and then grinned as he imagined Charity’s indignation at being compared to such a creature. Damn, but he missed her.

  Soon enough, he promised himself, soon enough she would see that there was no denying him. She could dig her heels in and provide as many reasons they could not marry as she cared to, but his reasoning would win out. He loved her, she loved him. The world could go to hell in a handcart for all he cared. Yet, if she cared what the world thought, as from her letter appeared to be the case, then he would build the world anew with his bare hands, and if she didn’t believe him… she could just watch.

  Luke. His real name on her lips was something that haunted him at odd moments of the day and night. He’d stopped on the moors today, convinced he’d heard it on the wind, yet there had been nothing and no one around him. He’d always hated being called Devlin; it had been his father’s name. So, his friends, such as they were, had called him Dev. His father had hated it, which had been good enough reason for him.

  During his time on the farm he’d realised he hadn’t missed those friends with whom he’d spent his leisure hours at all. Once he’d returned to London he’d grasped a sad fact: not one of them had asked after him during his disappearance. They’d not wondered where he was, or shown any concern. Oh, the invitations had begun again once they knew he was back in town, but not one of them had called to enquire as to his absence, or if he was well.

  It had been his own fault, he reasoned, once he’d given the matter some thought. He let no one close enough to be a real friend, and he’d shared nothing of himself. Not until he’d pretended to be someone he wasn’t. How ironic, that it had taken lying about his identity to discover who he really was. Still, no matter how it had happened, it had happened, and he wouldn’t ignore the truth of what he’d discovered. He wouldn’t go back to being that man, living that life.

  He couldn’t.

  With that decided in his mind, he got to his feet and headed upstairs to the room he’d booked for the duration of his stay. The landlord had been beside himself to get such a lengthy booking, and from him of all men. The countryside was abuzz with the news he’d sold Devlin Hall, and he knew many people thought he was bankrupt. He’d paid the landlord in advance to stop the fellow worrying about it. The idea amused him. Perhaps if Charity believed he had pockets to let she’d marry him immediately? He’d toyed with the idea but refused to begin their married life on a lie, and besides, the thought of her marrying him out of pity rankled. No. She’d marry him because she loved him, and because she knew they’d be happy together. He would make her see it if it was the last thing he did.

  The next morning, Dev looked over the plans that his surveyor had brought him.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, excitement making his heart thunder in his chest.

  “All the results of my investigations have been conclusive, my lord. This is the place.”

  Dev grinned at him and slapped the man on the back. “Then why are you still standing here?” he demanded, though he was laughing. “Begin! Begin at once, the sooner the better.”

  The surveyor, a Mr Appledore, who was a middle-aged man with a wide girth and a twinkle in his eyes, had gained Dev’s approval by being the only man who hadn’t kowtowed to him. He had told Dev what was what without so much as a glimmer of apology, thoroughly unimpressed by Dev’s title or his bank balance.

  His finances had in fact been something Mr Appledore had forced Dev to prove, much to his chagrin, but tales of his bankruptcy and spendthrift ways were rife. Appledore was a local man who knew gossip, but he also knew the land and knew what it was that Dev was after, and it appeared as if he’d found it.

  It was close to Plymouth, but still on the edge of Charity’s beloved moors.

  “If it’s all the same to you, my lord, I’d have you sign your approval in writing before I hand things over and set the wheels in motion.”

  “Yes, yes,” Dev said, shaking his head and signing the proffered papers. “There, now will you get on with it, blast you?”

  Mr Appledore sighed, and gave Dev a reproachful look. “Aye, my lord, now I’ll get a move on. May I ask when the happy event is due?”

  Dev raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

  “In my experience,” Mr Appledore replied, his tone dry, “when there is this much pressure to begin works, there is either an impatient wife or a frustrated bridegroom in the equation and seeing as you’re not married….”

  Chuckling, Dev passed the man back his signed documents. “Quite right, Mr Appledore. Not married yet.”

  Chapter 22

  “Wherein Kit makes a discovery.”

  Charity sat on the wall and watched the horizon. Autumn was in the air; she could smell it. It was faint yet, but the air was cooler, crisper, though the sun still warmed her back. The scent of September drifted across the moors, something ripe and fecund as the earth gave the last of her bounty before the winter left her barren once more.

  She’d spent the morning picking blackberries with John and Jane, trying to allow their cheerful chattering to gladden her heart, just as their constant demands to know when they’d see David again tore it into smaller pieces. Charity sighed and rubbed her sore hands on her dress. Her fingers were stained red and stung where the prickles had stabbed her. Scratches covered her arms and she’d torn her dress on a particularly vicious thorn, another job for her to do this evening. Why was it that the sweetest, most tempting fruits were always just out of reach? She always had to get her hands on them, some stubborn sense of determination refusing to be thwarted no matter how the thorns dug into her flesh.

  She sighed, wishing the tear in her heart could be mended as easily as the one in her gown. Except that it was more shattered than torn.

  There had been no letter. No emotional visit begging her to change her mind.

  Nothing.

  Days had turned to weeks and had forced Charity to accept that either her actions had hurt Luke so deeply he couldn’t forgive her, or that she’d been wrong about him.

  She wasn’t wrong about him. The truth of his feelings, the knowledge he loved her—or had loved her—was something she would not allow herself to doubt, which meant that he was too angry and too hurt to forgive her. The thought made her shrivel inside. It made her want to curl up into a little ball and hide away, wallowing in her misery. Wallowing was not in her nature. There were animals to feed, the garden to see to, John needed new shoes… she would have to go into Tillforth at the weekend, and little Jane was growing like a weed too. So, there was no time for wallowing, or for regrets and doubts and what might have beens.

  Yet when she lay in bed at night and the world was dark and quiet, she remembered what it had been to lie in his arms, what it had felt like to be loved by him… and her soul wept for everything she’d given up.

  At least Kit would be back today. His last letter had been full of his triumph and excitement and she longed to see him. At least she could share in his wonderful news and hope that his good humour would rub off on her and force her from the gloom that enveloped her, sapping her energy.

  A figure appeared on the horizon and Charity jumped off the wall, getting to her feet and waving. The figure waved back, and she grinned, running along the path to meet her brother.

  “Where have you been?” she called as he got close enough to hear her. “I expected you hours ago. Batty will scold you.”

  “Nothing new there,” he said, grinning at her and getting down from his horse to give her a hug.

  “Let me look at you.” Charity held him by the arms and looked him over. “You look well,” she said, her tone cautious as he laughed at her.

  “I am!” he said, rolling his eyes at her. “Fit as a flea, so s
top clucking about me.”

  She smiled, relieved as she let him go.

  “I have news,” he said, his eyes bright with it as Charity laughed at him.

  “Well I know that,” she said, linking her arm through his as they walked the path back to the farm. “That’s why we’re so impatient to see you. There’s roast pork for dinner and Batty’s made a summer pudding for you. See how the prodigal is greeted on his return,” she teased.

  Kit stopped, turning to her. “I don’t mean that,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean, news you are not aware of.” There was something in his expression, he was bursting to tell her something, but was unsure of how she would take it. He looked anxious.

  “Oh?” Charity stilled. There was a strange, prickling sensation running down her spine that she could not account for.

  “I stopped in Tillforth for a bite to eat at The Nag’s Head,” he said, his tone nonchalant.

  Charity snorted, relieved it was just local gossip after all. “A pint, or two or three, and an earful of chatter with your friends, you mean,” she said, tutting at him and pretending to be cross.

  “Well, of course,” he said, waving that away as being obvious. “But the village is alive with talk.”

  “Oh, do get on and tell me, Kit,” she said, laughing at him now. “I can’t stand the suspense!”

  “He’s here.” Kit stared at her, watching for her reaction.

  Charity stiffened, knowing instantly who he was. She stared out at the moors for a moment, telling her heart to stop being so foolish and settle down.

  “Well, what of it?” she said, turning away from him and shrugging in as casual a manner as she could manage. “It’s a free country. He was born here, after all.”