by Susanne Lord
But raising his voice was a mistake. The only other time he had, she’d cried. And Charlotte Baker wasn’t meant to cry.
“I’m sorry I yelled.” He worried he’d spoken too low to hear, but she faced him without delay.
“And I am sorry I caused you more worry.”
The fatigue of her words drew his head up. Why had he yelled at her? He should have taken her away the instant he found her.
She reached for him and he jerked back in his seat. And damned if he knew why. It was either that or drag her into his lap and continue where they’d left off in that dark room. And it wouldn’t be simple lust driving him. It had never been simple with her.
She looked hurt and he hurried to cover his reaction. “The, uh…the fact remains, Spencer will pursue you. And what he said of…”
“A baby?”
He frowned, not meeting her eye.
“His threats are inane,” she said quietly. “A baby is impossible.”
“I know but—”
“As appallingly as Hugh behaved, he has the right of it. Two months more and we separate. Besides…I did not marry you for your protection.”
His heart was sinking fast. Why did she marry him, then? He was supposed to preserve her reputation. Wouldn’t that mean keeping Spencer at a distance?
But wouldn’t that also mean escorting her to dinners and dances? Tonight’s assembly was the first she’d asked him to attend. And none of her social circle were there at all.
Was she ashamed of him? Was he so different?
He stared blindly out the window. A savage, Spencer called him.
He was a character from the papers, a carnival attraction. He was different. And once she was free of him, she’d seek the company of a gentleman.
But surely not a gentleman like Spencer? A man who could hurt her as he’d done? Or try to force her to his will? Or treat her as if she were beneath him?
Charlotte was unnervingly quiet. He didn’t know the questions to ask or whether he was ready to hear what she’d say, so they rode the rest of the way in silence. She didn’t look at him even as he handed her from the carriage. At least she let him this time.
She swept past him into the house to speak to Goodley. “Would you send Patty to me, please?”
The butler ducked his head. “Yes, miss.”
She climbed the stairs and he followed with heavy steps. “Charlotte—”
“Patty is to come any moment.”
“Then send her away. You don’t understand what men like Spencer are capable of. I’ve seen men reduced to animals with little provocation—”
“Stop.” She turned to face him. “I do not understand when you say things like that. Earlier you said it was possible to…to skin a man alive. That you had seen it.”
She searched his eyes, but the pulse hammering in his throat was the only movement he allowed.
She stepped closer, her beautiful face creased with concern. “You say things sometimes that make me worry.” Her hands wrung the fabric of her gown, her eyes monitoring and pleading. “Am I meant to believe you? You have never told me what happened at the end of your expedition—”
“Charlotte—”
“Or how you were injured—”
“There are some things a man doesn’t share, even with a wife—”
“I know but—”
“And you,” he held up his hands to stop her words, “you are not really my wife.”
Her face crumpled and he heated with fury at himself.
A soft scratch sounded from the door and her maid peeked in. “Shall I come back in a few, then, Charlotte?”
Charlotte blinked. “Yes, later, Patty, please—”
But he couldn’t take any more. He turned on his heel and escaped to his never-used bedroom.
* * *
Charlotte followed, but to her surprise, Will closed the door between their rooms.
Patty waited, her eyebrows raised at the tension in the room. “Is the honeymoon over, then, love?”
She dragged her attention back. “No, no. This is nothing.”
“You best let your husband know that. He looked like Jacob when he’s made to eat his peas.”
Charlotte stood in the center of the room. Should she follow him? Or did he need a moment alone? Away from her?
She sank onto her dressing table chair and Patty set to unbuttoning her gown. “What do you two have to quarrel about, anyway?”
What, indeed? She rested her head in her hand. In her heart, Will was her husband, but she was not his wife. If anything, she was his worry.
“Nothing, Patty. He will brood about the matter, as he does. And I will do as I do, and wait for him to realize he does not care at all.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” Patty prodded her to stand so she could remove her gown and loosen the back tie of her corset. She said nothing more, and Charlotte felt disapproval in the silence, but no disagreement.
Perhaps she was worried over nothing. Perhaps what had happened in China had resolved itself. Will had not had one of his nightmares. He seemed at peace. Even happy.
The door opened and Will cleared his throat to signal his return. He stood awkwardly there, his eyes on the rug. He did so whenever he caught her in any state of undress.
The sweet man…she was still fully covered in her chemise and petticoat.
“I thought we might have a bite of supper, Charlotte.”
There. He had forgotten already. She could not pretend all was forgiven, though. A lady ought to have a little pride. “Did you? Please do so without me. I shall draw a bath. Our evening has chilled me quite.”
She walked to her bath, leaving Patty to share a look of sympathy with her husband. A terrible breach of loyalty, in her opinion.
One minute of steeping in the hot, rose-scented water of her bath was all she could bear. “Bother it all,” she mumbled under her breath, rising from the water. She wanted to be with Will. Evidently, she had no pride where the man was concerned.
She hurried into her nightrail, but Will had gone. Downstairs for his supper, she supposed. Not bothering to ring for Patty, she sat near the fire, let her hair down, and started to hurriedly brush out the long ringlets.
With effort, she slowed her hand. How ridiculous she had become, so eager to be with him at all times. But wasn’t everyone? At the assembly, they all had craned their necks and shuffled near. Will, humble dear that he was, was unaware of the excitement he had caused.
He was similarly oblivious to all the cards on the hall table left by the wives of men who wished to know him. Men rarely paid visits of ceremony, leaving their wives to attend to the matter during their calls. For every card Charlotte received, suddenly she received two from the lady’s husband—one for her and one for Will. If he were to stay, he would surely win over the loftiest circles of the ton.
But what did it matter? Their marriage would be over long before next season.
How many invitations had she refused, wanting Will to herself? No entertainment compared to an evening at home with him and the conversations stretching from dinner to the study to the bed, where they lay talking side by side.
The only exception she had made was to accept tonight’s invitation, because so many of Will’s professional acquaintance were to attend. And she had dreamed they would dance.
And then Hugh appeared.
How quickly her dreams could crumble. For her marriage to a hero to be so fascinating a union that all of London would clamber for their presence at every assembly. For Lucy and Ben to walk into any ballroom and be welcomed with kindness. For Wally to have friends. Real friends. For the children to never hear a snide whisper behind their back.
Even her dream man…
No. Will was altogether more than she had dreamed: more challenging and aggravating and stubbornly male. More protective and honorable and inspiring. Altogether more wonderful than she had been capable of dreaming. The man surpassed even her formidable imagination.
Even now,
she could imagine a marriage of love between them. They would quarrel and reconcile. They would grow and hurt and heal together. They would kiss good night and make love and fall asleep holding each other. She would have a child. She would be a mother.
She would be a wife loved by her husband.
And hadn’t that dream crumbled, too?
The brush in her hand dropped heavily to her lap. No, this quarrel did not matter. Nothing of this marriage mattered.
She was only dreaming, after all.
“Charlotte?”
Will leaned against the door, still dressed in his trousers and shirt. “Oh.” Embarrassed to be caught in her melancholy, she rose and moved to sit at her dressing table. “I did not hear you return.”
“Are you done not speaking to me?”
She smiled. “Yes, I think so.”
He pulled a chair near the dressing table and sat. “You’re not angry with me.”
It was not a question. He understood her moods—but something in Will distrusted her forgiveness, her willing resignation. Perhaps that was why he did not love her.
She hurried on, brightly as she could. “I did try, I promise you.” He did not smile back. “Perhaps I am flawed. I do not take offense as deeply as others or as I should. I just cannot stay angry. It is as if there is a great balloon inside me and when sadness tries to pull me deeper and deeper under water, there is only so far I can sink before I feel a great pressure to rise again.” She flushed in the silence between them. “I do not know how else to explain it.”
“You explained it perfectly.” His eyes did not waver from her, and a small grin curved his mouth. “And nothing about you is flawed.”
At times like this, looking at him was difficult. The space between them filled with possibility. It so often did.
She could succumb to that strange pull in her breastbone when he was near and fly to his arms. Or she could laugh and braid her hair and remind herself all this was just a happy little dream.
Against every instinct in her body, she chose the latter.
The moment eased and Will leaned back in his chair. “I don’t often see your hair down. You look different. You look like a girl.”
“I had hoped that was evident.”
“I mean a simple country girl. Untouched. Innocent. Not the belle of the Municipal Gardens Ball.” He caught a long tendril and studied it in the light.
“Did you have wine with your supper?” She added a teasing note to her voice she didn’t feel.
“Why?”
“You are always more free with your words when you’ve had wine.” She pulled the lock of hair from his hand. “And your touch.”
He relaxed back in his chair. “Might have done a glass. My wife turned me out of our room.”
“Oh dear. She sounds an ogre.”
“I made her cross. I might have been a bit overzealous in warning her against someone.”
Please…not Hugh again.
A long, steady look held between them. He was all brooding expectation but she would not argue. “A cup of tea sounds nice, doesn’t it? I think I—”
He caught her hand before she could stand. “She didn’t appreciate my advice, though it’s meant to keep her from harm.”
He would press the issue. “Perhaps she does not wish to be treated as a child.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t wish to accept what men are capable of.” He pushed to his feet to pace the room. “What will you do when you’re free, Charlotte? The man means to have you.”
She winced at the word free. “For now, yes.”
He stopped in his tracks. “And?”
“And it is a passing fancy. Hugh believes he wishes to reconcile for now. An eligible earl-in-waiting will not lack for female attention. Besides, it is no concern of yours.”
Oh.
Oh no.
She might have gone too far with that.
Will blanched—then his brows snapped together. “I see,” he said softly, and the effect was far more disquieting. He stalked into his bedchamber. A drawer slammed. The wardrobe door creaked in protest. Fabric whipped and snapped.
The violent sounds continued and she stood. Then sat. Then stood again.
She should apologize for her stupid words. Will did bear a sense of responsibility for her. It was unkind to suggest he did not.
Will stormed back, tugging the belt of his banyan tight. “Fine. Since what is between you and the viscount is no concern of mine, I’m going to bed. Kiss me good night.”
His face was stony, his shoulders bunched, and his robe gaped, revealing a triangle of chest corded with muscle. And for the first time, she did not wish to participate in the evening ritual. He looked as capable of a gentle embrace as a boulder.
She rose slowly. “Of course I did not mean—”
Impatiently, he pulled her into his arms and she winced. “Will, do be careful. I’m sorry—”
Further words were silenced by his kiss. Immediately, she felt him…it…through her thin nightrail, free and unobstructed by his robe. His male parts. One long, rather large part in particular. A surprised mewl sounded in her throat.
The noise stirred him to lift his lips off hers and grumble. “What is it?”
“Your nightshirt? Where is it?”
He blinked and looked to his dressing room as if the lost nightshirt had cried out for him. His throat bobbed with a swallow. “I…uh. I’m not wearing it.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I was in a hurry,” he said defensively. “I prefer not to wear the stupid thing anyway. Like some skittish virgin.”
They stood like that a moment—he waiting for her to speak, and she disappointing him with a rare moment of speechlessness. She was stuck on that “virgin” insult, not that he had called her a virgin. She would not be a skittish one in any case.
Why was he not stepping away? Normally, when that part of him grew thick from their embrace, he set her back and put the room between them.
Sometimes several rooms, a flight of stairs, and a city block.
He wet his lips, and the dark, smoky wine she tasted on his tongue suffused the air. Had he drunk too much? Is that why he still held her? Why did he not close his robe?
More confusing yet, he subtly, almost experimentally, shifted his hips and—oh, mercy—wedged more closely between her thighs, nudging the core of her. She jolted, her eyelids fluttering as pleasure shot through her.
Oh my, he was so large and he was not even excited. Why that was so exciting to her, she didn’t understand, but something primal in her understood to rejoice. And surrender. When he moved against her once more, she did.
A sigh escaped her lips and her head lolled back on her neck in silent submission. Warm hands caressed her backside, cupping her, molding her to him. His teeth scraped and teased the tendons of her neck, the lobe of her ear, the edge of her jaw, her lips.
He would stop soon. He always did. But for now…he was so exquisitely tender…
“Charlotte?” He nipped her bottom lip to get her attention. “Charlotte?”
She forced her heavy lids open and Will braced her neck so they were eye to eye. Surely he could see her heart, her soul. Surely, by now, he must know.
He leaned closer, their lips a sliver of breath apart. “You are my concern. Do you understand? You can’t be with someone like him.”
Why was he speaking? She pulled his head down to seal her mouth with his but—as he always did—he pulled back and her heart tore.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I hear everything you say and there is not a word I will ever forget.” She grasped his hair, not bothering to be gentle, desperate for him to believe her, to hear her.
His fingers on her neck kneaded deep and slow. Almost as if he was unaware of what he was doing. His lids were heavy with his desire, and his breathing labored. Fused against her, his manhood grew and hardened.
She gloried in it. She did this. His desire belonged to her and if sh
e couldn’t have his love, she would have this.
Tonight…tonight there might be a chance to persuade him…
“I want you to touch me, like you did that morning in the wood.” She kissed his lips, stiff and sealed. “I want your body on mine.” She kissed his chin. “I want to feel when you release on me because you want me, too. I know you do.” She kissed his cheek, his brow, his temple, and his hands slid off her. “No, Will…don’t let go.”
“God…Charlotte…”
But she would not be put off. His arousal was warm on her thigh and somehow, he was still standing here.
She kissed his jaw, his neck, traveling lower to lick the scoop of flesh at the base of his throat. He seemed to like that attention. His groan vibrated beneath her lips. The planes of his chest were so hard, she skimmed her palms under his robes, pulling the halves apart to be closer.
But he stopped her hands, holding them against his taut waist at the point the muscles of his back began their flare to his shoulders.
She gasped for air, holding still. “Please don’t push me away. Let me see you.”
Will dipped his head and rested his lips on her shoulder. His heart pounded against her cheek and she could have stood like that forever.
“Curious Charlotte…have you seen a man before?”
She shook her head gently, not wanting to break contact, not for a second, with his skin. “I’ve seen anatomy books, and the Elgin and Phigalian marbles at the British Museum, and Japanese wood block prints but those were not representative so much as—”
“All right.” He stroked her hair, pressing so her lips were silenced against his skin. “All right,” he breathed. Without moving from her, Will untied his belt and the robe parted wide.
Acutely aware of his strength, his size, and the fragility of the moment, she kept her eyes on his neck, one of her favorite parts of his body. Not that she didn’t adore every part of him…
Will shrugged off his robe and it slid to the floor. His breath was hot in her ear. “You can look at me.”
How much had the man been drinking?