by Susanne Lord
The desk blurred and dipped, and he ran a shaking hand over his face, blinking to clear his vision. He began to scrawl his note, the first letters so illegible he flexed his hand and started again with control, his normally neat script wobbly.
Charlotte sighed and perched on the corner of the desk near his elbow. Her “staying-home” dress was gauzy and white and encroaching on his paper. He brushed the cotton aside and it floated back, threatening his inked message. He held the fabric back. “God, Charlotte! Where do you end?” He slammed a paperweight on the skirt.
“All right, call your physician. You will embarrass me quite, but if you must, you must. You are sensitive. I suppose it is not the worst trait…”
Will ignored the rest of her words—he had to focus—hastily rereading his note for clarity until Goodley and Jamie appeared. He grabbed the ice compress from Jamie and placed it in Charlotte’s hand to hold against her cheek. She started to protest but he stared a warning, and she closed her lips, her bottom lip pushing into a pout.
He wheeled around. “Jamie, take the carriage to the address on this note. If Dr. Fellowes can’t come, his partner, Henson, at the same address, should be available. If neither are in, go to the second address and return with Dr. Syndham. Go. Now. Don’t return without a doctor.”
Jamie and Goodley ducked their heads and exited.
His stomach plunged and the room spun, so he stood still. The world would steady. It always had—
“They have been my employees far longer than yours,” she said. “And not even a by-your-leave from me? You mustn’t be uneasy with the staff—I explained to Patty what occurred and she explained to the rest.” She jumped lightly from the desk.
“Don’t move!” His heart plunged and he lurched toward her, pressing her into a chair. “Don’t, Charlotte, please.”
Thankfully, she obeyed, lowering with her usual grace. At least her balance seemed unaffected.
He took the ice from her and refolded the towel, holding it against her cheek himself. His eyes locked on the compress. How would he ever look at her?
Big blue eyes watched him balefully over the towel. “Now that your beloved plans are in motion, could we discuss what happened last night? I should like to have breakfast, too, and desire you to sit with me.”
“I can’t.”
“Am I so hideous to look at?”
His stomach lurched, threatening to empty on the floor.
Christ… He closed his eyes to still the nausea but saw only the purple-black bloom marring her flawless skin. “God, Charlotte…I’m so sorry.” He forced the words through his strangled throat.
She stood and took his arm. “Come, let’s have our breakfast.”
She needed to eat. And she was walking well. He steered her to the dining room, pressed her into a chair, and poured her a cup of tea that rattled in its saucer. “What will you have?”
“Will you sit?”
“You’ll have eggs, won’t you?”
“Will, I’m fine.”
He piled a plate high, his fingers so stiff he nearly dropped the plate in front of her. He stood at the door, not looking at her, an ear cocked for the front door. It was too soon, it would be a quarter hour at least—
“Won’t you tell me what you dreamed last night?”
Christ, no, he’d never do that. He fisted his hair in his hand. “I can’t do this.”
“Will?”
“Five weeks and it’s back.”
“What’s back?” Charlotte stood and took a step toward him.
“Sit down, Charlotte!”
Her jaw dropped at his outburst.
“Please,” he begged. “Sit until the doctor comes.”
Her eyes were wide but she sat. “All right.”
He slumped against the threshold of the door and tried not to think about the fact that his marriage had just ended.
Twenty-one
“What a fright I am, Patty.” Charlotte touched her cheek gingerly as she studied herself in the dressing table mirror.
“The healing looks worse, love. Your skin’ll be the most unholy color in a day or two.”
But her thoughts ran rampant over Will. Why didn’t he trust her with the truth? Did he think her too weak to bear it? If he told her, what could she do to help him?
Betsy, the new parlor maid, appeared at the door. “You’ve a caller, miss.”
“A caller?” Charlotte held out her hand for the card. “Oh heavens, I cannot receive anyone.” She stared an astonished moment at the name writ there: Hugh Spencer. “How dare he come here?”
Patty read the name over her shoulder and her lips thinned. “You send him right off. The coward likely waited for your husband to leave.”
“Will is not in?” Charlotte asked.
“He went out after the doctors left.”
“He didn’t mention needing to go out,” she murmured. That was a relief¸ actually. If Will knew Hugh had come…
Charlotte stood and smoothed her skirt in a delaying tactic. The truth was, she was afraid of Hugh. To say to Will she wasn’t had been a lie. But she would not live in fear.
“Fuss and bother…put him in the back parlor, please, Betsy. No tea, and do not offer to take his hat or stick. The man will not be here long. And please ask Jamie and Peter to stand at the ready.”
Patty’s look was full of disapproval.
“I must put an end to this nonsense sooner or later, Patty. And you’ll be with me.”
“I’d rather your big, strong husband were here.”
“It is far better he is not. Come. We shall make quick work of it.”
Bolstered by the sight of her large footmen flanking the door, Charlotte swept into the room as haughtily as she could. “I am astonished at this behavior. Do not imagine you will ever be received again.”
Hugh’s eyes bulged. “For God’s sake! Did he do that?”
The outburst set her back—but she had no explanation for her contusion. “Don’t be absurd.” Feigning a calm she did not feel, she looked pointedly at her timepiece. “I haven’t the slightest interest in hearing what you have to say, but I welcome the opportunity to tell you I never wish to see you again.”
He stretched his neck as if his cravat were too tight. “I apologize for frightening you.” His eyes narrowed. “But my…heart was broken, Charlotte. I was wild with grief. Never, never would I have compromised you. I merely wished—”
“To convince me of your ardor, as I recall.”
“I love you.”
A hard laugh burst from her. “So you say. I allow you were always gentlemanly to me, until you were not.”
“If that man had not intruded—”
“That man is my husband and had he not intruded, your actions would have irreparably altered me.”
“Do you not understand what I offer you?” His voice was almost gentle. “What I sacrifice in coming here? My father scorned my choice and now ridicules me for losing you.” His eyes hardened. “How could you want him? I was to make you my countess.”
Her fear spiked higher. My God, she had almost married this man. She pitched her words in low, measured tones so as not to upset him further. But there was nothing to say except, “I never loved you, Hugh.”
“Is that so?” Hugh’s face contorted with a bitter smile. “I imagine there’s love enough with Repton. No doubt your heels are light for your heroic explorer, the lone survivor of a failed expedition—”
“What? What do you—?”
“Any tart might confuse lust with love.”
Lone survivor—
“If I leave here today, Charlotte, I’ll never return.”
Her legs trembled, but she looked straight at him. “Capital.”
The fury in his eyes set her back a step, but he pivoted to the door and she moved with him—if only to keep the dangerous man in her sights.
“If that is how it is to be.” He tugged his gloves tight. “I hope you find your husband as devoted a lover. Once he is teste
d.”
Her blood chilled in her veins. “I do not take your meaning.”
“No?” He smirked coldly. “Well, you never were terribly bright, were you?” He stalked out of the room, the front door slamming shut behind him seconds later.
* * *
The patrons of the Thorn and Crown Inn in Spitalfields were a sneering and surly lot, but Will barely heeded the company. No matter he was cheek to jowl with every pickpocket, footpad, and wagon hunter of the East End, the pub served its purpose. The ale was plentiful and no one cared that he was bloody Chinese Will, married to the incomparable Charlotte Baker.
He drained the last of his drink and signaled for another. The barman gave him a measuring look, but Will glared until the man’s frown buckled and he refilled his tankard.
The ale wasn’t working. The pictures from his nightmares were still there: Charlotte, lying on the dusty soil at the monastery, slit open like the others. Her blue eyes, open and unseeing, vivid against the red blood. The ground thirsty.
He took another numbing swig. Happy Charlotte, living with his darkness.
And he’d hit her.
With a hand that shook, he drained his glass.
The doctor said she would be fine, that she would be all right. And she would be. Once he was gone, she would be the incomparable Charlotte Baker again. He just needed a plan of extraction—and it was begun. His solicitor was preparing the annulment papers and tomorrow…
Tomorrow, they’d separate.
The room rolled over. He grabbed the table and waited for the walls to straighten.
On his fourth pint, Will determined that one, Spencer would never get near Charlotte again, and two, he’d recommit body and soul to his expedition. Three, he’d take an apartment post haste to keep far from his wife. Four, he’d never sleep in her bed again and they’d never talk in bed or laugh at their letters and—
He sniffled, wiping a bleary eye. And five, Wallace had to return to London to watch over his sister. Six, pay a call to that bastard Spencer—aristocrat my arse—and flatten his bloody nose into his bloody face and—he ought to be writing these down—and six, or was it seven? And dammit—Charlotte had borrowed his pencil again!
Stumbling from the pub into the empty street, he looked for his carriage until remembering he’d not come in one. “God’s—balls!” He yelled into the sky. There’d be no jarvey offering rides this time of night.
Wait. He’d vowed not to sleep in that house another night. Or was it her bed? The house was fine. But tomorrow, tomorrow, he’d return to Richmond. There. A plan. A good plan. He’d make that list…
The streets were empty and the house was dark when he stumbled to the door. Of course it would be. His fumbling with the key was loud enough to draw one of the servants, because the door opened before his third attempt at the lock.
Damn. Not a servant.
“Where have you been?” Charlotte stood in her dressing gown, the flash of relief on her beautiful face quickly hardening to anger. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
“Hush, Charlotte. You’ll wake your fancy neighbors.”
Charlotte pulled a face and clapped a hand over her nose. “Oh, good heavens! What have you been drinking?”
Mustering every shred of dignity he might fake, he stepped into the house and headed for the back parlor where a comfortable rug awaited him. “Why aren’t you in bed, Charlotte? You should be asleep.”
“How, pray, was I to sleep imagining you bleeding out in an alley or floating in the Thames or with your head smashed on the cobblestones—”
“Why are your thoughts so violent?”
“—and without so much as a note to let me know your whereabouts?”
In the meager firelight of the parlor, he had to screw up his eyes to inspect her cheek. “Did you keep ice—?”
Charlotte batted his hand away. “Where were you?”
“The doctors said—”
The hand slap again. “They said it was a bruise. Where were you?”
He made for the decanter of whiskey in the cabinet. “Go to bed, Charlotte.”
“I am not going to bed. I am making you a sandwich and weak tea and don’t you dare touch another drop of drink!”
He turned to protest her ban of the whiskey and she was gone. She always moved too fast. Empty-handed, he sank into the chair by the fire. He wasn’t thirsty anyway. A wool blanket was slung on the arm of the chair. Had she been sitting here waiting for his return?
The thought made his stomach lurch with guilt. He didn’t want her to see him this way, his brain sluggish and his tongue thick. A man wanted all his faculties with Charlotte.
He pitched forward in the chair and rested his forearms on his knees, the position unaccountably more comfortable. A white calling card lay singed in the ashes of the fire and he fished it near with the poker till he could read the name.
Spencer.
Fury and fear scrambled his brain, and he fought through the fog of drunkenness for lucidity. Didn’t the maids sweep the fireplace every morning?
Charlotte returned with a tray.
“Spencer was here?” he croaked. Her eyes shuttered and her silence provided all the confirmation he needed. It made him want to retch. “Was he?”
Charlotte set the tray down and sat stiffly. “You cannot possibly imagine I received visitors looking as I do.”
Will scowled, reminded of the injury he’d caused to his sweet wife.
“Here.” She pressed a sandwich into his hand. “Try to eat something.”
He threw the sandwich down and surged to his feet, setting the room spinning. “I told you not to be alone with him.”
“We were not alone.” Realizing the admission, she pouted as if she’d been tricked. “Patty sat there by the fire, and Peter and Jamie were at the door.”
His hands began to shake. Why? Why would he be here? Christ, he couldn’t think—if only he could think. “Did you invite him?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed and wounded. Rising, she carefully covered his tea and sandwich with a napkin. “I will not talk to you in this state.”
“Did you forgive him?”
Charlotte swanned out, climbing the stairs to bed, and he lurched to follow, his hard steps rattling the railing. “Answer me!”
“Why? You will not remember tomorrow.”
In the bedroom, the door banged behind him.
“Do not slam the door,” she said.
Why was the woman not talking? “You know what he did! And I have to sail three months and worry about you and go back where it happened—”
“Where what happened?”
“—and you let him visit in that damn parlor!”
“I suppose you are entitled to answers. I am left alone wondering why you stumble home an hour before sunrise. Or why you drink at all.”
“Did he touch you?”
She spun around, her eyes wet. “Yes, he touched me. He kissed me, too, and he is vastly improved. I was so overwhelmed with passion, we made love right here in our bed. All his transgressions are forgiven and isn’t that a relief? We may part, I will marry a peer, and you may transfer the upkeep of your lusting, empty-headed bride to another.”
“Damn it, Charlotte!” He pivoted to leave and collided hard with the bedpost. He nearly sank to the ground, but caught himself and collapsed heavily on the edge of the bed.
God damn Spencer.
And God damn him.
* * *
Oh no, no! Charlotte hurried to sit beside him. “Now look at you. You have hurt yourself.”
Will folded over his knees, his head resting on his arms.
“Will?” Was he hurt? Had he not heard her or was he too inebriated to follow? Or was he being his usual silent self?
Blast him! She was afraid to comfort him. She couldn’t bear his pushing her away tonight.
Her nerves had been stretched to snapping waiting for him to return. Afraid he never would. Afraid to think of what he’d endured, of what h
e was trying to forget. Even now, she was raw and jittery in the silence, so she did what she always did.
She talked.
“I know you would prefer to have it out with me but I will not argue. I cannot. No one in the family was ever any good at it. Lucy bursts into tears, Wally’s face turns purple, and as for me, I resist the idea of anyone taking me seriously enough to take offense at the things I say or do. I am innocuous, you know, as I cannot bear a grudge longer than a quarter hour. I have tried and it is impossible.
“And I like you more than most, despite your grim moods and tonight’s odors, so I worry. I do not know why you were gone so long or what is troubling you—though I have a few ideas—but I think it best you tell me. Not tonight, but soon. Tomorrow would be convenient. I have a dress fitting at ten and I thought to visit the fancy stationer for holiday cards, but otherwise I am not engaged.”
“God, Charlotte,” he groaned, plowing his fingers through his hair and fisting it into clumps. “You hurt my head.”
She opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it. Will’s torment did not begin or end with her, but she would not add to his troubles tonight. Besides, the man applied himself to one task at a time and the task at present appeared to be sleeping sitting upright.
“Come now,” she said. “Let’s get you undressed and in bed.” She kneeled to remove his boots and stockings, his feet ice cold. His coat was undone and his necktie lost—likely to a lucky ragman in the street.
Sliding off his damp wool coat, she slid her hands over his hard shoulders. At work on the buttons of his waistcoat, Will grasped her wrists lightly in that peculiar way drunken men are riveted by simple acts of dexterity.
“Arms up, please,” she said.
He heaved his head up to look at her and she wondered if he would continue growling at her, but he lifted his arms so she could pull the shirt over his head. The stale smell emanated from the fabric and she tossed it to a far corner. “There. You smell much better.”
Yes…lovely shoulders. And chest. And stomach. He was so gorgeously muscled under his clothes. She rubbed his cold arms soothingly and with no little pride. A rare opportunity…touching her husband so freely.