A Hero to Hold

by Sheri Humphreys

  All day Charlotte had been in a state of anticipation, thinking of being here with Scott, so how could she now feel self-conscious and unsure of herself? Oh, dear God. At the inn she’d been bold, and excitement gripped them both. She knew he admired her newfound confidence at work and found her appearance pleasing. And, Scott would not desire a weak woman. He’d want a woman as confident and capable as he was—and there was naught of that in her tonight.

  Her mouth uncomfortably dry, she licked her lips.

  “Charlotte?”

  She didn’t know how long she’d been standing lost in thought. His low voice drew her, made her wish them past this unexpected awkwardness. Scott had poured two glasses of wine and moved onto the wide chaise he’d purchased for the main room of the cottage. “Wide enough for two,” he’d told her, and indeed it was.

  He invited her to the empty space beside him with a lifted arm. He’d removed his coat, waistcoat and necktie, and he looked brawny and altogether appealing.

  She imagined she heard all kinds of things in his voice. Desire, most certainly, but she thought she heard concern and compassion in those deep tones, too. Just his speaking her name eased the tension knotted inside her.

  He held out his hand, and she nearly stumbled in her haste to gain his side. When she reached out, he captured her hand and pulled her down into his arms. She pressed her cheek against the firm muscles of his chest and wrapped her arm about his lean waist. His warm hand rubbed up and down her back. Even though it was summer and too warm for a fire, the cool night air had chilled her during their drive to the cottage. They’d felt the first drops of rain as they entered.

  “Not hungry?”

  “No, not in the least hungry.”

  For some minutes the patter of gentle rain was the only sound in the room. Scott’s body heat seeped into her, and she relaxed against him.

  “I’ve a friendly ear, Charlotte. You can trust anything you say will be kept in confidence.”

  She sat up and searched his steady blue eyes. He hadn’t needed to tell her that. She trusted this man. It wasn’t indiscretion she feared.

  Reaching for one of the glasses of wine waiting on the table beside them, Charlotte took a sip. Scott knew the conversation with her father had upset her. He probably guessed she was nervous, too.

  She took another swallow of wine and returned the glass to the table. Scott spread his hand over the back of her head and pulled her toward him. The press of his warm lips against her forehead cracked something inside her chest and made her grow warm and soft there. Then he gently resettled her head.

  One by one, he plucked the pins from her hair then combed through the long locks with his fingers. Her eyes filled with unrelated tears. Oh, no. Please, no. Charlotte squeezed her eyelids shut. Thank God David couldn’t see her face. She could barely suppress the surging roil of emotion her father’s reaction to Lady Garret had kindled. Why must it choose now to push its way to the surface? And why was it so impossible to force it back while nestled in this man’s arms?

  She fought back the urge to rise and escape. Did she want to explain how angry and empty her father made her feel? How she hated that, even knowing how he’d wronged her, she still caught herself trying to please him? Should she tell Scott everything about her marriage? Would telling him these things unburden her heart, or would it just shame her?

  Scott had destroyed his copy of Lady Garret’s novel, but he must know the basic facts of her marriage and its scandalous failure. All of London knew. Still, he didn’t know everything. No one did, not even Jane.

  Charlotte didn’t know if telling him was the right thing to do, but the compulsion to do so, to release all the secrets and pain bottled up inside her was overwhelming. She’d not felt this longing with anyone else, but with David Scott the urge was too powerful to resist.

  She took a deep breath and let it sigh out. Scott’s fingers burrowed into her hair, combing and stroking, and her tension leaked away.

  “Seeing Lady Garret upset me. When I expect to meet her I guard myself, but when she surprises me it is as if she steals all the air from the room. I’m paralyzed.”

  Scott’s warm palm rested on her upper back, his hand rubbing and soothing her. She lay on her side, half atop him, his body hard and solid beneath. Simple peace flowed through her, and she released another sigh.

  “When I married Haliday, I loved him. I trusted him. I thought he loved me, too, even though I knew my dowry had attracted his initial interest. He charmed me….”

  She glanced up at Scott and found those red-gold lashes hiding his eyes. Did ladies discuss former lovers with their current paramour? His tension-free face and relaxed, wide mouth invited her confidence. She might worry about Scott no longer accepting her after she unburdened herself, but she couldn’t find the slightest sign of apprehension about him. The way he held her, the way he listened, he looked unshakeable.

  Oh, but she wanted to believe in that certainty.

  “I was actually glad about the huge dowry. I knew he was desperate for money to repair his estate and his coffers. I was so glad I could help him.”

  “And now? You don’t think he loved you?”

  “He told me he didn’t.”

  Scott inhaled sharply. “What a bastard.”

  It wasn’t so difficult after all, baring her soul to David. It was somewhat liberating, in fact.

  “He was always very contained, very self-assured and proud. He was fourteen years older. I never expected him to be demonstrative unless we were private. I suppose, having no experience, I regarded the act of lovemaking proof of deep feeling.”

  She paused. It seemed impossible now, that she hadn’t realized his lovemaking was empty of all but the most base feeling. For four years she’d been happy. Haliday had been busy overseeing the repairs to his estate. He’d paid off his debts. Most evenings found them attending dinner parties or entertainments. She had done her part by renovating the interior of the London townhouse and Hazelton Park, his country seat. She’d enjoyed being his viscountess. After a lifetime of being socially inferior, she found it heady, using skills she’d spent her youth perfecting and being admired for them.

  And, Haliday was a man with extraordinary looks, a sharp mind and a way about him that garnered respect from other gentlemen and caused women to envy her. She supposed she’d been too engaged by her new status and way of life to see that outside the bedroom she and Haliday rarely spent exclusive time together. They’d certainly never lain together as she and Scott were doing now.

  “His visits to my bedroom became less and less frequent. He began staying out most of the night and told me he was enjoying pursuits at his club. I buried my unease and reassured myself.”

  Scott picked up her glass and wordlessly offered more wine. Charlotte raised herself up to accept, took a couple of sips then returned the glass to him before easing back onto his chest. The pause helped sort her thoughts.

  “One night the frightened little voice in my head overcame my assurances and kept me awake until he arrived home. I mustered my courage and opened the connecting door to my husband’s room.”

  She’d never done that before; he’d always come to her. She recalled how he’d looked, sprawled in his chair before the fire, his coat, waistcoat and shoes discarded, his shirt open, a glass of liquor in his hand. He’d shocked her a little. He’d looked…dissolute.

  “I could tell from the glitter of his eyes that he’d been drinking. He was surprised, and I think displeased, too, when I entered.”

  “Ah, Charlotte,” Scott murmured, as if he sensed the pain that was coming. As if he knew how she’d spent that evening preparing and needed reassurance from her husband and not a confrontation. She’d bathed in perfumed water, dried her hair before the fire, brushed it and left it hanging down her back. Her silk nightgown had been new, yellow as butter and seductive enough that Rebecca had hidden a smile when she saw it.

  She pressed on. “I hurried across the room, knelt beside him, gat
hered my courage and laid my hand upon his thigh. I told him I’d missed him.”

  He’d frowned at her and sighed. She remembered that heavy, wordless expression of weariness as if she’d heard it yesterday. He’d tossed down the remainder of his drink, carefully set the glass on the table beside him and shifted in his chair, neatly dislodging her hand.

  Charlotte realized she was clutching a handful of Scott’s shirt in a fist. She forced her fingers open, stroked over the wrinkled fabric, felt the hard muscle of his chest below it, and continued. “He said he’d done his best to produce an heir. He didn’t see the point in continuing to be so dedicated to it, since he’d pretty well given up hope of ever getting one from me.”

  The words had nearly smothered her with feelings of shame and inadequacy. She’d failed Haliday in the most basic and important way an aristocratic wife could fail. But that was not the end of the story.

  “Then he laughed. Said what a joke it all was. He’d married me in order to repair the title, and now it appeared he wouldn’t have a son to inherit.”

  The look in his eyes had made the world stop. She didn’t know why she’d been so shocked. He hadn’t been to her bed in weeks. And yet…

  Scott’s arms tightened around her. The slight change of position brought Charlotte’s cheek over the muscular swell of his chest, and the steady beat of his heart filled her ear. Charlotte slid her hand up his chest until it rested against his warm neck, and her fingertips nudged into the cool silk of his hair.

  “He said he thought it would be a relief to me that he’d found someone else to share his favors. After all, he went on, we hadn’t been a love match. Foolish me, I couldn’t believe he was being intimate with another woman. I was so naïve.” Charlotte forced herself to breathe slowly. In, out. “I thought he’d fallen in love with me, just as I’d fallen in love with him.”

  She stopped and focused on Scott’s heartbeat. If she weren’t careful she’d break down much the same as she had on that horrid night. At least she’d managed to return to her bedroom and not collapse in her husband’s presence.

  “How did you learn his amour was Lady Garret?” Scott asked.

  “Jane—my friend Lady Etherton—brought me the baroness’s little green book. That was when I found out whose bed my husband was visiting. The rest of London found out, too.”

  That damnable book. At first Charlotte couldn’t believe the baroness had meant the thinly disguised characters to depict herself, Haliday and Charlotte, but then the smirks and the outraged and pitying looks began. Society had taken the little novel for truth.

  “It was nothing but lies,” Charlotte whispered. “Lady Garret portrayed a Lady H___, who represented me, as a vindictive, evil shrew who dedicated herself to nothing but obstructing the two lovers, Lady G___ and Lord H___. They were more than mere lovers, the novel claimed. They were soul mates connected by the deepest of loves. I doubt society would ever have sympathized with the adulterers if I hadn’t been assigned such a malicious persona. But it worked. And even after she published such despicable lies, Haliday continued to see the woman.

  “I didn’t understand, because at that time I still believed he had a heart. When I confronted him, he seemed genuinely puzzled. Told me it was just a story, no one took it for truth. He denied being scorned or criticized. And he didn’t care if I was.”

  Scott’s thumb rubbed up and down the back of her neck. “I know what a scandal it caused. I read about it in the papers. The society reporters seemed to follow the three of you everywhere. When Haliday was shot, they even suggested you as a suspect.”

  “I know there were some who believed I conspired against Haliday, but the detective inspector never did. He always felt it was a case of theft gone terribly wrong.”

  “I wish I’d known you then. That I could have been a friend to you.”

  She couldn’t tell him—she simply couldn’t—that a part of her had been glad when Haliday was murdered, when it all had come to an end and she was set free. Scott was such an honorable man. How could he possibly forgive that?

  “Your belief in me now means more than you know,” she said.

  She hadn’t intended to tell him all this. Not now, not for a long time. Maybe not ever. She’d started the evening aflutter with anticipation, but seeing Lady Garret and Father had stirred all the self-doubt she’d tried so hard to quell. Now she found herself regretting her honesty.

  “You were kind to offer a friendly ear and let me unburden myself, but I’m afraid I’ve ruined our evening.”

  He cupped her jaw and tilted her head back. “You haven’t ruined a thing,” he said huskily.

  He kissed her, and everything else fell away. Charlotte opened for his tongue and sought his warmth and strength, wrapping her arms around him and pressing tight against him. He tasted sublime, and the feel of his hard body made every feminine part of her warm and ache for more intimate contact. With his kiss, that hungry need, unlike anything she’d felt before, overcame her. He answered her with his mouth and tongue, heightening the desire and leaving her in no doubt that his feelings matched hers.

  His lips slid away. Breathing ragged, he kissed her face, her eyes, her temple, then returned to plunder her mouth. She ceased to think. Feeling supplanted everything until Scott withdrew again. He looked at her, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening and his mouth curving a bit, and she knew he wasn’t smiling at her. This was a smile that spilled from the happiness he held inside. She felt it, too.

  He pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips. “Shall we adjourn to the bedroom?”

  Charlotte nodded, rose and stood behind Scott’s chair as he lifted himself on stiff arms and transferred from the chaise to his chair. He pulled his legs over and settled himself, and Charlotte bent over the back of the chair to embrace him. For a long moment they stayed thus, her arms wrapped around him, their heads together and Scott’s strong hands resting on her arms. Charlotte wanted to thank him but found her words had dried up. So she straightened, picked up the lamp and followed behind as he rolled his chair into the bedroom.

  Tonight was different in many ways. Their first time together had been impulsive and dominated by compelling, fierce desire. They’d already been undressed. Scott had been quite naked, in fact. Tonight could not have been more deliberate.

  The bed was turned down, but they were both fully clothed. Charlotte set down the lamp and stood, hands clasped at her waist, not sure what to do. Would she need to play valet and help Scott remove his clothing? Would they watch each other undress? She’d always been wearing a nightgown and ensconced in bed when Haliday exercised his marital rights.

  As he’d done at the chaise, Scott lifted himself out of his chair onto the chair arm, then over to the bed. Immediately he grabbed his legs and pulled them over. Bending at the waist, he stretched out his long arms and tugged shoes from his feet with ease then made quick work of removing his shirt and small shirt, and soon he was naked of all but trousers. He made merry with those, too, lying back to unbutton the front and push trousers and underdrawers down his hips at one time. Then he sat up again, stripped them off his legs and tossed them into his chair.

  Charlotte still watched, feeling unaccountably shy and gauche. His beauty was the living embodiment of a Greek master’s statue. The only thing to mar him was the puckered scar high on his shoulder. A saber wound. He’d made light of it when she questioned it at the inn, but its size and position were no laughing matter. A little lower and his lung would have been pierced.

  She looked away from the uncomfortable reminder of his mortality. The rest of him was much more pleasant to gaze upon, like perhaps the kiss of sun and air that made his hair gleam the red-tinted gold of a copper penny, hair that dusted his chest and arrowed down his abdomen.

  Scott met her gaze and made no attempt to hide the proof of his desire. His eyes narrowed. “Come here, Bluebell. You need a little help, don’t you?”

  Warm feeling crowded out her hesitancy. David, her matter-of
-fact lover, would unerringly lead her.

  She moved next to him and sat, presenting the row of buttons at her back. The first touch of his sure fingers brushing her neck as he opened one sent heat streaking through her. Under the many layers of her clothes, the tips of her breasts hardened.

  “Bluebell?” she asked. The second and third buttons came free.

  “Didn’t you know? Your eyes are the exact purple color of bluebells.”

  His lips grazed her back, and a tiny moan escaped her. Her bodice fell open.

  “No, I didn’t know,” she gasped. “They’ve always been compared to amethysts.”

  He drew her bodice down her arms and tossed it atop his clothing. His mouth captured her earlobe, his tongue and teeth took ownership of her flesh, and she quivered from head to toes. With a little tug, he released her ear.

  “Amethysts are cold and hard, their fire forever locked inside. That’s not you, Charlotte. You’re vibrant and sweet and brimming with life.” He paused, rested his face against her hair and took a deep breath. “And fragrant.”

  Hands at her hips, he urged her up and began pulling the layers of skirt and underskirt and petticoats down. She helped him, letting everything puddle around her feet. She held her breath as his hands wrapped around her waist and released the tie of her lacings. He urged her back down on the bed as he loosened them, easing the constriction of her corset, the fastenings of which came next. His warm breath fanned her back, his hands brushing her breasts in a purposeful way as he released each hook. He added her corset to the growing pile of clothes and wrapped powerful arms around her, pulling her back against him.

  For so long she’d struggled to be strong and unbending. To be likened to a small, fragile yet enduring flower released the constraints inside her. She didn’t need any protective barriers between herself and David. She needn’t guard herself, and that knowledge went deep, to the very bottom of her, enfolding and holding her with the same strength as his arms. The discovery was momentous—and also alarming. She’d once felt that way about Haliday, and she’d been wrong. So very wrong.