How angry was he at her father? At her?
Remorse gnawed at her. She'd known Father was in the wrong, but she hadn't known how to stop him. She never had. And she'd been so worried about his health that she hadn't left with Paul ... she'd been so torn and confused at the time! The ugly revelations in the scandal sheet had hurt; though the pain remained, she told herself, What's done is done. She knew the man he'd been before they'd married. He'd promised to change, and as far as she knew, he'd kept his vows to her.
The past was over; it was time to move forward. She needed to explain to Paul that she was grateful for all that he'd done, the compromises he'd made for her. Only she wasn't certain how to do so. Loyalty made it difficult for her to say, Please, please forgive my father. He doesn't mean to be difficult.
But surely she could beg forgiveness for herself? Paul would forgive her, wouldn't he? He wouldn't toss her aside over a disagreement, the way her father kept insisting he would.
He walked out, just as I predicted, Father had said. It's off to another lark for him—or to another fancy piece. Good riddance, I say.
"Is that you, Miss Sparkler?"
Charity gave a start. The customer had approached the counter, regarding her with a quizzical smile. In the next instant, she recognized the auburn curls and petite, striking features.
"Mrs. Stone." Hastily, Charity hopped off her stool. "I beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you from afar."
"It's quite alright. You seem preoccupied." Astute hazel eyes studied her. "Is something amiss?"
The other's direct manner summoned an alarming heat to Charity's eyes. She blinked quickly and forced a smile. "Just woolgathering, I'm afraid. Are you, um, shopping today?" That was an asinine thing to say. Why else would the actress be here? "I mean, is there anything I can assist you with?"
Mrs. Stone hesitated, her gaze circling the shop. "Are there no clerks at present?"
Flushing, Charity realized how incompetent she must appear, first staring off into space and now babbling and on the verge of tears.
She drew her shoulders back. In a polite, brisk voice, she said, "I'm the only one here at the moment. I'd be happy to show you whatever you'd like."
"In that case, I'd like to see the silver vinaigrette. The one with the grapevine motif."
Charity fetched the item from the case. "It's a lovely piece, as you can see," she said, holding it out to the other, "made by one of our most popular artisans. The silverwork is sturdy yet exceedingly intricate. If you look closely, you can see the veins on the leaves."
"Indeed. Quite lovely."
"And if you like the vinaigrette, there's a chatelaine that would suit it most admirably."
A smile hovered on the actress' mouth. "I suppose I'll have a look at that, too."
A while later, Charity was quite pleased with herself as she wrapped up the other's purchases. She handed over the package, and as she did so, the lady's gaze caught on her hand.
"That's a pretty ring," Mrs. Stone said. "Opal, is it?"
Charity's heart gave a painful squeeze. "Thank you, yes. But it's not our stock. My husband gave it to me."
"You are recently wed?"
Charity began to nod … and, to her mortification, a tear escaped.
"Oh, f-forgive me. I think I have something in my eye …" She fumbled in her skirt pocket—where was her blasted handkerchief?
"Here, take mine. And then take a nice, deep breath."
Charity accepted the handkerchief, blotted her eyes. She tried to calm her fitful respiration.
"And another breath ... doesn't that feel better? Breathing calms the nerves. 'Tis what I do before a big performance," Mrs. Stone said.
After a few more breaths, Charity was able to say, "I'm fine. And ever so sorry. I don't know what came over me."
"There's no shame in tears, my dear. Marital woes?"
Charity's lips quivered again. Was the reason so obvious?
"I've been married myself," the lady said wryly, "and I recall those early days. Full of fire and passion—that desperate, terrifying, wonderful feeling of being alive."
Charity felt her jaw slacken. Not because this veritable stranger was talking about passion, but because the words resonated within her. She did feel alive—terrifyingly so. She loved Paul with all her heart and soul … but what if he never returned her love? What if he tired of her? What if he was tiring of her at that very moment? What if yesterday's conflict had damaged their fledging marriage irreparably?
"I've frightened you." Clearly misinterpreting Charity's reaction, Mrs. Stone said, "Forgive me. Being in theatre, I tend to forget that passion is not a topic of everyday conversation. That not everyone believes, as I do, that life is too short to be lived for anything but happiness. You see, I—"
The tinkling bell cut the actress short. Jameson entered with parcels in hand. "Good day, ladies," he said on his way to the back room.
After returning his greeting, Charity prompted, "You were saying, Mrs. Stone?"
But the other woman's gaze had flitted to the door, her demeanor suddenly restless. "I'm afraid I must go. An appointment I just remembered."
"Oh. Well, it was a pleasure to see you," Charity said. "Do come again."
"I would like that." The wistful smile transformed Mrs. Stone's face into one of unforgettable beauty. With a graceful inclination of her head, she made her exit, her footmen flanking her.
Too late, Charity realized that she hadn't returned the other's handkerchief. She looked down at the fine linen, her finger tracing Marietta Stone's initials, exquisitely rendered in silver thread. As she did so, the actress' words raced through her head. Life is too short … and suddenly she knew what she had to do.
*****
"I'm so glad you came to call, Charity."
Percy was glowing in a sunny frock that hinted at the slight rounding of her figure. The two were sitting on a settee in Percy's study, a spacious room that Mr. Hunt had dedicated to his wife's sole use. It was a feminine version of his own office, furnished with daintier furniture and done up in pretty shades of ivory and primrose. Eyeing the shelves stuffed with books and piles of parchment and paraphernalia occupying every surface, Charity thought love might not have been Mr. Hunt's only motivation for giving Percy a space of her own: the study kept the clutter from spilling over into the rest of the house.
Mr. Hunt had a keen sense of self-preservation. More importantly, he seemed to accept his wife's quirks, the same way Percy accepted his. Charity's heart clenched. Her own marriage had yet to achieve such a harmonious balance, but she wasn't giving up.
"How is Mr. Sparkler faring?" Percy asked.
"He's fine now. Back at the shop, against the physician's advice."
"Well, I'm relieved to hear of his recovery. But you, my dear, are looking rather peaked." Percy studied her with concerned eyes. "Is anything amiss?"
Of course her bosom friend would sense her turmoil.
Charity's hands knotted in her lap. "Have ... have you seen Paul?"
"Not recently." Percy frowned, and Charity's heart sank. "Don't you know where he is?"
Charity shook her head, her voice cracking as she admitted, "Oh Percy, I think ... I think I've driven him away!"
Percy gave her hand a comforting squeeze. "Tell me everything, dear."
After providing a halting description of the past week and a half, Charity concluded in tones of misery, "I understand why Paul is angry at me. I should have left with him or at least pleaded harder for him to stay. 'Tis all my fault—"
"It's not your fault. As much as it may pain you to hear this, your father is to blame," Percy said bluntly. "He's had it in for Paul from the start. While I can understand his reservations given my brother's reputation and the fiasco with Parkington, I cannot see why he won't at least give Paul a chance now that you're married. And from the sounds of it, my brother has never worked harder in his life."
"Father is worried for me. It's been him and me up until now, and he doesn't
want to see me hurt," Charity said in a small voice.
"Then he'd be wise to stop creating trouble with your husband," Percy said tartly, "and putting you in the middle. If anything, there's your fault, dear: you try to please where there's no pleasing. And often at the cost of your own happiness. You've been that way ever since I've known you."
Charity bit her lip. Was that true? Was she overly accommodating … too biddable? Did she fail to take into account her own feelings?
"But Paul has to bear some blame as well," Percy went on. "He ought to have at least sent you a note."
"I think he must be quite angry with me."
I should have thanked him for looking after the shop. For putting up with my stubborn papa. I should have told him how proud I am of him: for balancing Sparkler's with his training, for being the strongest and best man I know.
"It'll blow over. As Mr. Hunt says, one must develop sea legs being married to a Fines." Percy gave her a reassuring grin. "Paul may bluster about, but the storm will calm just as quickly as it started, you'll see."
Charity blew her nose. "I hope you're right."
"I know I am. And I also know that you're the perfect match for my brother: a true port to his tempest. After how steadfast you've been—from Spitalfields on through the business with Parkington—how can he doubt you?"
With a rush of guilt, Charity delivered the truth. "Actually, Paul doesn't know about Spitalfields."
"You haven't told him?" Percy exclaimed. "Why ever not?"
She herself didn't know why she hadn't confessed; at this point, what harm could it do? Most likely, Paul would be apologetic. Yet she held onto the secret like a soiled undergarment she didn't want anyone else to see. Perhaps that was it: she couldn't bring herself to air the ugly past, didn't want her husband to remember how little he'd thought of her ... and how much he'd loved another.
But that was going to change. Because Mrs. Stone was right: life was too short to be lived with regret. If Charity wanted her husband's love, then she would have to ask for it. She couldn't hide her feelings any longer. She would have to take the ultimate risk: she would declare her love for him and ask for his in return.
"I'm probably the last one who ought to be giving marital advice," Percy said, "but the one thing I have learned is that honesty is the best policy. Whenever Mr. Hunt and I keep something from one another, we invariably end up fighting over it."
"You and Mr. Hunt fight?" Charity said in surprise.
Percy's blue eyes shone with amusement. "Of course we do, dear. We're married."
"But you seem so,"—Charity tried to describe the powerful connection she witnessed between the pair—"blissful together."
"That is the result of what happens after we fight." Clearing her throat, Percy said in an unusually delicate manner, "And from your blush, may I infer that you know the sort of, um, marital bliss I'm referring to?"
Charity was determined to turn a fresh page and be more truthful. So she said simply, "Yes, I do."
"I'm ever so glad. As much as I hate to ask since this involves my brother,"—Percy wrinkled her pert nose—"I am assuming that he lives up to expectations in that regard?"
"He does." Sudden humor bubbled up, and Charity said slyly, "He lives up indeed."
Percy's eyes rounded. "Charity Fines, did you just make a warm jest?"
"Well, yes … I suppose I did."
"How very wicked of you! I am impressed," Percy said gleefully.
"Paul's influence, I'm afraid." Her smile fading, Charity said, "And henceforth I shall strive to be more honest with him. About everything."
"In that case, I say we put our heads together and locate my brother so that the two of you can patch things up in the time-honored tradition."
Anticipation fluttered in Charity's breast. "I suppose we should start at your mama's?"
"Capital idea. At this time of day, there's bound to be some of Lisbett's apricot buns and as I'm eating for two"—Percy grinned and patted her belly—"I'll have the excuse to claim twice my share."
THIRTY-ONE
Paul came awake ... and wished he hadn't. Hades' own hammer pounded at his temples. When he tried to sit up, he fell back with a queasy groan.
Bloody fucking hell.
A few seconds later, he tried again, cautiously cracking one eye open. Once his vision focused and the room stopped spinning, he saw pink velvet drapes, a vanity cluttered with colorful perfume bottles, a secretaire stacked with hatboxes … and his insides turned to ice.
Bloody fucking hell—where was he? What had he done?
He bolted upright in panic. The bedchamber wavered before his eyes, and he pushed himself from the bed, stumbling against the vanity. Bottles rattled, and one rolled off the surface, shattering against the ground.
Heart thudding, he heard approaching footsteps.
The door swung open ... and Thomas Bellinger poked his head in.
"Surprised to see you up, old chap. By Jove, we went on the mop last night, didn't we?" Though Bellinger's eyes were red-rimmed, his freckled face creased in a grin. "I haven't been that top-heavy for ages. Just like the old times."
Memory returned. Yesterday, after the torturous episode with Rosalind, Paul had sought out Bellinger. He'd intended to visit Oblivion, and no one knew the way there better than his friend. Along with a crowd of the old cronies, he and Bellinger had gone for a night on the town. His gut roiled as he recalled how much alcohol he'd imbibed. He'd broken his vow of abstinence ... yet as far as he could recall, that was the only vow he'd broken.
"Where are we?" he said hoarsely.
"Don't remember? Well, you were drunker than a wheelbarrow, so I can't blame you," Bellinger said, chuckling. "The other fellows wanted to end the night at a Covent Garden Nunnery. Lovely fresh recruits plucked from the countryside, don't you know."
At the mention of prostitutes, Paul's belly lurched again.
Bellinger waggled his brows. "But the drink must have affected your brain for you transformed before our very eyes."
"What do you mean?"
"You turned from our adored rake, the one all of us fellows have aspired to be at some point or another and became the deuced Prince of Virtue!" Bellinger slapped his thigh, hooting with laughter. "Refused to go to a bawdy house because you're leg-shackled. Went on and on about vows. You had the others roaring." He had to catch his breath before sputtering, "Ain't ever going to live this one down, Fines!"
"Glad I could provide the evening's entertainment." Scrubbing his neck, Paul muttered, "How'd I get here? Where is here?"
"My sister's room in my father's house. She and the rest of the family are off visiting our ever ailing great-aunt in Yorkshire." Bellinger yawned. "Since the place was empty and more spacious than my apartments, I brought us here."
Paul's chest loosened. He realized that he'd begun to breathe again.
"Well, what's next on our agenda, eh? Have a shave and off to the club?"
"What time is it?" Paul said.
Bellinger blinked as if he'd been asked to solve a complicated maths problem. "Buggered if I know. Late afternoon, maybe. What does it matter?"
Paul refrained from rolling his eyes. Mostly because his head hurt like murder when he moved any part of it. "It matters because I have business to attend to."
"Back at Gentleman Jackson's, you mean?" Scratching his head, Bellinger said with a grimace, "Not sure the old skull can handle getting thrashed about at present."
"I'm in no mood to box." Paul went to the window, parted the drapes. Tried to get his bearings and decide what he should do next. He wondered if Charity was worried about him ...
"Ah, I see," the other said in a knowing manner. "Perhaps you have an intimate tête-à-tête with a certain Scottish countess, eh?"
Paul's head whipped—Ouch, devil take it!—in Bellinger's direction. "Why do you say that?"
"Easy there, old boy." Bellinger held up his hands. "It don't take a genius to surmise you've got the former Miss Drummond on your m
ind. Hell of a shocker, I'm sure, with her showing up in the carriage like that."
"Goddamnit. Were you spying on me?"
"Spying implies premeditation, and I never plan ahead," Bellinger said defensively. "I happened to see the two of you from the window of the Saloon; fair Rosalind always did catch a man's eye. In fact, a bunch of fellows stopped practicing to get a closer look."
Bleeding perfect. Just what Paul needed: a roomful of young bloods with their noses pressed up to the glass, eager to report and embellish everything that they thought they saw.
"Nothing happened," Paul snarled. "For God's sake, I'm married."
His friend shrugged. "So is she. Hasn't changed much though, has she?"
Indeed, she hadn't. What had surprised him more, however, was the fact that he had. So much so that when she'd taken him on that carriage ride and proposed that they now enjoy the freedoms that their respective marriages permitted, he'd felt nothing. No, nothing wasn't it.
He'd felt disgusted. At himself.
For ever believing that he'd loved Rosalind and for acting like a bloody fool because of it. Had he truly been so shallow that he hadn't seen past her beauty to her true character? The fact that he'd spent years nursing a delusion—that he'd nearly destroyed his life and his family's fortunes because of it—made him feel nauseous. It wasn't that he judged Rosalind for pursuing extramarital activities; wives carried on affaires all the time.
Just not the kind of wife he wanted for himself.
At the thought of Charity, his gut balled. He knew he was making a mull of things with her. His marriage was like a runaway carriage, and the reins were slipping from his grasp. His exchange with Rosalind only heightened his sense of an impending Doomsday. Although he'd turned down her proposition as gently as he could, she'd broken into tears.
Feeling awkward and guilty, he'd passed her his handkerchief. Her shimmering gaze and pretty protestations had made him even more uncomfortable.
"You're a liar, Paul Fines," she'd said finally, blotting her eyes, "and a fool. Do you know how many gentlemen would give their eyeteeth to have a dalliance with me?"
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