Her Prodigal Passion

by Grace Callaway

Not knowing how to answer, he'd said, "I'm sorry if I've disappointed you."

  "Who do you think you're fooling, masquerading as a virtuous husband?"

  "I'm not masquerading as anything." Yet his heart had begun to thud, his inner voice sneering, You're an imposter and everyone can see it.

  "You'll tire of your little mouse soon enough."

  "Don't call her that," he'd said between his teeth.

  Rosalind had given a silvery laugh, tossed back her dark curls. Had he truly found her affectations pleasing at one time? Looking closer, he'd perceived the faint lines that hardened her beauty—and the streak of vanity that threatened to destroy it entirely.

  "Charity Sparkler … ironic name, isn't it?" Malice had given Rosalind's voice a grating edge. "I can barely recall what she looks like, save for those unfortunate spots. You told me once how you pitied her—how your sister made you dance with her."

  Self-loathing had scorched his gut. Had he said such a cruel thing? He probably had, the bastard that he'd been. In that moment, he'd truly despised himself: bloody careless and blind, the scoundrel that Uriah Sparkler accused him of being.

  "She's changed," he'd bit out, "and, more importantly, so have I."

  "A leopard never changes his spots," Rosalind had drawled. "You are as you always were. The only difference is that now you've got delusions of nobility." She'd run a finger along his jaw. "How I miss the man who knew exactly what he was ... and wasn't. The Paul I knew would have recognized the simple truth: you're meant to be a lover, not a husband. Good for fun, but not much else."

  He rubbed his temples now, trying to blot out the unpleasantness, trying to think. Trying to fend off the urge to do something easier ... like down a bottle of whiskey. But, no, he wasn't going to add insult to injury and get drunk again. He had that much control at least.

  "I have to see Charity," he said at last.

  Bellinger blinked. "What for?"

  "She's my wife, man." Paul glared at him.

  "Huh. Well, I'm a bachelor, so what do I know?" Bellinger gave him a once over. "For what it's worth, however, I wouldn't suggest going to your lady in your current condition."

  "Why? What's the matter with me?" Besides the fact that I'm a worthless bastard.

  Bellinger cocked a brow and answered with a question. "How do I look?"

  Paul ran a cursory glance over his friend's rumpled clothes and disheveled appearance. "Like something the cat dragged in ..."—his nose caught a whiff and he grimaced—"from the Thames. Right." He dragged his hands through his own hair. "That bad off, am I?"

  "Worse," Bellinger said cheerfully. "I didn't get into fisticuffs with those lads from Oxford."

  Paul looked at his hands—bruising splotched the knuckles. He touched his jaw and grimaced at the swelling. No wonder his entire head was throbbing.

  "Hell," he muttered. "I can't let her see me like this."

  "Wait until the morning to serenade her," Bellinger advised. "After a good night's sleep, you'll have your angelic countenance back. You might consider sweetening her up with poesy, too; I reckon you'll need all the help you can get."

  Paul reckoned that for once Bellinger was right. "When did you get to be so clever?"

  Bellinger grinned. "How do you think I've maintained my bachelorhood until now? Takes brains to evade the parson's mousetrap, y'know."

  And even more brains, Paul thought glumly, to figure out how to make the contraption of marriage work. But he'd have to find a way—because this time around he couldn't face the consequences of failure.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Charity returned to the shop at half-past four. Although the visit to Mrs. Fines' house had yielded no information about Paul's whereabouts, she nonetheless felt reassured by the conversations with her friend and mama-in-law. She took heart from the fact that a couple as blissfully happy as Percy and Mr. Hunt had their share of marital ups and downs. And Mrs. Fines had revealed that, as newlyweds, she and her beloved Jeremiah had fought like cats and dogs.

  Charity was struck by a revelation: she didn't have much experience with arguing. She'd learned over the years, particularly with her father, to simply hold her tongue. But maybe continually sweeping things under the carpet wasn't such a good idea. Maybe doing so made arguments, when they happened, even worse.

  At times like these, Charity missed having a mama more than ever, that source of infinite feminine wisdom to bolster her through difficult times.

  She had Father, of course. But he wasn't exactly sympathetic to the plight of her marriage.

  "Waste of time," he grumbled when she explained where she'd been. "Chasing after that scoundrel when the shop needs you. When I need you."

  Guilt immediately prickled her, yet it was accompanied by another feeling: burgeoning resentment. And for once, she lost the desire to hide it.

  "I'm doing my best," she said, lifting her chin. "It isn't easy to be a daughter and a wife. But I'm married now, and I must give my husband his proper due."

  Her father's jaw slackened. "His due? You dare talk to me—the one who raised you—in this disrespectful manner?"

  "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me. Truly I am. But I must also be allowed to make my own decisions." She inhaled, allowing her lungs to expand more freely. "I'm not a little girl any longer."

  "I wish to God that you were."

  Her papa's gruff tone caught her by surprise; he was not a sentimental sort.

  "Everyone's got to grow up," she said softly, "and I'll always be your daughter."

  "But I can't protect you anymore." The lines on his forehead deepened, and his somber grey gaze held hers. "You don't know the world like I do, Charity, how it treats people like you and me. People who aren't beautiful, whose only weapons are diligence and modesty." His hand fumbled for hers. "People like us get hurt, don't you understand?"

  Before Charity could reply, the bell chimed. An exquisitely turned out woman entered the shop, her profile shaded by a dashing bonnet of green straw. Her promenade dress clung to the peaks and valleys of her flawless figure, the flounces swaying sensuously with each step. As she glided toward them, her face came into the light.

  Charity's lungs constricted. She knew that face. The unforgettable violet eyes, the dramatic black curls, the smoother than cream skin. Rosalind Drummond—nay, Lady Monteith … what was she doing here?

  "How can I be of service today?" Her father went forward eagerly.

  Rosalind waved a delicate blush-colored glove in his direction, the way one might swat away an annoying insect. "I'm not here for you. 'Tis Mrs. Fines,"—perfect pink lips pulled into a hard smile—"I wish to have a word with."

  Charity stepped from behind the counter. "Yes?"

  "You do know who I am?" One raven brow arched.

  Recalling her manners, Charity dipped in a quick curtsy. "Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Countess Monteith." From the corner of her eye, she saw her father's puzzled expression. What did a titled lady want with her? Though Charity didn't know herself, dread percolated through her. She said, "How may I help you?"

  Haughty eyes swept over her. "My, you have changed."

  You haven't. You're as beautiful as you ever were, Charity thought with a sinking feeling. And Paul was bound to think so.

  "Are you looking for P—I mean, Mr. Fines?" she said quietly. "If so, he isn't here—"

  Rosalind gave a casual wave of her hand. "Oh, I've seen him already. I make it a point to visit with my oldest and dearest friends when I'm in town."

  The gleam in the other woman's eyes shredded Charity's heart. It was a physical pain, the slicing of her deepest self by a surgeon's precise blade. She couldn't speak for fear of what might come out: the cry of an injured animal—a pathetic, soul-deep sound.

  "Actually, that is why I'm here. I believe I have something that belongs to you." With a smirk, Rosalind removed a handkerchief from her reticule. "He left this at our … meeting. Such exquisite embroidery work—yours, I believe?"

  Charity ha
d no choice but to take the dangling handkerchief. Paul's initials branded her palm.

  "Men will be men," Rosalind said with a lilting laugh. "They always forget ordinary things, don't they? Leave them so carelessly behind."

  "That is enough, you trollop!" Her father spoke up, and even through the veil of numbness, Charity could hear the anger in his voice. "Shame on you for flaunting your sins. Title or no, we Sparklers don't cater to the likes of you—get out of my shop!"

  Still smiling, Rosalind sauntered toward the door. "I shouldn't blame myself if I were you. 'Tis a miracle you managed to land him in the first place. But then again, his weak spot was always pity. He used to laugh about it with me, the way his sister made him stand up with you for all those dances."

  The barb struck the center of Charity's being. She pressed a hand against her mouth to prevent a choked sound from escaping.

  "Well, I wouldn't worry about it," Rosalind said. "I tire easily of novelty, you see, so you'll have your merchandise back soon."

  The bell announced her departure, then … silence.

  "Have a seat, daughter."

  Charity remained standing, her body and mind frozen.

  "Charity?"

  Feeling a tug on her arm, she looked at her father. Saw the anguish mirrored on his plain, weathered face as he said hoarsely, "This is what I wanted to protect you from. The ugly world. It's no place for us."

  "Father?" she whispered.

  He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was a rare show of affection, an offer of comfort in a time of grief. An ache began to spread in her throat.

  "I'll go make us a pot of tea. Keep your chin up like I taught you, and you'll get through this." He gave her another awkward pat. "Be glad you learned this lesson sooner as opposed to later, my girl."

  Watching her father hobble off, Charity thought numbly, Soon has come and gone. It's already far too late.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next morning, the doorbell rang, and Charity knew it was Paul. Apparently, so did her unexpected visitors, for Percy and Helena said as one, "We must be off now."

  She managed to keep her mask of calm in place. She'd worn it for the past half-hour while her guests had delivered the bad news. Knowing that Charity did not read the gossip columns, Percy and Helena had come to inform her of the sordid business before she heard about it from less well-intentioned sources. They'd tried to soften the blow.

  Percy had insisted that the article in The Times about a rekindled flame between Mr. F. and Lady M. was nothing more than slander. Helena had stated her belief that it was likely all some sort of misunderstanding, a chance meeting blown out of proportion.

  Charity had listened … and felt nothing.

  Because she already knew that it was all true. Paul was in love with Rosalind; he'd always been. He'd only married Charity out of obligation. And whatever she'd believed to be developing between them since had been a figment of her imagination. Or physical lust, at the very best.

  What finally deadened her heart was this: he'd lied to her. Broken his vow of fidelity to her. And while she might be plain and insignificant and not the wife of his choosing, she did not deserve that.

  Paul came into the room, his gaze searching out hers. With an odd sense of detachment, she observed that for once he did not appear to be his impeccable self. 'Twas as if his godly veneer had been stripped from him, leaving behind a mortal man who'd clearly been engaged in worldly activities. A purpling bruise marred one side of his jaw, and dark shadows hung beneath his eyes. His hair was unruly beyond what fashion dictated, as if he'd run his fingers repeatedly through the gilded waves. Even his cravat lacked its usual finesse.

  He stopped short at the sight of Percy and Helena, who were standing, ready to flee.

  "Good morning." He did a perfunctory bow. "Have I interrupted a tête-à-tête?"

  "You know very well why we're here." Percy scowled at him. "Dash it all, what is going on Paul? Why are the papers filled with this nonsense about you and—"

  "Hush, dear." Taking Percy's arm, Helena pulled her toward the door. "I think we'd best leave the two to sort this out for themselves. See you both soon, I hope?"

  "Thank you, my lady," Charity said.

  "Your servant," Paul said curtly.

  Then she and Paul were alone. The sea of silence and tension would once have intimidated her, but now she felt a strange calm. In this shabby parlor of this shabby house, she was where she belonged. She no longer had to hide who and what she was. There was a bittersweet freedom in that, a power in her knotted hair and unattractive dress.

  Why should I try to please him? He doesn't want me anyway.

  He took a step toward her, then stopped as if he didn't know quite what to do. Clearing his throat, he said, "Charity, you know it's not true."

  Oh God, how much time had she spent deceiving herself, weaving futile dreams about their future? "Actually, I don't know that," she said coolly, without inflection.

  He flinched, but said, "I gave you my word—"

  "And I was fool enough to believe it. I know." She kept her gaze and voice level. "But I don't, not anymore."

  "You ... you don't mean that."

  Why did he sound so stricken? When she was the one who had to bear the brunt of his betrayal, his lies? Anger was an ice floe through her veins, numbing her against remorse, chilling her words.

  "My father was right: you are selfish and irresponsible and incapable of keeping your vows. No pretty words can change that fact."

  His eyes blazed. "That is bloody unfair! I have kept my vows—"

  "Have you?" Her brows rose. "So you weren't foxed last evening and that isn't the souvenir of a drunken brawl on your jaw?"

  His chest heaved, his high cheekbones stained with color. "That is different! Goddamnit, last night was the first time I've had a drink since ... since ..."

  "Since you made that promise never to drink again?"

  "Yes! I mean, no,"—his hands curled into fists at his sides—"I can explain, if you'd just listen to me—"

  "I am tired of listening to you." Her voice shook with sudden violence, and she had to take a breath before saying more calmly, "I'm tired of being disappointed. And I see now that is what this marriage will amount to: disappointment for you ... and for me."

  "I never said I was disappointed!"

  She shrugged. "Your actions speak louder than words. So loudly, in fact,"—she gestured to the newspaper that lay on the coffee table, the one that Percy and Helena had come to warn her about—"that it seems the whole Town knows about it."

  Pain spurted in her chest, and it took every ounce of self-possession to staunch the flow. While she had been trying to chase him down in order to apologize for her behavior, he had been out cavorting with Rosalind. Out pursuing his Daphne, the beauty who would forevermore be his fantasy. No, more than fantasy for she was flesh and blood. The image of Rosalind in Paul's arms made Charity's breath catch with agony: two exquisite people who fit perfectly together.

  "It's not true. None of it is. And if you'd just give me a minute to explain—" Paul took another step toward her, a hand stretched out, but she cut him off.

  "Were you or were you not with Lady Monteith?"

  "I ... was. But not like that." His hand fell to his side as he grated out, "Nothing happened! 'Pon my honor, I swear it."

  Charity couldn't take any more of his lies. Her insides were so cold, cracking like a sheet of ice. The rage was like nothing she'd known before, bone-deep, a wintry blast that swept away everything but the instinct to lash out. To erect a wall of ice between herself and the source of her torment.

  "The way you swore never to drink again?" she said. "The way you swore to help my father? Or, perhaps, you mean the way you promised never to let Rosalind interfere with our marriage?" She gave him a withering look. "I'm tired of listening to your explanations. My father was right: you have no honor, no shame, and I won't believe another word you say, not ever again."

  ***** />
  Paul's chest burned with an agony worse than any he'd felt before. It was worse than the disillusionment of Rosalind, worse even than his father's harshest criticism. Because he could have expected those things—but not this. Not from Charity, his port in the storm. Too late, he realized that her faith in him had become a beacon, and now that light was gone. Extinguished. He could see no sign of understanding in her cold, opaque eyes.

  He was abandoned, adrift.

  Alone.

  Panic cinched his throat. What do you expect, you fool? You've shamed her in front of everyone, and she'll never forgive you. You've ruined everything—like you always knew you would.

  Yet for some reason, words continued spilling from his mouth. "I'm sorry I've caused you embarrassment, but this article—engineered by Parkington, I'm sure—is pure defamation. Yes, I did see Rosalind. She approached me, asked me to ... speak with her."

  Mouth pinched, Charity said nothing.

  "I went because I ..."—he wracked his brain for the reason—"I felt I owed it to her. Yes, that's it. Because for so long I thought myself in love with her, you see ..."

  Charity's cheeks grew even more bloodless, and he could have bitten his tongue off then and there. Stupid, stupid thing to say! You just told your wife that you thought yourself in love with another woman, you moron.

  "But I'm not," he said quickly, "and so I turned her down."

  "You're not in love with her." He'd never heard Charity's voice so cold and unforgiving. She chilled him to the core, and the instinct to escape the squall took hold of him, but he soldiered on even as she said with scathing disbelief, "When did this happen?"

  Confusion whipped at him. "I just ... realized it. That she wasn't who I thought she was. Or what I wanted." That was part of it, but there was more, more that he himself did not truly understand. Yet with a strained breath, he took the biggest risk of his life and said, "And that perhaps I ... I was developing feelings for you."

  "How kind of you."

  He recoiled at her indifference. Here he was trying to pry his heart open ... and she was mocking him? Who was this Charity? The uncertainty chilled him to the marrow, as did the icy fingers of self-doubt. He'd started to think that he might be falling in love with her, but did he know his wife at all? Had he misjudged his feelings yet again? He'd been wrong about Rosalind, certainly.