by Karen Ranney
“No so much disturbed as determined,” he said. “I’m no closer to learning where George has gone than I was a week ago.” A great deal had transpired instead, however, with the result that his honor was in tatters. It hadn’t been all that healthy when he’d returned to Scotland and he’d succeeded in complicating the issue.
“Perhaps you’re not destined to know, master,” Matthew said. “Perhaps your cousin wishes to remain missing.”
“Are you still wishing to be away from here, Matthew?”
“Perhaps not with the swiftness I was before,” Matthew said obliquely.
“A good thing,” Dixon said, standing. “I need your help.”
Matthew placed his arm across his body, and bowed low. Any other time, the gesture would have brought a smile to his face, but today, Matthew’s obeisance annoyed him.
“I’m not a lord, Matthew. I’m not one of your obscure Oriental gods. I’m just a human being.” Flawed and humbled by the magnificence of his stupidity. What the hell had he done, taking Charlotte to his bed?
Matthew straightened. “I know that, master.”
“Then stop bowing to me.”
“If you will it, master.”
“And stop calling me that.”
Matthew just inclined his head. “Are you displeased with me?”
“I’m displeased with myself.”
“Because you took the Englishwoman to your bed.”
He frowned at Matthew, finding some solace in directing his anger at someone other than himself. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I tend to you. I bring you water for washing. Your bed looks as if it was shared,” he added, sending a look toward the offending piece of furniture. “I only made an assumption.”
“I expect your usual tact in this matter,” Dixon said.
Matthew nodded.
“She doesn’t deserve to be shamed by this.”
Matthew only smiled.
Dixon’s conscience was vying with his libido for dominance. Unfortunately, the memory of Charlotte in his arms, soft, warm, and enticingly female, was easily overwhelming his honor.
Matthew inclined his head again. “You feel guilty.”
He didn’t answer. “I’m going to Edinburgh and then on to London.”
“I will begin packing immediately.”
“I want you to remain here.”
Matthew, surprisingly, didn’t look all that displeased. In fact, if Dixon didn’t know better, there was a smile lurking behind Matthew’s bland expression.
“You are going to find your cousin.”
Dixon nodded.
“Will that make you feel less guilty, master?”
He didn’t have an answer for that. Maybe it would. Or maybe it would only further complicate matters. All he knew was that he needed to leave Balfurin and quickly, before he was tempted to slip on George’s skin and become his cousin.
And take his wife.
Charlotte heard a sound and stared at the hallway door.
“If it’s his lordship, shall I tell him you’re almost dressed?”
Charlotte shook her head, looked at Maisie in the mirror, and changed her mind.
“Yes, tell him.”
When Maisie left to open the door, she called her back. “Never mind. I’ll see him later, I’m certain.”
Why should he know that she’d made Maisie do her hair twice now, and both times was displeased with the result? She’d changed her day dress three times, despairing of the contents of her wardrobe. Surely there was something suitable for a winter morning that wasn’t in serviceable black or blue? She was in the mood for color, for bright reds and greens, for pale pink, sultry mauve, or something blue to match his eyes.
What a foolish woman she was being.
“Never mind,” she said again. “Just help me finish. I’ve a hundred things to do today.”
Maisie looked at her skeptically, but didn’t say anything. The winter days were days of leisure, days they’d come to look on as a holiday. In truth, there was nothing more pressing ahead of her than reading a few volumes, and finishing the notes on the new history curriculum. And organizing the library, a project she’d anticipated for months now.
She heard the drone of conversation, the sound of male voices. George and Matthew? She stared at the door, certain that she hadn’t heard correctly.
“Open the door, Maisie,” she said.
The maid went to the door, and opened it slightly.
“If anyone wishes to know my whereabouts, tell them freely, Matthew. I have few secrets.”
“Ah, but the one you do have makes up for the lack of others, master.”
“Will you be all right here at Balfurin without me?”
“Most assuredly,” Matthew said.
“Not afraid of any ghosts or goblins?”
“The danger I feel in this place, master, is to you. Not to me.”
George laughed. “I can’t imagine anything happening to me that hasn’t already occurred, Matthew. Living in the Orient is not a sedate type of life.”
“Still, it is your home, and as such, should be a safer place.”
“Then you shall have to ensure it is,” George said.
“How shall I accomplish that, master?”
“With magic, of course. Or tossing your sticks, or a hundred other things that would no doubt shock your Baptist foster parents.”
“I am Baptist, it is true, master. But I never said that I believed solely in that credo and no others.”
George laughed again, but this time she didn’t hear what he said. She was too busy fastening her shoes.
She opened the door fully to find George—just as she thought—attired for a journey. “Where are you going? You’re leaving, aren’t you? Without a word? Again?”
She wasn’t so much angry as she was disappointed. Despairing. Destroyed. No, perhaps she was angry as well. Furious. Enraged.
Her mother had often said that she shouldn’t frown so much; it was very off putting. She couldn’t help it now. She glanced behind her at the broadsword propped against the wall and contemplated finally using it. He thought her bloodthirsty? He hadn’t seen anything. Wait until she coshed him over the head.
How dare he leave her!
“Forgive me, did I wake you?” he asked, his tone too smooth, his voice sounding light, unconcerned.
“You’re leaving,” she said, ignoring the fact that his gaze was on her face, and that his expression actually seemed to hold some regret.
She would not cry. How foolish. Of course she wouldn’t cry. He’d left her before, he would again. She’d known that from the moment he’d appeared in the ballroom.
“I’m going to London. I have business there. And Edinburgh as well.”
“Really?” She held on to the door and managed a smile. Did she sound disinterested enough? She was only his hostess, and that only grudgingly. It didn’t matter that he’d loved her not once but twice in the small hours of the night. It didn’t matter that she’d sobbed against his shoulder the second time, when he’d used his fingers and mouth with such abandon.
Surely some of what they’d done was outlawed, if not immoral? How odd that she hadn’t cared. Well, it certainly didn’t matter now, did it?
“I’ll be back in a week. Perhaps two.”
“Are you certain you’re coming back?” There, the real question. The brute actually smiled. “Could you not transact your business by letter?”
“I’m afraid not. There are certain matters that demand my attention.”
“You could send Matthew,” she said, well aware that she was acting like an anxious schoolgirl afraid of separation from a parent.
“I’m afraid there are tasks only I can accomplish.”
“Are you really coming back?” She stood tall, straightened her shoulders, and looked up at him fearlessly. Let him see that she wasn’t afraid of his answer, that she could face anything. She had before, she could again. But he had never kissed her quite
so softly, and enticed her to bed with a gentleness she hadn’t expected of him. Nor had he ever before given her such pleasure.
What a doxy she was, to allow her body to hold sway over her mind.
“On my soul,” he said, and reached out to take her hand. She relinquished her grip on the door with some reluctance, more than startled when he bent his head and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “You have no reason to trust me, Charlotte, but I ask it of you anyway. The reason is urgent or I would never leave you. But I promise I will return.”
“If it snows, the roads will be impassable.”
“I’ll find a way,” he said.
“The coach will become mired.”
“We’ve already faced that dilemma as you recall.”
“Then be careful,” she said, finally drawing back her hand.
“You, as well. I am leaving Matthew here to be of assistance to you. He is a man of many talents.”
He wasn’t George, however, and fool that she was, she missed him already.
“Are you certain he isn’t simply acting as a pledge of your honor? A guarantee that you’ll return?”
“I have to come back. You have something very valuable of mine.”
She drew back. “I have nothing of yours, George.”
He smiled again. “It’ll occur to you.”
He bowed to her, and then turned and walked down the hall, Matthew accompanying him. For the longest time she stood there in the doorway watching him.
She had never before studied the way a man walked. Nor had she ever noted that George’s demeanor seemed different from other men. He commanded the space he occupied. A woman’s eyes naturally were drawn to him.
What did she have that was his?
A question that she was very much afraid was going to occupy a great deal of her time. Even more so was one she didn’t dare ask—was he really coming back?
Chapter 16
A carriage was coming down the road. A carriage Charlotte didn’t recognize, the first vehicle to navigate through the recent snows. Two weeks had passed since George had left. Two very long weeks during which she’d waited and watched, feeling both like a newly wedded wife, and an utter fool.
Charlotte flew down the stairs, wondering why George didn’t simply open the door and come in, striding through Balfurin’s foyer in that way of his, as if he owned every bit of the earth beneath his feet.
She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Jeffrey to answer the commanding knock. The old man was stiff and slow, giving her time to pat her hair into place, adjust the bodice of her dress, pull down her skirt, pull it up again to check her shoes, and wish, more than once, that she’d had time to change. She’d been polishing the pewter tankards, of all things, and no doubt the scent of vinegar and salt still clung to her.
Please hurry. Twice, she wanted to slip past Jeffrey and pull open the great iron-banded door herself. The elderly servant would have been insulted by her actions, if not hurt by them.
Hurry, he waits in the cold. You must let him in quickly.
She took a few steps toward the door, uncaring that she looked too eager. It was time for pretensions to be destroyed and a little honesty to stretch between them. Somehow in the last weeks, he’d entranced her, amused her, and charmed her. Somehow, he’d become someone she couldn’t stop thinking about, someone who made her breath tight and her pulse beat wildly. She wanted to tell him her secrets, ask his advice, give him her own counsel, and sleep in his arms.
When had she begun to fall in love with her own husband?
Jeffrey finally moved back, welcoming him. Her mouth opened to greet him, her smile coming without volition. Her heart beat with a steady pounding rhythm and her palms grew damp. Even her toes seem to curl within her shoes.
But it wasn’t George.
Spencer came forward, his hands outstretched, his smile wide and hearty.
“Charlotte!” he exclaimed, as if they’d not seen each other for months instead of the few weeks it had been. “You’re looking lovely, as usual.”
Her smile had dimmed upon seeing him, but she forced it firmly into place again, realizing she was being rude in her disappointment.
“Spencer,” she said, clasping his outstretched hands. “How delightful to see you again as well. How was Edinburgh?”
“No other woman in Edinburgh can match your loveliness. Indeed, all of the females to whom I was introduced paled next to you.”
When had he become so fulsome? And why was he reminding her that he was a bachelor in search of a wife? Why did he think she’d care? She was a wife in search of her husband.
A month ago, she probably would have blushed, no doubt even preened under his stare of approval. Today, however, she thought he was entirely too forward in his attentions. But then, he didn’t know what had happened at Balfurin in his absence, did he?
She glanced past him to Jeffrey, who stood by the open door as if waiting to bid farewell to their visitor. There was no doubt of Jeffrey’s loyalty. Jeffrey did not approve. But then, Jeffrey rarely approved of her anyway. With the opening of the school and the influx of English females, however, his disapproval had become even more apparent, until his face had stiffened into one large glower.
It is just as well that she’d learned to ignore him.
“If you would, Jeffrey,” she said, “please signal for refreshments to be served in the green parlor.”
He didn’t answer her, didn’t indicate by a nod of his head or a subservient bow that he had any intention of doing what she asked. She captured her sigh inwardly, and turned, leading the way to one of the public rooms that had been refurbished four years ago.
Spencer knew the room well, since she’d received him here on numerous occasions. But he stopped at the threshold and looked around him appreciably, as if witnessing the furnishings for the first time. And, for the first time, she thought his glance was a bit too calculating, as if he were gauging the cost of the two facing sofas and the porcelain bric-a-brac arranged on the mantel. She almost wanted to quote him the price of the brass urn in the corner or the ornately carved table behind each sofa. Instead, she remained silent, motioning him to one of the adjoining chairs near the fire.
Perhaps it was because she’d waited so anxiously for George to return that the comparison between the two men was so striking. Spencer was tall, as was George. But his hair was blond whereas George’s was black. Nor did he have George’s striking blue eyes. Instead his were hazel, an almost indeterminate shade. How odd that she’d always thought them his best feature. His shoulders were broad, but not as wide as George’s, and he was close to becoming portly since he did like his food. George was in much better shape, not to mention that his body was in perfect condition.
Absolutely perfect condition.
She felt the heat warm her face.
“My husband has returned,” she said abruptly. The minute the words were out of her mouth, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d somehow planned to startle him with the information.
He looked shocked, but then he was also her solicitor, and such a reaction might well be a legal one.
Would he have to know that she and George—in Lady Eleanor’s words—had conjugal relations?
“Do say something, Spencer.”
He sat there staring at her with the same glass-eyed stare as a two-day-dead trout.
“How long has he been home?” he finally said, and the words sounded oddly strangled.
“Nearly a month ago now,” she said calmly. “He arrived the night of the graduation ball. We missed you,” she added pointedly.
“George is here?”
“The Earl of Marne,” she said, reminding him ever so gently of her husband’s title. He’d never been introduced to George, and consequently could not presume upon an acquaintance that did not exist. How odd, that up until this moment, she’d allowed him such liberties, perhaps even encouraged them. Indeed, she had never before considered that she might not like Spencer saying h
er husband’s name in quite that insulting fashion.
Everything had changed the moment George had come home.
“Where has he been all this time? What has he to say for himself?”
Her initial reaction was to tell Spencer that the question was not any of his concern. But then, upon reflection, she realized that she’d made it his business, since she’d retained him on her divorce.
How on earth was she to settle that?
Over the years, Spencer had become her confidante, her friend. How was he to know that, well…everything had changed?
“The Orient. He has a great liking for all things foreign. I find that strange,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I don’t recall him being so curious about travel. But then, I didn’t know him well.”
“I confess to being confused, Charlotte,” he said. “What explanation has he given for being gone? And for returning now? Has he heard of your success?” He glanced around the room as if to encompass the entire school. “Is he here for money? Has he spent your dowry and is now hoping for more?”
The questions were intrusive, almost rude, and once again she had the inclination to silence him. A word would have done it, but she’d didn’t speak it, feeling curiously as if she were two people at the same time. The woman she’d been a month ago would have commiserated with Spencer, would have provided all manner of facts and details of George’s return. But the woman she was now, the woman who was falling in love with a stranger, was confused and uncertain. She wanted to hold everything about George safe in her heart, to keep private for only herself. She didn’t want to examine her feelings in the light of day, and she didn’t want to discuss her husband with this man. If she had questions, they would be asked of George.
“He wants nothing of me,” she said, feeling curiously empty as she said the words. The truth could be uncomfortable, slicing through her. Perhaps George didn’t even want her as a wife, else why would he have left the moment he’d bedded her?
Was love a confusing emotion? Did it muddle the mind and lay claim entirely to the senses? She’d always heard that being in love was supposed to be a pleasant emotion. Was she supposed to enjoy fluctuating between euphoria and despair?