by Dayna Quince
“And your name?” he pressed.
“I should not tell you my name. We shouldn’t even be speaking, you see. Propriety dictates that we be properly introduced in polite company.”
He raised a brow. “Should I have ignored a young woman sitting in a meadow by herself? What if you were injured?”
“I’m not injured. If I was that would change things, but I’m not and I’ve spent too much time here already. I must go.” She should have turned and left him at once. But his lips moved into a slow smile, and her feet couldn’t be bothered to move.
“So many rules to follow. How tiring it must be.”
“They are there for a reason.”
“To spoil all the fun?”
Charlotte had an odd sensation around her mouth. She realized she was smiling. It felt so strange to smile. She immediately suppressed it.
“I’ve never enjoyed rules myself. I don’t like to be told what to do and who to be. My life is my own, and it is what I make it.”
Charlotte didn’t have a response for that. “Good day, Mr. Thorn.” She willed her feet to move. They reluctantly turned her toward the forest from where she had come.
“I must know your name,” he said behind her.
She looked back and shrugged one shoulder. “We may never meet again.”
“Even so. I don’t ever intend to forget the day I met a woodland nymph.”
She giggled, surprising herself. Had she forgotten what laughter felt like in so little time?
“I should escort you home.” He followed her.
“You can’t.” Charlotte began to panic again. She stopped and turned to face him, putting her hands up. “We cannot be seen alone together.”
He was directly in front of her now, and his closeness devastated her senses. Her wits scattered to the wind. She smelled the tang of ocean salt on him. The wind gusted and swirled, and she could feel the cool mist of light rain on her cheeks.
“Don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you. I cannot in good conscience let a woman roam wild and alone. There’s no telling what havoc you will wreak upon the unsuspecting.”
“What?” Charlotte giggled again. It felt so lovely, she had the sudden urge to cry. Something was blooming inside her, a warmth that seeped through her chest. It scared her in a way she’d never felt before. He was so close now, she couldn’t take in all of him. She could only focus on his face, and the backdrop of storm clouds behind him.
“It’s raining,” she said.
“I like the rain. It brings good things.”
And now Charlotte was holding her breath. She was holding herself completely still because she felt as wild as he claimed her to be. Was this the moment she had been waiting for? Was he her desperately needed change? She didn’t know what to do. She was quiet and meek, not wild and…and whatever he thought her to be. But she wanted to be those things, she just didn’t know how. All her life she wanted to be stronger, tougher, louder than she was, but she was missing all those things. And he… He was everything she was missing. She knew it deep inside herself.
She needed him. She wanted him. He was her Thor, even if he didn’t have god-like powers. He had the power to set her free.
“My name is Charlotte,” she whispered.
He raised his hand slowly, and his thumb stroked her chin. “Charlotte… It suits you perfectly.
Charlotte took a much-needed breath of air. Her head swam. She’d told him her first name. If he knew who she truly was, they would never meet again, not like this. She thought frantically. “Miss Charlotte Woodhouse, to be precise.”
“Miss Woodhouse, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he smiled.
That smile curled around her insides like a warm wisp of smoke. She wanted to melt into her feet and languish like a puddle. “Your name suits you as well.”
“Does it?” He dropped his hand.
“It does to me.”
He was silent for a moment. His eyes moved over her face slowly. “I did not realize what beauty England had to offer.”
Her cheeks filled with warmth, but she could not look away from the heated blue of his eyes. They were like a vibrant sky, too beautiful and rare to miss.
“May I see you again?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “I can’t say…”
“I see.”
He stepped away, and it almost hurt not to be under his warm gaze.
“My parents are very strict. They don’t know I come here. But I do it every morning. It’s the only time I’m free.”
His brow furrowed and then eased. “I think I understand.”
“Perhaps we will meet here again?” she asked with what she hoped was not obvious desperation.
“I’d like that very much, Miss Woodhouse.”
“I really must be going now,” Charlotte said. Her heart raced. Had she just asked to meet a complete stranger again? Yes she had, because it was him, and there was something very special about him. There was something very special about this morning.
“Until we meet again.”
Charlotte smiled at him in return, and then hurried into the woods. She was relieved he didn’t follow her. She stopped behind a tree and watched him exit the meadow more slowly. He didn’t head to Shelding Manor, thankfully, but to the village.
Her heart skipped about wildly in her chest as she watched him. Her body flushed with warmth, like a fever, but she also felt as if she could run back to Shelding Manor, laughing all the way.
Chapter 2
July 12th 1820,
Dear Anabelle,
I cannot adequately convey how it pains me to have missed your wedding to Lord Draven! There is nothing exciting happening here in Faversham, not that there ever is. Certainly, not as exciting as Lord Draven succumbing to his love for you with messages in flowers! The very thought makes me faint with envy. I want to be swept off my feet in such a way, but that can’t happen if I never leave Faversham again. I’d love to visit you, but I fear my father’s health has not improved as we thought it would. I confess I am worried. Please write as frequently as you can. I have nothing to distract me except the letters of my friends and their gloriously romantic lives.
In need of distraction,
Charlotte
July 5th, 1823
Thorn trudged back to the village. By the time he reached Weller’s Inn and Tavern, he was soaked through, but he barely felt the cold. Thoughts of his lovely wood nymph kept him warm the whole way. Raven hair framed her angelic, heart-shaped face. Her features were small and perfect, right down to the narrow ridge of her nose and full, rosy lips. Her hair had been down, flowing around her shoulders, beckoning his hands. Her dark brown eyes were solemn but hinted at something more, something powerful. Had he seen such beauty before? He couldn’t recall. Every woman’s face was now a fuzzy recollection in his mind compared to Charlotte’s. She was innocent. Far more innocent than the usual women he associated with, but dammit if he wasn’t smitten. She was lovely, lovelier than any sunrise or sunset. More beautiful than a full moon.
She quite literally had taken his breath away the moment he saw her in the meadow.
What was she doing there?
It was odd, but he wasn’t going to question his good fortune. If what she said was true, and she went there every morning to escape the oppression of her parents, he’d try to find her again. How could he not? Maybe what Pruitt said was true. He had to chase something. Now he would chase Charlotte—carefully, of course. He wasn’t a rogue. He didn’t make conquests of innocent women. But she… She was worth waking up early just to speak to.
He entered his room to bathe and change his clothes then went down to the taproom for a hot cup of coffee. Pruitt was there, sipping from a mug by the fire. Thorn pulled up another chair and accepted a mug from Molly, the serving girl.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” Pruitt asked.
Thorn grinned behind his mug. Pruitt wasn’t going to like this one bit. Thorn told him anyway, enjoying the man’s exasperated
sigh of resignation.
“How is it you manage to meet a woman less than two hours in England?”
“I told you, luck favors me.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Miss Woodhouse,” Thorn said.
“Miss? As in an unmarried young woman, type of miss?
Thorn mimicked Pruitt’s beleaguered sigh. “Yes, but spare me the list of foreboding warnings. We talked. I didn’t deflower her in a field.”
“This is England. You don’t have to deflower her. Speaking without a proper introduction or chaperone is just as incriminating. The rules are different here, Thorn. You’ll do well to remember that when meeting with Lord Shelding. He’s a peer. Do you know who this girl’s family is? If she is nobility, she is out of your league.”
“Nobility? I didn’t climb out of a pigpen, Pruitt. I’m richer than most noblemen.”
“Yes, but your blood is not as blue.”
“Blood isn’t blue. It’s red, through and through. No matter who you’re born to, its red for everyone.”
Pruitt sighed. “That’s exactly something you should not say in front of Lord Shelding.”
Thorn sipped his coffee. As the son of a poor farmer, Thorn was no stranger to the menace of others who thought themselves better. Now those same people begged for his ale by the barrel, paying ridiculous sums of money for first tastings. He enjoyed the irony. But that was back home in America, and England was a different animal. This wasn’t Pruitt’s first lecture about how Thorn should behave.
“I will do well to remember how sensitive the peerage can be about their perceived excellence.” Thorn murmured. He hid his smile behind his mug as he noticed the vein on Pruitt’s temple bulging.
Pruitt slammed down his mug and leaned forward. “I didn’t come all this way, so you could prove you don’t care what some aristocrat thinks of you and ruin an excellent opportunity to make us both very rich.”
“I’m already very rich.”
“Forgive me. Make me, very rich. I have a fiancée at home who wants to marry me as soon as I return. I’d like to provide a wonderful life for her and our children. Don’t muck this up over pride, or worse, over a woman.”
Thorn leaned back in his chair. “The woman has nothing to do with my business with Lord Shelding. I know how to keep my business and pleasure separate. In fact, I’ve already sent word of my arrival, and I will meet with him this afternoon.”
“Good. Just make sure I won’t have to worry about angry fathers firing shots at my ship when we set sail in three months.”
“My ship.” Thorn said.
“Your ship.” Pruitt rolled his eyes.
* * *
Charlotte raced back to her room, tore her clothes from her body, and dived behind her dressing screen. Her door opened as she fumbled to pull a chemise over her head.
“Miss Angelwood!” Sarah hissed.
“I’m here.” Charlotte poked her head out from behind the screen.
Sarah picked up the discarded clothing on the floor. “Why weren’t you here earlier?”
“I went for a morning walk.” Charlotte stepped out from behind the screen and dug through the dresses in her wardrobe for a clean, black frock.
“Lady Shelding is asking for you,” Sarah warned.
Charlotte held still as Sarah buttoned the back of her dress. Sarah wasn’t a lady’s maid, but she came to help Charlotte when she had time to spare between her upper maid chores.
“Does she know I was gone?”
“No. I told her you were sleeping.”
“Why wasn’t she sleeping? I’ve never known her to leave her room before ten.”
Charlotte saw Sarah shrug in the mirror.
“I don’t know, but the whole house was woken early by Lord Shelding. He’s in quite a state. A message was just delivered, and now he’s closed off in his study.”
“Why?” Charlotte asked.
Sarah pressed her lips together as she jerked and twisted Charlotte’s hair into a simple knot and pinned it. “How am I supposed to know?”
“Right, sorry.” Charlotte winced, her scalp smarting.
“’Tis best to stay out of his way today.”
“That’s what I do every day. I avoid all of them if I can.”
Sarah finished her hair and stepped back.
“Thank you, Sarah.” Charlotte stood.
Sarah nodded and moved to the door with Charlotte’s discarded clothing. She gave Charlotte a small smile. “Be careful, Miss Angelwood. You haven’t seen him at his worst, and I pray you never do.”
Charlotte nodded and Sarah left. Charlotte wasn’t sure who she spoke of—Edward or Lord Shelding. Lord Shelding had a terrible temper, explosive and damaging, but Edward was a silent predator. He lurked and enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. He hadn’t caught Charlotte, but he loved to remind her that soon he would, whatever that meant.
Charlotte was startled by another knock on her door. Before she could respond, Lady Shelding entered.
“Rise and shine, Miss Angelwood. The day is calling, and we are joining Lord Shelding in the dining room for breakfast.” Lady Shelding had a bright, if fragile, smile plastered on her face. She took in Charlotte’s appearance, her smile turning to a frown.
“Black again? You wore black yesterday.”
“Yes, ma’am. I intend to mourn my father for the full six months, it has only been two.” Charlotte’s heart squeezed. She swallowed down the budding thickness in her throat.
“But it’s a happy day today. Can you not be happy? Lord Shelding has wonderful news to share.”
“News of what?”
“He will tell us at breakfast. I’m having Edward wakened as we speak. He will be eager to hear the news, and how lovely you both would look if you weren’t wearing such a somber color. Edward’s favorite color is green, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Charlotte murmured. “But I only took black gowns when I left Wildwood.” The mention of her childhood home brought a lump to her throat. The memory of the morning after her father died felt more like a nightmare. Lord Shelding, her new guardian and soon to be father-in-law, collected her from her home. Like baggage, Charlotte thought. He was stoic then, and she suspected he just didn’t care. She was given her fifteen minutes to pack.
He claimed to have a friendship with her father, but they were never friendly to each other. As their closest neighbor, it was essential to rub along well enough, but Lord Shelding made a point to rub roughly. He was a bully; Charlotte couldn’t think of any other way to put it. She had been transported from her childhood home to the rigid manor of Lord Shelding’s estate with all the care of a sack of flour.
“Good heavens, why?” Lady Shelding opened Charlotte’s wardrobe and fanned through her gowns.
“What happened to the gowns your father purchased for your London debut? Surely, you didn’t wear black in London?”
Charlotte wanted to groan. They’d been through this before. Her gowns were sold; everything of value was sold. “That was two years ago, my lady.”
Lady Shelding looked at Charlotte as though she were speaking a different language.
“Well, that must be remedied.”
Charlotte doubted it. Lord Shelding didn’t want to spend a ha-penny more on Charlotte than what was needed to keep her alive. He didn’t care what she wore and neither did Edward.
“My dear, we are beset with sadness over the passing of your father. You may grieve freely here in your room, but it is bothersome to Lord Shelding and more importantly, Edward, to be burdened by female hysterics.”
Charlotte waited to feel something akin to anger. The day she left her home, she’d cried as the carriage pulled away. She was still crying when they reached Shelding Manor. Lord Shelding had said nothing. Instead of handing her down from the carriage, he’d grabbed her arm in a vice like grip and threw her down on the gravel.
“He’s dead. No use crying over shed milk. Children cry, are you a child? Should I cane you like I would a child
?” He’d berated her right there in the drive, the footman and butler looking on but pretending not to see. From that moment on, Charlotte hadn’t shed a tear in his presence. She’d never been threatened with bodily harm before, and she could still feel the terror of that moment.
“Strength is a woman’s virtue. We bear the worst of life with poise and serene smiles. It is our duty.”
Charlotte nodded, if only so the woman would leave her alone. Lady Shelding didn’t require Charlotte’s verbal aide to keep the thread of conversation going. Charlotte watched her flit about the room like a nervous bird. Lady Shelding always seemed startled, and after sharing a house with her for two months, Charlotte understood why. Lady Shelding was a frail-looking woman. Her cheekbones and collarbone stood out like hard edges. Her thin, silvery blond hair was pulled tightly into a severe bun, and two coiled ringlets stood vigilant at her temples. There was nothing soft about her. Charlotte examined her carefully, but her skin was pale white, free of any tell-tale redness or bruising.
Lord Shelding must be exceptionally pleased this morning.
An icy chill slipped down Charlottes back and she shivered. Whatever the occasion—happy, sad, or angry—Charlotte despised any moment she had to spend in Lord Shelding’s company.
Would she one day look like a startled doe as Lady Shelding did? More likely, a bird that was always on the lookout for a hungry cat.
Cautious.
Afraid.
Charlotte turned her back and closed her eyes. Her fists clenched around the folds of her skirts, and she waited for the wave of despair to pass. Unbidden, an image of a man came to her. His smile like sunlight, warm and soothing. His eyes, glowing with something she couldn’t identify. She found succor in the mere thought of him. At once, she felt better, stronger. She opened her eyes.
He didn’t know it yet, but he was her savior. She faced the room again and found Lady Shelding waiting by the door, still talking incessantly.
“I’m ready, my lady.” Charlotte murmured and followed her out. She felt lighter than before. How could this be? How could one meeting with a stranger alter her so completely? Who was he? She shouldn’t want to know. It was dangerous to want things. But God help her, she couldn’t stop the want. She wanted to see him again, to fill her mind and senses with more of him. If one brief meeting brought such relief, what would another do? She kept her vision of him in her mind all the way to the breakfast parlor. It was like invisible armor. She still braced herself before entering, but retained a measure of calm.