by Jane Goodger
Moving slowly up the stairs, Charlie thought about Mrs. Sullivan, about how difficult it would be for her to tell her children that their strapping father was dead. He felt like his shoes were made from lead.
His house was dark; he never expected his servants to wait up for him. All he wanted to do was wash up, rip off his fouled clothing, and get into bed.
“Bonsoir,” came a cheerful woman’s voice as he entered his bedchamber.
Oh, good God.
“Louise, what the hell are you doing in my room? Who let you in here?”
“I let myself in. And, of course, I think you must know why I am here, non?” She came up to him wearing only the thinnest of nightgowns. Charlie was man enough to recognize she was beautiful, but he was in no mood to make love tonight, particularly not with her. Especially not with any woman other than the one who had been torturing him for so many nights and who was no doubt a bit miffed that he’d missed tea.
“I want you to leave, Louise. Now.”
“You say non?” Louise, whom he had always found particularly charming, put on a full pout.
“No.”
“Charlie,” she said, giving him a small smile. “You cannot say non. I need you in the bed. Here, let me help you out of this clothings.” She furrowed her brow. “This clothings are stained. Is this blood? Is it yours?”
“No. An employee was injured today,” Charlie said impatiently, having no wish to give Louise any details.
She reached for him but he gently grabbed her wrists and pushed her away. “I said no, Louise.”
“And I say oui,” she said loudly, her mood changing mercurially. “Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui!”
And that’s when he heard the window slam from across the alley. Charlie let out a curse, and abruptly Louise’s demeanor changed. No doubt he looked as if he wanted to murder her, which in fact he did.
“I shall leave you, Charlie, and see you again when you are in a better mood.” Louise took up her cloak, put it on, and within moments she was hurrying down the stairs. Charlie would have laughed at her quick departure if he wasn’t so painfully aware of what the sound of that window slamming meant.
Splashing his face with water and making certain every bit of blood was off his hands, he hastily changed his clothes and headed over to explain to Rose that what she thought she had heard was not at all what had happened.
Rose wasn’t quite certain why she’d felt as devastated as she had when Charlie did not arrive for his visit. He was not courting her. But he could have sent round a note. Or flowers. Or given some indication that he was sorry to have left her waiting like some pathetic old maid hoping for her imaginary beau to arrive.
She hated that she’d tensed at the sound of every carriage that passed by, thinking it might be him, thinking he would soon be rushing to her door, full of good cheer and uttering apologies before taking her in his arms and kissing her.
As the hours had passed, she’d grown more philosophical about his absence. It was probably for the best. It wouldn’t do to become too attached to a man who very well might be a rake. Who most assuredly was a rake. Thank goodness she had come to her senses before she allowed her heart to become too engaged.
She had fallen asleep early, congratulating herself on how well she was handling Charlie’s rejection. She was awakened around midnight and drowsily sat up, uncertain what had woken her. Her one weakness was that she had kept her window open, just in case she heard Charlie return home. Perhaps she could peek out just to see if he were alone.
Foolish, she knew, but there it was.
She sat there and looked at her window, her entire body heating with anger when she clearly recognized the voice of a woman coming from across the alley. How dare he! Oh, the cad. The . . . the . . . rake! Yes, that’s precisely what he was. She’d been right all along. And to think how she had allowed herself to suffer for that man. If he so much as smiled at her for the rest of her life she would turn her back. And then she heard, “Oui, oui, oui, oui,” and she slammed the window shut to block out the rest.
Hot tears pressed on her eyes, but she squeezed them shut, refusing to give in to her ridiculously misplaced emotion. “I hate him,” she said fervently. Rose sat on her bed, glaring at the window, banging her heel against the bed’s wooden slats almost painfully. She was still banging when she heard another banging, and stopped midswing. Someone was at her front door.
Grabbing her wrap, she hurried down the stairs and peered out the window beside the door, peeking through the sheer curtain. Charlie stood there, pacing back and forth like some sort of caged lion.
She opened the door immediately, forgetting her vow never to speak to him again. “Good evening, Charlie. Done entertaining?”
“I do realize that’s what it sounded like, but it was not what you think.”
“Really, Charlie, I don’t care if you have a harem in your home as long as you are quiet about it,” Rose said, wondering if Charlie thought she was completely naive simply because she was a virgin.
“Rose, I’ve had one hell of a day. I’m sorry I missed tea. I’m sorry I came home to find a woman in my room,” he said, and with every sentence uttered he sounded more angry. “And I’m extremely sorry you jumped to the wrong conclusion. I was so sorry, in fact, that I felt the need to come to your door in the middle of the night to apologize for doing nothing. I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright.”
Something about his voice, something raw and almost broken beneath the anger, drew her outside, and as Charlie turned away she grabbed his arm. “Charlie, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
He stood on the landing, half facing toward the street, for a long moment before speaking. “One of my workers died today from an injury at work. I was at the hospital with his wife.”
Rose heard the raw emotion in his voice, and his eyes glittered briefly before he impatiently rubbed them with the heels of his hands. “He has five children, Rose. Five.”
“Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry. I feel simply awful now, getting upset about your missing a silly tea when you were dealing with that. And really, about the woman, it doesn’t matter. I was just a bit angry to have been woken up, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes,” Rose said firmly, trying to make her lie sound sincere. “I would hardly deny the ladies of New York your special skills.” She’d meant it as a joke, but Charlie didn’t laugh, not really. The sound that came out, a sharp burst of air, was not a joyful sound.
He held his hands out by his sides, palms up. “Then please do allow me to apologize for awakening you. In the future, we shall use the guest room on the opposite side of the house. Mrs. Jefferson is quite deaf and she hasn’t complained once. Good evening, Rose.”
Stunned by his words, Rose was silent as Charlie stormed down her steps and out the gate. Guest room! He’d been using a guest room on the days of silence? And here she’d thought that perhaps there’d been no one since the day they’d met in front of her house. She’d even thought perhaps that silence was because of her. Goodness, he had women waiting for him when he returned home?
Rose entered her home, her mind whirling. It made sense. Look what he’d done to her with just his hand. Of course women would want that, would wait for him to come home. Despite herself, a sharp blade of arousal hit her and she wrapped her arms around her waist in an attempt to stem it. How could she live next to him, knowing that each evening he was giving other women the same pleasure he’d given her? Except, he hadn’t really. She was still a virgin. Would likely still be a virgin if she ever got married again.
That thought stopped her still. She could not be a virgin when she got married. How on earth could she possibly explain herself? She would never reveal Daniel’s secret, not to anyone. The only people who knew of Daniel’s homosexuality were her and James. And now Charlie probably. She could not allow her husband’s memory to be sullied, but what choice did she have?
Chapter 18
L
isten courteously to those whose opinions do not agree with yours, and keep your temper. A man in a passion ceases to be a gentleman.
—From The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness
Two weeks after John Sullivan’s death, Charlie left his office whistling, leaving behind gawking workers who had never seen Mr. Avery looking quite so happy. He’d received a note from Rose asking him for tea. The two hadn’t spoken, even in passing, since the night he’d stood on her stoop at midnight, trying to explain how it was possible that he had a woman in his bedroom.
At precisely four, he knocked on Rose’s door and was met by her smiling butler, Mr. Brady.
“Hello, Brady,” Charlie said, handing off his hat and gloves. “Mrs. Cartwright invited me for tea.”
“Indeed, Mr. Avery. She is waiting for you in the parlor.”
“I can find my way, Brady, thank you.” Charlie had a decided bounce to his step as he entered the femininely appointed room. Clearly, this was Rose’s domain, an airy and light room painted a pale green. The lady was sitting on a small settee, reading a book. Though she was wearing a drab brown dress, she made a pretty picture sitting there with the sun shining upon her through the sheer curtains. The window was open, for it was a warm spring day, and the curtains blew softly, curling inward on the breeze. When he entered, she looked up and Charlie’s heart skipped a beat when she smiled. He’d been a bit fearful that she would still be angry with him, but he detected no nervousness or anger on her face. He regretted his own words and hoped to use this meeting to apologize for them.
Rose stood and placed her book to the side, then walked to a near wall and pulled a cord, no doubt for tea. “Cook was delighted to hear you were coming for tea. She’s made raspberry tarts, which are quite famous on the avenue. They are my personal favorite.” When she sat back down, Charlie followed suit, sitting in a chair opposite.
“So,” she said, and let out a nervous little laugh, clutching her hands in her lap. Ah, the lady was a bit uneasy after all. “I’ve given what occurred on the night of the ball a great deal of thought and realize you must have questions.”
“I do not,” Charlie said, and he could tell he’d surprised her. “You clearly held affection for your husband and I do not need to know the intimate details of your marriage. And to be honest, Rose, I do believe I’ve solved the mystery of your innocence.”
Her cheeks reddened and she looked down, unable to meet his unwavering gaze. “I quite enjoyed that evening,” she blurted, then closed her eyes briefly.
“I’m glad.”
“I have a proposal to make.” She looked up, her eyes steady. “I believe I will marry again someday and I don’t care to explain to my new husband my untried state. I hadn’t realized how evident my inexperience is, but I realized how odd it would be to marry a widow and realize that she is a virgin.” She spoke the last as a whisper, then stopped and passed a hand over her forehead as if she were feeling weak. “I loved Daniel. My marriage wasn’t conventional but I was happy, and I would hate to sully his memory in any way. People, if they knew, would be so hateful, and I don’t think I could bear that. Especially not from a husband, who would guess the truth, just as you have.”
Charlie tried not to let her words wound him. That she still didn’t consider she could marry him told him more than he wanted to know. She planned to marry and was telling him her plans—for what reason, he couldn’t begin to know. “I will not say a word, Rose,” Charlie said.
“I know, Charlie. But I believe the truth about my marriage would be difficult for some to accept, that my reasons for marrying Daniel would not be understood. Which is why I’m going to ask you something. A favor. And because you seem to have some talent in the area, given what I have overheard and”—she coughed—“experienced myself.”
Charlie felt the blood drain from his head. She couldn’t be saying what he thought she was saying. My God, did she have no feelings for him at all?
Rose looked up to the ceiling, probably asking her dead husband for assistance. “I cannot be a virgin when I marry. I’m asking you to take care of that detail for me.”
“Take care of it,” Charlie said, trying to keep the hurt from his voice. And it did hurt, like the very devil.
“You must know how difficult this is for me,” Rose said.
“To ask me to fuck you, you mean?” His anger was palpable, but she hadn’t recognized it until he used the coarsest language possible.
“I’ve insulted you.” Rose’s eyes immediately filled with tears. Hell, he hadn’t meant to make her cry, but didn’t she know how callous her own words were? Make love to me, Charlie, but don’t think for one moment there could be anything more between us. “But yes, that’s the general idea. I do seem to come up with plans without thinking about the consequences. Please forgive me and forget this conversation.” She sniffed and dug into her sleeve, her hand coming away empty, and Charlie pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. “Thank you.”
And then the image of Rose, naked and soft beneath him, her legs wrapped around his torso, came to him in a violent and unexpected way. How could he say no to her? How could he say no to the one thing he’d dreamt about for years? Perhaps he would never marry her, but at least he would have had the pleasure of making love to her.
“I will do as you ask,” he said, feeling a terrible mix of disgust and joy. Could he respect himself for providing such a sordid service? Could he live with himself if he let another man be her first? It was an untenable situation.
Rose had not imagined the conversation taking such a turn. Indeed, she hadn’t thought about where the conversation would go other than imagining Charlie would be flattered and rather pleased with the request. She would be one more woman in a sea of women. He’d seemed to enjoy what they’d done, to a certain extent at any rate. Rose had never thought Charlie would be insulted or angry. She realized she did not know the man sitting across from her, staring broodingly at the empty fireplace.
Yes, Rose wanted to protect Daniel, but if she were completely honest with herself, she also wanted to experience the feelings Charlie had evoked in her. She wanted to banish the fear she’d held for years about the physical side of marriage and she knew Charlie would be a gentle, caring lover. Goodness, taking a lover was so risqué and worldly of her.
“When shall we do it?” Rose asked pertly.
“Now is ideal. I left work early, you see, and wouldn’t want my time to go entirely to waste.”
Rose turned her head to the window, seeing bright sunshine. She’d imagined a completely dark room. “But it’s daytime.”
“All the better. Did you think men and women only made love—excuse me, fornicated—at night? I need only to go next door and retrieve something.” Charlie stood and walked a few steps toward the door before stopping and turning. “I assume this is a one-time event?”
Rose’s face burned hotly. “Yes.”
His eyes flickered with some emotion Rose could not interpret, anger no doubt. “Very well. I’ll return shortly.”
As soon as Charlie left the room, Rose buried her hands in her face. What was she doing? This was pure insanity. But if not Charlie, then who? She already liked him well enough and she knew he could please her. No, she simply couldn’t imagine even kissing another man other than Charlie, never mind doing what they planned to do.
It seemed only seconds before Mr. Brady was escorting Charlie back into the parlor. Her heart was in her throat as she stood shakily upon his entrance. “Where shall we go?”
“This is as good as anywhere,” Charlie said, closing the parlor door behind him and jerking his head toward a larger settee that would easily accommodate two prone adults. He sounded so cold, and Rose wished she had never made such a suggestion. Rose walked slowly to the settee in question and sat down, nervously worrying her fingers together.
Charlie’s hands went to the buttons of his trousers and he casually began undoing them, the movements so similar to Weston’s
, Rose had to look away and again felt tears pressing against her eyes. “Lift your skirts, Rose,” he said, sounding entirely unlike the Charlie she knew. Rose hesitated, her hands shaking, before she reached down and began pulling up her skirt and petticoats, unable to look at Charlie and feeling a sharp ache in her heart. She had not thought it would be like this.
“Jesus, Rose, stop.”
Rose looked at him, standing with his trousers completely buttoned, his eyes filled with some raw emotion. “Why?” she asked, bewildered.
“Because if I’m going to make love to you, it will not be like this. I was trying to hurt you.”
“Oh,” Rose said, quickly pushing down her skirts. He had accomplished what he’d set out to do then, for the hurt she had felt had been staggering.
“Come here,” Charlie said, holding out his hands to her. She stood and went to him, grasping his hands, shocked by the feeling of his bare skin on hers. His hands were warm and large, with a ridge of callus on the pads of his palms, and she couldn’t help but wonder what those hands would feel like on her body. He looked down at her and smiled gently, his blue eyes intent. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.” He lifted one hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear she hadn’t even realized had fallen. “I never want to be the reason you cry, Rose. Are you certain about this, about what you want to do?”
“I am.”
“Then let’s go up to your room and do this properly, shall we?”
Rose took a deep, bracing breath. “Yes.”
Her room was like the woman Rose had become, elegant and restrained. There was nothing of the girl who used to run, skirts held too high, barreling into the stable to say good morning to Moonrise. And to him. Rose had given her maid a half day off, which Stacy had accepted without a single word, though she had given Charlie a thoughtful look before she went happily on her way.