He knew exactly what she was referring to. The haunted expression he sent her revealed all the feelings he kept locked away from the world. Why could he show them to her? What was it about her that made him open up more?
He lowered himself onto the wooden chair despite the fact that she still stood and dropped his head into his hands. Trappings of their outward persons ceased to exist now that they’d escaped the manor at Westerley Crossings, now that they were absent from the people who wanted to see them in very particular ways.
He shuddered. “I was at a brothel.” After he spoke the words, she could swear she felt a ripple of pain roll off him. He glanced up. “I apologize. I didn’t bring you here so that I could confess sins you have no wish to hear.”
Charley allowed her bottom to rest against the table beside him. If—and that was still as far as she could consider—if she accepted his proposal, she would want to know as much as possible about him. From where she perched, she could see him from a different angle than usual. His maple-colored hair springing up from his head appeared untamable, and she could see why it constantly escaped the queue he tied at the back of his neck. His shoulders seemed broad and sturdy but were slumped as he wrestled with a past he didn’t know how to release.
“Tell me.”
He didn’t speak right away. A distant look crept into his eyes as the memory hypnotized him. “My father had recently warned me that I would have to give up the carousing I’d fallen into. We were arguing more than ever before. The worst of us—Mantis, Chase, and I—didn’t have much better to do at the time and had done nothing to make our families proud.”
She could only imagine how popular he was in London. And all the trouble such devil-may-care young men could get themselves into with nothing to do but pursue leisure.
“When a person doesn’t have a vocation, or a passion, I think that it must be easy to fall into depravity. I’ve seen it happen to some of my mother’s friends. Only, women tend to stir up trouble, when such is the case, by gossiping and bullying. Men?” She frowned. “They drink whiskey and tend to be less subtle about the trouble they make.”
He lifted his head from his hands and his blue eyes glimmered as his gaze met hers. “We fought. We gambled.”
“And other things.” Jules’ prior behavior didn’t bother her. She was enough of her father’s daughter not to be shocked at what men whom the world considered refined and genteel often resorted to—even those who attended church regularly and professed to be devout in their religious beliefs.
He grimaced. “Yes.”
He stared down at his hands again, then lifted them to grasp one of hers. He didn’t hold her hand, so much as play with her fingers, her palms, as though the lines and flesh there were the most fascinating thing in the world.
His innocent exploration sent tingles down her spine. And as before, invisible silken ropes entwined themselves around them, making them the only two people in the world.
“Greys suspected one of the… ladies at the establishment put something in whatever I drank that night because I have no recollection of anything that happened after I went upstairs—” He caught himself. “Regardless. There is no excuse for my carelessness.”
“The duel was over a married woman?” He’d told her that, hadn’t he?
“Yes. And I was not unaware of her marital state. I was a fool.”
“Had you ever done that before? Blacked out?” A man the size of Jules would need to drink an abundance of commercial whiskey or wine to black out to the point of forgetfulness, especially if he consumed spirits regularly.
“Never like that.”
“Is it possible her husband arranged it?” She knew that even if this was the case, he wouldn’t excuse himself, but she thought that perhaps, if he told her some of it, it might fester less.
He half-hypnotized her with the lazy drawings he was making on her palm, but she forced herself to give him her full attention.
“It’s possible. Lord Casterley was… is… a cold-hearted bastard. But it doesn’t change anything. I made my choices. If I hadn’t been so selfish…”
“My father blames himself for my mother’s death. He’d lamented more than once that she might have lived if he’d brought her back to England. He blames himself for the fact that his daughter has never been accepted into the society his wife valued so much.”
Watching her intently, he continued making slow circles on her palm with his thumb.
“I blame myself for not loving my mother enough,” she continued. It was difficult to admit something to him that she could hardly admit to herself. “If I had been a better daughter, tried harder to be the person she wanted me to be, she might have lived longer.”
“But she died of consumption, did she not?”
Charley lifted her shoulders, still staring into his eyes. “I know. But I still wonder.”
“I know what you are trying to do, Charlotte Arabella Jackson.” His smile was that lopsided one where he only lifted one corner of his mouth. “And I appreciate it. But it is not the same.”
Charley did something most out of character then. She reached her hand out and cradled his cheek. “I know.” She smiled back at him.
Captured by his gaze now, all the air sucked out of the room and her blood felt like it might be boiling. She was only vaguely aware of the white illumination of lightning that flashed across the room and the thunder that followed. She was only aware of this man. Of Jules.
He rose from his chair and moved to stand before her. Not looking anywhere but in her eyes, he deliberately stepped between her legs amongst the folds of her skirt.
Was she even breathing? She was too light-headed, too dizzy, too sensitive.
“Charley.” He slid his hands into the hair at her nape and then, dear Lord, he lowered his mouth to hers. “Who are you?” he breathed against her lips.
Her neck couldn’t hold her head up a second longer. Her neck fell back as she surrendered. He would hold her. He was warm and solid and dependable.
She slid her hands up his chest and wound them around his neck, pulling him closer, begging him to deepen the kiss, surrendering to the need he’d planted in her when they’d sat alone in the cellar.
The desire racing through her blood was foreign but recognizable. His kiss was earthy, masculine, dangerous, and she couldn’t get enough of him. Her body understood that this connection was the reason for all those giddy feelings she’d experienced with him before. This was the reason she’d been drawn to him. Yielding herself to this man—merging her heart with his, sharing her body and revealing her soul—was the reason she was here.
It was the reason she’d been born.
Thunder rumbled outside at the same time Jules hummed against her lips. Her insides tightened, and she felt his kiss everywhere. Beneath her hand, his heart beat as rapidly as hers.
Time ceased to exist and all she could think as he kissed her was that she never wanted it to stop. She wanted him always. In that moment, she belonged to him.
And as the kiss softened but with more insistence, she wanted him to touch her everywhere—her breasts, her legs, her belly. The ache between her legs was hot and wanton.
She gasped when he abandoned her mouth to trail his along the curve of her cheek. His tongue felt hot, his teeth dragged along sensitive skin, making her nerve endings stand up, wanting some combination of pleasure and pain.
“What’s happening?” Was this even normal? All her good sense turned upside down, making her want this—want him—more than anything else in the world.
He paused, breathing hard against the side of her neck, one hand resting just below her breast. Another flash of lightning and the thunder came quicker this time, so loud that it seemed to shake the earth beneath them.
She felt Jules’ long exhale, then he drew back, his chest rising and falling as he reined in his emotions. Was that what this was?
Romantic love?
He leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers, so cl
ose that she could almost count his lashes as he stared into her eyes. The sensation was more intimate than a kiss.
“I need to put the horses up until the rain passes.” And as though he’d summoned it with his words, the patter of raindrops falling on the roof and against the windows sounded softly at first, growing quickly in intensity. “I’ll light a fire for us when I return.” He squeezed her hand. “You are all right?”
She was dazed and achy and alive all at the same time. “I’m fine.” She pushed him away. “Go.” The horses would be getting skittish.
The room felt emptier the moment the door closed behind him and a sense of logic began to war with the fog of wonder she’d fallen into. Mrs. Crabtree would be awaiting her at the Abbey. As would Bethany. What was Lady Westerley going to say when they didn’t arrive with all the other guests?
Another flash of lightning lit the room brighter than a hundred candles ever could, immediately followed by cracking thunder.
The horses would be terrified by now. Jules would need her help. She hopped off the table and rushed across the room. When she opened the door, sharp drops of rain pelted her face and a swirl of leaves blew inside.
She lifted her arm to partially cover her face right before she caught sight of Jules. Leaning forward with his head down, his legs churned through the mud as he walked in front of the horses who pulled the conveyance. He was leading them around to a small barn on the other side of the stream.
He had hold of one of the horses, but Charley recognized a wild look in the other mare’s eyes. The poor thing was terrified.
“Go back in! What are you doing?” he yelled over the rain when she sprinted around him to take hold of the second horse.
“What’s her name?” she shouted. The mare trembled beneath her hands when Charley grasped the leather strap to help lead them to shelter.
Julian narrowed his gaze but then shook his head, resigned. “Calista.”
“Poor girl.” Charley smoothed her hand down her neck. “That’s good, Calista. Just like that.”
“I can’t believe you!” He glanced sideways, scowling but then turned back to the other horse when she raised her head with a whinnying sound. “Easy now.”
By now, the rain slashed torrential sheets as, together, she and Jules dragged the horses, straining against the gusts of wind.
They were soaked through and Charley had to concentrate hard not to slip in the mud.
“Let go if they bolt!”
Jules scowled at her when he loosened his hold in order to open a large door. He sounded angry, but she knew he was only afraid they would hurt her.
She wasn’t afraid. She’d assisted her father with the horses hundreds of times and in storms far worse than this one.
Jules returned quickly and when they stepped inside, the shiny vehicle rolling in behind them, the horses calmed almost immediately.
An almost surprising quiet fell after Jules pulled the large doors shut. High up windows allowed just enough light inside for Charley to see his expression.
“You shouldn’t have come out in this mess.” He looked as though he couldn’t decide if he was furious or grateful. Charley bit her lip, unable to keep her gaze from appreciating the man who looked even more attractive to her with his hair plastered against his head and his clothes clinging to his person. The breeches she’d appreciated on more than one occasion outlined his muscular thighs and she shivered at the outline of his—
Charley dragged her gaze back to meet his. “I’m not unfamiliar with horses.”
He glowered.
“You needed me.” She turned, feeling hot inside, despite the fact that water dripped from her hair and dress. With shaking hands, she stroked Calista’s snout. “This poor girl needed me.”
Thunder sounded but not as loudly as it had been before. The torrent of rain echoed steadily on the roof of the unused shelter.
When she turned back, Jules seemed to be assessing the contents of the barn, more resolved now than frustrated.
“What will they think when we don’t show up?” Charley continued rubbing her hands along Calista’s head and neck. “Mrs. Crabtree will say something to your mother. Bethany will notice that I’m gone and that I left with you.”
Before she could continue, warm arms wrapped around her. “The guests will have turned back as well, and the manor is going to be in something of an uproar while everyone returns. My mother will be far too busy dealing with servants rushing to get all the tables and chairs put up to even notice our absence.”
“But—”
“The stable master was aware that I might stop here first and also that we’re traveling in the curricle. He’ll inform her, and they’ll realize that we had no choice but to wait out the storm.”
“They will be understanding?” Even in Philadelphia this sort of thing wouldn’t go unremarked upon. She glanced up at the high windows. They had no choice but to take refuge here. It wasn’t as though either of them intended to get caught in the storm.
“We can’t travel in it.”
She dropped her chin and grinned. “It’s not a very practical conveyance, is it?”
His chuckle rumbled beneath her hands, which were planted on his jacket, which was possibly even more drenched than hers. “I didn’t purchase my baby for her practical attributes.”
The temperature was cooler in the stable, and the dirt floor was muddy from the rain that had blown in. A shiver ran through her, and he rubbed her arms to warm them. “Go back to the main building while I unhook Calista and Zeus. I’ll start a fire when I join you.”
“There is a basket tied to the back of your shiny but impractical baby.” She stepped out of his arms.
His brows rose and a smile tipped up the corner of his lips. Feeling a little shy, she resisted the urge to rise up onto her toes and press her lips against his again.
He, however, had no such inhibitions and she found herself feeling pleased and grateful that he did not. As though reading her silent invitation, he dipped his head and captured her mouth with lips that were cool at first but warmed gradually against hers, which she’d parted invitingly.
He groaned and set her away from him but not so far that he could not touch his forehead to hers again. “I won’t take long.”
She nodded, stepping back. Rainwater dripped off both of them, and her boots were covered in mud. Knowing that the sooner she went inside, the sooner he would get the horses settled and come dry off as well, she urged herself out through a small side door that had been left partially open.
Cold rain landed on her hair and even in her eyes, but nervous energy had her running back to the warmth of the stone building.
It’s only a few kisses, she reasoned with herself as she removed her coat and lifted it to a hook. We will simply wait out the storm. We will talk. Just talk. None of this meant that she would give up on returning to America. None of this meant that she would marry him.
Right?
Lost in the back and forth of what she wanted and what she did not, she crouched at the hearth, built up the small logs someone had stacked off to the side, and struck a flint to the kindling.
She slid her gaze toward the bed and when her heart jumped, she brought it quickly back to the hearth. What if she wanted him? She stared unseeing, mesmerized as the spark crawled along the dry and wispy tinder. Careful not to rush the flame, she blew just enough for the glowing ember to flicker and grow so that it could ignite the small twigs.
What would it be like? Would making love with Jules, with the Earl of Westerley, an Englishman of all things, live up to the promise that his kiss had?
She’d not felt anything like that in the few times she’d been kissed before. Nash’s kiss had been pleasant. She’d even been mildly aroused on a few occasions.
If she returned to America no longer a virgin, would it even matter?
If she returned to America.
Of course, she was going to return. She would step onto that ship with her father and st
and on the deck as it drifted away, happy to leave her mother’s homeland forever.
She would bid Jules goodbye forever.
A stabbing pain pierced her heart as she imagined putting an entire ocean between them. It would be like leaving a part of herself behind.
The fire licked at the larger log, beginning to send off some functional warmth.
Just one week ago, everything had seemed so simple. Black and white, good and bad. But the world didn’t work that way. And now, having some distance from Philadelphia, from her father, from her mother’s parents, even, was changing her perspective on not only the world but herself—what she needed—what she wanted.
Her grandparents had, indeed, been somewhat horrible to stay with, but they weren’t monsters. There had been those few occasions when her grandmother’s eyes had teared up while telling her how happy she was to finally meet her. And when Charley had climbed into the carriage with Daisy to travel to Westerley Crossings, her father on horseback ahead of them, she’d turned back and caught her grandfather frowning, almost as though he did not want to see her go.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as the fire flickered. He was back. They were trapped here, just the two of them, until the storm passed. The thought of his kiss made her feel much hotter than the fire ever could.
She rose and turned just as he finished hanging his long coat beside hers and lowering the basket near his feet, the basket she’d all but forgotten. He smoothed his hair back, causing even more water to drip onto the floor. She, again, had to wonder if he wasn’t even more handsome in this primitive state. The water lent a glossy look to his hair, making it appear almost black.
He shifted his gaze to the blazing fire. “I would have done that.”
“You mistake me for a pitiful and helpless creature. I may not excel at painting, or playing music or arranging flowers, but there are other tasks I am sufficiently capable of performing.”
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