Charlotte felt tears prick at her eyes, and for once she allowed the rivulets to stream down her cheeks. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to cry, to mourn the large losses in her short, small life. She’d been strong for so long, and she just didn’t think she could do it anymore. But the terrace of the Brighams’ town house was perhaps not the best spot for her breakdown. She needed to find a place inside where she could be alone. She began moving against the wall of the town house, but her head was spinning, and she stumbled every few moments.
Feet scraping on gravel, Charlotte saw a faint light, like a beacon, pouring into the garden a short distance away. She lurched toward it and peered inside. For once she was in luck. The room had to be the Brighams’ library. She looked more closely, noting that three or four candles had been lit and a fire burned low in the hearth, but the room was still empty. Perfect.
Charlotte turned the handle of the French door, fully expecting it to be locked, and pitched inside when it opened easily. She closed it quietly behind her, shutting out the insistent cold and welcoming the low warmth of the fire.
It was a man’s room, all dark wood and heavy furnishings. Books lined the walls from the hardwood floors to the elaborate crown molding running the length of the ceiling. The room was dominated by two pieces of furniture, a dark burgundy velvet couch and a massive polished mahogany desk. The simple decor of elegant tapestries and imported rugs testified to the wealth and position of the Brighams.
She leaned against the French door, put her hands to her face, and sniffled. Half of her wanted to laugh at the idea of her—an American—in the bosom of British Society, the other half wanted to dig a deep hole and cry.
She was so tired of being alone. So tired of struggling, clawing, and pushing to get what her family needed and wanted. She sniffled and put a hand to her mouth, allowing a trickle of the silent sobs to escape. Oh, God, would she ever feel secure again? Would she ever be able to close her eyes and drift to sleep without a thousand worries pressing down on her like a mountain of boulders? Was she destined forever to be alone?
“You’re not crying, are you?” A familiar masculine voice floated across the library.
FREDDIE SET HIS CRYSTAL glass of brandy, now half full, on Brigham’s mahogany desk, just before Charlotte’s shriek. The chit howled when he spoke, then jumped back so quickly she hit her head on the door. Freddie rose from the desk chair, where he’d been taking a brief respite from the ball—that was, avoiding the sight of his lovely, tempting bride. Freddie’s retreat had served another purpose as well, however. He’d met with Sebastian and Alex in the library, where Sebastian announced that he’d seen the man they suspected of being Pettigru’s contact in London at dinner. Surely the news about Charlotte’s marriage and her presence in London would reach Pettigru’s ears soon.
Freddie’s friends had just exited when his wife slipped inside and began to whimper. He hadn’t meant to scare her or hurt her, but now she was rubbing the back of her head, and he winced in sympathy.
“You,” she whispered in a tone one might use with a mongrel. He glanced behind him, but not a spaniel in sight. Was he the mongrel in this scenario? A big, fat tear trickled down her cheek. Freddie went rigid. He hated it when women cried. Detested tears above all else. Flay him, torture him, scald him with hot coals, but do not saddle him with a teary-eyed woman.
“Dash it! You are crying. Here, take my handkerchief.” He fumbled for the piece of cloth.
“Don’t cry!” he ordered thrusting the handkerchief into her hands.
She stood there, staring at the fine linen. Then she murmured, “I’m not crying.”
Freddie narrowed his eyes skeptically. “Your eyes have gone all misty, and you’re sniffling.”
“I’m fine.”
Freddie raised a brow. “Oh, really?” He reached out and ran the back of his hand gently across her lashes, capturing one of her tears with a finger. He held it up triumphantly. “Then what is this?”
Charlotte touched her cheek where his fingers had skimmed across it, then stepped back, rattling the French doors. “It—it’s cold outside, and my eyes—”
Freddie’s gave her a quelling look. “Madam. It is July.”
She took a deep breath and seemed to cast about for another excuse. “I don’t feel well,” she said quickly. “I feel . . . faint!” She put a hand to her forehead, and when Freddie peered closer, he decided she did indeed look peaked. She swayed, and he caught her elbow to steady her. Instinctively it seemed, his other arm wound around her, catching her waist and pulling her closer than he’d intended. It wasn’t a sensual embrace, but the feel of her warm, soft body against his jolted him into awareness nonetheless.
“Dash it, Charlotte. Do not faint.” He urged her gently to the dark velvet couch. She sank into its plush cushions and closed her eyes. He frowned down at her. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair slightly mussed, but that might have been from waltzing.
Whose arms had she been in?
Freddie pulled on the sleeves of his tailcoat violently. Logically Freddie knew she would be asked to dance at the ball, but he hadn’t anticipated his reaction to the notion of her in another man’s arms. He didn’t like it.
Strange, considering that he was not a proprietary man. Horses, women, the blunt in his pocket: share and share alike had always been his motto. Tailcoats and a fine valet were another matter entirely. But with the exception of the time Alvanley had wooed Wilkins away—something the dandy had yet to allow Freddie to live down—and the few instances when Brummell’s tailcoat had been far superior to his own, Freddie had never once felt a twinge of envy. When he felt it, he was not inclined to be reasonable. He’d acquiesced to Wilkins’s demand for an exorbitant salary, and he’d accidentally spilled claret on Brummell’s tailcoat—one reason he and Brummell were on shaky terms to this day.
And here he’d been tonight: defending the colonies and seething over the idea of Charlotte dancing with another man. He’d needed space. And then, just when he was feeling reasonable again, the contrary chit had found him.
Now he was all at odds again and every semblance of reasonableness had gone the way of the codpiece and Elizabethan ruffs. He shook his head. Why did he feel so disconcerted when in her presence? Tonight he’d been steadfast in his resolve not to let her affect him, but how was he to temper his reaction to her when, even red-eyed and runny-nosed, he wanted her?
His hands burned to caress her graceful neck, wrapped in glossy pearls, then trace the curve of her jaw and brush his thumb against her wide mouth until she opened it and . . . Painfully he noted the perfect hair, still his favorite color. He wanted to run his hands through that hair, pull it down, hold it to his nose and inhale the scent of honeysuckle.
He reached up to run a finger inside his tight cravat, and she finally opened her eyes. She dabbed the last drops of moisture away with his handkerchief. Her sherry gaze focused slowly on him, darkening the longer she stared.
“Dewhurst. You’re still here.”
Freddie took a long, slow breath. That accent, the lilt, the low, rich tones. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the sound of her voice, even— and this he would never admit—when she antagonized him by calling him Mr. Dewhurst. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“Wha?—oh, no. I think we should go home.” She smiled, a wobbly smile that seemed out of place on her.
