“What the devil were you thinking, Dewhurst?” Alex demanded. “That was a damned foolish thing to do.”
Freddie laughed. “It’s not the first, old boy, and it won’t be the last I’m afraid.”
Alex glanced at him sideways. “You look like hell,” he said. Freddie glanced down at his evening clothes, noting his tailcoat was dirty and torn, his cravat had been ripped off, his trousers had a hole in the knee, and his shirt was spattered with blood, probably his own. And for some reason, he couldn’t stop grinning.
“All right, let’s get you home,” Alex said.
Freddie nodded but when he tried to rise, he fell back in a heap against the wall. Alex pulled him up and half carried him around the corner, where he flagged down a hackney and shoved Freddie inside.
“Dashed Americans!” Freddie said when they were underway. “You see what just the mention of one can do? Imagine living with one.” He felt the swelling in one of his eyes already and knew it would be black by morning.
Alex smiled ruefully. “I can’t say that your appearance in this state will improve matters much.”
Freddie drew himself up. “And what state is that, Selbourne?”
“All right, don’t call me out, Dewhurst. But you have to admit that women are generally not pleased when their husbands—even men playing the role of husband—arrive home drunk and with all the evidence of having been in a brawl.”
Freddie seemed to ponder this a moment. “You’re right,” he said. “She will be angry.”
“Angry?” Alex repeated. “I think that might be a slight underestimation.” But Freddie ignored him and began pounding on the hackney’s roof. “What the devil—” Alex began as the coach slowed.
“I must get her a present. Surprised I haven’t done it yet. Take me to Hamlet’s!” Dewhurst instructed the jarvey when he opened the hatch. The jarvey exchanged a look with Alex, but Freddie said, “None of that. Take me to Hamlet’s.”
“One moment,” Alex said, and the hatch dropped closed again. “Are you speaking of the play or the jeweler, Dewhurst?” Alex asked with a calm that Freddie could tell did not match his mood.
“The jeweler, of course,” Freddie snapped.
“It is past midnight, Dewhurst. They are closed. Now I am going to take you home to your wife, who I am beginning to think has the bad end in all of this, so that I can go home to my own wife. You may purchase a trinket for your lady tomorrow.”
Freddie shook his head and stopped Selbourne’s arm as he raised it to tap the roof of the carriage.
The look in Alex’s eye was murderous. “Wait a minute, Selbourne. You are perfectly right. I can’t come home with some measly fallalls for Charlotte. Addy said she always wears that emerald necklace from her mother. I need to bring her something special. Get me a flower girl!”
Alex’s brow creased. “I don’t think Charlotte will—”
“I don’t want the girl, just the flowers. We need honeysuckle, Selbourne.”
Alex looked ready to mutiny.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte wandered about the town house that evening as though it were a tomb. All in all, it was a nice tomb. The servants were more willing to make changes she suggested, Charlotte had eaten a wonderful dinner of dishes native to Charleston, and even Mrs. Pots wasn’t acting as sulky as usual.
But to Charlotte the house still felt like a cold, dark vault. Every room she passed, every vase, every knickknack, every damned floorboard reminded her of Freddie. It didn’t seem possible, but she was afraid she actually missed him. Without him, London was lonely and dark and senseless. Her real fear was that Charleston, too, might feel empty if he was not there. Her life would be barren without him. She’d grown accustomed to his lectures, the way he tugged the sleeve of his tailcoat when he was irritated, and even his exaggerated concern for the state of his cravat made her smile.
She would miss that in Charleston.
She would miss him.
With a resigned sigh, she started up the grand black and white marble staircase, clutching her skirts in frustration.
She was tired of the incessant little voice in her head pounding away with questions. Where was he? Who was he with? Was he thinking of her? Did he care for her?
Her breath hitched in her throat and she walked more quickly, finally reaching the top of the stairs and starting down the corridor toward his room. She stopped outside, not wanting to enter, unable to resist. Even as she turned the doorknob she knew she was making a mistake. His essence would be strongest here among his most personal possessions, and she was trying to wipe him out of her mind. Wasn’t she?
She entered, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it for support as images of Freddie came rushing at her. She shook her head, trying to block them, trying to slow their assault so that she could somehow make sense of them. But it was no use. She was assailed from every vantage point. His voice was in the whisper of her slippers on the rug. His lean, hard body was in the sturdy strength of the bed’s foot posts. She parted the velvet drapes, and his smell was in the thick counterpane as she sank into the bed’s softness.
She allowed the bed hangings to fall closed again, and in the warm darkness she was enveloped by Freddie’s essence. She could almost feel him here beside her, and the longing she felt was exquisite torture. She wanted him—wanted him so much it frightened her. She didn’t know how it had happened, but somewhere between that first kiss on the Thames and his defense of her country in the ballroom, she had come to care for him.
