“It is not for you to decide what is good for me,” she shot back. “I am my own person, not a child to be shielded from hard truths. If there is something you are keeping from me—something that concerns me—you ought to tell me. It is not right, and you must know it.”
He met her gaze across the ever-widening space between them, his expression unreadable. She clenched her fists at her sides, willing him—begging him—to speak. To trust her.
But instead, he merely shook his head.
“I have work to attend to. Please, do not disturb me.”
Then he turned, striding down the dim corridor toward his study, where the door shut behind him with a resounding thud—locking her out, in more ways than one.
CHAPTER28
Charity
Charity stumbled into the stables, hot tears spilling from her eyes. Why was he like this? What had happened? They had made such progress, had they not? And when he had kissed her, she had thought all would be well—that all would be good between them.And yet, everything was dreadful now.
“Ambrose,” she called softly.
The little horse nickered at the sound of her voice and trotted eagerly to the fence that enclosed him and Hector. His warm greeting lightened her sorrow, if only a little, but the moment she saw his dear face, something within her broke. More tears fell, flowing in fresh torrents.
“Ambrose,” she murmured, flinging her arms around his stout neck.
The Shetland pony nuzzled against her, tipping his head sideways as if to press it into her. He was gentle, as he had always been.
In her darkest hours, Ambrose had been her solace.
After her father’s passing, she had sought refuge in the stables, weeping in the corner of Ambrose’s stall while the little pony stood guard over her. Once, he had even lain beside her—an unusual thing for him—his head resting in her lap. She had found comfort in him when she could find it nowhere else. Not from her mother, who had been lost in her own despair, drowned in grief. Not from her sister Eleanor, who had clung toher, seeking comfort. Charity had been strong for Eleanor, as she had always been. But here, in the stables, she could allow herself to grieve.
She stepped inside Ambrose’s stall, mindful of Hector, who peered at her curiously from the neighboring enclosure. Picking up a brush from the shelf, she stroked Ambrose’s thick mane, the rhythmic motion soothing her frayed nerves.
“Ambrose,” she sighed, “Iwishyou were human. You would give me advice, I am sure. You are a wise little fellow, are you not?”
The pony nickered again, as if in reply, and she kissed his neck.
“I do not understand him,” she whispered. “I do not understand him in the least. I…”
“Charity?”
Millie’s voice rose from somewhere deeper within the stables.
“Charity, are you here? The butler said I might find you?—”
She placed the brush aside and lifted her head. “Millie? I am here.”
Her cousin emerged from the shadows, the skirts of her gown swaying with each hurried step. She wore a fitted bodice of dark blue velvet, laced at the front, with sleeves that tapered elegantly to the wrists. A modest but stylish bustle at the back accentuated her figure, the fabric falling in soft folds over a walking skirt of matching blue, now slightly damp from the morning mist.
The moment Millie saw her, she rushed forward.
“Charity, what in the world has happened?”
Charity stepped from the stall and drew a breath to steady herself, but before she could form a reply, a great sob broke from her chest, and she flung herself into her cousin’s arms.
Millie held her close, rubbing her back in soothing strokes.
“Charity, what is it? Can it be as dreadful as all that?”
“It is worse,” Charity choked out. “Millie, these last few days have been horrible. I—I cannot bear it.”
“What has he done?” Millie asked, stepping back to study her. “All of London is talking of your most dramatic kiss at the Arlington ball. I thought I would find you in high spirts, a true wife at last. What could have gone so terribly wrong?”
