Chapter 22
As darkness fell, the public room emptied of its few remaining patrons: two local gentlemen who had been playing chess, a scattering of coachmen who reluctantly made their way to the stables for the night, and the guests whose limited coin had not secured them a private dining room. Before she retired, Fanny snuffed all the candles but one.
“Be there ought else I can do for ye, sir?”
Wary that if he said yes, he might be presented with another slice of the worst beef-and-onion pie in the history of beef-and-onion pies, accompanied by another mug of ale unequal to the task of washing it down, Edward shook his head. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”
At least the massive settle—around which he suspected the inn must have been built a hundred or so years ago—was wide enough to accommodate his shoulders. Time was, the exhaustion he felt would have been sufficient to ensure a good night’s sleep almost anywhere. But if he spent this night tossing and turning, he did not think the hard wooden bench would be even a little bit to blame.
He lay with his head closest to the empty hearth, his feet pointed toward the wide entrance to the room, debating whether to use his greatcoat for pillow or blanket. When the stairwell just beyond the doorway beckoned to him, he closed his eyes. But when closed eyes invited his mind to wander to Charlotte, he opened them again.
The image that seemed to be seared into his memory did not disappear, however.
She stood in the doorway, her face a pale oval shining out of the gloom, her expression hidden in shadow. She looked as polished and proper as he had ever seen her, nary a speck of mud nor wayward lock of hair in sight. Easier, now, to imagine her a duchess.
But she was not more beautiful, for all that. He had grown accustomed to the other Charlotte.
His Charlotte.
As before, his good sense tried to resist the claiming. But his heart had other ideas.
For what seemed an eternity, neither of them moved. Perhaps she thought he was asleep. When at last she stepped closer, he could see she held a bundle in her arms. A flicker of fear passed through him. Was she fleeing in the night?
With creeping steps, she came to the far end of the settle and laid down what he now realized was a pillow and blanket, then turned to go.
“Charlotte, wait.”
Relief swept over him when she heeded his command. He scrambled to sit upright, held out one hand to her, and ventured another. “Come.”
She did. Slowly, rather warily. When she stopped a foot or so away from him, she did not take his hand, so he patted the bench beside him and invited her to sit instead. With care, she arranged her skirts as she took a place farther down the settle.
“Thank you for encouraging me to talk to my father,” she said after a moment. “He is . . . eccentric. But he was able to tell me things no one else ever would or could. About my mother.” A pause. “They were married.”
He could hear the relief in her voice, and it irritated him beyond measure. She should never have been shamed or mistreated, even if her parents had not been wed. He swept the palm of his hand across the expanse of wood between them, feeling the ridges and ripples of the grain, worn smooth by a century or more of patrons’ abuse. “For your sake,” he managed to say, “I am glad.”
“He has been searching for me for some time. I saw him here, that day—though of course, I did not know him. I thought him one of Robert’s spies.”
“So you ran.”
Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “After my husband died, I promised myself that I would never again let my happiness, or my misery, depend on another person. My stepson intended to make me the center of a terrible scandal. I wanted nothing more than to be left alone.” As she spoke, her fingers twisted themselves into knots. “So when the chance to disappear presented itself, I took it. At first, Ravenswood seemed an ideal hiding place. Remote. Secluded. Then Jack showed up.”
“And threatened to expose you.”
“I realized I could not go on living that way. When I saw that Mr. Sykes was leaving, it seemed the perfect chance to return to London and confront Robert once and for all, so I took it. I worried that if I delayed, even a moment, Jack would catch me. Or I would lose my nerve. Or you would try to stop me from doing what I meant to do.” Although he could see the effort it cost her, she forced herself to lift her eyes to his face. “I spoke to my stepson. I gave up my inheritance in exchange—I hope—for my peace.”
“I know.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the folded parchment, and handed it to her. “That is the letter you wrote. I feared Langerton might have forced your hand. You may return it to him, if you wish. Or you may destroy it.”
With restless fingers, she traced the edges of the document. “You believe I ought to fight him?”
“His case is weak. With your father’s revelation, I believe the tide of public opinion will turn in your favor. But only you can decide what to do, and I will respect your decision.”
After a long pause, she rose and stepped toward the hearth, clutching the folded note in one trembling hand. Holding it out toward the candle, she hesitated, then touched the paper to the feeble flame. The sudden flare of light showed him her expression—half fear, half determination—before she tossed the burning note into the empty fireplace, where soon nothing more remained of it than a few cinders.
“I made a terrible mistake once where you were concerned, Charlotte,” he said as she returned to her seat. Her strength and her bravery awed him. “When I met you here, I assumed you needed to be saved. I swooped in, as if you were a damsel in distress and I fancied myself your knight in shining armor.”
Once more, only a faint, flickering light limned her profile. “Mari says it has always been your way.”
“It has. And do you know why?” A quick shake of her head made her dark hair gleam. “Because when I saw others as vulnerable, it made it easier to deny my own vulnerabilities. You saw through that. When we met in this musty little inn, I believed I was rescuing you. Instead, you rescued me.”
Her chin dipped downward, and after a tremulous breath, she said, “I lied to you.”
“Were we not both guilty of keeping secrets, Mrs. Cary?”
Those words returned her gaze to his face. “I—I suppose.”
“You did not tell me your full name. Nor your title. But you were honest about what mattered. You showed me who you are.”
“Yes,” she whispered, sounding resigned. “Aunt Penhurst always said my ill nature was stamped on my face for anyone to read.”
“That is not what I meant.” Good God, but Lady Penhurst ought to thank her lucky stars that he was not prone to violence. “I will not pretend I was not shocked to discover your identity. Shocked, and disappointed to think that you did not think me worthy of your trust. But even if you’d introduced yourself from the first as Duchess of Langerton,” he insisted, “it would not have revealed anything more important to me than what you showed in so many other ways. The respect with which you spoke to Mari. How hard you worked to restore Ravenswood Manor, merely because you sensed my pain and hoped to ease it. And my mother . . .” The lump that rose in his throat made his words sound thick. “For all those years, she had been hiding in plain sight, scarred beyond recognition. You saw past the scars. And even when you were desperate to flee, you made sure she knew that I—that I had come home.” He wished it were not too dim to see the expression in her dark eyes. “I told myself that if you did not care for me, at least a little, you would never have done it.”
As always, she held herself immobile. He could not decide whether his words had surprised her. “You followed me.”
Sliding closer to her, he tilted his head and held her gaze a long moment. “I love you, Charlotte.” When her lips parted, he touched them with one finger to silence any protest, any reply. “No. Don’t speak. Just listen. You have heard those words too rarely in your life. Hear them now. I love you for seeing beyond the surface of things to what is beneath . . . to what is beautiful. I love you for marching straight toward whatever frightens you. I love the way you laugh.” Sensing that one of those little giggles was about to bubble from her lips, he drew his finger away to let it escape. “I love you. And I was not about to let you get away.”
With an awkward motion, she slid across the smooth seat of the wooden bench, far enough that they were no longer touching. “If you hope to resume your place in English society, you must distance yourself from me. It is bad enough that people will say I duped you into . . .” If the light were better, he would have sworn that she blushed. “That I hoped to make it more difficult for my stepson to prove my marriage was a sham.”
“And is that why you gave yourself to me?”
“No. Non.” More emphatic the second time, as if the English word had been insufficient to express her feelings. “I did not even know until I got to London that I was believed to be in search of—of a gentleman willing to do a most ungentlemanly thing.”
He could not deny feeling somewhat relieved. “Then why?”
A pause. “Je t’aime aussi.”
Although he was certain of what she said, she had spoken so low that he was tempted to ask her to say it again. Thinking better of it, he moved closer and kissed her instead, his lips caressing hers, then skating across her cheek to nuzzle her ear. Her fingers crept up his arms, over his collar, to curl in his hair, coaxing him with gentle pressure to return his mouth to hers.
When their lips parted, she looked at him with wide eyes. “How strange that chance should have brought us together here.”
“I have never been a great believer in coincidence.”
She smiled. “The first time I came to this inn, I wanted a place to be by myself. But now, I realize that what I truly craved was a place where I could be myself. A home.”
“And have you found one, Charlotte?”
“Yes. With you.” She leaned closer and whispered across his lips, “I love you, too.”
He stopped just short of returning her kiss. “The other night, I longed to ask you an important question, but a foolish fear kept me from speaking the words. You see, I swore never to marry. That way, no woman would risk becoming to me what my mother was to my father.”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head in disbelief. “You are nothing like him,” she insisted.
“No. I’m not. When I was a boy, I thought he was powerful. Now, I realize he was weak. But I’m strong. Strong enough to confess how frightened I felt when you left without a word.” He tangled his fingers with hers where they lay in her lap. “Strong enough to admit how much I need you. I know your life as a duchess has not always been what you hoped. And I cannot promise that life as my countess will always be easy. But—”
“Oh no, you mustn’t,” she said, though she made no effort to pull her hand away. “I am nothing more than scandal now. Look at what happened to poor, dear George. People will say you are mad to—to—”
“To marry a clever beauty of noble blood? Madness, indeed,” he murmured, dipping his head to press a string of kisses along the turn of her throat.
He felt a giggle ripple through her. “Perhaps you forget that I am in mourning, my lord,” she said, as she smoothed her inky skirts with her free hand.
“Mm.” His lips moved higher. “In six months the scandalmongers will have moved on to something new.”
“Six months? We must wait a year, at least.”
He thought—hoped—he had caught a teasing note in her voice. “A year?” He nipped at her earlobe. “However shall we pass the time?”
“I suppose I might take up residence in Little Norbury,” she suggested, studiously ignoring his kisses. “Perhaps the hermitage, now that Tessie—excusez-moi, Lady Beckley—has been restored to her rightful place. I promise I would not trouble you.”
“I beg to differ,” he whispered against her hair. “If you were living in Little Norbury or the Ravenswood hermitage, it would trouble me a great deal.”
“Then I might . . .” She drummed her fingers on the bench as she contemplated her options. “I might go back to Bath. I could take your mother, act as her companion. The waters would no doubt do her good.”
“Bath?” He drew back. “Worse and worse.”
“Why, whatever do you mean? It’s only a half-day’s ride from Ravenswood. You might visit us whenever you choose. And though it would not be proper for us to correspond, when your mother writes to you, as I’m sure she will, I might sneak in a postscript, now and then.”
Remembering the story of their supposed cross-Atlantic courtship, he said, “About the weather, I suppose?”
“No. I cannot think the differences between the weather in Bath and the weather in Gloucestershire would be anything to speak of. I was thinking of the usual subjects.” Her eyes glittered rather impishly in the near darkness. “Pump Room gossip. The latest fashions. You can tell us about the work on the manor, and whether the Toomeys’ baby is teething, and . . .”
“Sheep?” he suggested wryly. “Oh, no, my dear. I can promise that any note I write to you won’t be fit for my mother’s eyes.”
She tilted her head in a way that suggested a scold, though the room was too dark to allow him to see her expression. The effect was further spoiled when she laughed again. “In all seriousness, mon cher, I need a little time. Things have changed so fast. I am . . . overwhelmed. My father. My stepson’s suit, and”—she twisted her wedding band with her thumb—“I would not wish to become the person the gossips believe me to be. My husband was a dear man, worthy of honor, and I—”
“I will wait,” he assured her, stopping her words with a fingertip, brushing away her worries. “As long as you need. As long as I have your promise. Will you marry me, Charlotte? Just one word. Yes or no.” The gentle reminder of their night together was only half in jest. Then, as now, the choice must be hers. “In French or in English. It does not matter.”
Curling into his embrace, she laid her head against his shoulder. “Yes,” she breathed. “Oui. Always.”
Later, when the candle had guttered and the only light came from a rising moon, he swept the hair from her cheek and lifted her face to his. “You should go back to your bed.”
“I would much rather stay here with you.”
“Aren’t you at all worried we’ll be caught in this compromising position?” he teased. It was not a cozy spot for lovemaking. It was not even comfortable. But he made no move to let her go, either. “I might be forced to make an honest woman of you.”
With a sly smile, she reached for the blanket she had brought down, and wrapped it clumsily around them both. “You can try.”