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Authors: Beverley Kendall
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and nod in mute affirmation, embarrassment lingering in her fiery cheeks and lash-veiled eyes.
He turned to go and then stopped as if confronted by a wall. Angling his head, he pinned her with a stare as bitter and icy as the north England winters. “And by God, if you run again and make me chase you—because now that I know you have my son, I will chase you to the ends of the earth this time—I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your days. Am I clear?”
Part of her wanted to do just that, run from the man he’d become. But an even larger part could not countenance the thought of being parted from him again.
“I’ll not run.” Her voice was scratchy and barely above a whisper.
“See that you don’t.” With that, he slipped from the room, disappearing into the dark hallway without hardly making a sound.
Another minute of silence passed before Charlotte looked down and noticed the stark whiteness of her knuckles as she clutched her bed sheets. Unclenching her hands, she forced herself to relax. She inhaled a deep breath and pulled the counterpane around her, enveloping herself in its warmth.
The risk had always been there that Alex would have deduced the truth about Nicholas. Her son could be a chatterbox when he got started and something—namely his true age—could easily have slipped. Hadn’t her sister guessed the truth, repudiating the existence of her conveniently dead husband with facile confidence?
What had followed was Charlotte’s retelling of those pivotal events that had forever changed their lives. A guilt-ridden tale ripe with omissions and half-truths.
She’d told her sister of the crushing weight of responsibility that had accosted her. When she’d agreed to marry Alex, he’d been the second son of a duke. But months after their betrothal Charles had died and suddenly she was to be a duchess. The culmination of it had all been too much. By the time she’d realized she was with child, she was so far from home and sick because of the pregnancy, she’d barely left her flat for four months thereafter. How could she return to England heavy with child? And then there had been her baby to consider. She could not have made the journey back pregnant and alone.
Charlotte thought her reasons all terribly valid and plausible. She certainly would not subject her sister to the truth, unvarnished and with the unsavory overtones of a penny dreadful.
But Lord, what was she to do now? Or perhaps a more fitting question was what would he do? Since he’d laid eyes on her, he treated her like something worse than leprosy. And then he had kissed her with a passion even he couldn’t disguise. She desperately wanted the kiss to mean something; an instinctive reaction to a passion long denied. She’d settle for lust if she must.
But while her heart craved the happily ever after of reunited lovers, her brain, ever the pragmatist, told her he’d made his feelings for her clear. He despised her. He resented her. He would never forgive her. To him, not only had she abandoned him on the most momentous of days, but she was now the enemy who had denied him his child.
Alex exited the bedchamber and glanced around the dimly lit hall. He knew every nook and shadowed corner of the manor. He’d played in it often enough as a child, and had frequented it plenty in the years Rutherford had resumed residence there.
All was quiet, everyone asleep in their beds—save Charlotte. And if he’d joined her in hers, he’d have had her up until dawn attempting to slake five years of hunger. As it was, Alex would have a time of it himself when he returned to his bed alone.
Having managed his midnight visit without discovery, he ought to make his escape as quickly as he could using the most direct route. But imprudence won out over caution.
Silent as a thief, he made his way to the wing housing the children’s rooms and paused in front of the nursery door.
Had the door been ajar, nothing could have stopped
He turned to go and then stopped as if confronted by a wall. Angling his head, he pinned her with a stare as bitter and icy as the north England winters. “And by God, if you run again and make me chase you—because now that I know you have my son, I will chase you to the ends of the earth this time—I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your days. Am I clear?”
Part of her wanted to do just that, run from the man he’d become. But an even larger part could not countenance the thought of being parted from him again.
“I’ll not run.” Her voice was scratchy and barely above a whisper.
“See that you don’t.” With that, he slipped from the room, disappearing into the dark hallway without hardly making a sound.
Another minute of silence passed before Charlotte looked down and noticed the stark whiteness of her knuckles as she clutched her bed sheets. Unclenching her hands, she forced herself to relax. She inhaled a deep breath and pulled the counterpane around her, enveloping herself in its warmth.
The risk had always been there that Alex would have deduced the truth about Nicholas. Her son could be a chatterbox when he got started and something—namely his true age—could easily have slipped. Hadn’t her sister guessed the truth, repudiating the existence of her conveniently dead husband with facile confidence?
What had followed was Charlotte’s retelling of those pivotal events that had forever changed their lives. A guilt-ridden tale ripe with omissions and half-truths.
She’d told her sister of the crushing weight of responsibility that had accosted her. When she’d agreed to marry Alex, he’d been the second son of a duke. But months after their betrothal Charles had died and suddenly she was to be a duchess. The culmination of it had all been too much. By the time she’d realized she was with child, she was so far from home and sick because of the pregnancy, she’d barely left her flat for four months thereafter. How could she return to England heavy with child? And then there had been her baby to consider. She could not have made the journey back pregnant and alone.
Charlotte thought her reasons all terribly valid and plausible. She certainly would not subject her sister to the truth, unvarnished and with the unsavory overtones of a penny dreadful.
But Lord, what was she to do now? Or perhaps a more fitting question was what would he do? Since he’d laid eyes on her, he treated her like something worse than leprosy. And then he had kissed her with a passion even he couldn’t disguise. She desperately wanted the kiss to mean something; an instinctive reaction to a passion long denied. She’d settle for lust if she must.
But while her heart craved the happily ever after of reunited lovers, her brain, ever the pragmatist, told her he’d made his feelings for her clear. He despised her. He resented her. He would never forgive her. To him, not only had she abandoned him on the most momentous of days, but she was now the enemy who had denied him his child.
Alex exited the bedchamber and glanced around the dimly lit hall. He knew every nook and shadowed corner of the manor. He’d played in it often enough as a child, and had frequented it plenty in the years Rutherford had resumed residence there.
All was quiet, everyone asleep in their beds—save Charlotte. And if he’d joined her in hers, he’d have had her up until dawn attempting to slake five years of hunger. As it was, Alex would have a time of it himself when he returned to his bed alone.
Having managed his midnight visit without discovery, he ought to make his escape as quickly as he could using the most direct route. But imprudence won out over caution.
Silent as a thief, he made his way to the wing housing the children’s rooms and paused in front of the nursery door.
Had the door been ajar, nothing could have stopped
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