Read Online The Beloved One by Danelle Harmon - Free Book Online Page A

plush softness of a breast, and he heard her surprised gasp as he jerked his hand back, curling his fingers into his palm, into a fist, and cursing himself for his inadvertent liberty.
    "Miss Leighton, I am dreadfully sorry —"
    "N-no, you couldn't see what you were doing, there's nothing to be s-sorry about," she managed, in a breathless little voice.
    "Shall we try again?"
    "Yes — " a nervous little laugh — "yes, let's."
    He tentatively extended his arm.  God help him, the feel of her breast, so soft, so firm, so ripe, was still seared on his fingertips, imprinted on his brain.  Charles didn't even realize his hand was still fisted until he felt her gently prying apart his fingers.
    It was all he could do not to pull her down into his arms, to put his hands all over her so that he could see, through his touch, the face of this woman who had done so much for him, who was the only light in his world of darkness, who seemed to intuitively understand and protect for him those things he needed most.  Dignity.  Rest.  Space to heal.
    But he could not put his hands on her, of course.  He could not go about touching people.  He could not, would not, go about touching young women, especially those to whom he wasn't engaged to be married.  And so he rose to his feet, taking care that he didn't put undue pressure on her hand and thus throw her off balance, and then stood there swaying a little with disorientation, weakness, and a renewed pounding of his head.
    "Can you manage this, Lord Charles?"
    "Yes — just give me a moment."  He took a few deep breaths to steady himself.  She remained very still beside him, just holding his hand, letting him get used to the feel of being on his feet once more.
    "I am ready now," he said.
    She squeezed his hand and took a step.  He, in his stockinged feet, followed.  How very strange it felt to move through this impenetrable blackness.  How very strange it felt to entrust your steps, and more importantly, your direction, to another.  And how strange it was to put such confidence in this small, albeit strong, little hand.  She did not try to hurry him, but merely stayed with him, holding his hand and reassuring him by her very presence that he was not alone.  He kept moving.  His head swam with dizziness and his skin prickled with apprehension that he would bump into something and fall, that he would trip over something and bring them both crashing to the floor.  But no.  He tripped over nothing, and she stayed right beside him.
    "We're at the door to the study now, Lord Charles.  It's open.  If you shuffle your feet, you'll find the doorjamb and it won't trip you up."
    He did, and there it was, just as she'd warned.  He lifted his foot, walked over the tiny obstacle that, in his infirm state, would have been enough to send him sprawling, and began to move a little more confidently.  The girl kept pace beside him.  He felt like a big, blundering fool for clutching her tiny hand as though it was the only thing in the world worth hanging onto, but he couldn't help it.
    It was.
    "We're here," she said.  "If you turn to your right and back up a bit, you'll find yourself against Sylvanus's favorite chair.  It'd be a good place for you to sit and dictate to me, I think."
    He did as she suggested, and there it was, the stuffed edge of a chair, pressing against the back of his legs.  Suddenly weary, he put out one hand, found the arm, positioned his body, and very carefully lowered himself down.  It was amazing how much thought was needed for acts to which he wouldn't have given the merest consideration, before.  But the chair was deep, the stuffing soft and lumpy with age and use, and it swallowed him up like a mother's arms might a babe.  Charles sighed and leaned his aching head back, and it was only then that he rather reluctantly released the girl's hand.
    "Are you all right, Lord Charles?"
    "My head," he murmured.  "It's killing me."
    There was a slight hesitation;