Caroline Linden

by What A Woman Needs

  Almost unwillingly, Stuart began to examine his motives for helping Charlotte look for her niece, why he had spent the last week combing London for Susan while his financial situation grew more dire by the day. It was the gentlemanly, honorable thing to do, of course, and that was part of the reason; he also felt some responsibility, even guilt, for the girl’s disappearance, since it was his courtship of Susan that had caused the rift between aunt and niece. But the remaining part—the greater part—had nothing to do with honor. He had offered to help Charlotte because he wanted to be near her. He wanted to help her, and make her happy again. He wanted to see her smile at him, feel her fingers on his skin, breathe the soft warm scent of her perfume, and he wanted to hold her in his arms every night for the foreseeable future.

  That was what was upending all his plans. Before Charlotte, marrying a wealthy young girl had seemed perfectly reasonable—not ideal, but certainly prudent. Now he couldn’t imagine a girl who could hold a candle to Charlotte, and he wasn’t sure he could bear it, knowing what he would be missing. He could still marry an heiress—already the stain of the scandal was wearing off—and then he could keep Oakwood Park, restore it the way he dreamed of, and have the independence he craved. But he wouldn’t have Charlotte.

  Stuart thought again of Oakwood Park. It had been his dream for years, since he had been a young man recently out of university and had finally realized that his life would be one of waiting; his grandfather was still hale and hearty at eighty, and Terrance no less so in his fifties. While some of his friends, notably Ware, had professed they could wait decades before inheriting their responsibilities, Stuart had always wished he wouldn’t have to wait quite so long. One of his secret habits had been getting orders to view properties for sale and assessing them as if he were buying them, imagining how he would improve them and run them. Oakwood Park had stolen his heart, and he had taken the leap, on faith and credit and cold determination to make a success of it.

  But this time the vision of his own hearth and home seemed as cold and lonely as Philip’s house. Would it be worth it, riding across his own fields back to his own manor, when the woman waiting for him wouldn’t be the woman he wanted? For some time the answer to that question had been yes; the woman he had wanted, after all, had been anyone who was wealthy enough to make the fields and manor his. At this moment, though, he rather thought it would be an unbearable existence, because ... because ...

  Gingerly, Stuart let himself think the dangerous thought. He was falling in love with Charlotte. It was more than a little frightening. He didn’t know anyone for whom love had worked out well. Ware had been in love, years ago, and had gone through hell when the girl broke his heart. Was still in hell, to all appearances. Aiden Montgomery had been so madly in love he had been ready to desert the Royal Navy, and had also ended up with his heart broken. Stuart wanted no part of that pain.

  He feared it might be too late already, though. Even as he stood on the brink of ruin, about to lose the estate he had poured all his energy and money into for the last year and be left homeless and penniless, all he could think of was Charlotte with someone else, someone like Carlos or Piero or another faceless man Stuart hated already. He wanted her, very selfishly, for himself, even as he admitted he had nothing to offer her but himself.

  He smiled humorlessly. What did it even matter what he felt for her? He didn’t have the slightest idea if she returned his feelings, or ever could, after the way they had met. He had no doubt her loyalty and affections lay with her niece. He could hardly fault her for that; he loved her for it, in fact. Stuart knew how rare that sort of devotion was, even among family, and had nothing but admiration for Charlotte’s steadfastness even in the face of Susan’s rebellion.

  Stuart fell back on the only choice open to him. First, he would worry about finding Susan; until that happened, Charlotte would never be truly happy, and it would keep his promise to her. Then, when her niece was safely returned and things had settled down, he would determine whether she cared for him, and what, if anything, he could do about his feelings for her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Charlotte delayed going downstairs as long as possible. The maid, out of habit, did not bring her breakfast. Charlotte almost sent for her trunk and started packing, but Stuart was right—she couldn’t simply leave—and so she went down to eat as she had every morning.

  It was late morning, and the breakfast room was empty. The sideboard had been cleared, but a servant brought her toast and tea. There were two letters lying at her place, and Charlotte read them while she ate.

  The first was from Lucia, in reply to Charlotte’s letter.

  Italians, oh! How I long for Italians in Kent! Sadly, there are none but myself, to my knowledge, although this has made me something of a curiosity. Or perhaps I mean celebrity? Whichever, I dine out on my accent many nights, which is lovely although the English have the blandest diet in all the world. Even the Russians eat better.

  Charlotte skimmed the rest of the page until she reached Lucia’s answer to her other question:

  There have been no more housebreakers since you left. The house is secured like a royal treasury, and alas, no men have come to ravage my lingerie, not even Mr. Whitley. I have unpacked all the crates and boxes, which has improved the house greatly; you should not have left such beautiful things in straw. But though I waited up four nights with a pistol ready, no thieves came. Only for you would I pack it all away again, but I shall do my best. I also had the pianoforte tuned, for all that it is a poor instrument, but before you ask, no, I have not found my muse. Mr. Whitley, I fear, may prove to be Cherubino, better at proclaiming his affections than demonstrating them ...

  Charlotte put the letter aside for closer reading later, somewhat diverted by the thought of Lucia resuming her singing. The other letter was addressed in a vaguely familiar hand, but she didn’t place it until she opened it. Her heart flipped as she realized it was from Stuart. He had heard from Benton, in Kent; a slender, dark-skinned man, thought to be a Spaniard, had stayed just outside of town in a tavern room. He had left abruptly at the same time Susan ran away, but as he had paid his rent a month in advance, the landlord hadn’t paid much mind. Armed with this information, Stuart wrote, he intended to find Pitney at once and help him continue the search. He promised to send word as soon as he could, and signed it simply “S.”

  Charlotte was rereading it, tracing each sharp spiky letter, thinking of the hand that had made them, when her hostess entered the room.

  “Good morning, Madame Griffolino,” chirped Amelia, beaming.

  Charlotte folded the letter. “Good morning.”

  “It’s a lovely day. Would you care to visit Bond Street with me?”

  “Oh, no, thank you.” She shuffled her letters in agitation. This was too much to bear. She was breakfasting with her lover’s mother. “Mrs. Drake, I greatly appreciate your hospitality, but perhaps it would be best if I removed to a hotel. I cannot impose on you forever—”

  “Nonsense!” Amelia cried. “You must stay here! A lady, alone, at a hotel? It simply isn’t done.”

  “I could summon my friend from Kent,” Charlotte tried to say, but Amelia raised one hand.

  “But you are already settled here! Please do stay; I am so pleased we can help you in any way during this trying time.”

  “That is very kind of you, but you have already been kinder to a stranger than anyone could require—”

  “Madame Griffolino.” Amelia grew suddenly absorbed in her cup of tea. “Please stay. I beseech you.”

  “I wouldn’t ...”

  “I have seen my son more in the fortnight you have been here than I saw him in the previous year,” said Amelia into her tea. “I’m not such a fool to think he’ll take breakfast with me once you leave.”

  The Drakes, Charlotte thought, were the strangest family she had ever encountered. Mr. Drake threatened to throw her into the street almost within her hearing, and his wife begged her to stay. What went on
between them, when they discussed their differing positions? Charlotte would have wagered heavily in Mr. Drake’s favor, and yet he had done nothing but glare at her on occasion. She gave in as gracefully as she could. “Then I shall stay, so long as my presence is not a burden.”

  “Not at all!” Amelia’s smile was wide with relief and, Charlotte realized with even more discomfort, suppressed tears. “You are welcome to stay as long as necessary to find your niece.”

  Charlotte indicated the letters beside her plate. “Stuart sent word this morning that his valet has heard of a foreigner living near Tunbridge Wells this past month, who may be Italian. He and Mr. Pitney are setting to finding him at once. I hope Susan is found very soon.”

  “Of course. I pray she is found soon, and is unharmed.”

  Charlotte didn’t even want to think about what she would do if Susan returned injured in some way, or even, heaven forbid, with child. If she had been persuaded she was to marry soon, Susan might have been persuaded to allow him unspeakable liberties. Charlotte grimaced at the irony of that; she was a fine one to wring her hands over Susan giving herself to a man who had no intention of marrying her.

  The difference, of course, was that Susan still had a chance to make a respectable marriage. Charlotte intended to do everything in her power to keep this horror from coming to light. That was why she had allowed Stuart to persuade her to go out in society. If anyone’s reputation had to suffer, let it be hers; Charlotte fervently hoped that if any scandal came to be attached to them, her own more notorious past would distract people from Susan’s disappearance.

  She excused herself and returned to her room. She reread her letters, smiling at Lucia’s laments on Mr. Whitley’s continued hesitation. But the tuned pianoforte was encouraging. Charlotte wrote a reply, thanking Lucia for her news and dropping strong hints about the fevered reception even mediocre opera singers enjoyed in London. One thing Lucia couldn’t stand was praise unfairly given.

  The letter from Stuart was less satisfying, because it was shorter and she could send no reply. She wanted to demand to know what he had learned, and this time she wanted to accompany him on his search. Sitting in this house day after day was a nightmare, and while Charlotte could admit she had been too hysterical to be of much help in the first days of Susan’s disappearance, now her emotions had boiled down to cold, hard determination. For all that Stuart had come to her aid almost nobly, Charlotte wanted to feel as though she were doing something herself. Writing to Lucia and waiting for word from Susan didn’t suit her. Even if she gained no ground in the search, she would feel better about it. Right now she had nothing to do but think about all her troubles, which was not the most comforting thing at the moment.

  By luncheon, Charlotte was a wreck. Her stomach was so knotted with anxiety, she couldn’t eat. Stuart had sent no word, and although it was unreasonable to expect him to do so every hour, the waiting shredded her patience as well as her nerves. She lay on her bed and tried to rest, but her eyes refused to close. She stared at the ceiling, her mind inevitably turning to thoughts of last night.

  She was in deeper trouble than she’d feared. Making love to Stuart hadn’t satisfied her lust, as hoped. Just thinking about his hands moving over her skin was enough to make her hot and restless. Charlotte could accept that; it was often that way at the beginning of an affair. What bothered her more was the memory of Stuart’s expression when he thought she was asleep. No man had ever looked at her that way, as if she were precious and amazing and completely beyond his expectations. As if he couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to find her. As if he might be different than every other man in her life.

  She hid her face in the pillow. It was happening again. She was falling in love with a man who wouldn’t marry her. At least this time she was thirty and not seventeen, with no illusions about the future. For Susan’s sake, she had to remain decent and respectable, and for his own sake, Stuart had to marry a wealthy bride. Whatever passed between them would have to be brief and clandestine, stolen hours or minutes that wouldn’t satisfy her. For a desperate moment she wished Susan wouldn’t be found for weeks, giving her a chance to savor her time with Stuart.

  Slowly the tears pooled in her eyes. She was irredeemably wicked now, wanting to sacrifice her poor, innocent niece in favor of her sinful desires. She wiped the tears away in disgust. Crying about it would do no good. She had learned that lesson years ago. When her father sent her away, she had cried and cried, begging him to change his mind and let her stay, but he had walked away from her without a word, and her whole world had vanished in the blink of an eye.

  She lurched off the bed. There must be something she could do to distract herself from the misery of her private life. She had promised to attend a ball tonight with Stuart, but that was hours away. With any luck, he would have good news of Susan, which would put an end to things regardless of her feelings. She must make herself hope for that.

  In desperation she went to the library. Charlotte had never been much of a reader, preferring to do things rather than read about them. She had barely slept last night, she must be tired, and if she found a dull enough book, she would fall asleep and not have to think.

  The Drake library was quiet and dim, appropriately dreary, to her mind. She wandered the shelves, squinting at titles. The room was shaped like a horseshoe, situated next to a glassed-in rotunda garden, and the light diminished almost to the point of darkness as she went around the curve. To her surprise, there was a window at the far end, shrouded in draperies. She pulled them aside a little, still hoping for a book on agricultural methods or political history. The light streamed in and Charlotte turned to the shelves, then gasped.

  Stuart stared back at her. She blinked, and leaned closer in disbelief. It was an exceptionally good painting, catching almost exactly the line of his nose and the arch of his brows. There was a hint of deviltry in his expression, although he was very staidly dressed. Charlotte frowned; the clothing was old fashioned, not staid, decades out of date. Not Stuart, then; a relative, though, for certain. She wondered who it was, and why his portrait was consigned to the darkest corner of the house.

  “Curious wench, aren’t you?” She whirled around with a strangled chirp, the sound of a scream uttered with her heart in her throat. Terrance Drake stood behind her, leaning on his cane and glaring at her with angry eyes. “Taken to exploring, have you?” he said, jerking his head at the portrait. “Not enough of your own to worry about?”

  Charlotte folded her hands and raised her chin. “Not at all. I was looking for a book, and cannot see in the dark.” She glanced pointedly at the drape.

  “Hmmph.” He stomped closer. “Go on. Ask. I can see you want to know.” He nodded again at the portrait.

  Charlotte didn’t look at it. “It is none of my concern, of course. I was merely startled by the resemblance.”

  He turned to the painting, his expression even more bitter and venomous. “It’s uncanny. In every way. As alike as twins, they are. Both rotten to the core.”

  “Now really,” said Charlotte before she could stop herself. “He’s your own son.”

  He snorted. “Blood cannot be deceived; I know him for what he is.”

  “Blood cannot be deceived, but it can be betrayed? I find it hard to agree with you, sir,” she said coldly.

  Mr. Drake continued to stare at the portrait as if he would like to tear it down and destroy it. “Your blood betrayed you, didn’t it? Ran off with a scoundrel, didn’t she? Turned her back on her duty to her family and did as she pleased. Bonds of blood meant nothing to her when her fancy called.”

  “She’s just a girl,” protested Charlotte in outrage. “I am her only family, and it is I who owe a duty to her, not the other way round.”

  “Seducers, liars, gamesters,” rumbled Mr. Drake. “Not an ounce of responsibility between them.” He turned on Charlotte, pointing at the portrait. “My own brother! It was a blessing he died young. My son,” he said with contempt, “is ju
st like him. My father tolerated them both, and they both did nothing for him! If you are wise, madam, remain childless. Your niece has proven the weakness in your own blood; rest assured it will come out, if given the opportunity.” His hand fell, and he faced the painting, radiating hatred. “Good day to you.”

  Charlotte fled, shocked to her core by such virulence and rudeness. Poor Stuart, her heart wept, to have such a father. What must it have been like, living in this house for years with all that dislike focused on him? His mother loved him, but even her affection was tainted. What would make a father hate his own son so badly, even wish him dead? And how had the son turned out as well as he had?

  More and more she wished she had never said a word to Lady Kildair; it had been unfair to spread gossip of which she had no firsthand knowledge, and now she was soaked in shame at the discovery that it was likely all a lie. Stuart angered his father simply by being, and whatever else he might have done to provoke the man seemed beside the point, in Charlotte’s mind. She certainly wouldn’t go out of her way to please a man who hated her, father or not.

  It was none of her concern, she tried to tell herself. There was nothing she could do but cause more trouble, prying into family secrets Stuart didn’t want revealed. She would just have to control her curiosity.

  The ball that evening proved to be a marvelous distraction. She never knew how she came to be invited to the Throckmortons’ affair; the invitation had simply arrived. Of course it was Stuart’s doing, and Charlotte reflected that he was fortunate in his friends if not in his family. The Duke and Duchess of Ware had invited her to accompany them, so she was well received, but she began to worry as they made their way through the crowded ballroom. She felt out of place again, and was more than a little apprehensive about being in society in the first place. Anyone who had known her family might recognize her. She stood stiffly beside the duchess, all her senses on alert for any ruinous whispers around her.