For a moment, he considered that it would be most ungentlemanly of him to drag her bodily from this place, and then he made a lunge for her and wrapped his arm securely around her waist. Gentlemanliness be damned. He’d spent a year in hell without Char. He wasn’t going to let some skittish chit cause him to spend the rest of his life in misery. Salisbury was in love with a loon.
“Cease your screaming,” he demanded, and when she failed to do so, he gently placed his hand over her mouth. She kicked back, missed his jewels by a nerve- shattering inch, but landed a hard kick to his inner thigh. He held on tight, prepared to drag her to his carriage and calm her on the ride to Salisbury’s home, but something sharp raked across his arm, leaving a trail of stinging fire in his wake.
“Damnation!” he shouted, releasing her and staring down at the crimson trail of blood on his arm. “You cut me.”
“You—” She pointed a finger at him. “You left me no choice. You’re trying to abduct me.”
Drew frowned. Technically, he was trying to abduct her, but only because she’d forced him to it. Frustrated, he jerked a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to help you. Salisbury is about to marry the woman I love because of your stubbornness.”
“Who is Salisbury?” she asked with a furrowed brow.
Drew jerked backwards, feeling as if she’d just punched him in the chest. “Aren’t you Marianne Marchinson?”
“No. I’m Marianne Smith. Miss Marchinson is in the back with Madame Marmont.”
Of all the astonishingly bad luck. “Please,” he implored, “I must speak with Miss Marchinson.”
The woman nodded and motioned for him to follow her. “There, just down this hall.”
That was all the information he needed. He strode past the woman, towards the sound of feminine voices, and burst into the room. Two women, one plump with salt and pepper hair, and one tall and willowy with honey-colored hair, stood pinning a dress. Drew let out a relieved sigh, which brought two surprised gazes to his face. He strode to the young woman with the fine-boned face and large brown eyes, positive he had the correct woman this time, but just in case— “Marianne Marchinson?” he asked.
She took a pin from between her lips. “Yes. May I help you?”
“I sure as hell hope so.” He shoved the letter at her. “The woman I love is about to marry Salisbury, because he’s lost all hope that you’ll marry him.”
Miss Marchinson’s face drained so quickly of color that Drew placed a steadying hand on her elbow in case she fainted. The woman gripped his arm. “When?”
Drew took out his fob watch and blinked in disbelief. His watch displayed the exact same time it had when he had first arrived here. Fear and dread pumped through his veins in a spurt, and his heart lodged in his throat. “What time is it?” he asked, tapping on the face of his watch. It was definitely broken. Curse his father. This blasted watch had been a gift from the fiend. Drew shoved the offending piece back into this overcoat pocket. “The time,” he demanded at Miss Marchinson’s bent head.
Her gaze met his, the letter in her hands shaking. “My father truly wrote this?”
Drew nodded, unable to share in the obvious happiness infusing the woman. “I must know the time.”
“It’s five past ten, my lord,” the older woman, Madame Marmont, he presumed, answered.
He tugged on Miss Marchinson’s elbow. “Come,” he said gruffly on a swell of emotion. “If you’re the praying kind, then start praying.”
~ 6 ~
Charlotte stood under the grey sky, knee-deep in the freezing snow as Mr. Perkins, her coachman, tried to fix the busted wheel of the carriage. She tapped her foot against the powdery mound beneath her slipper and watched the deepening imprint in the snow. When she returned to London, she would call on Salisbury and explain more coherently and in person why she had broken their betrothal. She prayed he would be a little understanding of her unforgivable note, since she had explained her father was terribly ill. Though, a note saying ‘I can no longer bring myself to marry for anything but love’ hardly would endear her to the marquess.
Mr. Perkins let out a string of bawdy curses, interrupting her musings on Salisbury, and Charlotte, teeth chattering violently, nodded her head in agreement with the coachman’s sentiment. Mr. Perkin’s popped up from under the coach, worry causing the lines in his brow to deepen to the point Charlotte suspected the tip of her finger would fit perfectly into one of the craters.
He shook his head as he stood up and dusted the snow off his trousers. “It’s no use, Miss Milne. Blasted wheel.” He kicked at the coach.
Charlotte blew a damp strand of hair off her eyes. Blasted wheel, indeed. And blasted storm with the blasted snow and bloody, blasted lack of sun, too. Charlotte wiggled her numb toes and glanced down the shadowy, barren road then up at the darkening sky. What little bit of sunlight had managed to break through the thick storm clouds earlier today had long disappeared. The steady wind blew an eerie, high-pitched melody around her, while little slivers of ice pelted her face.
She looked at Mr. Perkins. “The night’s approaching quickly.”
He nodded. “Could be awhile, possibly morning, before another carriage ventures back out on the road because of the snow.”
Charlotte clapped her soggy gloves together. As she saw it, they had two options, neither of them good, but one option at least did not put both of them sitting here waiting for help that may never come. Decision made, she set her jaw, knowing Mr. Perkins might argue. “You had better get going if you’re going to make it to the inn by nightfall.” A white puff of air came from her mouth on the word ‘fall’. Was that some sort of premonition of things to come? A deep chill settled into her bones.
Mr. Perkin’s eyes widened, and then he shook his head. “I’ll not leave you here in the cold all alone.”
“How sweet of you,” she said and took hold of his arm, turning him away from the carriage and pointing him in the direction of the inn. “When they find our cold, dead bodies tomorrow morning, they’ll praise you for your loyalty then curse you for your stupidity.”
He nodded. “We’ll go together?”
“I wouldn’t make twenty feet, let alone a mile in my slippers.”
Mr. Perkin’s gaze went immediately to her feet. “I see your point. Still…”
“No ‘stills’ about it, Mr. Perkins. You’re much taller than me. I’ll only slow you down and leave us both open to freezing to death.” She squared her shoulders. “Go. I’ll wait in the carriage, cozy and warm under the lap blankets. It’s me who should be worried about you.”
“I hope I don’t live to regret this,” Mr. Perkins said and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a shiny pistol. Charlotte sucked in a surprised breath that filled her lungs with a cold blast of air. Mr. Perkins handed the pistol to her. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
She nodded, took the pistol, and clasped the cold metal in her hand. “What about you? What will you use to protect yourself?”
He winked at her, bent down, and drew up his pant leg. “I always carry extra protection.”
“You, sir, are the perfect coachman,” she said, squeezing his arm before turning away and clambering into the coach. Mr. Perkins poked his head in through the door. “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be fine,” she promised. She placed several blankets over her legs then forced a large smile to her face. “See, I’m perfectly warm.” She raised the pistol clutched in her hands. “And safe.”
Mr. Perkins swiped a hand over his face. “All right then. I’ll go, but, Miss Milne…”
“Yes?” she asked, striving to keep the exasperation out of her voice. The man was worried about her, for heaven’s sake. She should be grateful, not irritated, but the longer he lingered, the darker it would be when he was gone.
“Stay alert,” he said and firmly shut the carriage door.
Stay alert. She leaned forwards and watched his tall, hulking frame make tracks through the snow until she could see hi
m no more. Fear made her tingle from the inside out.
Stay alert. His words echoed through her head.
She pressed back into the carriage seat, her fingers curling tightly around the pistol. An excellent suggestion. And one she planned to follow to the letter. The wind whistled loudly around the carriage. She needed something to concentrate on besides the fact that she was alone in a burgeoning snowstorm. Laying the pistol carefully on her legs, she took out the Duke of Danby’s letter and read it again, her stomach clenching with worry just as badly as it had last night. Well, this had been a colossally bad decision. Now fear for herself and her father battled for precedence inside her, leaving her with a decidedly queasy feeling. Fear for her father trumped everything, and she folded her hands together and prayed fervently that her father had made a turn for the better.
If he passed away and she didn’t get to say goodbye, she would never forgive herself for her cowardliness at fleeing Danby Castle. She’d been horribly selfish, depriving her father and herself of their relationship simply because she didn’t want to face the knowing looks Drew’s family would wear. Even now, she could recall clearly the scorn swimming in the Marquess of Norland’s gaze. And Drew’s twin sisters’ eyes had been rounded orbs of pity as Drew had crumpled under his father’s threats to make him penniless. She squeezed her eyes closed on a fresh wave of humiliation.
Her father could not help the fact that he was employed by the duke any more than he could help the fact that Drew had shunned her then fled the castle, leaving her to face the ridicule and scorn of his family alone.
Drew.
Her throat worked convulsively, and warm tears seeped out of her eyes to course down her cheeks. Drew was a weak fool who could not live without the money he was accustomed to. She swiped her cold glove across her cheek. Drew was not just a fool, now he was a drunken fool. She sniffed and grasped for the familiar idea that she hated him. The thought swirled in her head, and she tried to let it envelop her every thought as it had done for a year. After a few moments, she let out a long, shuddering sigh. At last, she was unable to maintain her anger towards Drew, which had helped her survive through this long, lonely year. Letting go of the hate was a relief.
Now, in the dark, cold carriage, faced with her father’s possible death and her own possible death, she allowed the truth to fill her mind and heart.
She loved Drew.
Desperately. How silly to deny it to herself here and now.
The carriage creaked and swayed with the force of the wind. Her heart jerked wildly. She was cold. Much colder than moments before. She wiggled her numb toes, suddenly afraid of freezing to death. How long did it take? How cold did it have to be? Overwhelmed with sadness, she pressed her head into her hands, deep sobs wracking her body. Memories invaded her—Drew, his face twisted in anguish, as he told her his father would disinherit him if he married her. Tears had flowed down his stubbly jaw, and his body had shaken when he gripped her.
She’d been so mortified, so angry. She’d wanted only to hate him. When her father had suggested she’d been seduced and all the other servants had agreed with him, it had been easier to believe that Drew had found her attractive, wanted her, and employed any means necessary to have her, than to believe Lord Norland’s horrid words that she was a woman of easy virtue whom Drew had bedded and asked to marry in a childish attempt to anger his father.
She moaned with the memories. She saw Drew leaving her room, unable to look her in the face. His gaze had darted everywhere, never settling on her. She’d decided it was because of embarrassment, but perhaps it had been shame.
She curled her fingers into the carriage cushion. She didn’t hate Drew. The acceptance of the truth was liberating. She loved him, but it was different now. She was different. She’d thought of Drew as a golden god, an invincible, beautiful creature with all the comforts life could ever offer who had turned his glorious love on her.
Drew was simply a man, vulnerable to the core and weak. She couldn’t hate him anymore for his weakness. He had demons enough without her hate. Maybe someday, she would find a man who would want nothing more in life than to wake up morning after morning beside the woman he loved and who loved him wholeheartedly in return. If they awoke in a cabin on a lumpy bed with a dripping roof, and they had to scrape for every pence they had, they would be rich beyond words because they would be rich in love.
Her head pounded, whether from the cold or the revelations, she wasn’t sure. She closed her eyes and willed the pounding to subside. Hopefully, Drew would not be in residence when she was there, but if he was, she would simply have to avoid him. She understood just how vulnerable she was, and she did not want to fall prey to his silken words again and risk her heart for a man who would risk nothing for her. She accepted that she loved him, but she refused to accept that she was so weak she would allow him to seduce her again when she knew it would go nowhere.
She pulled the bundle of blankets beneath her chin and hummed to herself, until her humming and the wind became the same in her ears and memories of sitting on her mother’s lap and being rocked in the warmth of her embrace filled her.
~ * ~
Drew stared out of the slow-moving carriage into the darkness of the night and waited for Edgeworth’s breathing to turn to the deep rhythm of sleep. As Drew suspected, it didn’t take long for Edgeworth’s breathing to change. Just to be certain, Drew glanced at his cousin. Sleep had indeed claimed him. The man was sprawled across the length of the carriage, his booted feet propped on the opposite seat, his features relaxed into a perfect picture of sedateness.
Drew dropped his face into his hands and inhaled a long, shuddering breath. Damn Char…even though she was married to another man, Drew’s every thought was still for her. Sleep eluded him. He wasn’t hungry, nor did he want to go wenching or drinking. All he wanted was one more chance to hold her in his arms and tell her what a fool he had been and that he would give up everything just to be with her.
What if he had been blunt and direct last night when he had collided with her in the theatre, instead of trying to be clever? Would today still have transpired as it had? Would he still have arrived at Salisbury’s, only to be informed by a haughty, tight-lipped butler that the wedding “was over” and the master “was gone” on his honeymoon trip. Drew sat back and allowed the devastation he had stored within himself since this afternoon to fill his heart. He clenched the edge of the seat against the pain of his loss.
He would never get to enjoy the fantasy of domesticity he had painted of them inside his mind. They would not read by the crackling fire, while their children—at least four of them—played by their feet. Or there was the fantasy where they were riding horses through the meadows, and they stopped to enjoy a lazy summer romp in the soft grass underneath the sun’s warming rays. He closed his eyes and saw her face, not happy but sad. She had married a man who did not love her, and Drew suspected she did not love Salisbury either.
Drew had failed himself, failed her, hell he had even managed to drag Salisbury and Miss Marchinson down with him, and all because one year ago, he’d allowed his father to convince him that he could never survive without his inheritance. Drew laughed bitterly. He’d been putting some of the blame for his shambles of a life on his father, but that was a mistake. The blame lay squarely on Drew’s shoulders. He could have rebuffed his father’s demand, he could have married Char anyway, and he damn sure as hell would have been happy, poor or not.
What did he have now? Nothing. His plan since finding out Char was in London and still unmarried had been to win her back and spend his life proving he was a man worthy of her love. Now that she was married, he couldn’t even tell her how he felt and how sorry he was should he ever see her again.
The carriage jerked to a sudden stop, and then the door swung open, frigid air blasting him in the face. “What the bloody hell?” He drew his coat tight around his body as Edgeworth’s coachman, Roberts, appeared in the door, lit lamp in hand.
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, my lord.” Mr. Roberts drew the lamp up near his face. “A coach is stranded on the side of the road, and I thought perhaps….”
“By all means,” Drew said and clambered out of the coach into the biting wind.
“Oh, no, sir,” the coachman said on a strangled gasp. “I wasn’t implying that you should get out.”
Drew waved the man’s assisting hand away. “I know, but I want to help.” Char may never be in his life again, but damn it all, he still wanted to be a better man. He would be the man he should have been. The first order of business was putting others before himself. No longer did Andrew Whitton, Earl of Hardwick exist. That self-indulgent fool was gone. If he was going to have more money and power than he deserved, then he was going to use it to do good.
Decision made, Drew followed Mr. Roberts through the deep snow, the lamp flickering eerily in the dark night. Mr. Roberts reached the carriage just ahead of Drew and opened the door as he approached. The man turned towards him, and Drew faltered in his step at the deathly whiteness displayed by the light of the lamp. “Don’t come any closer,” Mr. Roberts whispered as if talking any louder might wake the dead.
Disregarding the man’s warning, Drew moved to advance, but Mr. Roberts held out a barring hand. “’Tis nothing a lord such as you will wish to see.” The coachman glanced over his shoulder and into the carriage before turning back to Drew. “I believe the lady is dead. You needn’t expose yourself.”
Drew shoved the man’s well-meaning hand away. “Let’s check the poor soul before you declare her departed to the maker.” Drew moved past the grumbling coachman, grasping the lamp as he did so. He leaned in to the door of the carriage and held the lamp in front of him. The light flickered and danced across the dark space creating misshapen figures and a distorted shadow across the face of—Drew’s heart lurched in pity as he took in the fine silk gown, the creamy, slender hand, the swell of high breasts—a woman. How wrong and sad to be taken so young and so horribly.
A Summons From Yorkshire (Regency Christmas Summons Collection 1) Page 13
