by Jane Charles
“But why didn't he just tell me he wrote them?”
Jane arched an eyebrow at Charlotte. “Did you give him an opportunity to explain last night?”
Shame burned Charlotte's face. Her memory of last night wasn't the clearest as she'd been so numb by the revelation, but she did remember him asking for the chance to explain—and she'd been too hurt and embarrassed to listen.
Jane patted Charlotte's forearm. “Your silence speaks volumes, Charlotte.” She squeezed. “And so does his.”
Charlotte swallowed and met her sister's eyes. “How?”
“I know the two of you did not get off to a good start. I also know that to some his change of heart might seem sudden, but I believe it is genuine. I also believe the reason he didn't tell you he was the author of those letters was the same reason he chose to be the author of them: he wants to protect his heart, too.”
Too. That little three-letter word held more power than Prinny himself. It implied what Charlotte had never considered before: she loved her husband. How was that even possible? He'd been so…difficult. Difficult, yes, cold even, but he'd never actually been cruel. He'd never put a hand on her. He'd never had a mistress or spoke of a by-blow. He'd never even raised his voice to her. He'd merely kept his distance, which likely had as much to do with her keeping her distance from him as it did with him not being initially attracted to her or impressed by how they found themselves betrothed.
The question was— what was she going to do about it?
James stared blankly at the pile of letters on his desk. He'd been sitting there all day it seemed and hadn't moved an inch. There was no reason to. He'd made a hash of things with Charlotte and now nothing else mattered. He'd have snorted had he the energy and desire to do so. A fortnight ago he'd have laughed himself silly at the very thought that he'd be so broken over losing her favor.
Did he even ever have her favor?
The memory of Charlotte melting into his arms and returning his kiss without abandon the night before filled his mind.
Damn.
“My lord, a letter has arrived,” Dulcey said, entering the room.
James gestured to the stack of unopened letters already decorating his desk. “Just put it there. Thank you.”
Dulcey pursed his lips and removed the letter from the slaver with his gloved hand and put it down directly in front of James.
“My father would have threatened to throw you out without a reference,” James said tightly.
Dulcey remained stoic. “I'm sure the lady would write one for me,” he said then turned and left.
James grumbled irritably. Loyal butlers were hard to find, he'd ignore Dulcey's impertinence this time. But if it became a habit… Well, it wouldn't, he'd make sure of that.
With a sigh, he snapped up the unmarked missive Dulcey had gone through great lengths to be obstinate in his delivery of. Frowning, he leaned back in his chair and broke the seal. Immediately, his pulse tripled when he saw that familiar pen.
If I truly am the Countess and Claimant of your Heart, meet me in the earl's chambers.
James was off his chair so fast it toppled backward. Charlotte was in his room? Paying little heed to anything or anyone in his path down the hall and up the stairs to his room, James flew through his townhouse and to his chambers. He gripped the knob and threw the door open, then froze.
Charlotte heard James' heavy boot falls thunder through the halls and froze. She'd been far more confident an hour ago when she'd given Dulcey her letter with the direct order to give it to him, no matter what he said. As soon as he was out of sight, she'd donned a filmy red nightrail and gone to his room to wait on his bed, fully aware that he might not read her missive and she might be waiting until he came to bed that night, and if that's what she must do, she'd do it.
“James,” she said, still paralyzed.
A strangled sound came from James' throat, his eyes fastened on her form.
“You came.” What a stupid thing to say.
He nodded, his throat working.
“I'm sorry about my reaction last night.” She studied the floor in front of her. “I should have heard what you had to say and I'm sorry that I didn't listen. The truth is—” she swallowed uncomfortably “—somewhere between your letters and being around you more, I lost my heart to you and—” Words failed her.
James was to her in a second, his strong arms encompassing her. “I'm an ordinary gentleman, Charlotte. Not a poet, not a playwright—” he snorted “—with the exception of the last six missives—two of which I'd rather forget— that I've sent to you, Dulcey or Simmons or my secretary wrote all the others.” He reached for the loose tendril of hair hanging over her forehead and pushed it behind her ear. “I'm not good with words, written or spoken, but I am good with taking care of things trusted in my possession.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Including hearts.”
“Hearts?” she choked.
“Hearts,” he confirmed, giving her a little squeeze. “If your heritage says anything about you, we shall be blessed beyond measure with an abundance of children and grandchildren for us to love.” He squeezed her again, a little tighter than before. “Together.”
Charlotte's heart slammed in her chest. “Does that mean?”
“It means that I love you, too.”
“I must be the most obvious young lady to have fallen in love,” Charlotte mused.
“Obvious?” James twisted his lips into an overdone frown. “I don't know about that, but you are definitely the most captivating.”
“And you claim you're not good with words.”
“I'd be willing to wager I'm better using something else to express my feelings for you,” he said, pressing that something else into her abdomen.
Charlotte blushed and boldly brushed her fingers over the bulge in his trousers. “I think it's about time we find out.”
Epilogue
A month later
“Someone's lying,” James said with a sigh.
Charlotte pursed her lips and wiggled to get more comfortable where she was perched on her husband's lap. Her action only made him more uncomfortable, but in a most wonderful way.
“Who do you think it might be?” she asked, kissing his cheek.
James scowled down at the list of possible meddling, letter-writing culprits. “I don't know,” he admitted. “Everyone one of them offered convincing reasons for why it couldn't have been them.”
At the top of the list was Danby.
Harrumph! “Clever lad,” he mused with a thump of his cane. “Not me, I'm afraid.” When pressed, he added, “A gentleman's word should never be challenged, young man. Unless you would like to be challenged.”
James had asked no further questions.
“While Gareth and I are so very excited for the two of you, we played no part in these shenanigans,” Jane said before looking to her husband for a nod of approval.
Charlotte could accept that, but not before showing the missive to Aaron and Daphne who had been on the receiving ends of matchmaking missives from both Danby and Gareth.
“Not his writing,” Aaron had said, presumably his could be either Gareth or Danby. Jane and Daphne's writing was far too familiar to Charlotte for them to have been able to do such.
Jemma's too.
“As relieved as I am that things have turned around for you, and knowing I didn't make a complete hash of your existence, I cannot accept credit for this,” Michael said, his tone solemn. He shot her a slim, self-deprecating smile. “It seems as I'm not the perfect older, protective brother I always thought I'd be.”
Charlotte wrapped him in a hug. “You do have one more chance, you know?”
Michael nodded once.
After two weeks without a weekly visit from the dowager countess, Charlotte went to see her mother-in-law. After apologizing for her words during their last visit, she briefly explained all she dared about her relationship with James and asked about the letter. “Oh dearest, I wish you'd told me
sooner. For had I known, I'd have sent such a letter immediately! More scandalous, too.” Charlotte believed that. “I'm just glad you two have worked it out and I shall be looking forward to the news of your grand event.” She wrinkled her nose. “Be sure you use those herbs. It'll reduce your suffering.”
Charlotte wasn't sure she'd term intimacies as suffering, but there are some things better not discussed with one's mother-in-law.
That only left Ravenscar. The very thought of that reprobate writing to Charlotte had sent James' blood to simmer. “If I'd written that letter, she'd—”
Crack!
James delivered a hard blow to the man's nose. All he needed to know was that Ravenscar hadn't written the letter.
“As much as I wanted to know at first, I don't care so much anymore,” Charlotte said.
James arched a brow. “No?”
“No. Whoever wrote it sent it because they wanted to see us happy together, but that's not exactly what came of it.”
James pulled his head back. “You're not happy?”
“Not just happy—” she kissed his jaw “—I'm in love.”
James' lips captured hers. “I'm in love, too.”
Curious about how Jane snagged Gareth? You can read all about their love at first sight (and marginally scandalous) romance in The Perfect Lady Worthe
About Rose Gordon
USA Today Bestselling and Award Winning Author Rose Gordon writes unusually unusual historical romances that have been known to include scarred heroes, feisty heroines, marriage-producing scandals, far too much scheming, naughty literature and always a sweet happily-ever-after. When not escaping to another world via reading or writing a book, she spends her time chasing two young boys around the house, being hunted by wild animals, or sitting on the swing in the backyard where she has to use her arms as shields to deflect projectiles AKA: balls, water balloons, sticks, pinecones, and anything else one of her boys picks up to hurl at his brother who just happens to be hiding behind her.
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Also by Rose Gordon
Intentions of the Earl
Liberty For Paul
To Win His Wayward Wife
Her Sudden Groom
Her Reluctant Groom
Her Secondhand Groom
Her Imperfect Groom
His Contract Bride
His Yankee Bride
His Jilted Bride
His Brother’s Bride
The Officer and the Bostoner
The Officer and the Southerner
The Officer and the Traveler
Secrets of a Viscount
Desires of a Baron
The Perfect Lady Worthe
Ruined By a Lady
Jane Charles
Dedication
For my favorite makeup artist, Kieth, whom I’ve learned so much from and who I count as a dear friend. And for Larry. I think the world of you. Thanks for lending me Kieth when I need him.
Love you both,
Jane
Chapter 1
Nathaniel,
You and Samuel must return home immediately. The most horrendous circumstance has occurred and I am so beside myself that I do not know what to do. It is far too distressing to even write in a letter. Suffice it to say, nothing this horrific has happened to our family in a very long time, and your presence is needed most urgently.
Mother
April 18, 1817, London
Samuel Storm sucked in a breath the moment those familiar blues eyes met his. It had to be her. But how was it even possible?
He took a step in her direction but Nathaniel, his twin brother, put a hand on his arm and handed him the missive that had been delivered as soon as they stepped out of St. Paul’s. Sam took it without removing his eyes from her. The late afternoon sun shone on her head, making it appear as if her blonde locks were laced with gold, and for a moment she glanced back. Her haunting Caribbean blue eyes met his before she was assisted into a carriage displaying the Duke of Eldridge’s coat of arms. An older man stood waiting. By his regal bearing, no doubt he was Eldridge.
Either the duke’s daughter at one time sat for a rather scandalous portrait, or a woman who looked exactly like her had. That very portrait hung in his home in Barbados, and he needed to know if the two were one and the same.
With reluctance, Sam tore his eyes away from the duke’s carriage and glanced at the missive. The one thing that had not changed in the five years he’d been gone was the habit of his mother to succumb to hysterics.
“What could be so blasted important that she thought it appropriate to pull us from a wedding?” Nate demanded.
Sam handed the summons back to his brother who promptly crushed it in his fist.
“At least the footman ignored her dictate and waited until we exited the church or you might have missed the wedding you stood to witness for Roxburg,” Nate grumbled.
Sam and Mark Easton, the Duke of Roxburg, had been friends for a number of years. The last five of which they’d lived in Barbados, each managing their own sugar plantations. Life had been good living on an island of beautiful women when one was wealthy and a bachelor. Roxburg’s sudden change in title was what brought them back to London. Not that Sam needed to return, but Roxburg had wanted the one gentleman he trusted by his side when facing society once again. Not that he needed Sam. In the month that Sam was away visiting his family, Roxburg had met his wife, and the two had married just a short time ago.
“Let’s make it quick,” Sam was resigned to deal with their mother, but waste no more time than necessary on whatever crisis had arisen. He and Nate had planned on going to their club until it was time for the ball. Roxburg managed to obtain a Special License so that he could be married at the earliest time the church was available, which happened to be today at five. He had also decided to forgo the wedding breakfast in lieu of a ball, which he insisted would begin in a few hours and not late in the evening as was tradition.
“If Mother starts going on and on about torn flounces, stained gloves, or spilled tea at the al fresco, I swear I’ll send her right back home and let Ben deal with our sisters.” Benjamin, the Earl of Kenley, their older brother, could see to their three younger sisters attending the Season.
“I’d hate to see her reaction if something actually horrific occurred,” Sam grumbled after he followed his brother into the carriage and relaxed against the squabs. As he glanced out the window, the duke’s carriage passed and his eyes met those all too familiar blue eyes.
Could it really be her?
He’d first spied the painting in a gallery in New Orleans and knew instantly that he must have it. Not so much because of the lush body that lay in repose upon a fainting coach, a long leg extended and uncovered, though white gossamer shielded the rest of her body, or because of the delicious breasts practically spilled from a fitted corset, or the full, red lips beckoning for a kiss. Not only did he want that woman on his own couch, clad similarly, but he wanted to know her too. Those blue eyes conveyed innocence, seduction, spirit, vulnerability, rebellion, and sadness and pulled him in. He longed to ask why sadness lurked in the deep recesses of her blue irises. Why her mouth may tip at the corner when there was no happiness? Why was she haunted?
It was ridiculous, of course. The girl was a model and the artist was simply excellent at his craft. Yet, when Sam spied the lady in St. Paul’s Church, not only did the same emotion lurk in her eyes, but the sadness seemed deeper.
Yes, she smiled, but it was forced. The tension in her jaw betrayed what she was trying not to show.
Did nobody else realize she wasn’t happy?
He neede
d to know her.
Just because the lady in the painting bore a striking resemblance to Eldridge’s daughter, it was impossible that it was her. A duke’s daughter did not pose for erotic paintings, yet Sam felt the same pull towards Eldridge’s daughter as he had experienced when he first viewed the painting, and he had every intention of gaining an introduction.
The carriage pulled up before their townhouse and the gentlemen jumped out and hurried to the door. Not because Sam believed distressing news awaited them, but because he wanted to be done with whatever had fluffed mother’s feathers this time.
They found their mother, the Dowager Countess of Kenley, in the sitting room with three of their younger sisters. Hannah was pacing as if she were too agitated to sit. Tabitha was stitching, which he learned she often did when there was little else to occupy her time, and Deborah simply sat in a chair by the window, watching the others as if in deep contemplation.
His oldest brother, Benjamin, relaxed with his lovely and enchanting wife, Mary, sipping tea. It certainly didn’t appear as if there was anything urgent that required his or Nate’s attention, which he already suspected would be the case.
“What happened?” Nate demanded, his tone laced with the irritation Sam felt.
“We were at Lady Emma Heathfield’s al fresco when we saw him.”
“Who?” Sam asked. He had not been back in England all that long, but nobody had uttered a word about any gentleman his mother feared.
“I didn’t know what to do, so of course, we left immediately.” His mother waived a handkerchief in front of her face. “Oh, I do hope he didn’t see us. Though it was highly rude to leave so quickly without paying our respects to Lady Heathfield, but it was necessary given the circumstances. I must send her a note of apology right away.”
