The Lost Dreams

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  Displayed at the far end of the room, under the focused beam of a single spotlight, was Geneviève’s portrait, shipped from La Vallière. It presided over a glass-encased, white satin stand that housed the three-tiered emerald and diamond choker Sylvain had presented to her on their wedding day. The photographer had insisted that Charlotte stand beside her grandmother’s picture, enchanted by the staggering resemblance.

  She’d done that and more, determined to sparkle despite her disappointment. She owed that to Sylvain and the past. But now, as she stared blindly through the French window at the twinkling lights of Manhattan, she realized it was all over. Brad was finished with her. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that, after all the ups and downs of their relationship throughout the years, he wasn’t prepared to risk another disappointment. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  When her plane had first landed in New York a week ago, Charlotte had wanted to see him right away, only to learn he was in California. By the time she’d discovered he was back, he’d hightailed it off somewhere else.

  At first, knowing how busy he was, she’d tried to make excuses for him. And of course, she was frantically on the go herself, between meeting with the people at the Met and finalizing her divorce. In the end, she’d decided John wasn’t worth the drama that leaking his story to the press would cause, so she’d settled for the simple pleasures of blackmail, letting him know she wouldn’t hesitate to spill the beans if he ever came near her or Genny again.

  But once everything had been settled and it became clear Brad was still avoiding her, she ran out of excuses and had to face the truth: Brad just didn’t want her anymore.

  For whatever reason—and there were many, she conceded sadly—he’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. She heaved a long, crestfallen sigh and fought back tears. How naive she’d been to think that she’d get a second chance.

  She rose, walked across the elegantly decorated sitting room in her stocking feet, and took an Evian out of the refrigerator. Uncapping the bottle, she chugged down the cool, crisp water.

  And as she drank, her brain cleared.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she commanded, plunking the bottle down with a bang. Stop letting yourself be knocked out at the first round. There was a choice to be made. Either she could get on the plane back to London and admit that she’d lost everything she’d ever wanted, or she could go locate her missing spine and face the man she desired.

  She wandered to the window, heart quickening, and gazed out into the night, barely aware of the wailing sirens, angry horns and constant cacophony of sounds that made up the song of the city. It was a hell of a risk. And it just might become the most humiliating experience of her life.

  But she had to try.

  All at once she stood taller. Brad was the man she loved, the one she’d wanted all her life. Surely he was worth taking a chance on?

  A grin lit up her face as she thought suddenly of what Sylvia would say in that wonderful down-to-earth way of hers: The worst you can hear is a no, honey. Pulse racing, she walked back to the bedroom. The bed seemed huge and empty. What was she willing to sacrifice to have him there, by her side, sharing each moment of her existence? Her pride? Of course. Her heart? No problem. So go do something about it!

  It was all in her hands. She could get out there and fight, or she could slink away, licking her wounds, and be miserable for the rest of her life. Of course, there was no guarantee she’d win. Still, if she didn’t scrape up her courage, she would never know. And she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.

  Her eyes closed and she bit her lip. She would do it.

  A wave of relief swamped her now that she’d made the decision.

  After all, she had nothing to lose.

  He’d walked away from the woman he loved and the decision was final. By not going to the Met, he knew he was sending the message that he was finally putting an end to the masochistic game they’d played for over ten years. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  And today Brad was drained.

  He’d spent yesterday evening alone, sipping brandy in the darkened library of his home on Sutton Place. It was appropriate, he’d figured glumly, that he should live out this moment in a setting that had witnessed so many of his ancestors’ joys and disappointments.

  He came out of the shower, toweling off the excess water, and entered his walk-in closet. Rows of immaculate suits, shirts, ties, blazers, shoes and pants swam before him. For most of his life, he’d lived in this fast-paced but meticulously ordered existence, knowing precisely what he would wear, what he would do, whom he would talk to, what deal would get cut. Now all he thought of was Skye and Charlotte and the twins and Genny and everything that he’d lost.

  Picking a gray cashmere suit from a cedar hanger, he started to dress. Traditionally, this was the time when he planned his day, strategizing and coming up with solutions. Instead, today he stared in the mirror at the man in the gray suit, impeccable white shirt and designer tie, and wondered who he was.

  He turned away. What had truly kept him from facing her last night was anger. At her. Penelope had told him that Genny had finally revealed to her mother the terrible truth. How could Charlotte, knowing what the man was capable of, still want to stay with her husband? Surely now she must see him for who he really was?

  But apparently not. He hadn’t had a chance to have a word with Penelope, who’d flown over for the exhibition and was staying at Sutton Place. In fact, he hadn’t seen her or Diego or the twins since getting back from his business trip yesterday afternoon. He’d been so busy he’d barely allowed himself time to think. But after that awful conversation with Drummond at Strathaird, he didn’t need to ask Penelope for an update. And he certainly hadn’t wanted to go to the Met just so he could gaze longingly at Charlotte from the shadows. No. He’d come back in plenty of time to make the event and had given himself the choice to go or not. And he’d chosen not to.

  He walked down the wide marble staircase. At the top of the wrought-iron balustrade were his great-grand-father’s initials, entwined in gold leaf. At the bottom, two scruffy backpacks—one with Go Knicks scrawled on it—sat ready for school. All his life he’d taken care of the legacies of other men: John Harcourt Sr., the founder of Harcourts; his grandfather, Dexter Ward, who had left him Strathaird; even indirectly his father, by inheriting the twins.

  But what about his own legacy?

  He crossed the black-and-white marble hall toward the breakfast room, glanced at the glorious flower arrangement gracing the drum table, and knew it was time to do what the kids in skateboarding lingo called a five sixty. He smiled, despite the gloominess weighing on his heart. Maybe he’d take the twins out of school, buy a yacht and sail around the world for a year.

  Whatever.

  All he was certain of was that he was out of here. Today, if he could swing it.

  He’d finally had enough.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, Miss Riley,” Charlotte murmured, shifting uncomfortably and watching the slim, impeccably attired middle-aged receptionist seated behind her battery of chrome telephones on the top floor of Harcourts. “I think I’ll just pop back in later when he’s less busy,” she said, fixing a smile on and slipping her purse back on her shoulder.

  “But I already told him you were on your way up. He’s expecting you, Mrs. MacLeod.” Miss Riley quirked a questioning eyebrow from behind her rimless designer glasses.

  “No, please—” Sudden panic gripped. She couldn’t do it. There was no point and she shouldn’t have tried, she realized, watching in paralyzed horror as Miss Riley pressed the intercom button.

  “Really, you mustn’t bother.”

  “But he pays me to bother. Mrs. MacLeod to see you, sir,” she announced, leaning toward the intercom triumphantly.

  Charlotte’s pulse raced. Her heart did a double somersault and landed in her mouth.

  This was it.

  She couldn’t back out now. She was probab
ly about to make an even bigger fool of herself than she already was, but at least she would have tried.

  Bracing herself, she straightened her shoulders, tossed her head back and followed Miss Riley to the huge double doors. “Mrs. MacLeod,” the secretary announced, holding the door wide, leaving her no choice but to enter.

  She watched him rise and come out from behind the long teak desk, heart pounding as he stepped forward, lips set in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He barely brushed her cheek when they kissed hello.

  “Come on in and sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea, champagne? Though I imagine you must be saturated after last night. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it—plane landed late.” He gestured to the black leather sofa.

  Charlotte sat down in a daze. She’d never seen this side of Brad. It was as if she was standing before a complete stranger. She swallowed, murmuring a polite refusal to the offers of refreshment while trying not to show her utter astonishment. This was just Brad, she reminded herself. The man who’d held her in his arms and made love to her and whom she’d loved back with more passion than she’d ever dreamed she possessed.

  The man to whom she’d given her heart.

  “Sylvia told me the Lost Collection’s a howling success,” he remarked, sitting opposite her, casually flinging his ankle over the other knee. “Apparently they showed some of your designs as well?”

  “Yes, just a couple of pieces,” she said blankly, wondering how to begin. This superficial chitchat was getting her nowhere. She glanced around the spacious, airy office, taking in the vast panoramic windows, light-gray marble floor, designer leather furniture, halogen lighting, a couple of abstract paintings on the wall and an orchid in a chrome pot. All part of his life. All of it armor for the man she was facing.

  She sat nervously on the edge of the sofa and clasped her hands in her lap, palms damp. She rubbed them surreptitiously on the skirt of her pale Armani suit and reminded herself just why she’d come.

  “Brad, I need to talk to you,” she said, taking the plunge.

  She saw his face close and her heart sank. “I don’t think there’s much to talk about, Charlotte,” he replied in a measured tone, making her long to stretch out her hand and clasp his.

  “Will you at least hear me out?” She rose, unable to sit still.

  “Sure.” He sounded dauntingly indifferent.

  Taking a deep breath, she launched into her speech.

  “I know we’ve had our ups and downs,” she began, wishing the words sounded more appropriate, “but I think it’s time we put them behind us.”

  “Fine. That just about puts it in a nutshell. Frankly, I see little point in belaboring the matter. An unexpected impediment made our relationship redundant. I’ve accepted that. I suppose you’re here to tell me you want to go back to being friends. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” He rose, his expression hard, and turned his back on her abruptly.

  Charlotte trembled. They’d lost each other once; she couldn’t let it happen again. Okay, she’d been a fool and maybe she’d blundered. But as she stared at the tense set of his shoulders, a sudden rush of love surged through her. All she wanted was to feel his warmth, to kiss away all the misunderstandings and grievances, and pledge herself to a new beginning.

  “You might at least look at me when I’m speaking to you,” she remarked tartly, taking the bull by the horns.

  He turned reluctantly.

  Was she at all aware of how much he was hurting? Just seeing her standing here before him, so vibrant and lovely, having her within his reach and yet being unable to touch? “Okay. Say whatever it is you have to say and then let’s both get on with our lives. I have a busy day.”

  His callousness sparked new courage in her and her eyes flashed. If he thought he could scare her off with a little boo! he had a lot to learn.

  “I didn’t come here to spar with you, Brad.”

  “Then why did you come?” It was out before he could stop himself. “Just what exactly are you doing here, Charlotte?”

  “Telling you the truth.”

  “Oh. That.” He gave a harsh, hollow laugh.

  “I came to tell you that I love you.” She took a step toward him.

  “You sure have a weird way of showing it.” He backed away, desperate to put distance between them.

  “I—I’ve come to ask you to make love with me again.”

  His head shot up.

  He stared at her, unbelieving, opened his mouth, then closed it again. Before him stood the same medieval Charlotte he’d seen that day in the hall at Strathaird, all passion and invitation. He closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. “That’s not amusing,” he said at last.

  “It wasn’t meant to be,” she responded, barreling ahead before he could reply, “but I don’t know how else to say it.”

  “Uh, won’t Drummond have a problem with the sudden reversal? You’re a married woman and hardly in a position to be propositioning anyone.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Eyes narrowed, he moved toward her.

  “You knew I’d filed for divorce.”

  “That was before your husband resuscitated,” he replied witheringly.

  “You think you’re awfully well informed, don’t you?” she said, matching his sarcastic tone. “Pretty presumptuous, given that you’ve never bothered to ask me directly what’s going on.”

  He hesitated then shook his head. “Don’t play games with me, Charlie. We’ve known each other too long and too well. Let’s just accept that it wasn’t meant to be and move on. I understand.”

  “No, you don’t,” she retorted. “I’m trying to explain but you’re not listening. Perhaps you didn’t hear your secretary announce Mrs. MacLeod?” They were almost touching now and a rush of heat swept over her. Taking a deep breath, she stepped back and slipped off the jacket of her suit, the camisole beneath enticingly bare. “It’s quite hot in here, isn’t it?” she remarked casually. “Don’t you ever open any windows?”

  “No. The air-conditioning system doesn’t allow for—what the hell are you talking about, Charlotte?” He took a step toward her, hardly daring to trust the implication of her words.

  “I’m divorced, Brad. It finally came through.” She dropped the jacket casually on the couch and faced him.

  “I don’t believe it.” He swore, shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “That’s precisely your trouble,” she said, stabbing his chest with her finger. “You never believe anything I say, because you already think you know exactly what’s in my head. You never thought I was capable of taking my life into my own hands, did you?” She stepped closer, glaring up at him, hand planted on her slim hip. “You still think of me as the spoiled brat who vomited champagne all over you at a wedding a quarter century ago,” she fumed. “Well, I’ve got news for you, Bradley Ward—I grew up.”

  “That’s not true,” he said weakly, still reeling from the onslaught.

  “Oh, yes it is. And let me tell you something else—poor Charlotte is history.”

  “I never thought of you as poor Charlotte.”

  “Yes, you did, and well you know it.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” he retorted, rallying. “Wallow in a mire of guilt because over the years I tried to protect you from some of the messes you managed to create for yourself?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m asking you to stop hiding behind this chrome-and-teak shield you’ve created.” She gestured disparagingly at the office. “Maybe this is what you want,” she challenged. “Maybe it’s all you really need. Maybe you’re afraid poor Charlotte, with all her problems and eccentricities, will mess up your perfect little life, inject a little more disorder than you can handle, or—worst of all—force you to admit you’ve been wrong!” She crossed her arms across her chest and stared at him defiantly.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” he exclaimed, eyes blazing. “I’ve loved you all my life. God knows how I burned
for you. You’ve haunted my dreams and broken my heart. And all these years, I’ve watched you suffering, trying desperately to climb out of the rut you got yourself into, knowing that maybe somehow I was to blame by not having made love to you that night in Chester Square. And now you accuse me of being incapable of loving the woman you’ve become? Well, fuck it!” Before she could react, he pulled her into his arms, mouth ravaging, slamming her body to his.

  He cared. All she could register as his mouth wreaked havoc was that he cared.

  “And let me make one other thing clear,” he growled, coming up for breath. “I’ve had enough. You drive me crazy, and I’m not about to let you disappear on me again.”

  “Then marry me?” she whispered, heart beating faster as his grip tightened. “Marry me, Brad darling, and never let me go.”

  “What?” He drew back like a scalded cat and her heart plunged.

  It was now or never.

  “If you married me,” she murmured, toying with his loosened tie and peeking up at him through her lashes, “you wouldn’t have to worry about losing me anymore, would you?”

  His arm circled her waist and he stared down at her, suddenly serious. “Are you absolutely certain this is what you really want?”

  “Oh, but I am.” Slowly she reached her hand into her pocket, pulled out a box and opened it.

  “What’s this?”

  “Well, I wanted to design something for you myself—I thought maybe a ball-and-chain motif would be appropriate—but this’ll have to do for now.” Taking his hand in hers, she slipped Sylvain’s gold signet ring on his finger, then glanced at the marble floor. “Do you mind if I don’t do the knee thing? It might tear my stockings.” She took a deep breath. “I’m asking for your hand in marriage, Bradley Ward.”

  “You are?” He stared at the ring, at her, head reeling. “Why?”

  “Because I’m desperate for a title. Lady MacLeod,” she gushed, twirling in his arms and grinning. “I think it rather suits me, don’t you?”