“Thank you,” Charlotte said uncertainly. “You should go inside out of the cold. You don’t want to fall asleep here.”
“There are worse places to sleep.”
“Not many, not tonight.”
He seemed to be a relatively young man, so far as she could tell in the dark, at least under forty, she guessed, and despite the smell of alcohol, he did not sound drunk. But if he heard her last remark, he gave no sign of it.
Instead, he said curiously, “Why are you so happy? What made you laugh just now?”
“Oh, just the dog,” Charlotte said hastily. Spring was pulling to get to the stranger, so she gave in and walked toward him.
He was civil enough to stand up as she approached, and he spoke like a gentleman. Spring, inevitably, sprang up to about waist height, scrabbled with his paws on the stranger, and then tumbled back to the ground. The man, oddly, barely noticed.
“The dog makes you happy?” he asked incredulously.
“Mostly,” she admitted.
“And you have a child. You have a lot to be happy about.”
Sudden tears welled up. “I do,” she said unsteadily. The enormity of what she had done, of risking her love on a whim, surged up along with a tide of loss, because Alex was not with her. Alex, who was her world, her soulmate, the man who had made her realize her worth, her constant rock…a rock with his own vulnerabilities. “I am ashamed,” she blurted. “I have to go home.”
“You can’t, not tonight. All the roads are blocked. We’re trapped here.” He laughed mirthlessly and raised the flask to his lips. “Trapped.”
He turned away as he spoke, and the light from the inn flared across his face. His blank, hopeless, despairing face.
Abruptly, her self-awareness shifted, for something in his expression, in his lack of it, reminded her of how she had once seen Alex. It had been like a blackness covering his soul, drowning it. And this stranger’s face held something of that same blackness. It chilled her, far more than the weather, more even than her own shame.
But panic would help neither of them.
She said more calmly, “Sir, would you be so good as to escort us to the end of the path—for Spring’s sake, you understand—and then back to the inn?”
It was her best hope. He acted again on instinctive courtesy. “Of course,” he said indifferently.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s not comfortable to be alone.”
The stranger’s lips twisted, and he fell into step beside her.
“This is Arthur, my son. You appear to fascinate him.”
The stranger clearly could not return the compliment, but he did spare the baby a glance. Arthur, his little arm thrust out between his shawls to cling to Charlotte’s neck, gazed back at him with his big, wide eyes and smiled.
The stranger blinked. His lips twitched as if they wanted to smile back but couldn’t remember how.
Chapter Two
Alexander, the Duke of Alvan, was reduced to leading his horses through the snow. As he approached the Hart, he found himself praying for news of her. And yet, she could not be so far ahead of him. If she had arrived at Audley Park before the snow blocked the road, surely there was no time and less need for the news to have reached the inn.
If she was here… If she and Arthur were here…
He didn’t know what he’d do except collapse with relief. Not that he would forgive her dangerous disregard for his wishes and for her own and their son’s safety. But dear God, he would give anything to know they were well.
“Ostler!” he yelled without much hope, for the inn was noisy and clearly very busy. But the ostler did come trudging through the snow to take the horses.
“They’ll be a bit cramped, but we’ll make them comfortable!” the boy said cheerfully. His eyes widened as he clearly recognized Alvan. “Your grace!” he gasped.
Alvan tossed him a coin. “Keep it to yourself,” he snapped and strode up to the door. As he stepped inside, Mrs. Villin charged across the hall toward the private parlor and almost dropped her tray of food, plates and wine.
“Oh, thank God!” she exclaimed alarmingly. “One moment, sir!”
At least she didn’t your grace him. The last thing he wanted was the world to know he was careering all over the country in search of his wife.
It was blessedly warm in the inn, but he could not relax until the innkeeper’s wife explained her reaction.
She must have almost dumped her burden on her guests in the private parlor, for she emerged again with great rapidity and he strode to meet her.
“Is she here?” he demanded.
Mrs. Villin nodded. “Yes, she’s here and they’re both fine.”
If there had been anywhere to sit, Alvan would have collapsed onto it. As it was, he kept his knees straight by force of will power.
“Where?” he managed. “Which chamber?”
For the first time that he could ever recall, Mrs. Villin looked nervous. Wiping her hands unnecessarily on her apron, she said, “Well, sir, she isn’t exactly in a chamber. As such. You see how busy we are, and by the time she got here, there was nowhere free and she wouldn’t have us move anyone—”
“Mrs. Villin,” he snapped.
“Of course, sir. Follow me. She’s…er…she’s in the old stables.”
In spite of himself, Alvan let out a short bark of laughter.
“We made it as comfortable as we could, and her g—that is, your wife—seems quite happy with it, preferring privacy to comfort, you understand.”
“Perfectly,” Alvan said a trifle grimly.
They crossed the yard, behind the stables where his own horses were being cared for and his snow-laden curricle being hauled into shelter in the coach house. The old stables had clearly been there several hundred years longer, but Alvan barely remembered the building’s existence. His heart beat hard against his ribs as Mrs. Villin knocked on the door and opened it.
“Oh,” she said blankly. “She isn’t here.”
She’d been here, though. Over Mrs. Villin’s shoulders, he saw her trunks and the little hay-tables on either side of the made-up bed, covered with Charlotte’s shawls.
“Must have stepped out for a walk,” Mrs. Villin said. “Shall I bring your supper here, sir?”
“No,” Alvan said. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he wanted to sulk. Perhaps he didn’t want his wife to know that he’d charged across the country after her. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to look at her after what she’d done…perhaps. If so, should he be quite so desperate to see her?
I’m desperate to see Arthur, that is all.
On impulse, he turned to Mrs. Villin. “I won’t disturb them. Would you be so good as to make me up a similar bed in the next stall? Perhaps you have another brazier? And I shall happily eat my dinner in there.”
Her expression said, Damned nobility! Do I not have enough to do? Her voice said, “Of course, sir, just as you wish.”
She led him out of his wife’s “chamber” and into the stall next door, which had rather more hay in it, though there was still enough space for him. She left him with her lantern and hurried back toward the house.
Alvan, lantern in hand, walked away in search of his wife. Spring was with her, and although she might try to leave the dog with John Coachman, Alvan did not rate her chances very highly. She must have taken Spring to relieve himself before she retired.
After completing a tour of the grounds, he finally saw her. And Spring was indeed dancing on the end of his leash. It was only a matter of time until the dog picked up Alvan’s scent and dragged Charlotte to him. His heart turned over in a jumble of confused joy and anger, frustration and pain.
And then there was only pain, for it was not her maid who walked with his duchess. It was a man, a carelessly dressed but handsome man. In the flaring lights outside the inn doors, the signs of dissipation and riotous living were clear on his face.
In fact, Alvan recognized him. Gilbert Fortescue, a notorious rake and gamester. And wo
rse. What the devil was he doing anywhere near Charlotte?
His first instinct was to stride up to them and immediately give his wife his arm. But then she turned to Fortescue with a gentle familiarity that chilled his blood.
“Go in and sleep,” she said. “And promise you will join me for breakfast.”
Alvan backed into the shadows. He couldn’t breathe, found he was clutching his heart like a man about to collapse. He wasn’t, but he had no idea how to cope with this pain.
Charlotte, his Charlotte, conducting a liaison? Was this the real reason she had wanted so badly to come to Audley Park? The reason she had actually come without him and against his wishes?
Almost blindly, he turned from the unbearable sight and stumbled away, all but falling into his own stable which was next to hers. Even the wall between reached only to his nose.
In his absence, a bed had indeed been made up on a pile of hay by the dividing wall. A brazier burned close by, and there was even a washing bowl and chamber pot. He barely noticed them as he tugged furiously at his cravat.
Charlotte. His Charlotte.
He had been so proud to see her blossom with their marriage. She bloomed with new happiness and self-confidence and much of that was to do with him. He made her happy. He adored her, and she loved him back. Or at least that was what he had always thought. Until this foolish quarrel over travelling more than two hundred miles in winter with a six-month-old baby.
And Fortescue. His fists clenched on either side of him as he threw himself down on the bed. None of this made sense. When could she have met Fortescue? She had barely been in any company away from Mooreton Hall for months.
And why would she have taken Arthur—and Spring!—on an assignation? The clamp around his heart seemed to squeeze tighter. Was she leaving him?
The door to the next stall opened and closed. Then he heard the scrabbling of Spring’s claws among the hay.
“No, Spring, you are not sleeping in my bed,” Charlotte said firmly. “Get down! Now, make yourself a little nest here. Look, I’ll even give you a blanket to lie on since you’re a spoiled little brute—oh!” She broke off quite suddenly, as though just realizing there was a light in the next stall.
“Is someone there?” she asked warily.
“Sorry,” he said hoarsely. He didn’t intend to disguise his voice, but clearly, she didn’t recognize it.
She murmured, “No, no. I just didn’t realize anyone else was staying here. I’ll be quieter, but you should know I have a young baby and a dog.”
He could think of nothing to say to that, so he didn’t. A moment later, he heard the splash of water, the rustle of clothing and blankets, and the opening of a trunk lid. Arthur began to cry, and she shushed him with faint, crooning noises.
Alvan knew she was feeding him. He took off his coat and lay down under the blankets. Charlotte was only feet away from him, nursing their son. Where she was not was in Fortescue’s bed. Nor was Fortescue here in the privacy that would have been impossible elsewhere tonight. Their plan was to meet for breakfast in a public inn.
This, sharing a stable with a partial partition wall, was far more intimate.
And this was Charlotte, the mother of his child, his duchess, his loving, sweet, wonderful wife whose loyalty was as unshakeable as her honesty.
Jealousy was not an emotion Alvan was used to. And he didn’t like it. Apart from anything else it seemed to turn one’s brain to mush. Fortescue was not his real problem here. At best, he was a symptom of the real issue, which was that Alvan and Charlotte had failed to understand each other. That a minor quarrel had led to this night—spending Christmas Eve in different cubicles of an old stable, with her not even being aware of his presence.
He lay listening to the faint movements beyond the wall. He could almost imagine he heard her breathing. He could certainly hear Spring snuffling along the wall, starting to claw it as if, finally, he had caught Alvan’s scent.
“Spring!” Charlotte hissed. “Come here!”
Alvan was almost surprised when the dog obeyed. Spring was quite unpredictable, of course. Instead of being mad at not getting to Alvan, he seemed to have been made more comfortable by his presence nearby, for there soon came sounds of him settling down further from the wall.
“Good boy,” Charlotte whispered, then, “Sorry.”
Assuming the last to have been aimed at him, Alvan whispered back. “No need.” After a moment, he added, “This can’t be comfortable for you.”
“Or you.”
“I don’t have a baby and a dog to look after.” As he whispered the words, it came to him that she had always had these things. Even in a house full of loyal and doting servants, she was the one whose life truly revolved around Arthur. She curtailed her own outings, duties, and pleasures to feed him and care for him. She rose in the night to feed him. Arthur brought joy to both their lives, but for Charlotte, the joy came with a burden—one she had chosen to take on with his approval, but one he could not help her with.
“I am quite used to the baby and the dog,” she whispered back.
“Is your maid not with you?”
“I let her stay inside as she wished, although she’ll be very cramped. I think she is getting a cold.”
Alvan was inclined to be indignant on that score and had to bite his tongue. It was hardly a stranger’s business, but he would have strong words to say to Miss Goldie later. Besides, another, much more dangerous question hung on his lips, one in the end, that he couldn’t prevent.
“And your husband?”
There was a pause, then, “He does not travel with me on this occasion.”
“I don’t suppose he’s much help with babies anyway.”
“On the contrary, he is very good with him,” she shot back at once, warming his heart, before she followed it up with an attack, “What of your wife?”
“I’m catching up with her.”
“Did she expect you by Christmas Eve?” she asked, sympathy in her whisper.
“No, it was to have been a surprise.”
“Oh dear, and you are stuck here instead. I’m sorry. I’m hoping the roads will be passable tomorrow.”
“Where will you go?”
“To my family. I’ve missed them.”
A lump formed in his throat. “You’ve been unhappy.”
“Oh no!” she insisted. “I am the happiest and luckiest of women!”
His throat tightened more. “The happiest and luckiest of women don’t embark on a journey through the snow alone. With a baby and a dog.”
“You know nothing!” she whispered furiously. “I could ask why you are not with your wife rather than catching up with her!”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t help smiling, because he had almost forgotten her independence of spirit, her irrepressible curiosity. “Good question,” he murmured. “I suppose my wife was not happy either.”
“Why not?”
It was another good question. “I don’t know. I shall have to ask her.”
“You should,” Charlotte urged. She paused, then, “It is not always a question of unhappiness, you know. It can be a need of a simple change, just for a day or so, a longing to be with the people one has always known, who expect nothing and accept one’s foolish grumps without thought.”
He closed his eyes as the beginnings of understanding seeped in. He had thought there was nothing more he could do to help with the child, because the burden of feeding him was on Charlotte. But he was wrong. He could have listened to her—truly listened. And supported her instead of laying down the law based on a knowledge he doubted now was superior to her own. She was caring for Arthur alone, something he had never done.
“My wife is a wonderful woman,” he managed. He spoke in a low voice but had forgotten to make it the unidentifiable whisper. There was a definite pause, causing him to tense with anticipation of discovery.
Then she said, “You should tell her.”
He breathed a
sigh of relief. “I will. What will you tell your husband?”
“Why, that he is an underhand, cowardly snake!”
Chapter Three
She no longer spoke in a whisper, and she could feel his shock reverberating through the partition wall. Which gave her a certain amount of satisfaction.
And guilt. For the suspicion had been sudden, a familiar tone in his whisper allied to the rhythm of his words and the ease with which she had been speaking to him. And the abrupt if belated realization that the Villins would never have put a stranger in such intimate proximity to her.
And yet, she didn’t know. The maid or some other unknown servant could have given him the stable without appreciating her rank or his. And the voice in which he had uttered My wife is a wonderful woman might have sounded suspiciously like Alex, but it had hardly been clear. She could be entirely mistaken. Please don’t let me be mistaken…
“Harsh criticism,” her neighbor murmured through the wall at last. “Can he ever recover from it?”
The drumming of her heart was not simple anger. Somewhere behind it, her mind was singing, It is him! He came, he came!
“Perhaps,” she replied, much more calmly than she felt. “If he tells me what the devil he is doing.”
She could almost see the rueful, sardonic quirk of his lips, and a knot twisted deep inside her. Longing.
“In part,” he said quietly, “I think he was trying not to disturb you. In part, he didn’t know if you wanted him so close.”
“Because I left without him?” she asked.
There was a pause. “Yes.”
She wasn’t fooled. There was more to this. But his partial honesty deserved some of hers. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. But I was angry because—”
“Because he would not listen and would not understand.”
“Yes,” she whispered. And now she wanted to cry. She wanted the wall between them gone, and yet it was a defense. Her only defense. Although she yearned to touch him, to hold him, she was too confused, her feelings too jumbled.
Christmas Heart Page 2
