Miss Charity's Case (22 page)

He took her drenched hand and handed her into an opulent carriage. She stared at the leather seats. A hand at her back pushed her a step farther into the carriage. He swung in and pulled the door shut.

“Sit,” he ordered as he did exactly that.

“I am quite soaked. I fear the dampness will ruin your seats.”

His arm around her waist brought her down onto the seat so close to him that she could feel as well as hear his soft laugh. “Charity, although I have a good coachee, I doubt if you could stand all the way to Grosvenor Square.”

“Thank you for coming for me,” she whispered, gripping the front of his shirt. In amazement, she realized he was wearing neither coat nor waistcoat. The open neck of his shirt displayed an enticing breadth of skin.

This was as want-witted as driving through the docks alone. When she tried to move away, his arm halted her.

“Oliver—”

“I deserve to ask a few questions first. My reward as your dashing knight,” he said in a deceptively calm voice. “Explain to me why you are here. I thought I had your promise you would come to me first.”

“I called at your house.”

“And left to go to my ship?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I went there before by myself.”

“Which was stupid. Coming down here after dark is even more so.” He shook his head. “I followed you to the ship. Howell told me you were on your way back to Berkeley Square. I went back there. You weren't there. I returned to the ship. When he owned he might have forgotten to tell you to take the street between the two warehouses three quays down from the ship, I waited, hoping you would be wise enough to come back to
The Black Owl
.

She stared out the window. More streetlamps marked the better streets. “I became lost.”

“That much is clear. Did you think to ask for directions?”

“From whom?”

He laughed, but the sound was as stiff as the iron around the wheels. “A point well taken, Charity. How about getting to another point and telling me why you had to come here tonight?”

“I received a note from Joyce.”

Oliver shifted so he could face her. “Are you sure it was from your sister?”

“The handwriting was hers.”

“Damme! Field is being a sly-boots.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “But why did you come here? Had you no idea it might be a trap?”

She put her hands on his wrists and gazed up into the ebony pools of his eyes. “That is why I went searching for you. I did not want to go to The Boar and Bear alone.”

“Yet that is where you ended up. Why didn't you just turn tail when you saw that place and go back to your great-aunt's house?”

She feared her scarlet cheeks would be visible in the darkness. “My carriage was stolen.”

“What do you expect? Did you pay someone to watch it for you?” He laughed. She had expected anger from him, not mirth when she was disappointed, drenched, and due for another dressing-down from her great-aunt. Then, as the glow from the street-lamps sifted into the carriage, then vanished, in a steady rhythm, she saw each pulse outlined the fury on his face. “You continue to try to convince me you are cockle-brained, Charity. Yet I know that is not so.”

“I had hoped to find you … and to find her. As long as she remains in the hands of that evil man, I fear for her very life.”

He folded her fingers between his. “Trust me to help you, Charity. I know how dear the stakes are. Each time I look into your gray eyes, I see the sorrow you cannot hide. Let me help you.”

Charity blinked, trying to contain her tears, but they refused to stay unshed. He put his hand to her cheek to lift away a single, crystalline drop. When he raised it on his fingertip, as if it was the most precious gem, she wept.

His arm around her shoulders drew her against him, but he said nothing. She clung to his shirt, burying her face against its soft linen. As he stroked her back, she yearned to forget her pain. She could think of only one solace. She drew his mouth to hers.

Her lips trembled beneath his, but the pulse of yearning evaporated her tears. When he sought deep within her mouth for the rapture they could share, she pressed closer. His arms cradled her as he leaned her back against the thick seat. As his naked skin brushed hers, she shivered with an ineffable craving. She wanted only this for a lifetime of happiness.

With a moan, Charity yanked herself out of his arms. She gripped the edge of the window as she struggled to steady her uneven breath. Oliver put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off.

He swept his arm around her, pulling her back to him. “What is it? Do you find me distasteful, Charity?”

She whispered, “No … but I should not kiss you.”

“Why?” His smile returned as he traced her cheek with his finger. “I can assure you that I am not unwilling.”

Shaking her head, she said, “It is too terrible.”

“Let me judge that.” His finger under her chin tilted her face toward him. When she tensed, he murmured, “I shan't kiss you if that is your wish, even though I swear it is not mine.” His fingers sifted up through her hair, disentangling the last of her hapless hairpins. “Will you tell me about the pain I see in your eyes?”

“I must not.”

His smile faded, and his voice roughened. “You venture into the worst sections of London alone and yet you fear to tell me why you refuse my kisses? I thought you considered me a friend, Charity. Is this how you treat a friend who wishes only to help you?”

Her gasp vanished beneath his mouth as he pressed it against hers again. This time, he gave her no chance to protest. As his arms closed around her, bringing her nearer, ecstasy swirled through her, sweeping aside the feeble attempts of her conscience to escape. This was where she longed to be, with this man, who had enticed her from the first. When his caresses grew more bold, his fingers curving along her breast, she was sure she had become as molten as a candle beneath the burning flame of his lips.

“Tell me,” he ordered against her mouth. When she hesitated, he captured her lips anew.

“How can I tell you anything when you scotch my words?” she whispered.

His laugh resonated through her like the sweetest melody. “Maybe I had hoped you would remain recalcitrant. Then you give me the excuse to try to woo the truth from you.”

The carriage slowed, and she looked out to see the steps of Lady Eloise's house. The sight of the elegant pilasters and the Palladian windows on the upper story reminded her of what she risked if she did not resist his kisses.

“Thank you for rescuing me yet again, Oliver.”

He slapped the side of the carriage and ordered, “Keep going, Jeffries.”

She stared at him.

“This conversation is not yet over.”

She did not mistake his serenity for anything but a mask for the rage she could sense in his arm around her shoulders. “You presume much.”

“And you hide much, Charity. I shall endeavor to be less presumptuous if you'll be more honest. Tell me—honestly—you dislike my kisses, and I shall desist.”

She raised her fingers to explore the craggy warmth of his face. “I do not dislike your kisses.”

“Then there must be another reason why you pull away.” He brushed her hair back from her face. “Tell me, sweet one.”

“What I tell you must reach no other ears.” She shuddered as she imagined Lady Eloise's outrage if her great-aunt knew that Charity had revealed this truth.

“You have my vow I shall hold your secret in my heart where no one might touch it.”

She closed her eyes. Were his words a warning? Oliver Blackburn had kept his heart securely hidden. That might never change, although her heart foolishly longed to be his.

“Charity?”

“Very well,” she whispered. Let him think she hesitated merely because she was unsure how to speak of the past. If she spoke of a life she wished they could share, she might jeopardize everything. She could not do that when she needed him to help her find Joyce. “Oliver, can your name resist the shame that will be heaped upon it when it is discovered that your friend's father was a disgrace to his calling?”

Even in the meager light, she could see his scowl. Or perhaps she had come to know him so well in the past weeks, she could guess how he would react. “Which friend?”

“Oliver, do not be vexing now!”

“Me?” He lowered his voice. “Forgive me for failing to understand, but you cannot suggest
your
father was a disgrace. How?”

“Do not ask me.”

“There are others I can ask, but then it might become widely known I am making queries about Mr. Stuart.”

Charity whispered, “You can't do that.”

“Then be honest with me.”

She sought the strength to do as he ordered. She was unsure she could gird herself for speaking the truth. Her voice was soft, so soft he had to lean forward to catch each word. “Papa did not live the life he preached. Although I had become accustomed to his absences, I did not suspect what activities might take him from the parsonage. He died—mayhap by murder—outside the establishment of
demi-reps
. The parish was in a jumble over it.” Raising her gaze, she added, “That's why you should not kiss me, Oliver.”

She watched his face closely. Did he suspect, even now, when he had asked her to be honest with him, that she was plying him with out-and-outers? Yes, it was true Papa's life had not been exactly as it should have been, but that was not the reason she pulled away. She drew away because she knew that, if she continued to savor this wondrous sensation of being in his arms, his mouth upon hers, she might spill the truth of how she had been betrayed by the only other man she had dared to trust with her heart. To speak of that … No, she could not, for she did not want to see the pity in Oliver's eyes as she had seen it in other eyes before her family had moved to Bridgeton.

She was sure her heart would break anew when he said, “You should not judge your father harshly. He might have had the very best of reasons for being there.”

Would he forgive her foolishness as readily? She longed to believe that. She opened her mouth, but he continued.

“He might have wished to bring those harlots to the church, for his other missions were often successful. He was a good man, Charity.”

Shock riveted her, driving all other concerns from her head.

“How did you know Papa?”

“His work was often with men of the sea. It was inevitable that our paths would cross.” His smile grew sad. “I regret his death more than you can know, Charity. There are so few truly good men left at this time when we need so many.” He enfolded her to him. “Even if Mr. Stuart had been a confederate of the old gentleman in black himself, that was your father's life, Charity, not yours. Do you think I give a whit about such things?”

“Others do. You know what Leatrice would say—”

“I know, as well, she was elated when your great-aunt dragged you away from my side at the party. Do you care so much for what a woman like Leatrice Hoyle thinks that you shall let her ruin your life?”

Charity tugged at her gloves and winced when she saw how the lace on the right one was tattered. She hoped Hélène would be able to repair them, so Lady Eloise need never know what happened this evening. “My life is ruined already,” she said in a near whisper.

“The shadow of your father's habits will not destroy it.” A hint of humor tipped his lips in a roguish grin. “Nor will allowing me to steal a few kisses from you while we drive around and around the square.”

In the moment before his mouth found hers again, she murmured her assent. She could not imagine denying him anything when she wanted to give him every bit of her heart.

Fourteen

“Miss Charity, this was delivered for you.”

Charity rose from the chaise longue in her bedchamber to take the rose Prentiss held out. She smiled as she read the accompanying note which requested that Miss Charity Stuart and her great-aunt allow Lord Blackburn to escort them to the theater that evening. Oliver's eccentric humor was a delight. If the Duke of Rimsbury had inundated her with flowers—and she had been unmoved—Oliver would send her a single blossom to announce his single-minded devotion.

“Is the messenger waiting for an answer?”

“Yes, Miss Charity.” Every inch of Prentiss's stiff body was indignant.

“Tell him to—”

“Tell whom?” Lady Eloise entered the room, her blue wrapper flapping in rhythm with every forceful step. A taut smile pulled her lips. “May I hope His Grace has come to his senses and wishes to atone for his opaque behavior at Leatrice's party?”

Charity hesitated. “No, it is not from Myles.”

“Then from whom?”

“Lord Blackburn.”

Lady Eloise snatched the flower from Charity and threw it to the floor, grinding it under her foot. “You foolish chit!” she snapped. “You allowed Thyra Estes to snatch the Duke of Rimsbury from beneath your nose.”

“I did not
allow
it. I helped ensure Thyra and Myles would spend more time in each other's company. She has an honest affection for him.”

Telling Prentiss, who was listening eagerly, to dismiss the messenger without a reply, Lady Eloise closed the door. “I shall not have all the world and his wife hear how you let that
bona roba
attach herself to a duke while you are left with a black-hearted rogue.”

“Thyra is no harlot, and Oliver—”

“Will not be spoken of in this house again.” She thumped her cane against the floor. “You have been seen too often in his company. He shall be the ruin of your reputation—as he has of too many other gullible, muttonheaded chits. I forbid you to see him.”

“But—”

“Not another word, Charity. While you live under my roof, you shall have no more to do with that libertine. Do I make myself clear?”