The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance (88 page)

“Charlotte?” Graves choked out.

Her face flamed as she met his distraught gaze. All her hopes crumbled.

“Pardon my intrusion,” the young lord said, all stiff and hurt.

The library door slammed shut.

Fool. Such a fool. She’d let the memory of pleasure forgone destroy her life.

Gerard turned to face her, regret in his eyes.

“He was looking for you,” she whispered. “How did he know to find you here?”

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded guilty.

She frowned. “How could he possibly know?”

He shrugged.

She had to find Graves. Find some way to explain. She ran to the mirror, saw what he had seen — her hair in disarray, her face flushed. What had she done?

She turned to leave.

The door opened to admit a thin pale gentleman. “It worked,” he crowed. He halted as he realized she was still there. Lord Graves’ cousin, Brian Devlin, winced. “Madame Bouchere.”

She looked over at Gerard, who was frowning at him. Everything tumbled horridly into place. A pain seared her heart. “You planned this. How could you, Hawkworth? You deliberately ruined my life once, you and your father. How could I not have guessed you would do it again?”

She rushed for the door.

“Charlotte,” Gerard said. “Wait.”

Hand on the door handle, she paused, staring at the ornate panelling. She could not bear to turn and see the triumph in his eyes. “If you ever come near me again, I’ll have O’Mally run you through.”

She escaped out of the door. Something hot and wet rolled down her face. Tears. She dashed them away. It was the pain in her heart she couldn’t bear. The well-remembered pain of betrayal.

Damn. Bugger. He’d made her cry. He’d hurt her. The expression on her face when she saw Graves in the doorway had been like a kick to his chest by a metal-shod carthorse.

Bloody hell. He’d been so sure she didn’t care tuppence for the fellow; sure he’d be able to woo her back into his life with the one thing they’d had that was perfect. Where had he gone wrong? Doubt niggled in the pit of his stomach. What had she meant about his father? He had the unusual feeling he’d made a terrible mistake.

Dev rubbed his hands together and Gerard wanted to hit him.

“That’s it, then,” Dev said. “I had the hell of a time convincing him not to call you out, but he finally agreed that she wasn’t protesting, and therefore she must have been willing.”

Gerard shot him a glare. “What do you mean, bursting in here like that! Listen to me well. Say one word about this, you or your idiot cousin, and I’ll cut out your tongues and feed them to the lions at the Tower.”

“What do you take me for? The lad is hurt and a little bitter, but he’ll do as he’s told. Now perhaps he’ll find a girl of suitable station.”

Red blazed behind Gerard’s eyes.

“Not that she isn’t …” Dev began. He stared down at Gerard’s fist bunching his coat. “Oh hell. What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

His friend’s eyes widened. He groaned. “Not you too. Is the wench some sort of witch?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Gerard strode for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Gerard thought for a moment. A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Heaven or hell. But first I need to find my carriage.”

“Will you not tell me what happened, dear heart?” Miles O’Mally followed Charlotte from the clothes press to the trunk she was filling. She turned and glared. “His Grace the Duke of Hawkworth happened.” She dropped the armful of clothing into the trunk.

“What did he do?”

“She put her hands on her hips and sighed. “You will find out soon enough. It will be all over London tomorrow, if it isn’t already.”

“Young Graves didn’t come up to scratch?”

“No. And he won’t. He caught me in a compromising position with the Duke.”

“I’ll kill him,” O’Mally said. “Hang him up by his thumbs. Damn! I’ll make him marry you.”

“I wouldn’t marry him if he was the only man in London.” Not that he’d ever make her an offer. He considered her nothing but a soiled dove. “Get out of my room. I’m packing.” She marched back to the clothes press.

“Where are we going?”

She stopped and took a deep breath. “Damn it, Miles. I don’t know.” She dropped her head and covered her eyes with her hands. She choked on a lump in her throat that refused to be swallowed. She took a few deep breaths. “There’s no help for it. I’ll have to accept Count Vandome’s offer.”

“You will not.” The shock in his voice made not the slightest impression on her flayed nerves. “The man is a pervert. Old enough to be your grandfather.”

“I have no choice. He’ll be generous. I’m ruined here and he promised to pay Papa’s debts.”

“Ah, damnation.” The Irishman’s voice was thick with tears. Miles cried easily. Unlike her. Until last night, when the tears hadn’t ceased for hours. That was yesterday. Today, she was wrung out. Dry as death.

All the starch seemed to go out of the old man, he sagged on to the edge of the bed. “Don’t do it, girl. I love your father like a brother, but he’s not worth a life of misery. You know he will succumb again. He can’t help himself. One roll of the dice and he’s lost to reason. I should never have encouraged him to go to France.”

“I thought if we came back to England and lived in the country. Away from temptation …” But there was no hope of that now.

“Your pa doesn’t deserve the sacrifice. Walk away while ye can.”

“I can’t.” Father needed her help.

A knock sounded below.

Miles cocked a brow.

“It’s probably the carter for the trunks. Go away and let me pack.”

A deep voice drifted up from the hallway.

“Doesn’t sound like a carter. Sounds more like an argument.”

Her heart sank. The only person she could think it might be was her erstwhile suitor. She’d wounded him dreadfully. He no doubt wanted an explanation. She’d have to face him. She straightened her shoulders. “It must be Graves. I’ll go down.”

“I’ll come with you. Make sure the young hothead does nothing rash.”

She worked her way around the trunks piled up on the landing. Miles followed her down the stairs.

The gentleman at the bottom of the stairs was facing away from her, but he looked too big to be Graves, too broad.

“Hawkworth.” Her hands clenched into fists.

He turned. “We need to talk.”

“Let me at him,” Miles said. “You’ll talk to the point of my sword, Duke. Or better yet, speak with the mouth of my pistol.”

Hawkworth would hurt him. “No, Miles. He’s done quite enough damage.” She stared at Gerard’s hard angular face, the bleak eyes that only seemed to warm when they rested on her. Her heart quivered. No. No, she would not let him do this to her again. “Please leave, Your Grace. You are not welcome here.”

He glanced up at the baggage. “You are leaving, then.”

“Of course I’m leaving. You made sure I couldn’t stay. I’m going back to France. Now, go away.”

“Not until you hear me out. You owe me that much.”

“You dog,” Miles roared.

Charlotte put out an arm to hold him back. “I owe you nothing.”

“Then do it for old times’ sake, love.”

She froze. “Don’t call me that.”

“Damn it, Charlotte.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her down the last couple of steps and pushed her into the drawing room.

“Blackguard,” Miles yelled, hurrying after them.

Gerard closed and locked the door in the Irishman’s reddened face. “You will listen,” Gerard said, glaring at her.

She looked down her nose at him, then sank on to the sofa. “Very well. Speak your piece.”

Gerard visibly swallowed. She’d never seen him so nervous. Not since the first time they’d … Heat flushed up from her belly. Oh why did she have to think of that now?

Gerard stared from her squared shoulders to her clenched jaw. The look in her eyes did not bode well for his mission. Anger rolled off her in waves. While he had scripted this play to save his friend’s cousin, he no longer knew the ending.

She gazed up at him. “The great Hawkworth, having once more altered the course of my life, is now here for what purpose? To gloat?” She lowered her gaze to her hands resting in her lap and bit her lip. “I would have been a good wife to Graves. I always wanted children.”

His legs felt weak. “Then why not have children with me?”

Her lips parted in shock. “With you? Never.”

The old anger rose to claim him. The deep bitterness of loss. “Don’t tell me you loved Graves. You don’t know what love is.” He couldn’t restrain his bitter laugh. “And neither do I.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” she spat. “I know.”

“You must have thought a great deal of this Beauchere fellow to leave me for him.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced away. “There is no Beauchere. There never was. I could hardly come back claiming to be a maid.” She shot him a look that held more than mere loathing, it held heartbreak.

He recoiled. “Are you telling me you never married?”

“How could I marry? After we …” She made a small hopeless gesture with one hand. “Father is ill. He needs medical attention. Relief from his debts.” The stiffness in her back flowed away. She hunched her shoulders and turned her lovely face to gaze into the empty hearth. “Gerard, why are you here? You’ve won. Just like before.”

The defeat in the slump of her shoulders jangled every nerve in his body. Her words rang bells of alarm.

A cold feeling spread in the pit of his stomach. “What do you mean, ‘just like before’?”

She looked up, her eyes hopeless. “It is over with, Gerard. Let it lie.” She forced a smile. The pain in her lovely eyes knifed through the wall he’d built around his heart when she left. He wanted to gather her close, kiss away the crease in her brow, promise her the world. But he didn’t dare trust her. She’d lied about loving him. He was no longer a besotted youth and he wanted the truth from her lips. “What about before?”

A horrified expression crossed her face followed by a look of pained disbelief. “You must know. You sent your father to negotiate the terms of our alliance, a carte blanche as your mistress because marriage was out of the question. When he saw Father’s shock and horror, he apologised for what you’d done and offered help. He agreed to pay all of my father’s debts and give him enough money to take me abroad. To hide my shame. He knew about us. What we’d done. Only you could have told him.”

Bile rose in his throat. “I did not. I swear it.” He put out a hand.

She waved him off. “O’Mally had brought back tales of great riches to be had in the new gambling hells in France. The money was too great a temptation to my father, even though I begged him to refuse. What influence I had no longer counted. In his eyes, I was a fallen woman. And now he is ruined and near death. You knew it would happen.”

The nausea in his gut turned to icy anger. Cold fury against his autocratic father. He clenched his fists. “How could you believe I’d abandon you?”

“I didn’t at first. I sent you a note, begging to see you.” She got up and went to the bureau and pulled a folded paper from its depths. “You seem to have forgotten your reply.”

Gerard unfolded the note and read the contents.
“The choice is yours.”
His seal, cracked and flaking, clung to the bottom.

“Brief and to the point,” she said in brittle tones.

“I did not write this. The only note I received from you spoke of joining a lover in France.”

Her eyes widened.

He recalled his father’s glee at the news of Charlotte’s departure. Followed by a litany of suitable brides. But Gerard could never bring himself up to scratch. Could never quite put on the shackles of a loveless marriage.

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I cannot stay. I am ruined.”

The pain in her voice, the humiliation, battered his conscience. He felt physically ill. She was right. He had toyed with her, his pain making him angry, when all the time she was innocent.

His was to blame. The realization stole his breath. He should have gone looking for her instead of retreating into icy pride.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “Is it too late? For us? Is it possible to start anew? Marry me, Charlotte?” He held his breath as if the weight of the air in his lungs could tip the scales against him.

Charlotte stared into his beloved face. He looked different today, younger, a little less sure of himself. Less like the hard-edged nobleman she’d seen these past few days and more like the youth she’d loved.

She’d let him kiss her and make love to her, because she couldn’t help the way he made her feel. But his father had taken her aside five years ago. He’d explained just what Gerard owed to his family name. The duty. The honour.

Nothing had changed. She couldn’t speak for the burn in her throat and the tears behind her eyes, so she gave him a watery smile and shook her head.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice thick and strange.

“A duke cannot marry the daughter of a drink-sodden gambler who can’t pay his debts. A criminal. He is in prison, Gerard.”

“Your name is as good as mine. Goes back further if I’m not mistaken.”

“And you are seventeenth in line to the throne.”

“Nineteenth, now. Believe me, it is not a consideration in my life.”

Misery rose up to claim her, leaving her numb. “It still wouldn’t be right. I’m a fallen woman in the eyes of society. Your duchess must have an impeccable reputation.” Another thing his father had said. “It is better if I leave. Lord Graves is a kind and generous young man. I thought I would make him a good wife and, somehow, with O’Mally’s help, manage to keep Father from being too much of a burden.”

“And now?”

“Graves deserves more.”