“Good heavens, you look beautiful like that.”
“Like ... what?”
“Your hair down around you, the firelight ...”
His eyes fell from her face to her neck, and Charlotte for the first time was aware of her own state of dress. But rather than the rush of embarrassment she would have expected, a strange feeling of power filled her instead. She had come into this room a little girl, to comfort her dear Mr. Harris, with no care for her dress or decorum, only to soothe the man she loved most in the world. It was as if, as she knelt there before him, she grew from little girl to desirable woman in a space of a few aching heartbeats. And, if she was reading his expression rightly, he was witnessing the same startling transformation as well. But perhaps it was only her view of herself that had changed, because she had indeed seen that look in his eyes before—that admiration, that desire—but had been blind to its meaning.
He leaned nearer, inspecting her closely. He lifted his hand to touch her face, tenderly outlining her jaw, her chin, with his fingers.
“I always knew you would be beautiful, Charlotte. But you always were to me. Promise me you will forget all my foolishness in the morning—chalk it up to lightning and brandy—but now I feel I must say what I very soon will no longer be able to speak of.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but she feared whatever she might say would break this pleasurable spell. He ran a thumb over her silent, parted lips and her heart throbbed within her.
“I have loved you since you were a little girl, Charlotte—I suppose you know that—and I love you still. To me, you are the dearest creature God ever made. You have always been so kind, so affectionate to me—more than I deserved. When I see myself in your eyes, I am the best man on earth. Or at least in Kent.”
His mouth lifted in the crooked half grin she’d always admired, and in thoughtless response to his warm words, she leaned close and placed a quick kiss on his mouth, and instantly his grin fell away.
He stood suddenly, awkwardly, and since her hand was still clutching his, pulled her to her feet with him. He looked down at her, then away. “You had better go back to bed.”
He stood rock still, but made no move to turn from her nor to turn her out. She stood before him, wishing she might kiss him again, to wipe that bleak look from his face, to see him smile once more. But he was too tall for her to reach, her head reaching only to his shoulders.
“Go on,” he repeated in a rough whisper, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if he wanted her to leave or to continue with her unspoken desire. Rather than feeling dismissed or rejected, she felt instead emboldened, sure at last of his attachment to her and feeling the pleasure, the intoxicating sweetness of it. How could she not, after a lifetime of thinking him the most handsome and cleverest of men? After endless years of loving him, of dreaming of him, of believing him out of reach, here he was, right here now, loving her.
She lifted his hand, caressed it in both of hers and kissed it. He winced as though she were hurting him.
“Leave me.”
She looked at him, wild emotions coursing through her. “How can I?” She pressed his hand over her heart. “When I love you as well?”
“But”—his eyes fell to the discarded letter—“I cannot love you.”
“You already do.”
Slowly his hand slid lower and she could barely breathe. She leaned closer to him.
He whispered, “Charlotte. You are killing me. I am only a man.”
She lifted her face toward his, and he pulled her into his arms, lowering his lips to hers, kissing her deeply. He half sat, half fell into the chair behind him, lifting her onto his lap, holding her close, still kissing her.
Then once again he pushed her aside, standing and twisting away, leaving her sprawled in the chair alone. He ran his hand over his face. “Charlotte, go. We cannot be together like this.”
Though his back was to her, she reached around and took his clenched hand in hers and turned him back around to face her. Gently, she pulled him down to his knees before her and, for the second time in their long relationship, their positions were reversed. His eyes were wide, desperate, full of desire. She felt the cold night air on her neck, her limbs, her shoulders, she felt his hand in hers and wanted to feel more. She did not truly think, made no conscious decision to cross the threshold; she was not versed in such things. She knew a woman could comfort a man, though she knew not how. And she knew she loved this man. She thought only of lengthening this time together, of holding him close as she had never been allowed before. When she pulled him toward her, he peered at her closely.
“This is your last chance, Charlotte.”
But she pulled him into her arms and kissed him, feeling, foolishly, as if she, too, were helpless to stop the coming storm.
She knew little of the rudiments of physical love. She had been told only that some men were not trustworthy and that is why she must never be alone with a man without a proper chaperone. But she had always trusted Mr. Harris implicitly and knew her father did as well. Mr. Harris was not “some man”—he was looked upon practically as relation. She had not known a moment’s fear in his presence, even alone with him, until this moment. Only when he leaned against her and she felt her nightdress begin to slide up did the warning bells finally go off in her desire-drunk mind. She tried to pull her mouth from his, to pull herself away, but the back of the chair pinned her in. She finally wrenched her mouth free and entreated, “Wait, I—”
He halted immediately, staring down at her in growing apprehension, suspended. Frozen.
But somehow, though she felt no pain, the damage was done.
In the morning, Charlotte awoke with the dreadful hope that she had somehow mistaken the events of the previous night. She was not completely certain that what she feared transpired actually had. But in the cold, dark hours she had lain alone in bed since, she knew without doubt that she had left behind all modesty, all rules of polite society, and, she feared, lost all virtue as well. Worse yet, she felt she had lost Mr. Harris, his esteem and his love. She sat up in bed and in so doing, spied the letter, which had apparently been slid under her door. She knew better than to hope for a love letter now. So this was how it was to be—worse than she thought.
With fatalistic numbness she arose and picked up the folded stationery. She climbed back into bed and cocooned herself beneath the featherbed, shielding herself from the cold reality she knew awaited her. She opened the letter and read the single line:
Somehow, someday, please forgive me.
