Then she heard a noise from behind her.
Instinctively, she hid behind the nearest bookcase, peering between books towards the door. Soft golden light formed a pool around a figure holding a candle before it.
It was Seth.
His hair was disheveled, and his chest and feet were bare. He wore a pair of breeches and nothing else.
Noble savage indeed! He certainly looks the part. Oh my, but he is handsome. Amelia, if you are destined for this man, I envy you, sister.
But something told her that Amelia would not be able to manage him. He was too wild and unpredictable, and he wouldn’t fit into the life of a London socialite.
So, where would he fit? As a country Duke in Yorkshire? I must be sensible. This is not my life. It is a brief fantasy, a dream that will come to an end only too soon.
Seth stumbled towards the bookcase Charlotte hid behind, and for a breathless moment, she thought he had seen her. But his glassy eyes roamed over the shelves as though scanning for something. Charlotte watched his bare, sculpted torso from a few feet away through the books, then lifted her gaze to his face.
He appeared almost sorrowful.
Did he regret how he behaved? Was he seeking refuge in a bottle from some anxiety that he could not face? Could she help?
Seth picked out a book from a shelf above Charlotte. Reaching for it, she had an unadulterated view of his flexing muscles: lean arms with flesh like steel cables and a broad, smooth chest with fine golden hairs across it. She carefully placed a hand over her mouth, afraid that he would hear her breathing. It felt as though she were panting.
She wondered what it would feel like to touch that chest. How firm were the rigid contours of muscle across his abdomen? The hairs rose on the back of her neck, and a tingle ran through her.
“There you are,” Seth whispered, and Charlotte thought that she was caught.
But he was looking at a book. It was broken-backed and well-thumbed, with at least one page appearing to be loose. He brushed its wooden cover with reverence.
“So, he never found you after all… If he had, he surely would have burned you. The works of the Earl of Rochester wouldn’t be appreciated by the previous master of this house.”
Talking to yourself. The first sign of madness. Or drunkenness. Rochester? I have heard of him. A poet?
Seth turned his back, and Charlotte heard the sound of his leafing through the book.
“Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, may drink and love still reign...” he read aloud, then chuckled.
Charlotte watched him sink to the ground, his back to the bookshelf. She crouched too, thankful for the soft cotton folds of the dressing gown which made not a rustle as she moved. Suddenly, she was very aware of her nakedness beneath the garment and her thin nightdress. As naked as Seth was, now with his back to her. Her view was blocked by a row of books far better stacked than the ones above.
In attempting to move one and be able to see Seth, she made a slight noise. Leather cover against leather.
Seth’s head came up from the book.
Horrified, Charlotte stood, starting back and only just stopping herself from colliding with the bookcase behind her. Her dressing gown fell open. Seth was also standing, peering through the bookcase.
“Have I invoked the ghost of Richard Redmaine with my blasphemy?” he whispered.
“No,” Charlotte whispered back.
“Then is it Mary? Mother?”
Charlotte could hear the brandy strongly in his voice. But the hostility of dinner was gone. He sounded like a little boy.
“I would have come back sooner if I knew I would see your shade, Mama,” he murmured.
He reached through a gap in the bookshelf, fingers reaching for her. Charlotte moved closer, tentatively reaching out, and laced her fingers through his.
“W—why have you stayed away?” she stammered.
“You don’t… you don’t know what it was like after you were gone.” He sniffed, shaking his head slightly. “Papa—he didn’t yell. Didn’t beat me. Didn’t need to. He just… there was nothing. Never said your name again. Like you never existed. Like I was supposed to forget you, just like that.”
