“The past,” whispered Charlotte. “The future.”
“Fears often lose their terror when they are shared.” He waited a long moment and then, after releasing a to-hell-with-the consequences sigh, drew her into his arms. “Perhaps that’s because love has the power to keep them at bay.”
“L-Love,” she stammered. “B-But you don’t believe in love!”
He pressed his mouth to her cheek, a throaty chuckle reverberating against her skin. She tasted of salt, and something far more exquisitely sweet. “My dear Charlotte, it’s occurred to me that I may not have gathered enough empirical evidence to come to a definitive conclusion. So I concede that the subject may deserve further scientific study.”
“You?” She drew back, surprise widening her eyes. “Are you saying you’re willing to be open-minded about emotion?” Her expression quickly turned unreadable. “I find that hard to imagine.”
“I beg to—” he began, only to fall silent as her lips feathered against his.
“You’re much too arrogant, Agamemnon,” she whispered.
“And infuriating,” murmured Wrexford after taking his time to savor their closeness. “Not to speak of annoying.”
Once again, he was acutely aware of how, against all reason, their every subtle contour and curve fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Even all his sharp edges seemed to find their perfect niche.
“By the by, I think my name is Aloysius.”
“Is it?” A nibble tickled at the corner of his mouth. “I could have sworn it was Alexander.”
It was several long moments before either of them spoke again.
“Speaking of names . . .” Wrexford slowly framed her facebetween his palms. “Don’t you think it’s time to tell me your real name?”
“Talk about change—that would truly change everything,” she replied softly.
“No it wouldn’t.” he countered. “A name is merely a name. Who you are—your passions, your courage, your kindness, your strength—is already intimately familiar to me.”
“I . . .” Her sigh was quickly swallowed by a gust of salty air.
Wrexford waited. Charlotte had taught him patience. Along with a great many other things. The world, both physical and cerebral, looked different through the lens of their friendship. Color, perspective, conceptual ideas—all took on subtle changes he never would have seen on his own. She challenged herself to push past the expected. Which had helped shake him out of his own complacency.
“I . . . I think perhaps you’re right,” she finally said. “Love does seem to make all of life’s challenges a little less frightening.”
He smiled. There, they had both said the word ‘love.’ Granted, in a somewhat oblique way. But it was a start.
One step at time. Wherever the journey led, it would be . . . interesting.
* * *
Charlotte stepped back, needing some space between them in which to give up her secret. “My nameisCharlotte Sloane,” she began. “But I was born Charlotte Sophia Anna Mallory.”
“Mallory.” His brow furrowed. “That would make you—”
“The daughter of the Earl of Wolcott,” she confirmed. “But if you ask my family, I have ceased to exist, all traces of me pruned from the ancestral tree.”
“For what heinous crime?” asked Wrexford.
“Eloping to Italy with Anthony Sloane, my drawing teacher.” A pause. “I had just turned seventeen.”
“Ah.” He maintained a solemn expression, but she saw a glint of unholy amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Oh, fie, Wrexford. Here I have just bared my soul to you. Don’t youdarelaugh at me!”
“I’m not.” However, his lips twitched. “I’m simply surprised, given your imagination, you didn’t do something more spectacularly explosive to make your rebellion.”
Charlotte gave a wry grimace. “Give me some credit. I was barely more than a girl. And I promise you, for a young lady that was quite explosive enough.”My life as I knew it was blown to flinders.
