Anthony turned his head to access her mouth more easily. An overwhelming… rightness swept through him. Everything about her excited and invigorated him. Yet he felt as though he’d held her like this a million times.
How could he live the entirety of his life without having this, without having her, ever again?
He’d allow himself this moment. “Charlotte,” he whispered. Saying her name aloud made all of this more real, somehow. She’d haunted his dreams, tantalized him from a place just out of bounds. But today, in this moment, he’d managed to break through those barriers, eliminate societies boundaries.
“M’lord,” her whisper barely reached his hearing over the blood rushing through his veins.
“Anthony.” He shouldn’t. He oughtn’t. But God only knew how much he wanted to hear his name upon her lips.
“Anthony,” she whispered. “You must… We. We must stop.” She labored to speak the words, but he heeded them against his own inclinations.
Although ending the kiss, he didn’t release her person. And she hadn’t expected him too. She hadn’t relinquished her grip around his neck and her face remained buried against his chest.
She intoxicated him as no spirits ever could.
If this were only about him… He choked on a wave of unexpected emotion.
When he went to press his lips against her hair, his lips landed on the muslin fabric of her cap. Scattering reason and rational thought to the wind, he gripped the material and tugged it off.
She didn’t fight it, but instead tilted her head back and met his gaze, catching his breath with her beauty.
White fire, he could see, even braided and pinned up. Not just gold, but yellow and white and amber threaded together. He wanted nothing more than to…
“It’s beautiful.” But his voice caught. “So beautiful.”
“But you cannot,” She reminded him. “You have obligations.”
He shook his head as though dismissing his duties, his responsibilities, if only for this instant. “I could take care of you. Purchase a cottage nearby. No one need know––”
And then several offkey voices, singing ironically enough the same song Charlotte had sung for him, drifted through the corridor. A group of jovial-sounding guests approached. Staring back at him in horror, Charlotte jumped off the bench as though scalded. She searched around, seized the cap from him, and sprung to the other side of the room.
What had he just done? Had he actually suggested she become his mistress? It was nothing he’d ever considered for himself. And by the look on her face, he’d insulted her in the worst way. She was a damned vicar’s daughter, for God’s sake! What in the hell had he been thinking?
But she was also alone in this world.
“We can use the pianoforte. Billings plays well enough.” Miss Fairchild had opened the door with several of her cousins following behind her. “Ah, Lord Mapleton. I wondered where you’d gone off to.” She turned to the three gentlemen and ladies behind her. “You all remember Lord Mapleton, my, er, ahem. Lord Mapleton is Father’s favorite neighbor. He’s stranded because of this awful storm.” She’d barely covered her near slip. Nothing was official yet, after all. And then she caught sight of Charlotte near the window.
“Drake! What are you doing down here, for Heaven’s sake?” Charlotte had donned her cap once again and was vigorously polishing a picture frame with her back to the room. “I’m sure Cook can use your assistance preparing supper.” Those who’d accompanied his fiancé ignored Charlotte. She was only a servant, after all.
Nausea settled into Anthony’s gut as the woman he’d been kissing only minutes before shuffled out of the room at the behest of the woman who was to become his wife.
Charlotte didn’t turn back to acknowledge him.
As she shouldn’t. Likely she hated him after such an affront.
He ran one hand through his hair and turned to face Miss Fairchild who seemed vibrant and animated now. Lucky girl, she hadn’t had to entertain him for all of four hours.
Had it been four hours? He glanced out the window and then to check the large clock by the door. The snow hadn’t let up as he’d hoped. In fact, it likely had strengthened. Daphne and Michael would be at home alone with their mother.
On Christmas Eve.
But he’d promised Daphne he wouldn’t make the trip, short though it might be, if the weather turned.
And damned if it hadn’t turned against him. Much like his heart.
“You missed out on all the fun!” One of Miss Fairchild’s cousins, the girl couldn’t be older than ten and seven, informed him. “We’ve been collecting greenery and having snow wars. It’s freezing outside! We thought we’d sing carols while the servants hang our cuttings.” And then she caught Miss Fairchild’s gaze and the two of them giggled.
He felt positively ancient.
