“You needn’t look so suspicious of me.” He grinned. “I’m the same person I was.”
“Are you?”
He adjusted his stance and drew a deep breath, as if considering his response. “I’ve seen a few more troubling things. Done a few more daunting things. But yes. Essentially the same person.”
She eyed him skeptically, weighing his words. “There we are different, it seems. I’ve experienced some harrowing things as well, but they have indeed changed me. I fear the person I was is gone forever.”
Determined to maintain dominion over her emotions, Charlotte managed a smile before turning wordlessly to return to the house.
How easy it would be to fall back into the same sort of easy conversation they’d always enjoyed—recklessly easy. Doing so, in the end, would undoubtedly make this difficult situation even more heartbreaking. She had to remember what was at stake. If she was to come out at the end of this with the rest of her battered heart intact, she had no choice but to keep her sentiments in check.
Chapter17
Charlotte propped her hands on her waist and surveyed the neglected downstairs parlor. It had been nearly an hour since Sutcliffe had departed, and Henry was sleeping. Charlotte needed a task—anything that would keep her hands and her mind busy.
She could not let her mind linger on Anthony’s words.
His reference to the past—and their relationship—was dangerous, for it was far too easy to read a meaning into the words that wasn’t there. It was a lovely idea to think that he was the same person as before he had left and they could somehow be transported back to a simpler time. But she meant what she had said—she no longer recognized any of the pieces of the person she’d been.
She secured her working apron around her waist before removing protective sheets from the table and chairs, and she dusted the two chairs and a straight-backed wooden settee that flanked the broad fire. She replaced the spent tallow candles in the candelabra in the center of the table with fresh ones of beeswax and repositioned the rough rug covering the room’suneven stones. With every item she touched, with every scent she breathed, memories tumbled forth.
She could smell the tobacco from her father’s pipe.
She could hear her mother singing in the next chamber.
This was the room where her family would welcome visitors.
In fact, this was where she had first laid eyes on Roland Prior. It had been almost a year exactly after she first encountered Anthony on Blight Moor, and several months after he’d left for war. Her father’s health had been failing, and he was eager to see her married and taken care of. The memory of that day harkened back in vibrant detail.
Unusual laughter echoed from the parlor, and Charlotte, fresh from an afternoon walk on the moors, removed her straw summer bonnet and set it on the side table outside the parlor door. Curious as to who could be making her father laugh, she gently rapped her knuckles on the doorframe.
“I heard voices,” she said, turning into the chamber, expecting to see one of the tenants or perhaps Jon Turner from the village, but no. There stood one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, standing at her father’s side. Tall. Thick white-blond hair that curled over his coat’s high collar, and strong, broad shoulders. He was impeccably dressed in a deep-blue tailcoat of worsted wool, with an emerald waistcoat of patterned silk, fawn buckskin breeches, and polished riding boots. A shiny fob was at his waist, and his intricately tied cravat was snowy white against his fair skin. But it was his eyes that struck her most—icy, wide, and clear, entrancing with their paleness and quite unlike any she’d ever seen.
Sunlight splashed through sparkling windows, and it reflected fromthe sapphire signet ring on his finger and added warmth to the cozy parlor. Her father smiled, creasing the lines on his weathered face, and extended his hand toward her. “Ah, my dear. Join us.”
She did as bid, immediately regretting her decision not to visit her bedchamber to tidy her hair before learning their visitor’s identity. She also regretted her choice of day dress, for her primrose muslin gown paled in elegance to their guest, who seemed more suited to a visit to London than the moor.
“This is my daughter, not to mention my pride.” Her father beamed. “MissCharlotte Grey.”
Their guest presented a smile that dimpled his freshly shaven cheek. And bowed. “A true pleasure, MissGrey.”
“My dear, this is Mr.Roland Prior, visiting us from Prior Mill in Leeds.”
She returned her prettiest smile and extended her hand coyly in greeting. “Welcome to Hollythorne House, Mr.Prior.”
“I had no idea I would have such a charming hostess.” Their guest’s smile grew wider, dazzling and bright, and his gaze was enticingly direct as he accepted her hand. “If I’d known, I’d accepted your father’s offer to visit much sooner.”
Warmth rushed her face at the obvious flirtation in his tone.
Remembering her manners, she lowered her hand to her side. “I had no idea we were expecting company. What brings you to Hollythorne House, Mr.Prior?”
His clear eyes twinkled in the most becoming manner, and he leaned toward her slightly as if to divulge a very great secret. “Wool.”
She almost laughed. “’Tis a far way to travel merely for wool.”
“I agree with you, Miss Grey, but I blame my brother entirely.” Heraised a brow. “He insists that before we sign any supply agreements that we see the scope of the operations for ourselves.”
“Agreement?”
