John shook his head.
“My husband wishes to say something else, doesn’t he?”
Find me something to write with.
John rose and approached the cabinet, where he opened the drawers and rifled through the contents. At length, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and the stub of a pencil. Charles snatched it from his grasp, smoothed out the paper, and scrawled a few words:
Forgive me. I thought you a ruined woman. Had I known you were a maiden, I would not have touched you.
Hardly the flowery words of a poet making love to his sweetheart, but they’d have to do.
John reached toward the paper. Frowning, Charles shook his head, then he folded the note, rose, and handed it to his wife.
She waited for him to resume his seat before she unfolded it. Her gaze darted over the page, then, her color deepening, she crumpled the note in her hands and reached for her teacup. It slipped from hergrasp and toppled onto the saucer, splashing tea on the tablecloth.
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, in a small voice.
Tell her she has nothing to be sorry for.
John stared at Charles.
For fuck’s sake, man, can you not see how distressed she is?Charles signed.
Then comfort her, sir.
I don’t know how.
Understanding and sympathy flickered in John’s eyes and Charles averted his gaze, unwilling to reveal himself any further. He’d learned over the years that it was easier to discern the thoughts and wishes of another, not by what they said, but by what theydidn’tsay—the way they tilted their head, the furrow in their brow, and the expression in their eyes.
And his eyes would have conveyed the revelation that, for the first time in his life, he wanted nothing more than to ease the pain of another—but he lacked the ability, the knowledge, and the experience.
Perhaps Father was right.
I really am nothing but a beast. And a coward.
“What did you say just then, my lord?”
Her voice was soft, laced with concern—a concern that he did not deserve.
“My master said that it’s not you who ought to apologize. You are entirely blameless, and he was gravely mistaken in believing that you were anything other than a true innocent. He only wishes to atone, and is anxious to know that you are well enough to travel today.”
A fine speech indeed. A little too flowery, but believable, nonetheless. The smile on Olivia’s lips was evidence of its success.
“He wishes to reassure you that matters will improve,” John continued, “and he appreciates his supreme good fortune in securing your hand.”
Her smile disappeared.
Either she still believed herself unworthy or—and this was morelikely—was astute enough to know that such gallant words were John’s, and not his.
Perhaps John would have fared better as the master and Charles the servant. John, with his classic good looks and open, warm disposition, would have had ladies flocking to him in their dozens. He’d have had no trouble securing a bride—and, no doubt, in giving her pleasure on her wedding night.
Olivia fixed her gaze on Charles. “I thank you for your consideration, my lord,” she said. “I hadn’t realized you were such an accomplished wordsmith.”
A spark of defiance! It was enough to send a surge of heat into his cock.
He leaned forward and she flinched, almost imperceptibly, and the spark died.
Bugger.
