Ralston scowled. He’d assumed his quick investigation had revealed no reference to her mother because she’d been a woman of common origin. But perhaps he’d been wrong.
For a moment, her eyes sparked and her lips parted. But then she pressed them tightly together and furrowed her brow.
“Did you know my father was a talented artist?”
He shook his head which caused her to issue a deep sigh as regret filled her gaze.
“It’s tragic that his greatness didn’t have the opportunity to develop. If he hadn’t died so young, he’d likely be as well-known as so many of his friends and contemporaries are now,” she stated proudly before her chin lowered and her voice softened. “It was the artists who’d rallied around my mother and me after we lost Father. They were the family we needed. They are family still.”
Her voice faded into a pause pregnant with grief. Then she gave herself a subtle shake. “It was the artists and actors and poets who took us in when we left Edinburgh and moved to Rome. They filled our days with sunlight and beauty steeped in history. And they encouraged my mother to explore her talent for the stage.” Her smile was warm and intimate as her eyes seemed to look back through memories of the past. “Not a recluse—my mother was a star. A beloved figure of the theater and art world. In Rome and then in Paris. She was revered by everyone who knew her and many who didn’t. She was everything gracious and wonderful in the world.”
The dark undertone threading through her words grew heavier and more poignant until she stopped with an audible swallow.
Instinctively pulling her closer, he willed her glistening gaze to his. “How long has she been gone?”
She drew a soft breath and released it in a gentle sigh. “Months. A minute. Forever.”
“I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could think to say. Her grief was a weighted, palpable thing. It soaked into him.
But then—like a bolt of lightning in the night—the sadness was chased away. In an instant, her grief was gone, replaced by something fierce and dangerous. Her body tensed and her jaw tightened as she lifted her chin forcing Ralston to instinctively brace himself.
“Don’t waste your pity on me, my lord. I have no use for it. It will not bring her back and it will not negate the pain inflicted upon her by those who should’ve loved her.”
Understanding dawned as Ralston held her sparking gaze. “The reason you’re here. The revenge you seek is on behalf of your mother.”
She did not reply. And he could see her regret over saying as much as she did. She didn’t trust him. And why should she? He was practically nothing to her. Adistraction—she’d once called him.
But he wanted to be more.
She made a short sound in the back of her throat and turned her head to break eye contact. “These truths…my history…they have no value to you. Or anyone else in this grand ballroom,” she added with obvious bitterness. “But they are all I have left. I will not forsake my past. And I will not forsake her any more than I will accept her unnecessary suffering as a matter of course.” Her body trembled in his arms as her voice dropped to a whispered vow. “I’d never forgive myself.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
She’d said toomuch. Revealed too much. Shared too much of herself with this man. This lord of London who represented everything she abhorred.
As waves of sadness threatened to crush her beneath their weight, Charlotte struggled to gather her anger—her fury and righteous hatred. But pain pulsed through her. Demons she’d been holding at bay desperately clawed for their freedom. She fought an internal battle against emotions she’d spent so long denying. But the rage which had always sustained her against the tide was swiftly deserting her.
She could barely catch her breath. The world around her began to go hazy and dark so she shut her eyes against it all.
And then she was swept away. Tucked along the marquess’s side, his arm firm around her waist, she was propelled through the crowd.
“What are you doing?” she muttered, completely unmoored. “Where are we going?”
His reply was swift and succinct. And unquestionable. “I’m going to get you something to drink.”
“I don’t want—”
His stare reached into the heart of her. “Yes, you do.”
She did not argue further. He was too determined and she had very little fight left in her. Though her muscles ached with the effort to hold herself firm and strong, inside, she felt on the verge of collapse. And she had no desire to do such a thing in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
Managing a quick glance at his profile, she noted his intense focus and unwavering capability as he guided her from the dance floor. His expression was similar to the one he’d worn that first night at the Lyon’s Den when he’d been forced to resolve the recklessness of a foolish cousin.
Was she his problem tonight? Another disturbance on the verge of a scandal?
She wanted to feel enraged, but it was not far from the truth. She was aching with the effort it took to rein in the riot of emotion inside her. If she released it…
Finding an open spot near the terrace doors, the marquess set her there with a look. “I shall return promptly. Stay here.”
