Her plea had the opposite effect to what she intended. He pulled back, and her desperate “no” went unanswered. Mortified, she shuffled off his lap.
He grasped her hands before she could get up and away. “I cannot do this,” he said. “I promised…We simply cannot.”
Her eyes were hot with tears. “Because you’re going back to America?”
“Yes.”
“And if you weren’t?”
John looked agonized. “There is no point dwelling on what might be, no matter how pleasant the dream.”
Chapter 12
Despite the drizzle of rain, John walked the four London blocks from the Mottram residence to his home, his collar turned up to ward against the cold stream of water that tried to make its way down his neck. That, and the splash of mud that would take him an hour to clean from his shoes, was a bitter reminder that his moment with Charlotte in the warm and heavenly scented orangery was an aberration. A misstep that could not be replicated.
Charlotte was the quintessential lady of the beau monde. She wanted, and deserved, to marry a quintessential lord who could provide her with everything that meant—a thriving home, not one that was barely staffed and mostly closed, and a husband who could match her vivaciousness in every way, not a grump who would avoid every one of her favorite activities if given half the chance.
Wilde had forbidden John from pursuing his sister for many excellent reasons. If he was a man of honor, he would keep his distance, whether he wanted to or not.
As he turned his key in the front door, he could hear the scrabble of claws on marble, and as he opened it, Newton was there, tail wagging, with a big deerhound grin. He dropped his head, the brisk wag of his tail slowing, as though he could sense that something was amiss. He stood on his hind legs, his paws on John’s shoulders, and nudged John’s face, rubbing against him as though he were trying to pat his master.
“All right, all right.” John nudged Newton off of him and dropped to his haunches to give the dog a thorough rub behind the ears, turning his head away as Newton licked him with his giant tongue.
“Thanks, puppy,” he said, wiping his cheek with the back of his glove. “It’s good to see you too.”
Part of him wanted to go to bed to catch up on the sleep he’d missed over the past week, but he knew that the moment he closed his eyes, she would appear and any sleep he got would be infiltrated by dreams of her.
The rest of him knew that if he could get at least one of the inventions in his head to work in reality, he might avoid marrying Luella for her money. He could go back to America.
Or you could marry because you want to.
John pushed that thought aside. He would not betray his best friend like that. Without Wilde’s approval, he could never conceive of marrying Charlotte. That didn’t mean thoughts of her weren’t plaguing him.
Never before had he met a person with such a large heart. If someone was hurt, she wanted to soothe them. If someone had a problem, she wanted to fix it. She didn’t just express sympathy and move on with her day; she took action. She used her privilege for those who had none.
She was exceptional. When she’d kissed him tonight, his heart and his body had come to the same conclusion—they wanted her. They wanted her in his life, in his bed, in his space. Always. Marriage to her could be a beautiful thing.
Only his head kept him from making a mistake that would ruin them both. Logically, he knew he and Charlotte were too different for a marriage to work.
In a foul mood, he withdrew the promissory notes they had won that night and stuffed them into the top drawer of his desk. Reliving that blasted kiss had made cards far more difficult than it should have been. Lucky for them, Lord Chalders and Lady Fierst had been novice players—plenty of money in the pot, but no strategy between them.
Even through the heavy tension between him and Charlotte, they had communicated well enough to take every trick that mattered. One hundred pounds down. Only thousands more to go.
John picked up the coil of wire and long bar magnet that sat on his desk. Michael Faraday had recently published a paper demonstrating how electrical energy—the same energy that traveled through lightning bolts—could be generated with just these two small objects. At a much lower level, of course, but still it was a discovery that promised endless possibilities.
Something in John knew that this electricity generator was exactly what was needed to make his telegraph work. If he could send electrical signals down a wire, all he would then need to do would be to devise a way for them to be interpreted. Of all of John’s ideas, this was the one most likely to bring in enough blunt to solve his problems. The question was—could he do it in time?
John took the coil of wire and magnet and exited through the glass doors into his backyard. Days ago, he had dragged an old chaise longue from a seldom-used drawing room out onto the terrace. Mosely had thought him mad, but when John looked out into the depths of the garden—the copse of trees, the massive vines covering the back wall, the rambling rose garden—he almost felt like he was home. It was the closest he was going to get to wilderness here in London.
As he sat, he turned the wire over and over in his hands, letting his brain tumble over all the fragmented pieces of information in it.
He lost track of time. It must have been hours he sat out there. Newton had fallen asleep next to him. The hound’s gentle snore matched the relaxedwhooshof John’s breath.
Light appeared, interrupting the darkness. His eyes were drawn to it. To her. Charlotte was at a window on one of the upper floors of Wildeforde House, her hands reaching behind her neck as she fiddled with the clasp of her necklace.
She turned her head to talk to someone, gave them a smile, turned around, and put her hands to her collarbone as her maid joined the tableau, unclasping the necklace.
The gentle intimacy of Charlotte’s movements tugged at his chest. She was so open and trusting. When he’d pulled away from their kiss that evening, her eyes had filled with tears and embarrassment.
