Her mouth opened, but she closed it again without speaking. Her expression didn’t change, exactly, but he sensed a faint shift in her, a new rigidity—a tiny fissure in the blank façade.
Gently. Go gently.
“Your husband’s death was sudden. A shock. It must have devastated you. It would only be natural if being here caused you pain.”
“I—it was sudden, yes.” She gave him an uncertain look, the look of a child whose hurt herself and isn’t sure whether her mother will hold her and soothe the pain, or punish her for recklessness.
God, he wanted to hold her, hold her until she was so warm and safe in his embrace she dared to reveal a true emotion, but he’d lost the right to touch her. “A tragic accident.” He hesitated, but then forced the words that must be spoken past his cold lips. “But it was an accident, Charlotte, and it’s time you stopped blaming yourself for it.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or perhaps exactly the right thing, because she went suddenly stark white, and he saw at once he’d struck a chord, plucked at one of the taut strings inside her chest so the pain vibrated, reverberated.
She gasped a little, and her hand flew to her throat. “I won’t speak to you about him—him, or anything else that happened here. I know you don’t truly care about me. Do you think I’ve forgotten what you said? You’re a liar, Julian, and a liar will say anything to get what they want.” She threw the words between them, piling them one on top of the other, hurtful words to build a wall he couldn’t scale.
But he could. He would. Gently. One stone at a time.
He held out a hand to her. “I did lie to you. I lied when I said I didn’t care about you. I do care, Charlotte. So much.”
All the anger he felt, the bitterness and shame, the regret—it had torn and bruised him inside, so badly he hadn’t believed he could find anything to salvage in that wreckage, but it was there, underneath the hurt and pain and guilt—so fragile still, like a tiny, beating heart—but it was there.
Tenderness. For her.
“No!” She pressed her palms over her ears. “I don’t believe you.”
His heart crashed against his ribs, both pain and hope at once. It hurt, God, it hurt to see her suffer, but her pain was pure, and like blood flowing from an infected wound, it would heal her. “I know you don’t, sweetheart—not now. But you will, Charlotte, because I’m going to stay here with you until you do, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you home.”
She stumbled back, away from him. “I won’t ever be ready. Not for you.”
She ran then, and it took everything in him not to chase after her, but it was enough—for today, for now, it was enough. If he pushed too hard all at once he’d hurt her too much. Later, he’d try again, and then again, as many times as it took to reach her heart.
But he didn’t see her later. She didn’t leave her room for the rest of the day. The following morning he waited for her at the bottom of the staircase again, but she never came down at all.
Now it was four days later, and today would be another day wasted. His face fell into his hands. With each day that passed Charlotte would retreat further and further into herself, and all the while the pain trapped deep inside her would continue to poison her.
He couldn’t bear to watch it.
If he didn’t bring Charlotte to Bellwood soon, Cam would come for her, and once he was here he wouldn’t accept her refusal. Time was slipping away like sand between Julian’s open fingers—slipping away with every hour, as surely as Charlotte was.
I’m failing her.
“Why, Captain West. What are you doing here? Are you lost?”
Julian looked up to find Mrs. Boyle standing over him, her arms full of fresh linens and her kind face creased with concern. “Lost?”
She propped her bundle against her hip and gave him a cheerful smile. “Aye. Such a large, rambling place, Hadley House, with hallways running every which way. It’s quite easy to get turned around, you see.”
Julian came to his feet. “No, I didn’t get turned around. I was just—”
He hesitated. It was hardly proper to lurk in a hallway waiting for a lady to emerge from her bedchamber, and Mrs. Boyle struck him as the type of woman who didn’t tolerate nonsense from curious gentlemen. “I thought I might escort Lady Hadley down to breakfast, but I seem to have missed her.”
Mrs. Boyle looked confused for a moment, but then her face cleared as realization dawned. “Oh, dear. I see the trouble. Lady Hadley doesn’t use these apartments, Captain. She’s taken a much smaller bedchamber on the other side of the stairs, at the end of the hall.”
Julian blinked. For God’s sake, he’d spent the entire morning sitting outside an empty room? “But these are the apartments meant for the lady of the house, aren’t they?”
Mrs. Boyle shifted her burden to her arms again. “Yes indeed, but they adjoin the master’s apartments, you see, and Lady Hadley doesn’t like…that is, ever since his lordship passed… Well. I’m sure you understand.”
No, he didn’t understand. That was the trouble. He didn’t understand any of this, but he wanted to, and finally here was a stroke of luck. He could hardly ask Mrs. Boyle where her mistress slept without arousing the good lady’s suspicions, but he didn’t need to ask. Those linens in her hands could only be for Charlotte. There were no other guests, and his room was in another wing of the house. Mrs. Boyle was about to lead him to her mistress’s bedchamber, and he’d sleep in front of Charlotte’s door before he let her slip away from him again.
“May I help you, Mrs. Boyle?” Before she could refuse he lifted the bundle of linens from her arms. “Where shall I take these?”
