But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t make herself drop the reins, so she sat and stared dumbly at the trees swimming in front of her.Close. So close.If she stretched out her arm, she could almost touch one, but something was in her eyes, black at the edges of her vision, and the trees began to tunnel.…
Hands wrapped around her waist, strong and firm, gentle.
Julian slid her carefully from her saddle, but as soon as he had her safely on the ground he released her and turned away. The world titled sideways without his hands to steady her, but she said nothing, only watched as he retreated a few paces. He kept his back to her, his head down and his hands on his hips, silent aside from the great, ragged breaths he pulled into his lungs.
Charlotte gripped her skirts between numb fingers. Why didn’t he say something? Anything would be better than this awful silence.
He ran a hand through his hair and made a low, rough sound, as if his throat had been scraped raw, then turned to face her at last.
The blood left her head in a dizzying rush. His skin was stretched taut over his white face, his full, sensuous lips tight and grim, and his eyes… Oh, he looked nearly wild, his eyes two burning slits of dark fire.
Dear God.He was furious.
Yet he’d touched her so gently just now, his hands careful against her waist as he lifted her from her horse. No matter how angry he was, he would never hurt—
Charlotte’s breath caught hard in her chest as she stared at him. This man—the one who stood before her now, his eyes tormented and his face twisted with anguish—he didn’t have Captain West’s cold, flat eyes. This man wasn’t a stranger.
He was Julian. And Julian would never hurt her.
“Are you hurt?”
His voice was shaking, but not only with anger. With fear. He was furious, yes, but mostly he was terrified.For her.
“I—” Was she hurt? She hardly knew. “No. I don’t think so. Are you all right?”
He didn’t look it. His hair was damp and tangled and his breath heaved in and out of his chest. He wasn’t wearing either a coat or waistcoat, and his white shirt was transparent with sweat. One of his sleeves was ripped from the cuff nearly to his elbow. Oddly, this was what she focused on, and the longer she stared at it, the harder it became to tear her gaze away.
How had he torn it? He’d torn the flesh underneath, as well. She could see the blood. He was hurt. But torn flesh could be treated, couldn’t it?
Not like a broken neck.
“Why are you trying hurt yourself, Charlotte?”
Her gaze darted to his face. “Hurt myself? I would never… Why would you ask such a thing?”
His shoulders went rigid. “You promised me, that day in the carriage—you promised you wouldn’t pretend anymore. You promised never to hide from me again.”
“I—I’m not pretending—”
“You’d have me believe this was a pleasure ride? It was almost dark when you left the stable yard. No, don’t try to deny it. I saw you leave alone, on a half-broken horse and riding recklessly, as if you hoped you’d fall.”
“No, I—” But no matter how she tried to force it through her lips, the denial wouldn’t come, not when he looked at her with that stark panic in his face, with his torn shirt and bloody arm. Not when it could so easily have been his entire body covered in blood, or his neck broken. “When I left the stable yard I thought only of running away, of escape. I—I’m sorry. It was foolish.”
A dark, bleak looked passed over his face. “Were you running away from me?”
She closed her eyes. It would be easier that way, so much easier, but the truth was never simple or easy. “No. I was running away from…me.”
He stepped close to her and wrapped his hands around her shoulders. “The other night in the garden, with Devon, I thought… But you were saying good-bye to him, weren’t you? I said awful things to you, called you—” He stopped, swallowed convulsively. “What I said, and the look on your face that night—it’s haunted me, Charlotte. I beg you to forgive me.”
Forgive me.But what if it was too late for forgiveness? What if there was no absolution to be had?
Then you lived with your guilt, and you took your punishment.
Something snapped inside her then—not into pieces, but into place, the last piece in a puzzle she’d long since despaired of completing.
All these months, since the moment she’d set foot in London—the scandals, the sneering contempt of theton, the way she’d refused her family’s comfort, refused to go to Bellwood—wasn’t that what it had been? A punishment. Her punishment for failing Hadley. She’d wanted to hurt herself, as if her pain could somehow make amends to him, or change what had happened.
And everyone else—her family, theton, even Julian—she’d wantedthemto hurt her, too. To punish her. She shrank away from theton’scruelty, yes, but even then, even as she’d been desperate to escape it a tiny part of her, a part she’d buried in the darkest recesses of her heart…
