‘Come. I shall escort you to your bedchambers.’
As they walked side by side through the dark, silent corridors, Charlotte realised something in him had changed. Or perhaps it had always been there, merely hidden beneath the surface.
His usual cool reserve had softened. In its place there was warmth—genuine warmth. He smiled more readily now. There was something more open in him, more attentive and caring, that pleased her despite herself.
Was this his true self—or merely another performance?
No... she had a growing suspicion this was the real Henry Stanley. The part of himself he kept carefully hidden from the world.
Charlotte found herself reconsidering everything she thought she knew about him.
Disowned by his father. Shunned by society. Betrayed by his cousin and friend. Even in seeking a wife, he had nearly been deceived by false affection and superficial charm.
No wonder he was wary of those around him. No wonder he trusted no one. His reserve was not arrogance at all, but armour.
Then she recalled the rumours whispered throughout the ton—the coldness, the cruelty, the inhumanity—and how readily she had allowed them, along with Mrs Dent’s remarks, to poison her opinion of him before she had truly come to know him.
She thought back over their acquaintance. It was true her first impression of him had been far from favourable. But if she were honest, she was beginning to understand why he behaved as he did.
Yet since coming to Alderley Park, she could not honestly fault him. Yes, he could be abrupt. Distant, perhaps. And certainly exasperating.
He teased her mercilessly—but then, she had to admit, he did possess an uncanny talent for finding her in the most mortifying situations imaginable.
And since the house party began, he had done little except try to keep her out of harm’s way.
At last, Charlotte understood something about him.
And with that understanding, her resentment quietly dissolved.
In its place, she found herself aching for him.
Wishing there was someone in the world upon whom he could truly rely.
Charlotte wanted to be that for him, perhaps as a friend.
The next morning, the house party resolved upon a ride through the countryside.
Charlotte wore a borrowed riding habit, a fetching navy blue which, though a little tight around the bodice, it suited her exceedingly well. As she descended the front steps, she reminded herself firmly that Lord Stanley’s absurdly attentive behaviour was nothing more than performance.
And yet, as she descended the final steps and found him waiting below, the sight of him very nearly undid her.
He was looking at her directly—not through her, nor past her, as gentlemen so often had before—but at her. Entirely attentive. Entirely intent.
A flutter of exhilaration stirred in her stomach.
Good heavens.
He was remarkably good at this covert business. Her head might very well have been turned, were it not for the inconvenient fact that it was all an illusion—a fact she found herself having to remember with increasing frequency.
He offered his arm, and she placed her hand lightly upon it.
As they crossed towards the stables, Charlotte considered her own plans for the morning. If anyone knew more of Wolverton’s recent behaviour, it would surely be Lady Susan. The two had spent an inordinate amount of time together before his disappearance.
They entered the stables, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back—barely a touch, yet she felt it to herbones. That quiet support steadied her. She was not alone—and somehow, that knowledge emboldened her.
Her gaze swept the stable yard until she found Lady Susan seated upon a chestnut bay, wearing a contemplative expression.
‘Would you mind if I joined you, my lady?’ Charlotte asked as she mounted a mild-mannered sleek black mare beside her, not waiting for permission. She doubted the lady would be so rude as to refuse outright.
