So she knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again, more firmly this time.
Still nothing.
A flicker of unease stirred within her. What if something had happened?
Before she could reconsider, she turned the handle and entered.
He was not asleep.
He was kneeling upon the carpet facing the eastward windows.
Praying.
Charlotte stopped at the threshold, momentarily mesmerised.
Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, bathing Lord Stanley’s bowed form in pale silver light. There was something strangely ethereal in the silhouette he cut whilst prostrating himself in Muslim prayer—tranquil, composed, almost otherworldly.
A quiet peace seemed to emanate from him.
She entered silently and sat to wait whilst he finished, murmuring prayers softly in a foreign tongue. Then he turnedhis head first to the right, then to the left, before lifting his hands in quiet supplication.
When he finally turned towards her, there was no surprise upon his features.
Only serenity.
Charlotte rose slowly and approached him.
‘You ought not to be here alone at this hour, Charlotte,’ he said quietly.
Ever since the rescue, he had taken to calling her by her Christian name, and she found she preferred it far more than she ought.
‘Though I confess,’ he added softly, ‘I am strangely glad of your company tonight.’
Charlotte smiled faintly.
Something in his manner felt different. She sensed it the moment she entered.
Now, in his domain, she became acutely aware of herself.
He stood and carefully folded away the prayer mat before crossing his arms—a posture that spoke more of restraint than ease.
‘What brings you here?
His gaze flickered briefly over her peach gown, and the faintest smile touched his mouth.
Heat rose instantly to her cheeks.
‘I—I wished to speak with you.’
‘I like your hair this way,’ he murmured, sounding faintly distracted as she tucked back a loose curl. ‘What was it you wished to discuss?’
He stepped closer, though not so near as to startle her.
There was unmistakable teasing in his tone.
