as ditchwater.
***
He didn’t want her here, Charlotte thought as she walked toward her bedchamber. He wanted her gone, had offered to speed her on her way. He’d scarcely looked at her as they talked. He was regretting their time together in her bed. He saw her as a mistake. Everything was horrible. Tears burned in her throat; she choked them back and entered her room to find her maid sitting on the chaise with reddened eyes. She jumped up as if stung. “Lucy, have you been crying?”
“No, miss! My eyes is just tired, that’s all. From… from everything.”
“It has been a bit too much, hasn’t it?”
Lucy merely nodded.
“We need to go back to London, to our own place.” The idea wasn’t comforting, not in the least.
“I asked about the stagecoach to London,” replied Lucy dully. “It goes through the village near here at eight in the morning.”
“Oh. Good. We shall be on… Ah, I have no money. I shall have to ask Sir Alexander…” The idea revolted her.
“I have some. Enough.” Lucy hadn’t told Ethan she’d brought her savings, as she’d been certain he’d make a fuss about it—the great lug. She’d known it would come in handy.
“You think of everything, Lucy. Of course I will pay you back as soon as we are… home again.” The word didn’t sound right. But that house in London was her home, and would be from now on, with no Lady Isabella to invite her to society outings. Edward wouldn’t want to see her, any more than Alec; she would forever be a reminder of his mother’s disgrace.
“Yes, miss.”
They gazed at each other with identical bereft expressions, then simultaneously looked away.
***
Alec sat on in the empty library, brooding. There was nothing else to call it, but he was too keyed up for sleep, too worn out for anything else. He’d sent all the servants to bed; the candles were burning down; and still he sat, thinking about Charlotte. She filled his mind and all his senses. When he’d held her in his arms in the dimness of her bedchamber, had his hands on her skin, his lips on hers, it had been all a man could want in this world. When he’d thought her in danger, perhaps injured or lost, he’d realized he couldn’t live without her. That moment, at least, had been sharp and certain; he would have done anything to get her back. Then, he hadn’t been needed to save her. That rankled, though it shouldn’t, he supposed. Listening to her tell the story of what his aunt had done, he’d resented his absence from the tale. He had, he admitted, though it was petty and ridiculous. He’d wished… yes, that was it. He’d wished to show her that some member of his family could act… virtuously, for her rather than themselves. Instead, Charlotte had had a frightening demonstration of the legacy of… not instability perhaps, but… unhappiness handed down the generations of Wyldes. Another demonstration, he amended; she’d already had a strong dose from his reprehensible Uncle Henry. How could she wish to form a closer connection with such a family? For that was what he wanted, Alec realized. He wanted her as his wife. Nothing less, and no other woman, would do.
He rose and paced the Turkish carpet. She’d come to his arms so ardently, back in London, surely she wanted the same? Or had, before Aunt Bella drugged her and threatened her. She’d joined their conference here in the library as if she belonged, without recrimination. And she’d sworn she would never be called “Mrs. Wylde” again. Alec rubbed his forehead as if that could order his whirling thoughts.
Charlotte wanted to go back to town. He couldn’t bear to let her go, and yet… perhaps that might be best? She could go, and he would see her later there and tell her…? Coward, said a mocking inner voice.
Though he knew it was a mistake, Alec went over and poured another brandy. The drink made his head even fuzzier, which was good… and bad. One more, and he might not be able to think at all. No, that was a bad idea. Feeling slightly ill, he decided to step out for a breath of air. He’d check on Blaze. Poor old Blaze. A fine mount, he’d pushed him too hard, and all for naught. Nobody had needed him. Nobody at all.
The stables were dark and quiet, pleasant with the familiar smells of hay and manure. Clumsily, Alec lit a