Part 72 (1/2)
Her heart sank. The only person she could think it might be was her erstwhile suitor. She'd wounded him dreadfully. He no doubt wanted an explanation. She'd have to face him. She straightened her shoulders. ”It must be Graves. I'll go down.”
”I'll come with you. Make sure the young hothead does nothing rash.”
She worked her way around the trunks piled up on the landing. Miles followed her down the stairs.
The gentleman at the bottom of the stairs was facing away from her, but he looked too big to be Graves, too broad.
”Hawkworth.” Her hands clenched into fists.
He turned. ”We need to talk.”
”Let me at him,” Miles said. ”You'll talk to the point of my sword, Duke. Or better yet, speak with the mouth of my pistol.”
Hawkworth would hurt him. ”No, Miles. He's done quite enough damage.” She stared at Gerard's hard angular face, the bleak eyes that only seemed to warm when they rested on her. Her heart quivered. No. No, she would not let him do this to her again. ”Please leave, Your Grace. You are not welcome here.”
He glanced up at the baggage. ”You are leaving, then.”
”Of course I'm leaving. You made sure I couldn't stay. I'm going back to France. Now, go away.”
”Not until you hear me out. You owe me that much.”
”You dog,” Miles roared.
Charlotte put out an arm to hold him back. ”I owe you nothing.”
”Then do it for old times' sake, love.”
She froze. ”Don't call me that.”
”d.a.m.n it, Charlotte.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her down the last couple of steps and pushed her into the drawing room.
”Blackguard,” Miles yelled, hurrying after them.
Gerard closed and locked the door in the Irishman's reddened face. ”You will listen,” Gerard said, glaring at her.
She looked down her nose at him, then sank on to the sofa. ”Very well. Speak your piece.”
Gerard visibly swallowed. She'd never seen him so nervous. Not since the first time they'd . . . Heat flushed up from her belly. Oh why did she have to think of that now?
Gerard stared from her squared shoulders to her clenched jaw. The look in her eyes did not bode well for his mission. Anger rolled off her in waves. While he had scripted this play to save his friend's cousin, he no longer knew the ending.
She gazed up at him. ”The great Hawkworth, having once more altered the course of my life, is now here for what purpose? To gloat?” She lowered her gaze to her hands resting in her lap and bit her lip. ”I would have been a good wife to Graves. I always wanted children.”
His legs felt weak. ”Then why not have children with me?”
Her lips parted in shock. ”With you? Never.”
The old anger rose to claim him. The deep bitterness of loss. ”Don't tell me you loved Graves. You don't know what love is.” He couldn't restrain his bitter laugh. ”And neither do I.”
”You don't need to tell me that,” she spat. ”I know.”
”You must have thought a great deal of this Beauchere fellow to leave me for him.”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then glanced away. ”There is no Beauchere. There never was. I could hardly come back claiming to be a maid.” She shot him a look that held more than mere loathing, it held heartbreak.
He recoiled. ”Are you telling me you never married?”
”How could I marry? After we . . .” She made a small hopeless gesture with one hand. ”Father is ill. He needs medical attention. Relief from his debts.” The stiffness in her back flowed away. She hunched her shoulders and turned her lovely face to gaze into the empty hearth. ”Gerard, why are you here? You've won. Just like before.”
The defeat in the slump of her shoulders jangled every nerve in his body. Her words rang bells of alarm.
A cold feeling spread in the pit of his stomach. ”What do you mean, 'just like before'?”
She looked up, her eyes hopeless. ”It is over with, Gerard. Let it lie.” She forced a smile. The pain in her lovely eyes knifed through the wall he'd built around his heart when she left. He wanted to gather her close, kiss away the crease in her brow, promise her the world. But he didn't dare trust her. She'd lied about loving him. He was no longer a besotted youth and he wanted the truth from her lips. ”What about before?”
A horrified expression crossed her face followed by a look of pained disbelief. ”You must know. You sent your father to negotiate the terms of our alliance, a carte blanche as your mistress because marriage was out of the question. When he saw Father's shock and horror, he apologised for what you'd done and offered help. He agreed to pay all of my father's debts and give him enough money to take me abroad. To hide my shame. He knew about us. What we'd done. Only you could have told him.”
Bile rose in his throat. ”I did not. I swear it.” He put out a hand.
She waved him off. ”O'Mally had brought back tales of great riches to be had in the new gambling h.e.l.ls in France. The money was too great a temptation to my father, even though I begged him to refuse. What influence I had no longer counted. In his eyes, I was a fallen woman. And now he is ruined and near death. You knew it would happen.”
The nausea in his gut turned to icy anger. Cold fury against his autocratic father. He clenched his fists. ”How could you believe I'd abandon you?”
”I didn't at first. I sent you a note, begging to see you.” She got up and went to the bureau and pulled a folded paper from its depths. ”You seem to have forgotten your reply.”
Gerard unfolded the note and read the contents. ”The choice is yours.” His seal, cracked and flaking, clung to the bottom.
”Brief and to the point,” she said in brittle tones.
”I did not write this. The only note I received from you spoke of joining a lover in France.”
Her eyes widened.
He recalled his father's glee at the news of Charlotte's departure. Followed by a litany of suitable brides. But Gerard could never bring himself up to scratch. Could never quite put on the shackles of a loveless marriage.
”Don't go,” he said.
”I cannot stay. I am ruined.”
The pain in her voice, the humiliation, battered his conscience. He felt physically ill. She was right. He had toyed with her, his pain making him angry, when all the time she was innocent.
His was to blame. The realization stole his breath. He should have gone looking for her instead of retreating into icy pride.
”I'm so sorry,” he said softly. ”Is it too late? For us? Is it possible to start anew? Marry me, Charlotte?” He held his breath as if the weight of the air in his lungs could tip the scales against him.
Charlotte stared into his beloved face. He looked different today, younger, a little less sure of himself. Less like the hard-edged n.o.bleman she'd seen these past few days and more like the youth she'd loved.