Cavendon Hall (41 page)

“Sorry to burst in like this, Mrs. Alice, but I can’t find Miss Charlotte. No one seems to know where she is. Not even Lady Daphne. I’ve been to the West Wing, and gone through the wards here. There’s no sign of her. I thought you could enlighten me perhaps.”

“She did tell me on Friday that she was going to be working in the wards this weekend. I don’t think she has the weekend off. Maybe she’s gone home for some reason.”

“I did try telephoning her, Mrs. Alice, but there is no answer,” Charles replied.

Alice looked thoughtful for a split second, and then said, “She might have gone to rest for a while, m’lord. At home. She could be in her garden, and didn’t hear the telephone. Do you want me to find Cecily and send her with a message, m’lord?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That won’t be necessary. I need to talk to her about something quite urgently. I’ll walk down there myself. But thank you, Mrs. Alice.”

“Be sure to go to the garden, your lordship.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Alice.” He smiled at her, and added, “The chicken smells delicious. Those boys are going to enjoy their dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, m’lord. We always try to give them a good nourishing meal at night. They deserve it, after all they’ve been through.”

He nodded and left the kitchen, went out to the front entrance hall. He couldn’t help smiling as he went down the terrace steps. Alice had looked positively astonished when he had burst into her domain unannounced, and no wonder. Whenever had anyone seen the Sixth Earl of Mowbray in a kitchen at Cavendon?

Walking through the park to the village, Charles tried to control his anxiety. He had been worried about Charlotte all week. She had looked worn out, and not well, troubled even, and it had concerned him. They had both been so busy there hadn’t been a chance to talk. Then on Saturday he had gone looking for her, and again this afternoon. The odd thing was, nobody seemed to think she had the weekend off. He decided he had just kept missing her. After lunch today, when he had come to the North Wing, his anxiousness about her had spiraled. Usually she told him where she would be at the weekend, but she hadn’t done so on Friday.

Perhaps she was really ill, and alone in her house in the village. And with no one to look after her.

He increased his pace, convinced she needed help. The good thing was her house was at the edge of the village, close to the park. She didn’t answer when he knocked on her door a few minutes later. He went inside the house.

*   *   *

“There you are!” he exclaimed when he saw her standing on a ladder in the living room, straightening a painting.

Charlotte had not heard him come in. She was so startled when she heard his voice, she swung around too quickly and lost her balance.

He saw it happening, her foot slipping, her body tumbling forward. He rushed toward her, managed to break her fall, caught her in his arms, and held on to her tightly.

He staggered slightly, regained his balance. She wasn’t heavy but the impact of her body against his had almost brought them to the floor.

He held her in his arms, looking down at her.

She gazed up at him. He gazed back. Their eyes locked and held. Neither of them could look away, mesmerized by each other.

“I’ve been so terribly worried about you, Charlotte,” he said softly, and before he could stop himself, losing all restraint, he bent his head and kissed her on the mouth.

Charlotte kissed him back. Her arms were around him. She was clinging to him. Somehow they managed to right themselves, and he got her safely onto her feet. They were clutching each other again, kissing passionately, as if they were trying to slake some kind of thirst for each other.

Suddenly, Charles stopped, left her alone, standing in the middle of the floor looking startled. He strode over to the front door and locked it, came back to her swiftly, filled with a raging desire for her, wanting to make her his own right now, here in this room.

He took her in his arms at once, their mouths meeting with urgency. His heart was racing, his yearning for her so enormous he was startled at himself. He pulled her closer, pressing his body against hers, and he knew immediately that he was not impotent. No, not at all.

Charles reached up, pulled the pins out of her hair. It came tumbling down around her face, luxuriant and filled with auburn lights. He stood away from her, his eyes impaling hers … those wondrous, translucent eyes, a funny grayish-blue tinted with lavender, so unique to the Swanns. And what he saw in them moved him, touched his heart. He recognized how much she wanted him, as he wanted her. Her desire for him was reflected in her unwavering gaze.

She reached out, touched his cheek, stroking it lovingly. His heart twisted in him and he pulled her even closer, pushed his body against hers. His control was slipping, he was growing harder, and his need for her was something he had never known with any other woman. It was overwhelming.

Charles began to open the buttons on her blouse, and he bent down, kissed her neck, and then he said softly, against her hair, “Might we go and find a bed? We’ve wasted too much time already. Too many years.”

Taking hold of his hand, Charlotte led him upstairs, guiding him into her bedroom and toward the large four-poster bed.

Unexpectedly, Charles stood still in the center of the room. He looked down into her face, his own intense and serious. There was a questioning look in his eyes when he said, “Are you sure you want to continue? Because if you do there will be no going back. Not for me. I realize you long for us to be together, just as I do. I see that. But if we make love now, it will never end. It will be forever, Charlotte Swann.”

“I know it will, Charles Ingham. That’s the way it is, and always has been … between yours and mine.”

She put her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him deeply, her tongue slipping into his mouth and entwining with his. And for the first time in his life, as she cleaved to him, he experienced the thrill of raging mutual desire.

A moment later, she stopped kissing him, and began to undress. Charles threw his jacket onto a chair, and within seconds they found themselves stretched out naked on the bed.

He pushed himself up on one elbow, and looked into her beautiful face. Her hair fanned out behind her on the pillow, and its richness of color made the pallor of her face seem all the more striking. Leaning over her he touched her face with tenderness as he marveled at her lovely long body, so slender and shapely.

He stroked her breasts and moved his hands over her stomach, and down onto her thighs. Her skin was so soft it was like satin. He brought his mouth to hers, and let one hand slide down to the silky triangle between her legs. When he touched the core of her femininity, she stiffened and then relaxed. And she let him do whatever he wanted. Because he was hers at last, and she knew he loved her, just as she loved him, and that was all that mattered.

She was so quickly aroused under his hands, so responsive to him, Charles wrapped his arms around her, and pulled himself onto her body.

He said, “I want to savor every part of you, prolong this, but I need to take you to me, to be inside you.” His voice was low, thick with desire and heightened emotion.

“I want that too, Charles,” she said. He heard the urgency in her voice, and she was breathing rapidly. She was aroused as much as he was, and her ardor excited him even more. He began to kiss her, slipped his hands under her back, and slid into her quickly and with some force. As the moist warmth of her enveloped him he thought he was being held in a velvet vise, and he groaned with pleasure. He lay still, savoring her, and then as he moved with sudden swiftness she moved with him. They were feverish in their need for each other, their bodies clamoring wildly.

Charlotte thought she was melting into Charles, becoming a part of him. It was as if they were consumed by their own heat. Her quivering body arched up to meet his, her arms and legs went around him, and he began to quiver with her. His heart was hammering next to hers. They soared together, and he clung to her as if to never let her go. And he knew he never would. She was part of him, and she always had been without him ever realizing it.

*   *   *

Charles held Charlotte in his arms, filled with the kind of peacefulness he had never ever known before. It was a total absence of pain … contentment, and something else, something he could not quite define.

Charlotte spoke first when she said, “You’re very quiet, Charles.”

“I was thinking about you, and how peaceful and contented I feel,” he said, his voice full of love and tenderness.

“I’m glad.” She drew closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Why did you come looking for me this afternoon?”

“I looked for you yesterday, as well. I wanted to see you, talk to you, just be with you, actually. And when I couldn’t find you I became very anxious.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been awfully worried about you. You’ve been looking unwell for several weeks, and somehow troubled. I couldn’t imagine where you were yesterday and today, when everyone kept telling me you were in the wards. And yet I couldn’t find you. You didn’t answer your telephone. And I must confess, I became frantic, desperate, and filled with anxiety, if you want the truth.”

She did not reply. After a while, she said softly, “I discovered I couldn’t come to Cavendon this weekend. I didn’t want to, so I stayed at home.”

Releasing her, sitting up, Charles turned to look at her. “What’s wrong, Charlotte? Are you ill?”

“No, I’m not,” she replied, propping herself up against the pillows and returning his gaze. She touched his face with her fingertips, and quite unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears.

He caught her hand in his, staring at her, looking more worried than ever. “What on earth’s the matter? What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing. I can deal with it.”

“I must take care of you better than I do. You’re working too hard. So am I. We need a change. We must go to London for a few days, take a break from Cavendon—” He stopped abruptly, realizing what he was saying. Turning slightly, glancing at her, Charles grabbed hold of her shoulders. “I need you. I want you with me. I love you, oh my darling Charlotte, I do love you so much.”

She smiled wanly. “We’ve loved each other since we were children.”

“Let me rephrase that at once. What I mean is that
I am in love with you
. And you’re in love with me, aren’t you?”

“Yes. And I worry about you. I know how lonely you are, and so am I. And I keep wondering why we aren’t together. And that’s why I didn’t come up this weekend. Because I knew I couldn’t bear it any longer. It was torture, seeing you every day, loving you so much, wanting to touch you, hold you in my arms. To comfort you, to make you happy. And to make love with you.” The tears had welled again and she flicked them away with her fingers. “And I couldn’t do any of those things.”

“Oh darling, don’t cry.” He reached for her, held her close to him. “We’re such fools. We’ve been such fools for a long time. We’re in our forties, and we’ve been behaving like children. We must be together, take this chance of happiness, before it’s too late. In any case, I told you earlier there was no going back if we made love today, and you agreed. So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“Thank God,” she exclaimed, smiling at him.

“You’ve often said when certain things happen, that it was meant to be … and this was meant to be,” Charles murmured.

“I know … it’s our destiny, I suppose.” She glanced at him through the corner of her eye, and bit back a smile. “I found something in one of the old Swann record books, years ago, and then came across it again recently. It’s something that has always stayed with me.”

“I do know about those Swann record books. They are forbidden to the Inghams. But what did you find? Are you allowed to tell me?”

She nodded. “I can tell you a bit of it, yes. It was a notation by a Swann, an M. Swann, to be exact, and it was dated 1876. This M. Swann had a long affair with an Ingham woman, and he wrote this:
The Swann fits the Ingham like a glove
. Do you think it’s true?”

He saw the flirtatious look in her eyes, and he began to laugh. “I’d like to put it another way, my darling. In this instance, I think it’s the Ingham that fits the Swann like a glove. What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s true,” Charlotte replied, laughing with him. She got out of bed, and went across to the wardrobe. As she took out a silk robe, and put it on, she said, “Let’s go downstairs and light a fire, have a drink together. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“I would indeed. I wish I had a dressing gown here. Should I bring one tomorrow?”

He was still laughing when he said this, obviously happy; she was filled with happiness herself. She said, “I’ve never stolen anything in my life, but after David died I took a dressing gown of his, from his dressing room at Cavendon. You see—”

“Why?” he asked curiously, cutting in, looking across the room at her, his love for her reflected in his blue eyes.

“Because I wanted something personal that had belonged to him, something I could wear.”

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.”

“And he loved you, didn’t he?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t be so silly, darling. I know he did. How could any man
not
love you? I
sensed
he loved you, and I became convinced of it recently. You were with him all those years, how could he ever have resisted you? Surely you know you are a beautiful, intelligent woman. He was widowed twice, and lonely, and you worked with him, grew close to him.”

“There’s something I must tell you, Charles.”

“What?”

“Although I worked with your father from the age of seventeen, it wasn’t until I was over twenty-one that we became personally involved. He was always very proper, always the gentleman.”

“Yes, I know he was. And there’s something I must say to you, Charlotte. Your relationship with my father has never troubled me, nor does it now. I just want you to be aware of that. I’m glad he could share a bit of happiness with you, truly I am.”