The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (23 page)

The motions she employed over and over were odd, but not unpleasant.
Definitely
not unpleasant. Yes, the small, constant motions felt quite nice, but her hands against his body were the best part. He relaxed against the pleasure of her touch, nearly groaning when she returned to his shoulders, putting fabric between them once more.

How long had it been? A minute? Five? He couldn’t say. All he knew was that he loved the feel of her hands on him. It teased even as it satisfied, awakening something deep inside him that had been missing a long time.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he raised his hands and captured her wrists just as her fingers slipped into his hair again. He tugged, dragging her arms down the front of his chest until her cheek was nearly flush with his. “Enough,” he said, his voice as raw as sandpaper. “My turn.”

A
thrill ran straight down Charity’s spine, then clear to her toes and back. There was something incredibly sensual about touching him the way she had, even though the purpose had been entirely innocent in nature.

Anticipation poured through her body as he released one hand and guided her around the bench with the other. Without any warning at all, he tugged sharply, pulling her straight into his lap. One arm cradled her across her back as his other hand went to her waist. This time there was no hesitation. His lips crashed down on hers in a kiss so passionate, she moaned aloud. He pulled her closer still, holding her securely against him as his hand squeezed her waist possessively.

She felt safe in his arms, adored and protected and so desired, her skin felt scorched wherever they touched. His tongue delved into her mouth, and her heart raced all over again. To be surrounded by his heat, his touch, his smell, his taste—it was pure heaven. As their tongues twined and danced, she wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting to be even closer to him.

She savored every second, not wanting to think about him moving away or them returning to their respective homes. She wanted to live in this moment forever, with her heart racing and her skin tingling, with his lips warm against hers and his arms wrapped around her as if he never wanted to let go.

Dimly, she was aware of the clock chiming twice, tolling the hour. Hugh must have heard it as well. He ended the kiss then, resting his forehead against hers as they both panted for breath. Already she missed the delectable heat of his lips against hers.

“God, Charity,” he rasped, hugging her to him before pulling away. His eyes roamed over her face before meeting her gaze. He shook his head. “What you do to me.”

Good. She liked knowing he was every bit as affected by her as she was by him. “If it’s anything like what you do to me, I think we may be in trouble,” she said, then boldly indulged herself by pressing another kiss to his mouth. And then another.

He groaned against her lips, the sound half torture, half satisfaction. “I was right when I said you’d be the death of me.” In one smooth movement, he lifted her to her feet, then came to stand beside her. “Which is why I must go while the possibility still exists.”

Having him leave was the very last thing she wanted. In fact, she couldn’t recall ever wanting to be with someone more than she did him in that moment. “A few more minutes?” She looked into his eyes, silently pleading for him to stay.

“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that.” He lifted her hands and kissed the backs of each one. “I am clinging to the very last thread of my gentlemanliness.”

That thought sent a renewed thrill down her spine, making her shiver. “Is that a bad thing?”

He gave a gruff laugh, releasing her hands and raking his fingers through his hair. His hand settled at the back of his neck as it so frequently did. She tilted her head, considering his pose. Was his injury flaring up again? Concern beetled her brow. “How is your head? Are you feeling ill effects from the music?”

The wry amusement fled and he gave a quick shake of his head. “No, I’m fine.”

But his words were brusque. Defensive even. Would he tell her if he was hurting? Why hadn’t she thought of that when she’d allowed him to lift her to her feet? “Are you certain? You’re rubbing your neck as though—”

“I’m tired,” he said curtly, dropping his hands to his sides. “I’m not going to break after having shared a kiss.”

“But perhaps the music—”

“The music was fine. I told you that already.” His nostrils flared slightly as he drew in a breath. “Your music was lovely, and I am perfectly fine,” he said, his voice calm and even. And detached. “But it is quite late, and I should go.”

Charity’s shoulders sagged. He was pushing her away again, blast it all. It was as though he had thrown up a screen between them. She briefly considered asking him to stay, but she could already see what his answer would be. Lifting her chin, she nodded. “Very well.”

Within moments he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the lingering scent of his shaving soap and the soft notes of his song still echoing in the back of Charity’s mind.

*   *   *

Hugh closed the door to his balcony with a curse. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he yanked the thing off and tossed it on the chair by the window. He stalked to the liquor cabinet, selected a bottle at random, and splashed two fingers’ worth in the nearest glass.

Nothing like sharing a kiss hot enough to melt his boots, only moments later to be reminded of his infirmity. For God’s sake, he had done nothing more than touch the back of his neck—a
habit
, by the way—and the first thing that had sprung to her mind was that he was about to have an attack.

If he had kissed her properly, the embrace should have wiped away thoughts of anything other than of the two of them tangled in each other’s arms. But no. Clearly his illness wasn’t far from her mind if it had popped forth so quickly. He knocked back the glass, swallowing half the contents in one gulp.

He was right.

She’d never see him as anything more than a man to be pitied. That’s why she’d played that song, wasn’t it? Wholly altered from her normal music in deference to him? And the ministrations to his neck and shoulders, too. While he had been half-crazed with desire, she had been thinking of helping him. Treating him as though he were a patient, not a man.

His decision to move had been the right one.

Sounds from next door filtered through the wall, and despite himself, he held his breath, listening. The low, deep tones were faint, but he instantly recognized them.

Charity was playing for him.

*   *   *

“Really, dear, you need not stay with me if you’d like to join your friends.” Grandmama patted Charity’s hand kindly before settling back in her usual spot on the sofa in the drawing room. “I’m perfectly happy to write my own correspondence.”

Charity smiled as best she could, stifling the urge to yawn. “I think I’d rather stay in this afternoon. Though the tea and biscuits at the Pump Room does sound lovely, I think a quiet day at home sounds entirely too good to pass up.”

Then maybe she could recover from yet another dreadful night of sleep. Her head hadn’t hit her pillow until nearly four o’clock in the morning. She had been too restless to even begin to think about sleep. Instead she had played. For more than an hour, she had let the music pour from her.

She suspected that Hugh would be able to hear her, but it was his song, composed for the sole purpose of soothing him, and she did not believe it would hurt him. She played because the music wanted to come out and because it was the best way she knew to deal with her emotions. It had helped, somewhat.

“Well, if you are quite certain, then my eyes would be most grateful for your offer.”

Charity rose and took a few steps toward the escritoire, when a commotion from below stopped her in her tracks. A man’s voice, a scuffle of footsteps, the slam of the front door. Her eyes widened as she turned to the door.

“My heavens,” Grandmama exclaimed, “what is all that racket?

Charity couldn’t drag her eyes from the door to answer her grandmother. Only one thought would form in the humming chaos of her mind:
Could it be Hugh?
Was he for some reason demanding to see her? Her heart leaped nearly out of her chest, and she braced a hand on the back of the nearest chair so as not to lose her balance from the sudden light-headedness. She sternly tried to grab hold of her imagination. Why would he be here, after the way they had parted?

But as footsteps hammered up the stairs and the commotion below continued, she couldn’t stop the surge of anticipation at seeing him again. The door opened, and a tall man appeared outlined in the corridor. He took one step inside, and disappointment washed over her, followed immediately by confusion. It wasn’t Hugh at all.

She shook her head, her brows pinching together. “Papa?”

C
harity couldn’t remember a time when her father had ever been spontaneous. If he had planned to come visit, he would have dutifully sent a note days in advance. He was methodical like that.

For a moment, fear tightened Charity’s throat. Dear heavens, what if he had somehow learned of her illicit meetings with Hugh? Biting the inside of her cheek, she forced the thought away. It wasn’t possible, surely. Grandmama looked every bit as surprised as Charity felt. No, this had to be something else. For some reason, the thought did not put her at ease.

He walked toward them, pulling off his leather riding gloves as he approached. His dark hair was slightly mussed—unheard-of for him—and several dried drops of mud spotted his cheeks. “Charity, Mother,” he said in greeting, his voice strained. “My apologies for showing up unannounced. I felt the news I bear should be delivered in person.”

Dread instantly sluiced through Charity’s veins, and she quickly reclaimed her seat. “What has happened?” she asked breathily, knowing full well she wouldn’t like his answer.

Grandmama sat up straight, worry clouding her eyes. Her hand fluttered to her chest as she said, “My word, Marcus, what is it?”

He dropped his gloves on the sofa table and sank into the cheery blue-and-yellow-striped chair across from Charity’s. “I received word in the middle of the night via express post that after several days of fruitless labor, Cousin Burton’s wife, as well as their infant, have both perished in the rigors of childbirth.”

*   *   *

Supper was a very quiet affair that evening. The dull scrape of utensils on the primrose porcelain and the clinking of crystal goblets on the wood dining table took the place of any real conversation as the three of them kept to themselves.

Papa had decreed that they should leave as soon as possible for Bromsgrove, but, thankfully, Grandmama had insisted that they required at least a full day for proper preparations, so plans were made to depart Saturday morning at first light. The household had been thrown into turmoil, with every one of the servants dashing up and down the stairs and from room to room as they worked furiously to prepare for the departure.

As Charity took her first bite of the dessert course—cheesecake topped with summer berries and a dollop of raspberry sauce—Papa cleared his throat purposefully, and she glanced up to find him eyeing her.

“There is a matter of some delicacy that must be discussed before we depart, I’m afraid.”

A wave of caution rippled along her insides, and she carefully set down her fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Oh?” His choice of words wasn’t what gave her pause, but rather the way in which he spoke them. He sat stiffly in his chair, his chin slightly raised as his dark eyes locked with hers. He had adopted the tone reserved for declarations and orders—the kind meant to brook no arguments.

“The recent turn of events is, without doubt, terribly tragic. However, while I would wish it on no one, the fact is it has occurred, and I believe that there is good to be found in the situation.”

Charity gaped at him, unable to contain her disbelief. Her gaze flickered to Grandmama, who had frozen in the process of setting down her goblet. Blinking, the older woman lowered the vessel with the utmost care and lifted her chin in the exact way her son had. “‘Good,’ Marcus? Surely there is no good to be had in the death of a young woman and her child.”

He cleared his throat again, betraying a hint of his discomfort. “Not in the deaths, no. But in the resulting circumstances, yes. The truth is, Burton is my heir, and it is in both our interests to see to securing the line. To my everlasting shame, I failed to secure the title by way of my own offspring. But it is my belief that, given the change in circumstances, that travesty may now be righted.”

So many thoughts and rogue feelings whirled through Charity at his words, she couldn’t even speak. She knew she was a part of his “everlasting shame.” He bitterly regretted her sex, and that after the trauma of her birth, Mama had never again been able to carry another child. To his credit, he had still managed to love her, in his own way, but she always knew his disappointment was there.

It was then that the true point of his statement hit home.
No, it can’t be.
Even he, her impossibly pragmatic and thoroughly duty-conscious father, couldn’t be
that
unfeeling.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and said, “What exactly are you saying, Papa?”

Grandmama’s eyes darted back and forth between them, alarm clear in the deepening lines of her forehead. Papa didn’t flinch beneath their scrutiny. “I’m saying that Burton will need someone with great compassion and kindness in the coming days. Whatever your faults, Charity, I believe you to be equal to the task of comforting him during this difficult time.”

She didn’t believe for a moment he was concerned only with Mr. Burton’s mental well-being. “To what end?”

Papa’s eyes narrowed slightly, not quite ominously, but certainly in warning. “Don’t be naïve, daughter. You are moderately intelligent. You must have figured out that this leaves us with a very unique opportunity to reclaim the title for my descendants. Being available to Burton in his time of need will undoubtedly leave you well positioned. If you perform well, by this time next year, you could be married.”

Perform
well? Charity recoiled against the notion.

“Marcus, show some respect, please,” Grandmama said, her voice booming in the quiet of the room. “The woman and her child are not yet even buried.”

“Mother, I don’t need you making a bigger fuss over this than is warranted.” He sent her a stern look, clearly warning her not to challenge his authority. “We hardly knew the woman, and there is nothing wrong with making the best of a sad situation.”

Yes, she could tell just how sad he thought it was. Charity’s mind raced, desperate to think of a way to change her father’s mind. For God’s sake, the thought of preying on a grieving widower was beyond distasteful. And that was saying nothing about the fact he was easily twice her age. She didn’t dislike him or wish him ill, but the thought of marrying him? She cringed.
Impossible.

Especially now. Not after she had truly glimpsed passion. Hugh may have his faults, but no one had ever made her feel as he had. She craved his company like a starving man craved sustenance. When they weren’t together, still her mind was on him. When they were, everything in her longed to touch him, to kiss him—even just to talk to him.

She shook her head, meeting her father’s stubborn gaze. “Please, Papa, such a thing wouldn’t be seemly. I think we must respect Mr. Burton’s mourning period, at the very least.” If she had a few more months, she’d surely be able to dissuade him from this track. Especially if she could garner her mother’s support.

“Are you forgetting that Mr. Burton is not only a wealthy man, but an heir to a prestigious title? If you think eligible females from miles around won’t be setting their caps for him, you are sorely mistaken.” His chair screeched as he pushed back from the table and came to his feet, tossing his napkin on his plate.

“This is not a debate, Charity. You had your chance to find a suitable match. First there was that ill-handled business with Lord Raleigh, then an entire second Season wasted without a single offer. You have as much responsibility to this family as I, and I will not sit by and allow this opportunity—this
once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity—to pass us by.”

Panic closed its fist around Charity’s heart, and she threw a desperate glance to her grandmother. This couldn’t be happening. Not now, not when she had only just found the man who made her heart sing.

Grandmama eyes were filled with empathy. She pressed her thin lips together for a moment, then jerked her gaze back to her son. “But what of her suitor, Marcus? He’s made his intentions clear.”

Charity sucked in a breath, shocked at her grandmother’s pronouncement. Good heavens, did she know? Did she sense the growing bond between Charity and Hugh? Almost against her will, her eyes flickered to her father to gauge his reaction. He looked every bit as stunned as she felt, with his eyes widened and his lips parted.

He shifted his gaze to Charity, blinking several times before saying, “I’ve heard nothing of any such suitor. Explain yourself.”

Charity floundered, unable to find the words to explain her feelings for Hugh. Grandmama broke the silence, tone conciliatory. “It has only just recently come to light. Lord Derington is quite committed, however. I believe he would make an offer, given time.”

Lord Derington?
By some miracle, Papa had turned his attention to his mother, so he didn’t witness Charity’s gobsmacked expression. Dully, her wits came back to her, and she closed her mouth and did her best to clear her expression. Of course Grandmama would think that. Dering had been calling several times, wearing his intentions on his sleeve.

“Derington is interested in our Charity?” The question bordered on incredulous, and he turned back to Charity with renewed interest. “Is this true?”

Mutely, she nodded. Technically it was true, but she didn’t love Dering. She couldn’t imagine ever kissing him the way she had Hugh. Or being wrapped in his arms, or playing for him alone by the softly wavering light of a handful of candles.

“I see.” Papa slowly reclaimed his seat, his brows lowered in concentration. She knew exactly what he must have been thinking. She could marry Mr. Burton and keep the title in the family—something Papa had pined for her whole life—or she could marry the wealthy and well-connected viscount, who was heir to one of the oldest earldoms in the kingdom.

Choices, choices,
she thought resentfully. She was grateful to her grandmother for trying to offer her a way out of her father’s manipulations, but neither option held any appeal at that moment. There was only one option she could imagine, but after Grandmama’s declaration, Charity couldn’t contradict her now. Not yet, anyway.

Papa stroked his chin thoughtfully, despite having shaved his longtime beard last year. “Well, this is something to think about. Allow me to consider the situation, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Grandmama said, setting her napkin on the table. “Charity, let us leave your father to his port. I think we all have much to think about tonight.”

Her words were such an incredible understatement, Charity had to stifle a bubble of hysterical laughter. Yes, let them all retire to their rooms and decide her fate. She followed her grandmother dutifully, but even as she did, resolve straightened her spine.

Let them think it over;
she
was going to do something about it.

*   *   *

“Pardon me, my lord.”

Caught in the act of woolgathering, Hugh blinked, coming back to the present. His batman stood patiently in the door of the study, a mischievous smile curling his lips.

“What is it, Jacobson?”

He’d been thinking about Charity, imagining what she might think of Cadgwith. A completely worthless contemplation, and he was rather annoyed with himself for indulging such a thing. He shuffled the papers he was supposed to be looking at, as though he’d been interrupted thinking about something important.

“I believe you are being summoned.”

Hugh cocked his head. What the bloody hell was that supposed to mean? “You
believe
I am being summoned? By what, a ghost?”

Amusement flickered across the man’s face, and he lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps. After all, I’m not sure who else would be knocking at your bedchamber wall.”

Hugh shot to his feet before he could think to temper his reaction. Jacobson chuckled, earning a glare from Hugh. “Oh, do shut up,” he growled, straightening his jacket unnecessarily.

His batman raised his hands. “Apologies. I’ll just go make myself scarce.”

“Yes, you do that,” Hugh said, refusing to feel ridiculous for his reaction. He waited until his batman was out of view before dashing up the stairs to his bedroom. He paused, but didn’t hear anything. Perhaps . . . He glanced to the balcony door, though it was impossible to see anything in the posttwilight darkness. Crossing the room, he drew a breath, opened the door, and stepped outside.

She was there, her hands resting on the outside railing, looking over the darkened gardens below. Candlelight from the open door behind her illuminated her back and turned her hair to shining copper. She looked ethereal in her simple white gown, and he stepped toward her, all his promises to himself to keep his distance crumbling to dust.

She turned her head and looked at him, and when he caught sight of her expression, his heart dropped.

Tension radiated from her entire countenance, from her stricken eyes to her pale cheeks. No hint of her sweet smile touched her beautiful lips. “What is it?” he asked, dread pooling in his stomach. God, had someone discovered their rendezvous last night? Had he been seen slipping over the balcony divider? Or, worse, had something happened to her grandmother?

She closed her eyes and breathed out a harsh breath. “Thank God you’re still here,” she said, her relief palpable. She glanced back at the music room briefly before stepping closer to the divider. “I knew you said you’d be here until Friday, but when you didn’t answer, I thought . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“Charity, please tell me what is the matter.” Seeing her in such distress was killing him.

“Oh, Hugh, I don’t even know where to begin.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes, weariness draped over her shoulders like a cape. “My father came today with some dreadful news. My cousin—second cousin, that is—anyway, his wife has died in childbirth, and we must leave at once to go to Bromsgrove.”

“I’m so very sorry for your family’s loss,” he murmured. A second cousin’s wife didn’t sound so close, but perhaps they had shared a special bond. Regardless, any such death was a tragedy. “Is there anything I can do for you before you leave?”

Her brows came together and she shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. While I am deeply saddened for my cousin’s loss, I hardly know him. Although if Papa has his way, that will change very shortly.”