Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

It was nearly perfect.

London. Charlotte.

Together.

Two weeks since the ball had passed, and since then, the days blurred. They hadn’t been apart.

Ian sat on the edge of the bed, his feet resting against the soft rug of his bedroom, and raked his hands through Charlotte’s long, blonde hair as she rocked her hips over him. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her touch urging him on as he bent down nipped at her earlobe, nearly growling at how amazing she felt seated on top of him.

Two blissful weeks, reconnecting and exploring one another. His mind had almost calmed. He trusted her, and he no longer wished to blame her. The truth was, he had only himself to blame. And that had been much more difficult to accept.

Because Ian realized he had been right that night years ago. Walking across that crowded ballroom, claiming that first dance, and never letting go. Charlotte was a rare gift. She was the most beautiful thing in his life, and he couldn’t stand to think of hurting her any longer. And now, the desire that had built between them for weeks had finally boiled over. Now, they spent their days making love across London, and in their carriage, or in their home, and he didn’t wish for it to end.

A knock came at the bedroom door. Charlotte stilled, pressing her hands into his shoulders, and kissing his temple.

Damn it .

“Not now,” he snapped through gritted teeth. He bucked his hips, eager to continue, driving a delicious gasp from his wife.

Charlotte rested her head on his shoulder and giggled when the knock sounded again.

“I don’t see why this is funny,” he grumbled, and she looked up at him, her eyes wide and full of promises.

“See what they need,” she urged, “so they can leave us be.”

She eased herself off him and plucked his discarded shirt up off the floor, slipping it on. He grinned the entire time, furious with the interruption. Seeing Charlotte in his shirt made him want to fire the entire staff and become hermits.

He quickly threw on a pair of trousers and made his way toward the door.

“Your Grace,” the butler continued speaking from the other side of the door, “I apologize for the interruption, but there is an emergency, and you are needed most immediately downstairs.”

He glanced back at Charlotte who climbed back onto the mattress, her bare legs crossed at the ankle and hanging off the bed.

Pure temptation.

“Can it wait?” he snapped, stalking back to the bed to steal another heated kiss.

“No, Your Grace. It’s Lord Nathaniel.”

Ian froze, his arms caging in Charlotte against the mattress with her legs twisted around his waist.

Charlotte pushed him away and straightened, her playful smile disappearing.

He strode to the door, running his hand through his hair before he wretched the door open, revealing the stodgy butler, his hand still raised as if he were about to knock again .

“Your Grace,” he said, stumbling back a step. “Mr. Fitzwilliam is here with Lord Nathaniel. They need your help.”

“Very well.” He glanced back toward Charlotte. “Stay here. I’ll make this interruption brief.”

He mumbled as he followed the butler downstairs, rain lashing against the windows of the townhome.

There, in the front hall, was Monty Fitzwilliam with Nathaniel at his feet, soaked and bleeding, groaning, and very nearly unrecognizable.

“What’s this?” Ian shouted, furious.

“Your Grace—” Monty began.

“What the hell happened?”

Nathaniel groaned once more, shivering as he lay bleeding on the tiled floor. “He needs a surgeon,” Monty said, “and I wasn’t sure where else to take him. He landed himself in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Ian pointed to his younger brother. “Trouble is a broken carriage axle or your valet packing the wrong jacket. My brother is bleeding, and I wish to know every detail as to why.”

But before he received an answer, Charlotte raced past him on the stairs, dressed in his robe and in bare feet, her hair loose around her shoulders.

“What happened? Was it a duel?” She dropped to her knees and cupped his face in her hands. She looked back at Ian. “Please,” she said, “we’ll discuss the rest later but fetch a surgeon.”

Monty shuffled on his feet awkwardly. “I can get a surgeon. I just needed to take him somewhere safe while we figure out what’s happened.”

“Well, what’s happened?” Ian snapped.

“A surgeon, now, Ian!” Charlotte insisted again.

Ian ordered the butler to send for the surgeon. Then he and Monty carefully picked Nathaniel up and carried him to the library. He peeked glances at Charlotte as she readied a spot on the sofa and ordered the housekeeper to boil some water and fetch some cloths.

He was struck with the sudden realization that despite her own impression of herself, she was no longer that shy wallflower hanging back against the wall, nor that scandalous duchess. Charlotte was shining bright because she refused to allow the rest of the world to define her.

While that pride swelled in his chest, he was torn at focusing on his brother. Or half brother. And the sinking realization that he was partly to blame for this evening. He had never inquired after Nathaniel, even after Lottie asked, instead far too distracted with tupping his wife for the past two weeks.

“I hit them back, Lottie,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t cry.”

Too late as Ian spied Charlotte wiping away tears and comforting him.

“I told him he was being a bloody idiot,” Monty snapped, tossing his top hat to the floor and shedding his jacket. “We were—let me stop.” He glanced toward Charlotte, then dropped his voice. “Your brother,” he said, “is madly in love with Miss Arabella Harris.”

“Harris?” Ian repeated the name over and over again until he remembered having heard it at his club recently. Arabella Harris, London’s most coveted courtesan.

“He has been foolishly in love with her, and this evening she found herself in trouble over some gambling debts. We had been out drinking and had decided to visit her, and we were there at the wrong time.”

“And he thought he would interfere?” Ian scrubbed his face, beyond frustrated. It was only when he looked up again that he noted Monty’s bloody nose and the cut on his cheek.

“I love her,” Nathaniel murmured. “And they hurt her, Ian. They laid their damn hands on her!”

“ Shh ,” Charlotte grabbed a cloth from the housekeeper and wiped gingerly at Nathaniel’s face. “You can tell us later. Be quiet for now.”

Instead, he moaned, and Monty shuffled around the room as if lost.

“I don’t understand why you needed to bring him here,” Ian complained. His stomach soured at the smell of vomit and whiskey consuming the room.

“Bring him here?” Charlotte balled her fists, stopping a moment to glare at Ian. At that moment, he suddenly felt two feet tall. “He’s your brother, Ian. Monty, thank you for alerting us. We can sort out the rest later.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Nathaniel mumbled, before suddenly turning his head to the side and spitting up blood. “I will.”

“ Shh , now,” Charlotte cooed.

Ian fought back against the pang of jealousy stabbing him in the chest at her kind words.

“You’re with family, and we care about your well-being.”

“Family?” Nathaniel scoffed. “I don’t know any longer.”

Monty scoffed. “I would argue you don’t know much at the moment. You’ve been drinking for three days and could barely walk before we met Miss Harris.”

“Family,” Charlotte answered, cupping Nathaniel’s face in her hands. “My family. Always.”

It was love that bloomed in his chest then for his wife. In Ian’s absence, Charlotte and Nathaniel had become like brother and sister.

Because whether Charlotte wanted to admit it or not, she had the rare gift of making everyone feel loved when she was around, cared for and seen. And Ian could spend the rest of his life being jealous of her attention being turned toward others, or he could love her more for it. And in this instance, he decided he needed to trust her and let her love.

Falling in love, being in love, and being loved were facets that he had to learn. He had to shatter the lies that he had been told, the opinions of others, to find out what he truly believed.

Charlotte had shown him that love was not just sweeping someone into your arms in a ballroom and making promises about tomorrow, but remaining by their sickbed, worrying, and waiting for them to be well again. It was the crack of relief that hit your chest when their eyes finally peeked open, and their gaze met yours when their fever broke.

Love was questioning the space that followed the answers. For too long, he had moved through the world believing he only held value because of the title he was born with. He had allowed those insecurities to build fear and doubt, pushing her love away.

In the aftermath, it was only the truth that mattered. That he loved her. Truly. Every imperfect minute of the journey.