Chapter Eight

Later that night

The guests from the wedding breakfast finally left his home around two o'clock in the afternoon, and though he'd had a good time talking and laughing with his friends, he was concerned about Charity. She'd been everything polite and lovely while conversing with their guests, and once everyone had moved into the drawing room, she'd held her own in a variety of subjects with both ladies and gentlemen.

But honestly, it was their wedding night, and all he wanted to do was spend some time alone with her, perhaps talk candidly about what she wanted from their union, and what he did as well.

However, that hadn't happened, for after the guests departed, Christopher wished to have some of his time. Of course, he couldn't deny his son that, so they'd gone on to their customary rambles through Hyde Park to sail boats in the Serpentine. His new wife had declined to accompany them, claiming the need for a nap, and he left her to it, for it was probably difficult to acclimate to the rapidly changing days.

Once he returned home, there was tea, which he took with his son. Then he went into his study to write down a few thoughts for his solicitor to have drawn into legal documents now that he'd wed again.

Dinner was a lively affair, for a few of the rogues who hadn't attended the ceremony had dropped by to share the meal. Charity retired, but he didn't come upstairs until nearly eight o'clock, well and truly knackered and perhaps a bit muzzy in the head due to more than a few toasts.

As he approached his son's bedchamber to read the customary bedtime story, the sound of voices from within tugged at his curiosity. With a frown, he paused outside the open door, hidden by the wall, and intended to eavesdrop.

"Since you married Papa today, what should I call you now, Miss Maitland?" There was no guile in his son's voice, only interest. "My governess said you are Lady Winteringham."

"That is true." When Michael peeked into the room, Charity was perched on the side of Christopher's bed, still clad in the lovely sapphire gown she'd worn this morning. The only exception to her toilette was that she'd let her hair down, tied back with a white ribbon. "I still can't believe it for myself, so I suppose you may refer to me however you wish. Whatever makes you the most comfortable."

"That is a bit odd, isn't it?"

Charity shrugged. "Why not? You and I don't know each other very well. We shouldn't force something that might not work."

For long moments, Christopher regarded her, and Michael could only imagine what was going through his young mind. Finally, his son nodded. "You are quite clever."

"Thank you for saying so." She smiled down at him. "Do you have more questions?"

"My mother died when I was only four." When Michael peered at them again, his son's little face was tipped upward while he gazed at Charity. "I don't remember her much. Is that horrid of me?"

Out in the corridor, Michael pressed a hand to his heart, for his son had never mentioned that to him before.

"Of course not, Christopher. Don't ever think that of yourself." She took one of his hands and held it between her own. "If you still feel warm and loving inside your heart, then your mother is always with you. In that way, she will never be forgotten."

Michael struggled with his composure in the corridor. When a maid passed with a small box of new candles in her arms, she looked a question at him, but he waved her on.

"I like those words, Miss Maitland. They make me feel… happy."

"I'm glad. I try to remember them too when I'm missing my own mother and father."

When Michael peeked back into the room, he caught his son's nod. "Since you married my papa, does that mean you are my new mama?" He frowned. " Should I call you Mama?"

"Ah, my little prince, you should do whatever you feel in your heart is right. It is something only you will know."

Christopher nodded. His expression was quite serious for one so young. "Have you ever been a mother?"

"I have not." Though she continued to smile at the boy, there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. "You are the first child I've known in my life. I don't have any brothers or sisters."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Well, my mother died when I was quite young. I, too, have trouble remembering her at times." A frown tugged at the corners of her lips. "After that, my father and I traveled all over the world since I was perhaps a tad older than you. He was an adventurer and loved old things. Treasures, I guess you could say." A soft sound that was reminiscent of a stifled sob burst into the air. "He used to tell me having the world at my feet was a better classroom than anything I could have that a governess dreamed up. "

"You are very brave, Miss Maitland," Christopher said with a fair amount of awe in his tone. "Will you have children? Or will I be the only one in your life?"

When next Michael peered into the room, he caught a pink blush spreading over her cheeks.

"That remains to be seen. Life is long and uncertain just now. Are you worried if there were more children you would be forgotten?"

"Oh, no. Papa loves me. We are the best of friends."

At least there was that. It was so interesting finding out truths when one wasn't supposed to be listening.

"Then why aren't you truly happy? I don't see it in your eyes." To give Charity credit, she was holding her own in the conversation.

"I'm worried." That was the most blunt answer his son had ever uttered. "Papa isn't well in the head, I think. The party today had many people."

"It did. Does that have something to do with your papa's illness?"

"I hope it doesn't." A sigh escaped him. "Papa has difficulties in his mind when things are busy or loud."

"Like today?" Charity asked in a low voice.

"Yes." The little boy nodded. "He needs help, Miss Maitland." A waver set up in Christopher's voice. "He needs someone nearby to tell him he is safe, I think. Someone to help him feel better."

In the corridor, Michael once more struggled with his emotions. If his son had noticed those difficulties so much that he wanted to talk with someone about them, then those trances or fugue-like states had become worse. He rubbed his fingers over his eyes to stave off the urge to sob. Neither one of them in that room deserved the responsibility of him.

But the conversation in his son's room continued.

Charity spoke first. "I don't know much about your papa, but he seems a lovely man. If he has difficulties, please try not to worry. He has you, and now he has me. He won't be alone."

"I am glad for that." Christopher nodded. His grin was beguiling, and one Michael hadn't seen from his son before. "He is the best papa a boy could have. We go to Hyde Park and sail boats." Excitement had replaced the worry in his tones. "Sometimes he lets me ride with him in the early mornings. And sometimes we pretend we're in the army and make tents in the drawing room before the housekeeper and my governess gripe."

From the corridor, Michael grinned. They hadn't done that for at least six months. Perhaps they should again .

"I see." Charity's smile had the power to see him undone, but he tamped on the unwanted emotions. Theirs was a marriage in name only—had to be. "Your papa is special indeed then." She patted Christopher's hand. "Please don't worry. I will keep him as safe as I can, for he is doing the same for me. Will that set your mind at ease?"

"I think so, Miss Maitland. And thank you. It is good you are here."

"I hope you're right." When she made to stand, Michael's pulse slammed through his veins. "I wish you an easy trip into slumber tonight."

Michael didn't hear his son's response, for he retreated down the corridor. By the time Charity exited his son's room, it appeared that he had just come up the stairs. "Ah, I'd wondered where you'd disappeared to." He might not have wished to marry again and had only done it for specific reasons, but he admired the hell out of her right now.

"I wanted to make certain Christopher was doing all right following the ceremony and to tell him goodnight." She shrugged and offered a tired smile as she looked at him. "It has been a long day, and I rather thought to retire, perhaps order some chamomile tea." When she turned to retreat toward her room, he stayed her flight with a hail .

"Uh, Charity?"

"Hmm?" She glanced at him from over her shoulder.

"I wouldn't mind sharing that tea. Would you meet me in the private family parlor so we might discuss the day?"

For long seconds, she rested her gaze on him, then nodded. "I would enjoy that."

"Thank you." Then, not having the heart to delay the nightly ritual, he popped into his son's room and forced a cheerfulness he didn't feel.

How is any of this going to work?

An hour later, when he entered the private family parlor, the sight of Charity seated on a low sofa blending so perfectly with the other shades of blue in the room left him both with a sense of calm yet balancing on the edge of awareness.

"Thank you for joining me tonight. We haven't had more than a moment to ourselves today, and I suspect we need to talk."

"I beg your pardon. For most of the day, I have been overwhelmed with… everything." When she looked up at him from her position on the sofa with the skirting of her sapphire gown flowing about her legs, his chest tightened. "The last five days…" Instead of finishing the statement, she shook her head and rested her gaze to the tea service sitting on the low table in front of them.

"Even for me, this week has been strange." When he sat beside her, Michael took one of her hands. "First and foremost, I want you to feel at ease here since this is your home now."

She raised her attention to his face. "Thank you." A few seconds went by as she took deep breaths, but she hadn't pulled her hand away. "I still can't fathom why you would do such a thing that affects both our lives."

A valid question. "Suffice it to say I see something in you that I need, and I hope that, in time, you find the same in me." It was the truth. "Once a man has gone through a stint in the military, he has honed his instincts regarding things and people." He couldn't help but frown, for it was difficult to explain. "We also inherently know how to help and how to make things happen."

"I would assume protecting those who need it comes easily as well," she added in a soft voice, and when she stared at him with rounded eyes, he nearly tumbled into those dark blue depths.

"Yes, but more than that, I think being among the men of the Rogue's Arcade has impressed upon me the imperatives of being an honorable man, of realizing that we need to do more with our privilege in life than tossing it away on vices." He didn't mind sharing that, for she was his wife, no matter how that union grew or didn't.

"I rather like that way of looking at things." When she shifted on the sofa, the slight scent of lilacs wafted to his nose. "Before we go forward, I do have one question for you."

"I will answer as many as you wish." Yet knots of worry pulled in his gut.

She nodded, and this time she tugged her hand from his. "I have been in this household long enough to realize that losing your wife left a rather large hole in your life." When he remained silent, she continued. "Are you still in love with your wife? Because I don't relish being married to a man who will forever be distracted."

Again, admiration for her jumped to the forefront. "I miss her, of course, but I am well aware she is dead and never coming back." He rubbed a hand along the side of his face. "Also, I am not one to toss away my future for the sake of my past. That isn't good for my brain nor is it good for my son's development."

"Yet you didn't want to marry again." It wasn't a question.

"I didn't, but not for that reason."

"Then why?"

A huff of resignation escaped him. "It is too difficult to offer up my heart when love, hope—everything—can be dashed away in an instant. I have seen too many things while in the military and later with the rogues, witnessed horrors at the hands of men and women, and I know the value of life and…" He swallowed heavily. "I am not strong enough to survive that again."

"At least you're honest. It's appreciated." Nothing in her expression indicated how she felt either way. "What will you expect from me in this marriage?"

His respect for her rose with every question, and he adored her intelligence. "Should we entertain, you shall plan the pace and topics of those evenings. Otherwise, you'll run the household, forge a relationship with Christopher, and are free to pursue whatever interests your heart might desire." Feeling far too constrained, he shrugged out of his tailcoat. "I am not one of those men who want my opinions parroted back at me nor do I want to keep you in a gilded prison."

"Fair enough." When she gave him a small smile, his mood immediately elevated.

"Now, what do you expect from me?" Obviously, he could give away the fact he'd listened to her conversation with his son, but just talking with her had an odd calming effect on his troubled soul. A bit of his anxiety faded.

"Oh." A blush stained her cheeks, and with her raven hair falling about her shoulders, she looked much like a woodland elf come for a fleeting visit. "You have already done a marvelous job at protecting me. I shudder to think of what would have become of me if you hadn't happened upon me in the Reading Room."

"As long as I have breath, that will not change." He meant every word of that.

She nodded. "You promised dancing lessons."

"Those will happen," he said with a nod.

"I…" The blush intensified, and when he assumed she'd try for romance, her words stopped him cold "I would like to be included in outings with Christopher. It has been an age since I've felt a part of a family."

"Of course! It will be a good thing if you and Christopher bond."

"Good." She nodded. "Other than that, I simply want to find the tiara, pass it on, and hopefully live a life you and I can be proud of." Unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears. Dashing one away, she gave him a rueful glance. "I apologize. It's been a long day and I'm far too emotional."

"It's to be expected. This week has been far from usual." Michael gestured at the tea tray. "Shall I fix you a cup?" He couldn't concentrate with her so close that the heat from her body radiated to him. At least pouring out tea would distract him .

"Yes?" When she sniffled, he withdrew his handkerchief then handed it to her. "I wish my father had been alive to see me wed. He would have been so proud I married into the beau monde, and also, he would have made jest of me in good fun." A giggle mixed with tears came from her, and his gaze dropped to her lips. "Of course, if he were alive, I wouldn't have met you. None of this would have happened, and that would have been sad as well." Her hand drifted to the pendant she wore. "This is the only thing I have left of him, along with that tiara, I suppose, if he truly did own it at one time…"

"Ah, Charity." He was only so strong, and the sight of feminine tears had always made him uncomfortable. Easily, he snaked an arm about her waist and pulled her to him. "Come here."

A gasp escaped her, and she planted a palm against his chest as she regarded him with rounded eyes. "What are you about?"

"Wishing to teach you something more enjoyable than worrying over what might have been or the future." Did that make him a cad to take advantage of their relative privacy, of her innocence, of the fact that they were married in name only?

"Oh?" When he eased a hand about her nape and tugged her closer, she braced her other hand against his chest. "I thought you wanted this marriage to be one of convenience? That neither of us wished for a romance?"

"Don't worry about that in this moment. Perhaps we both need comfort." What is this spell she's cast on me? Because she didn't shove him away, he drew her close and kissed her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Yes, they'd shared a kiss or two before, but this one felt different. She must have either anticipated him or was ready for the overture, for she returned his kiss, and the headiness of it sent clouds of desire into his head.

Why did something so wrong feel so queerly right?

His pulse accelerated as he pulled slightly away to peer into her face. "All right?" His voice had dissolved into a rough whisper, for he wanted so much more than a kiss.

I am the biggest nodcock imaginable.

"Yes." Her response held a breathless quality. "Forgive my inexperience. You," she looked away with a blush raging in her cheeks, "you are the first man to kiss me in such a manner, and it's rather mind-boggling after such an emotional day."

"I'm happy to teach you." That was an understatement even as the admission humbled him. "How is it that you have reached… Hell, I don't know how old you are."

She snorted. "Two and thirty. "

"Right." He nodded. "How has no man paid his addresses to you in all this time?"

"It was difficult to meet people while traveling, and even harder still to come to know anyone when there were adventures to undertake and tombs and ruins to explore. Travelling is never permanent."

"Then perhaps I should count myself fortunate." It was a heady thought even if it went against every reason why he'd wed her. "Shall we continue?" Need coursed down his spine to bury itself in his rapidly hardening shaft. He hadn't felt this randy for a long time indeed, so why now and why with this innocent woman who'd attained such an age without being kissed?

"I would enjoy that, but that is not what our marriage needs to include." The way she soulfully gazed into his eyes made him feel as if he were stripped naked and vulnerable. "If, over the years, a certain fondness between us develops—"

"Hush, Lady Winteringham." Then he put his hands on either side of her waist and hauled her onto his lap so that she awkwardly straddled his lap with her skirting twisted between them. "At times, there needn't be a reason behind an action." As she stared at him with slightly parted lips and curiosity in her eyes, his tenuous control slipped. "You are a painter's dream looking like that."

Before she could respond, Michael kissed her again and this time he did so with banked intensity. No sooner had he encouraged her to open for him than she did, and he slid his tongue into her mouth, flirting with hers. She gasped, her eyes wide open and watching him, but he encouraged her to follow his lead. His new bride was a quick study, for she dueled with him until it was he who was breathless, even more so when she smoothed her palms along his shoulders and pulled him closer with tiny sounds of enjoyment.

How quickly he'd almost found himself lost in her.

Enchanted and perhaps half-mad, he dared to cup her breasts, and when she didn't slap his face or offer a protest, he worried the nipples into hard peaks through her gown. Lust shot down his engorged length, for it had indeed been months since he'd had a woman in his bed.

A gasp of surprise escaped her and mingled with a soft moan of pleasure. "I never knew…" Awe reflected in her eyes.

Those sounds both spurred him onward and threatened to break him. He was naught but a cad, a rogue, a scoundrel perhaps, yet the urge to see those charms circled like a hungry beast in his gut. Needing more of her, he tangled a hand in her hair, tugged her head backward, then kissed and nipped a line of kisses along the side of her throat and beneath her jawline .

The scent of lilacs rendered him nearly intoxicated, as did the silkiness of her skin, the warmth of her body pressed so scandalously close to his. Why shouldn't he continue? They were wed, and this was his wedding night. Once more, he claimed her lips, and tumbled into the innocent wonder that was his new wife.

Except…

Reality sneaked in to cool his ardor. He couldn't let himself get too much closer, couldn't fall for this woman, for losing another person from his life would send him too deep into the darkness. What if he couldn't climb out? What if he needed rescue and there was no one left to help?

"I'm sorry." Without ceremony or even thought to what he was doing, Michael unceremoniously dumped her off his lap and onto the sofa, sent her sprawling as if she were naught but a ragdoll. "I cannot do this. It's far too much, too soon, and I… I…" As emotions rose to fill his chest and crawl up his throat, he stood on unsteady feet. "Good night, Charity. Thank you for marrying me, such as the union will be."

Then, coward that he was, he fled the room and didn't stop until he'd closed the door of his suite behind him. Afterward, he sank to the floor with his back to the panel, and gave in to sobs of frustration, anguish, grief, and self-revulsion because he wasn't the whole man he should be, the man she deserved.

And now they were both trapped.