Chapter 25
It took a moment for Charlotte’s senses to return to enough order that she recognized the man staring at Anthony and her. Lord Drayton stood in the doorway, the light from the candlelit corridor streaming in around him and illuminating the two of them.
The kiss had been her idea—the only thing she could think of to explain their presence in the library at that moment—but she had not been prepared for the press of his lips to hers, the passion with which he had entered into the kiss, or the way it had consumed her.
“Lord Drayton,” Anthony said with surprise.
Charlotte was grateful to him, for she could not have strung two words together to save their lives at that moment.
Anthony stepped away, dropping his hands from the small of her back and leaving her to wonder how she had gone her entire life without them there.
“Forgive us, my lord,” Anthony said. “We were ...” He trailed off.
“Yes, I can see that,” Lord Drayton said with a hint of amusement in his voice. “And here I had thought you meant to go to the privy, Yorke. Clever, clever!”
“We meant no disrespect,” Anthony said.
Lord Drayton laughed. “None is taken, I assure you. One must give a bit of leeway to young persons in love. But come now, we are joining the women, and unless you wish to set tongues wagging, it will be best for you to join the rest of us in the drawing room.”
They both nodded quickly and walked to the door. Lord Drayton held it open for them to pass through, then closed it behind them.
Charlotte still felt only half-aware of where she was, for flashes of those moments in the library intruded again and again, making her cheeks hot and her gaze steal to Anthony beside her.
His brows were pressed in a deep v again. Had he disliked the kiss? Did he kiss every woman in such a way? Miss Baxter, for instance.
Once they reached the drawing room, it was clear that tongues were already wagging, for they were the recipients of more than one knowing glance. No doubt, Charlotte’s rosy cheeks were giving them away.
“Where is the false diary?” Anthony whispered once attention had moved away from them.
“I slipped it into the bookcase behind you while ...” The words would not come.
She had done it immediately, and thank heaven for that, for if she had waited even two more seconds, she could not have told anyone her name, much less had the forethought to hide the diary.
“Good,” Anthony said.
There was no opportunity for private conversation until everyone retired for the night well after one. As they walked upstairs beside Lord and Lady Buxton, though, all Charlotte could do was hope Anthony understood the look she had shot him as she had opened her door, conveying that she expected him to come see her without delay when he could manage it.
She paced her bedchamber for nearly a quarter of an hour before the knock came. She rushed to the door and opened it just enough to see who it was. Despite the fact that she had been expecting him for more than fifteen minutes, her heart skittered at the sight of Anthony.
Had those lips truly been on hers?
One of his brows quirked at her hesitation. “May I come in? Or do you need to touch the wound again to be certain it is truly me?”
She pulled the door open, and he slipped inside, bringing with him the smell of sandalwood that made her eyelids flutter.
Enough, Charlotte. She jostled her head to clear away the distraction and faced Anthony.
“Lord Buxton would not stop talking,” he apologized.
“Anthony, what do we do?”
He rubbed his chin, his other hand on his hip. “I haven’t any idea.”
“I think Drayton believed us.” She certainly hoped so. There had been nothing pretended about that kiss ... at least not for her. “Should we wait until tomorrow evening to try again?”
Anthony remained quiet.
“Or perhaps we should steal it in the middle of the night?”
Anthony still said nothing. His eyes were glazed over, his brow pulled taut, his focus on nothing in particular.
“Anthony.”
There was no response.
Charlotte stepped directly in front of him, her frustration and nerves reaching a peak. “Anthony,” she said more loudly.
His gaze flicked to her as though he had only just noticed her there.
“What is it?” she said. “You are distracted.”
His eyes roved over her face, his expression unreadable. It was as if he was still not hearing her.
Was he dwelling on the day’s many tasteless comments? As frustrating as they were, Charlotte needed the man to focus. “This is important, Anthony,” she hissed.
“You think I don’t know that?”
She drew back at the frustration in his voice.
His dark eyes blazed bright as he stared at her. “For months and months, I have thought of nothing but clearing my brother’s name, Charlotte. It has been my sole focus, the subject of all my efforts, the thing consuming me. And yet, now, when I am this close to succeeding, I cannot even think for wanting to kiss you again.”
Charlotte’s lungs searched for air in vain as his gaze bored into hers, devouring her until she felt faint.
“You have driven me mad from the moment I met you,” he said. “Mad with disdain, then frustration, then curiosity, then love and want. And now ...” His throat bobbed behind his cravat, and he stepped back, all the passion in his face slipping away so there was only anguish left in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft and bitter. “And now I fear I shall go mad when I lose you.”
Charlotte’s heart struck blow after blow against her chest as her mind tried to fathom what he was saying. Could it possibly be true he, too, found himself dreading the end of an engagement that had started in enmity?
She swallowed. “Why must you lose me?”
His brows pulled tighter, his gaze searching hers. “What do you mean?”
She kept silent, willing him to take her meaning.
“You cannot abide me, Charlotte,” he said, looking away. “Whatever I do, no matter how well-intended, it only serves to anger you.”
She shook her head and stepped toward him, her chest full to bursting. “If I have been angry, it has been the growing realization of how I have come to need you, Anthony. It has been the dread of saying goodbye.”
His eyes searched hers intently.
“Do not lose me, Anthony. Keep me.” She tried to smile to counter the vulnerability of her request. “Keep me, for I am yours, as sure as I am my own.”
A fire ignited in his eyes, but the step he took toward her was slow and cautious, as though he feared to scare her away.
And so, she waited.
For the feel of his fingers stealing around her waist. For his eyes to rove over her face until they settled on her lips. For the warmth of his breath as his mouth drew near hers.
She waited until she could bear it no longer, a need rising to a crescendo within her. She lifted her chin, and her bottom lip touched his.
There was a pause, then his lip swept over hers, sending a torrent of chills tumbling across her skin and down her back.
Using his finger, he urged her chin up and their lips together. He kissed her with excruciating tenderness, until Charlotte’s knees went weak and the entire world narrowed to each point of contact between them.
He kissed her as a man kisses his betrothed—his true betrothed—knowing her lips will touch his and only his.
“Anthony,” she finally said, grasping at her rapidly disappearing sense of reality. “Silas.”
Anthony pressed his forehead against hers and nodded. “Yes. Silas.”
They drew back and looked at one another. The sight of him after minutes of feeling and tasting him made her breath catch. Could this man truly want her? Want her as a man wanted a wife? It seemed impossible. Glorious and impossible.
“Now is as good a time as any,” she said, though her lips begged to be allowed to kiss him just once more. “I will stand watch while you take the diary and replace it.”
Anthony nodded. “And if you are discovered?” His gaze dropped to her lips, and he stole a quick kiss.
“How am I supposed to think when you do that?” she asked. Then she stole a kiss from him. She took a step back immediately after, forcing distance between them so she could think more clearly.
Anthony smiled and took a mischievous step toward her.
“If I am discovered,” she said, stepping backward, “I shall make up a story about clearing my mind or some such thing.”
Anthony pursued her, matching each step of hers with one of his own.
“Heaven knows I need it,” she said ruefully, stopping so that he could catch her.
He swiped an arm around her waist and brought her up against him, sending her heart into a fluster of chaotic beating. Brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, he looked into her eyes. The mischief in his eyes gave place to worry. “Are you certain?”
She used two fingers to smooth his brow, avoiding the gash. “Yes. Let us save Silas.”
Charlotte’s hair was plaited and her dressing gown wrapped around her chemise as she watched Anthony open the library door.
He shot her a quick smile, then disappeared with his candle into the dark room. Her heart thrummed at the thought of the night’s strange events, and she glanced down the corridor, forcing her mind to stay present.
The house was quiet, the servants all to bed hours ago. No one would be walking the corridors, but she couldn’t help being nervous despite that. She had explained to Anthony where she had placed the diary, but the unease was difficult to banish.
The burden of Silas’s exile weighed on Anthony so heavily, and Charlotte desperately wanted him to succeed tonight.
She tapped a fingernail against her teeth as she stared at the library door, trying to imagine what Anthony was doing at that precise moment and how long it would take him. Not above three minutes, surely.
How would they ever manage to sleep until morning once they had it? Perhaps they could depart immediately, leaving a note of explanation behind.
A sound brought her head around just as a dark figure’s cold hand stole around her mouth, stifling her cry. Horror instantly filled her.
She was promptly scooped up and carried down the dark corridor.