Chapter 6

CHAPTER

a

6

W in stood in the rear garden and stared up at the night sky. Supper was over and his guests had headed home directly after the meal had ended. He hadn't exactly planned an evening of socializing and they'd grasped his feelings in the matter. They'd eaten and left.

Even though it had been very casual, and he wasn't overly acquainted with the people he'd invited, it had been a pleasant affair. He'd welcomed three of the neighboring landowners and their wives. They were the men who'd approached him about the smuggling. He'd asked the vicar and his wife too, which was always a good idea and endeared him to the locals.

Charlotte had been his hostess and he'd introduced her as a friend of the family. Since he was a bachelor, it wasn't appropriate for her to be staying with him, and he wouldn't reflect on what they must have thought about the situation. If they were curious, he'd never hear any gossip. He was such an exalted person that they wouldn't dare talk about him.

She'd been perfect in her role and it was obvious she'd been raised to wed a prominent man. She had lovely manners and was adept at table conversation, as well as dealing with the servants. Who was she? What was her story? He was entirely too fascinated by her and he couldn't tamp down his interest.

Previously, he'd had one brief discussion with her about her past and she'd declined to provide any information. Her gracious behavior throughout the party had him thinking he had to pry a bit deeper.

He was feeling adrift and unmoored, and as usual, he blamed his low mood on his lingering guilt over Holden's death. The tragedy had occurred two years earlier, but Win still fretted about it constantly.

His worst trait was his vanity. He always believed that he knew best, and he'd convinced himself—spurred on by his bitter mother—that harsh measures had been required with Holden, but in light of how it had concluded, what had been the point?

On several desperate occasions, Holden had begged to meet with Win, but Win had refused to speak with him. It meant, when Holden had killed himself, that he and Win hadn't chatted in months. What if Win hadn't been so proud and unbending? What if he'd listened instead of chastised? Might the calamity have been avoided?

Win should have displayed some compassion, and after the funeral, he'd vowed to be more understanding of others. He'd sworn that he'd watch over Holden's widow, Antoinnette, but with Holden lying in his grave, it was cold comfort to realize that he'd supplied his assistance much too late.

He was also perturbed by his pending marriage. He'd enjoyed being a bachelor and he didn't imagine he'd like being a husband. He especially didn't suppose he'd like being Jasmine's husband, but a man had to wed eventually, and his time had come.

His mother had selected Jasmine for him and he wasn't really surprised that she'd wound up as his betrothed. His social circle was very small and Jasmine's mother and his had been close friends. Her father was an earl too, so they were on an equal footing in rank. Her dowry would furnish Win with a huge estate that adjoined Dartmouth, so the size of his property would grow substantially.

His main problem with her was that he didn't like her very much. She had the sort of cool reserve that was typical of women in their elevated sphere, so she never appeared to be moved by any comment or circumstance. She never became angry when a vexing dilemma arose. She never giggled with mirth when a funny incident happened. In fact, he didn't recollect her ever smiling.

She was so young! Only twenty to his thirty. He might have been a thousand years older than she was. What would they talk about? What would they have in common? How would they muddle through together?

Men wed because they had to have heirs, but they never worried much about the actual day-to-day impact of how they'd weather the decades with the girl they picked. They lived separately from their wives and fraternized merely to carry out their marital duties. But once a child was sired, there was no need to continue—until another son had to be produced.

Matrimony was entered into in order to secure titles and lines, in order to increase wealth. Personal issues such as happiness or satisfaction weren't added into the equation. Pleasure was found in other ways. With mistresses. With doxies.

He'd thought he was ready to wade forward with Jasmine, but he couldn't bear the notion of shackling himself to her. She'd been too sheltered, had had no experiences that would make her a viable partner if catastrophe struck. Was he a romantic at heart? Might he like to have a wife he loved, a wife he cherished?

The prospect was so peculiar that he wondered if he might be ill. He was that bewildered.

The rear door to the cottage opened and Charlotte emerged. After the final guest had departed, he'd come out to walk in the fresh evening air. As he'd sauntered away, she'd told him she was heading up to bed, yet here she was.

A few hours prior, after he'd bumped into her out on the beach, he'd kissed her in the foyer. It had been a reckless, insane act that he still couldn't quite fathom. He'd been contemplating an amour, but should he initiate one? Was he that despicable? That irresponsible?

Any relationship would hurt her in the end. He'd stroll away with no regrets and no penalty paid, but she'd be ruined and devastated. Could he do that to her?

His wedding was approaching, so it would be dreadful conduct, but it was his nuptials that were stirring so much of his discontentment. If he dallied with her, he was certain his attitude would improve.

She scanned the garden, looking for him. He was in the shadows and concealed from view, and he probably should have remained where he was, but he was ridiculously glad to see her. The moon was up and shining brightly, and he stepped from his spot, so she could locate him.

He extended his hand in a gesture of welcome, but it was a command too. For just a moment, she paused, then she hurried across the lawn to where he was standing.

He didn't ponder ramifications, didn't ponder other paths they could have trod. He simply drew her into his arms and kissed her. To his great relief, she didn't pull away, didn't beg him to desist. She snuggled herself to his chest and kissed him back.

It began as a torrid embrace, like an explosion that had been building for much too long. His fingers were in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, and he felt possessed, as if he couldn't get close enough to her. Had she bewitched him?

He was being swamped by the rather startling realization that he didn't imagine he could live without her. Could that be right? How could it be? He barely knew her, and shortly, he would wed his high-born bride, so what was he planning? Would he ask her to be his mistress? Was that it?

It was the only role available for her to occupy. Might she be amenable?

He was sufficiently vain to suppose that she would be lucky to glom onto him, but just then, he wasn't about to mention it. When he was holding her and kissing her so avidly, he wasn't about to halt and tender a lewd proposition. If she declined the dubious honor, it would wreck a perfectly good tryst.

Gradually, their burst of passion cooled and the embrace altered into something precious and rare. He broke off from her lush lips to nibble across her cheek, her nose, her chin.

"I was worried about you," she murmured. "After the guests left, you seemed sad."

"Am I that easy to read?"

"You are to me. You didn't return and I thought I should check on you."

"I'm fine," he claimed, then he huffed with aggravation. "Well, I'm not fine, but I will be. I'm moping for no reason. Don't mind me."

She peered up at him. "What's wrong? Can you tell me?"

Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "I was remembering my brother, Holden. He and I used to come here as boys in the summer. A servant taught us to sail in the bay and it's where I fell in love with the ocean."

"Ah, this place makes you think of him."

"Yes. He appears to be hiding around every corner."

"You miss him."

"Very much, and in the last few years of his life, I was awful to him. I shouldn't have been so cruel and I will blame myself forever."

"Do you believe there's a Heaven? If so, I bet he's up there and he forgives you."

It was a sweet comment and he hugged her tight. "I will pretend that's true, but if he has forgiven me, I didn't deserve it."

"I hate that you're beating yourself up about it," she kindly said. "Is that why you stayed outside for so long? Have you been scolding yourself?"

"Yes, and even though I understand it's pointless to stew, I can't help it."

"Will you be incensed if I admit that I asked Boggs about him?"

"No. I'll be flattered that you cared enough to inquire."

"Boggs wouldn't furnish much information. How did your brother die?"

"If I explain, will you swear you'll never repeat the terrible tale?"

"Never. I swear," she vowed. "Your secrets will always be safe with me."

"He committed suicide."

She sighed with remorse. "I'm so sorry to hear it."

"We covered it up by spreading a story that he was killed in a hunting accident, but people are aware of what actually transpired."

"He must have been horribly despondent. What was vexing him?"

Win snorted with disgust. " I was vexing him."

"That can't be it. Please quit assuming you were responsible. If a person takes his own life, the rest of us can never know the root cause of the distress."

"I know the cause. He was obsessed with an actress and begged to marry her. I refused to give my permission, so they eloped to Scotland."

"Oh, dear ... "

"When I found out, I lashed out at him. I cut off his money. I severed all ties. He and his wife became pariahs in Society, so their situation plummeted. He needed my assistance, but I was too proud to provide it." He scoffed with derision. "I can be a vicious monster. You've called me a bully and you're absolutely correct that I am."

It was a shocking confession, one he was stunned to have uttered. He'd revealed a very private opinion that he'd never shared with anyone, but he'd been overwhelmed by the notion that he could tell her about any calamity, that she would listen and offer just the right remark. He'd never had a genuine confidante, and at blabbing his innermost views about Holden, he felt lighter, less burdened, as if he'd shed an enormous weight by being candid with her.

An image of Jasmine popped up, and he tried to picture himself talking to her about Holden, but he couldn't envision discussing any important issue with her. If he mentioned Holden—or any other thorny topic—she'd likely stare blankly, then complain about him raising a negative subject.

There was a garden bench behind them and she led him over to it. They sat down and she nestled very close, their sides touching all the way down. She was studying him, her gaze awash with sympathy and concern.

"How long has it been since Holden passed away?" she asked.

"Two whole years. You'd think I'd be over it by now, wouldn't you?"

"No, I don't think that and you shouldn't either. Some of the events that happen in a family are so gripping that we never get over them. Two years is nothing."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Of course. My father died when I was fourteen, and I'm still suffering from the slings and arrows that wounded me afterward."

"Who was your father? And don't lie about it."

She debated, then grumbled with exasperation. "He was Harold Cronenworth. You inquired about him the other day, and I denied a connection, but it's him."

"Why pretend otherwise?"

She shrugged. "There was a scandal when I was a little girl. It impacted his business, and some of his old partners are still bitter about it, so I'm cautious when I declare myself to be his kin."

"What was the scandal?"

"It doesn't matter what it was."

Win might have pressed her to explain, but he already knew what had occurred: Her mother had run away with a scoundrel. It had been so shamefully appalling that all of London had been atwitter over it. Harold had nearly been destroyed by the debacle. His investors and customers had fled in droves, with the general consensus being that he wasn't trustworthy. After all, if he would make such a hideous choice of wife, who could guess what other bad decisions he might make?

Win's father, Reginald, had invested in several ventures with Mr. Cronenworth, and when the news about Mrs. Cronenworth had been disseminated, he'd lost a ton of money. Win was an excellent fiscal manager, so they'd eventually recouped their losses, but he was still irked about it.

What were the odds that he would cross paths with Mr. Cronenworth's unlucky daughter? What were the odds that Win would be incredibly attracted to her? It seemed as if the universe was toying with him, dangling a shiny object at him, but it was one he should never reach out to grab. What could it mean?

At the moment, he was too befuddled to figure it out.

He simply said, "If it's so difficult for you to talk about him, the situation must have been atrocious."

"It wasn't really, and I should be able to move on, but when I was initially introduced to you, I was afraid you might be acquainted with him and you'd have a low opinion. I had traveled to Fog Bay to seek your help with Polly and I wasn't keen to start off on the wrong foot."

"I'm not in the habit of blaming children for the sins of their parents."

"Good, and I want you to realize that I've survived a family trauma. I've learned how draining certain issues can be, so I repeat: Two years of grieving for your brother is nothing."

"I'll remember that."

"Boggs hinted that he was a drunkard who was deeply in debt. If that's the case, you can't assume you were the cause of his demise. It sounds to me as if he had many demons nipping at his heels."

"He definitely did." Win sighed, then said, "I've atoned by taking care of his widow."

"I'm delighted to hear it."

"She still lives in London and I pay her bills and give her an allowance." He smirked with annoyance. "She can be very exhausting, so my penance is having to interact with her."

Charlotte grinned. "It amuses me that she's disconcerted you. You seem so omnipotent. I'm glad you have a few ordinary qualities."

"I do have them, but you're the only one to whom I'll admit it."

She leaned in and wrapped her arms around his waist, then she whispered, "It will be all right. Time will pass, and gradually, you'll feel better and more like your old self."

"I know."

He hugged her back and they stayed like that for a bit, as he tried to recollect if he'd ever been hugged before. If he had, he couldn't recall the occasion. Her kindness and understanding were riveting and they left him practically giddy with contentment.

He was being inundated by sentiment. Words were bubbling to the tip of his tongue, words about his betrothal, about his shattered relationship with his mother, about Jasmine and how he wasn't eager to marry her. But he wasn't about to babble. He never revealed his emotions to others and he hated to have been so candid with her. He had to appear terribly vulnerable, and no doubt in the future, she'd presume they would constantly palaver on topics they shouldn't.

Lest he open his mouth and spout an idiotic comment, he kissed her again. He was a dedicated rogue, so it was safer territory than verbal discussion.

They kept on forever and they only slowed and stopped when it began to rain. They were seated under a tree, so they didn't get drenched immediately, but the clouds had quietly snuck up on them. They drew apart, but a powerful connection was sizzling. He wasn't confused about where it would lead and there was no reason to delay the inevitable.

"We should hurry inside or we'll be completely soaked," she said.

"Come to my room with me." He didn't pause to consider the consequences of the suggestion. "Spend the night."

"I can't."

"You can, " he insisted.

"Perhaps I should say I won't then. I've dawdled with you on this bench, and we've shared secrets and confessions, so a sense of intimacy has flared, but that's all it can be. A sense of intimacy."

"I want more from you than some furtive embraces in my garden."

"I'm sure you do, and clearly, I've given you the exact wrong impression about the sort of female I am."

"I don't think badly of you for being out here with me."

"That's a relief, but my answer is still no."

She was smarter than he was. She was wiser and more determined to prevent folly. She stood and extended her hands.

"Let's go inside," she said again. "I won't leave you to mope in the rain by yourself."

"You've definitely improved my mood."

"Then I am very happy."

She raised him to his feet and guided him to the cottage. Once they slipped into the foyer, they were very wet, giggling softly, anxious to stifle any noise, so they wouldn't rouse any of the servants. They crept up to the second floor.

"Goodnight," she whispered.

"Goodnight to you too."

He dipped down and stole a final kiss and she shook a scolding finger at him. "I'll see you in the morning. Join me for breakfast."

"I will. At nine."

She rose on tiptoe and initiated a kiss of her own, then she flitted into her bedchamber and closed the door. He might have brazenly followed her, but it was a small house, and Polly was in there with her.

He tarried, thinking about her, thinking about their budding amour and what might ultimately occur between them. As he went into his own room, he realized he was smiling. When was the last time he'd genuinely smiled?

He couldn't remember, but it had been much too long.