Page 39 of The Truth about the Rogue
And I did not think that he would be so affected by my consideration of him.
“The poem was beautiful,” she continued, as he looked back at her. “It held such feeling, I confess that my heart was stirred.”
“Truly?” Lord Kentmore’s hand settled on hers, though he did not ever lift his gaze away from her face, and Charlotte started in surprise, her heart quickening. “You thought well of it?”
Blinking quickly, Charlotte looked away, licking her lips as all manner of emotions began to climb through her.
“I did, truly.” She managed to turn her gaze back to him. “You know the author, yes? I am sure that he must be pleased that there are so many young ladies in London who are eager for his poetry.”
“Mayhap, though not all of them are as discerning as you, I am sure,” came the reply, his hand never lifting from hers, his hazel eyes searching her face. “My dear Miss Hawick, to know that I have pleased you means a great deal.”
Charlotte said nothing, finding herself drawn to him in a way that was most disconcerting, appreciating that he valued her opinion of his reading of the poem. She had no desire to pull her hand away, no thought of rising from her chair to put the appropriate distance between them. Instead, the thought came to her of the first time had kissed her and, without meaning to, her eyes went to his lips. What would it feel like to have them pressed to hers again? Would there be the same passion as there had been when he had thought her to be someone else?
“Miss Hawick,” Lord Kentmore breathed, leaning a little closer to her. “I must ask you if–”
He is still a rogue.
“Might I ask if you still have every intention of returning to your previous interests once we are wed?” Ice washed over her as Lord Kentmore pulled back, his hand taken from hers at the verysame moment. The thought of their kiss had brought to mind the fact that he had been intending to kiss someoneelseand, with that, the realization that she was being nothing but foolish in thinking of him in any way other than as a rogue. “You and I have become a little closer these last few days, Lord Kentmore, but that does not change the fact that you are determined to be a rogue still, once we are wed – or whenever you decide to return to it.”
Lord Kentmore frowned, a shadow coming over his expression.
“What is it that you want me to say, Miss Hawick? I have already assured you that I will not do so.”
“For the time being,” she stated, angry with herself for letting her feelings become affected by him. “You know very well that I do not wish to marry a rogue.”
“Yes, you have made that very clear.”
Charlotte took a breath, a sudden sense of desperation beginning to flood her.
“What I want is to hear you state that you will be as any gentleman ought to be when he is wed: singularly devoted to his wife.”
Lord Kentmore looked back at her for a long moment. Nothing was said between them, no words came from his mouth and Charlotte had none to say either. Eventually, Lord Kentmore closed his eyes, forced a smile, and lifted his shoulders.
“Miss Hawick,” he said, making Charlotte’s heart squeeze with a sudden, sharp pain, fearing what his next words would be. “I cannot say what changes the future might bring. What I might say, however, is–”
“I am returned!” Lady Morton sailed into the room, just as Lord Kentmore placed his hand back upon her own, only to pull it away just as quickly. “Now, tell me, Lord Kentmore, have youbeen to a play recently? I have heard that there have been some marvelous productions of late, though I have not yet been so fortunate as to attend them.”
Charlotte could do nothing other than listen to her mother speak, picking up her teacup and drinking what was left of it while Lord Kentmore answered in the most jovial voice, as though nothing of difficulty had been spoken between them. What Lord Kentmore had said had not brought her any sort of joy or reassurance. He had not said that yes, he wanted to be committed to her, desired to be a devoted husband who never again returned to the life of being a scoundrel. Instead, he had made a vague remark about the future and then had been forced to fall silent. Perhaps it was just as well he had not been permitted to say anymore, given the sorrow she already felt.
Why is my heart so foolish as to let itself warm to a gentleman who can never return my interest?Charlotte berated herself silently as her mother laughed at something Lord Kentmore said.He cannot commit to a change in his life, he cannot promise to turn away from his roguish ways. And despite how much I might wish it, he cannot ever commit to me.
Charlotte meanderedthrough the garden of her father’s townhouse, letting her fingers brush across the soft petals of the flowers there. She smiled to herself, only for a sudden thought to capture her attention.
Lord Kentmore.
The bouquet of flowers he had brought to her the previous day had been the first she had ever received from a gentleman and, as he had offered it to her, her heart had cried out – and even now, though she wanted to forget it, she could not. That cryhad been one of affection, one of hope that it would be returned, though Charlotte was quite sure it would never be so. The more time she spent with him, the more she desired for him to be devoted solely to her, to turn his back entirely on such things, and yet, even now, he had not spoken to her of that. He had given her no assurance – so why did her heart continue to betray her with whispers of hope?
Sighing to herself, Charlotte continued through the garden, wondering at her own, tumultuous thoughts. She did not want to have her thoughts linger on Lord Kentmore, did not want to continue to consider all that she desired from him, for to do so would mean building up a hope that would, most likely, be shattered.
“Charlotte?”
She turned her head, seeing Lillian sitting on a bench near the scarlet roses.
“Lillian, I did not know you were here.”
“I thought to come outside for a short while.” Lillian held up The London Chronicle, a smile dancing about her lips. “I thought you might wish to see the poem that has been written within?”
Charlotte hesitated. Things had not been particularly warm between herself and her sister of late and though she had found herself thoroughly captured by the poems which had been printed in The London Chronicle, she did not desire to discuss them with her sister. Lillian had been enjoying Charlotte’s close connection with Lord Kentmore in her own way, and had never enquired about how Charlotte felt at the prospect of marrying a rogue but had, instead, seemed to take great delight in it all. That had pushed Charlotte even further from her.
