Page 12 of The Wilful Widow
Once Alexander was out of her orbit, and she no longer risked bumping into him unexpectedly, her poor heart might survive.
She felt a greater clarity now. There was no room for half-baked ‘what ifs?’ Nothing could change the fact that she and Alexander had loved one another with a passion she’d spent the rest of her life trying to recreate.
But that was in the past.
It was quicker to take the servants’ stairs halfway down the corridor than the carpeted stairs of the main house. That’s what she told herself when the truth was that she didn’t want to find herself coming face to face with any other of the guests and therefore be required to make small talk. She knew Jessamine thought her cold, and that Ladies Fenton and Quamby, who loved titillation, would be disappointed to discover how dull the wicked baroness really was.
The servants’ staircase was narrow, meaning she had to press herself against the wall when she saw below the top of an advancing head.
Only when they were level and he glanced up did she gasp in surprise, “Alexander!”
He looked as taken aback as she, stopping in the cramped dim stairwell a step lower so he was at eye level.
He cleared his voice. “I hadn’t expected to see you here, Charlotte.”
“I thought I was the only one accommodated in this wing.”
His eyes darted above and behind her before he shrugged, suddenly smiling the most disarming smile and saying, “Do you promise not to be cross with Beatrice if I tell you why I’m here?”
Involuntarily her hand clutched at her heart. Was this an avowal of hidden feelings? Did the old passion between them still lurk in his breast as it did in hers?
She opened her mouth, ready to sag into his arms, to kiss him…whatever he wanted. Jessamine was nothing to him. He’d realized that there was too much between Charlotte and himself to be denied. He was going to put his feelings above his duty and honor to Jessamine—only because to do otherwise would inevitably be unfair to Jessamine.
“Oh, Alexander—”
“I promised your daughter that I’d rescue her torn party dress and have it mended and returned before tomorrow’s Christmas ball. She knows she was naughty to wear it outside, so I hope you’ll not be angry with her.”
He spoke at the same time as she did. And his delivery was level and unemotional, his excuse plausible.
And the effect on Charlotte, dire.
She nodded, her brain awhirl with how nearly she’d made a fool of herself.
“That was kind of you. I won’t ask what she was doing to tear it…if that’s a confidence between you.” She struggled to string out a sentence, only realizing how much more painful it was to acknowledge that Alexander and Beatrice clearly had more of a bond than Charlotte did with her own child these days. Beatrice had become withdrawn and secretive, easily reduced to tears.
The sooner she had an established home augmented with a loving stepfather, the better. And, in only a few weeks, that would be the case.
“No, but you should know that she put it in your room and sent me a note with instructions on where to fetch it. I daresay it would be more seemly if you fetched it for me while I wait here.” He raised one eyebrow. “I’d hate to cause whispers that might compromise you. We’re no longer the impetuous young things we were when we gave no thought to the future and to our reputations.”
Charlotte shook her head as she backed up a step. He looked so unaffected by their meeting yet…
Yet, nine years ago he’d have relished the opportunity to be alone with her. He’d not even have looked over his shoulder to check they had no company before crushing Charlotte in his arms and kissing her until her legs felt boneless. She’d known from the very moment she’d met him there could be no other man for her. She’d known from the moment he asked her to elope that she would defy anything and everyone to be with him. His parents would not approve, and neither would hers. Not because Charlotte and Alexander and their families were not respectable people, but because two penniless younger children would need to make a match that offered greater security.
An elopement would be scandalous, but at least it would achieve its end. No one could part them once their vows were said.
They’d both agreed on this; had both known how they would disappoint their parents. And had been adamant that they would risk anything to be together.
What neither knew was what had happened to prevent their meeting.
Would it make a difference to tell Alexander?
Or did it no longer matter?
Would he even care if she told him she’d been waiting there at the crossroads to make good her escape, well before their arranged meeting time?
If he were to marry Miss Huxtable, it would be irrelevant.
But she certainly would feel some relief in telling him that she’d had no intention of boarding the mail coach that had arrived shortly after she had; that she’d resisted boarding it; instead, waiting for Alexander to take her in his own hired equipage up north and across the border.
