Page 23 of The Wilful Widow
“But failing to find her, he became a brave woodsman, in the pursuit of wicked wolves, until this fine day when he realized that his daughter was none other than Little Red Riding Hood, and that the fair maiden whose heart he’d won all those years ago was hiding in the woods. A nun, no less! Tragically, he learned she was betrothed to none other than the Wicked Wolf—”
“Enough!”growled the wolf, rising ominously.
Charlotte opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She had no idea what to do. It seemed that no one else did, either. What was not surprising was that Ashbrook appeared to have reached his limit.
But how had it come to this?
Some of these sentiments narrated by Katherine were drawn directly from Charlotte’s diary, which she’d carelessly left by the side of her bed. Surely Beatrice could not have deciphered her tiny scrawl?
But if Katherine had accompanied her daughter to fetch something and found the diary...
“Stop the Wicked Wolf! He’s going to eat my mother alive! Where’s your sword, Father? You must kill the wolf!”
Before anyone could stop her, Beatrice had rushed toward Alexander and pushed the hilt of the sword into his hands. “Kill the wolf and save my mother!”
Charlotte gasped again at the sight of her little girl beseeching the man she believed was her father to save her.
It was too close to real life. She didn’t know how she should react. Never more had Charlotte needed saving, but it was too late for Alexander to save her from Lord Ashbrook. Too late for him to save her from anyone.
She’d thought herfuture was carved in stone, and her fifth wedding band would bind her to this wicked wolf.
But judging by the furious gleam in the wicked wolf’s eye, he was going to make her his whipping post, just as Busselton had…
And as greatly as Beatrice feared he would.
“No! No! You must saveme, my prince!”
Charlotte flinched at the anguish in Jessamine’s tone as the young woman raised herself, tossing back her glorious hair, which rippled about her waist, reminding everyone that this was just a play.
Alexander half turned.
Wasthis playacting or real life? Puzzlement creased his features,yet instinct drew him to Jessamine, and why should Charlotte imagine it would be any different?
She closed her eyes a moment, and when she opened them, Beatrice was standing at the bottom of the ladder, shaking it and crying out as she looked imploringly at Alexander, “Don’t save the princess. Please! Don’t you understand? I’ve found you at last! You’re my real father! I read it in Mama’s diary!”
And then Ashbrook was striding across the stage, pushing Katherine aside as she tried to interject, his face a mottled red as he exclaimed loudly, “This is utterly ridiculous, and I’ve had enough! Charlotte! Come with me and cover your hair!”
As if he had the right to tell her what she should do! Her mind was in a whirl. Alexander was Beatrice’s father? Where had this come from? She’d written no such thing in her diary, though she’d poured out her pain over her lost chances, and she’d reminisced about those glorious days with Alexander nine years ago.
She opened her mouth to refute Beatrice’s claim but the sight of Alexander, frozen near the bottom of the ladder and staring at her, stayed her words.
He was looking at her as she’d wanted him to look at her when they’d passed on the stairs. He was looking at her, just as he had all those years ago, as they’d danced together at the Assembly Rooms—a slow-burning intensity of desire and…hope.
Then Lord Ashbrook was standing before Beatrice, grasping her roughly by the arm as he pulled her away from the ladder, saying far too loudly, “Stop this nonsense! If you’re to call anyone father, it’s me! You’re making a spectacle of yourself and this play has turned into a charade!”
Rage fueled Charlotte’s next actions before she could think. Like the impulsive young girl she’d once been, before survival and expediency had dictated her every move, she leaped to her daughter’s defence, crossing the stage like an avenging Valkyrie.
“Don’t speak to my daughter like that! She’s a child!”
Her words came out unforgivably harsh to a man of Lord Ashbrook’s dignity, but he could not yet have registered them, as her arrival coincided with Alexander’s defence.
“Yes, a child!” Alexander repeated with more anger than Charlotte had ever seen him display as he interposed himself between them, adding, “Drop your hands!”
“How dare you!” Ashbrook tossed aside the ridiculous wolf’s head and gripped Alex’s shoulders, pushing him backward. “Who are you to speak to me like that?”
Alexander shrugged him off, and Charlotte saw the fury in the eyes of her intended as he pursued the man she really loved, his flailing arms coming in contact, unexpectedly, with the sword at Alexander’s hip.
Alexander must have registered it at the same time for his eyes widened as he sought to retain his hold upon it, a scuffle breaking out before Ashbrook’s hefty shove that gave him mastery over the weapon.
