Page 20 of The Wilful Widow
“And deprive me of the opportunity of ensuring it falls nicely into place?”
The quirk to his brow and the twist to his mouth was what any future husband could be forgiven. He was anticipating his wedding night and, having had husbands before, Charlotte understood very well the pleasure he’d have in touching what was, effectively, forbidden fruit before it was sanctioned.
She hesitated. She didn’t want to feel Ashbrook’s hands on her with Alexander so near. But Alexander would soon be gone from her life. She needed to get used to her new reality. Ashbrook was in good health, unlike her second husband. He was not hotheaded, like the baron had been. In all likelihood, he would be Charlotte’s husband for many years.
She’d better start humouring him, now.
“Shall we?” She indicated the screen and began to walk, feeling the resignation seep through her bones as he followed her; aware, too, of Alexander’s look trained upon her back.
But for a second only. If he had had anything to say to her, he’d have said it. He was betrothed to Jessamine who was lively, amusing, pretty.
All traits that Alexander had complimented Charlotte on all those years ago.
All traits that Charlotte now showed no evidence of possessing.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We are about to begin!”
Katherine’s loud clapping to attention caused Ashbrook to raise his eyebrows heavenwards as his hands lingered on Charlotte’s waist in drawing down the somber, black, nun-like shift over her frame.
“Come now, Ashbrook, she’s just a child. We must all suffer this with good grace.” Charlotte felt a certain admiration for young Katherine who, at eleven, showed none of the diffidence of a well-brought-up young lady who would kowtow to anyone. Charlotte had been like that, too. Before her first husband had crushed her spirit.
“She’s an insufferable, spoiled brat,” grumbled Ashbrook, his hands resting a little too long on Charlotte’s rump though she said nothing. They were unseen, for the moment, and they were to be married in a fortnight.
A fortnight, she thought with a spasm of terror. The way Ashbrook was gazing down on her it couldn’t be too soon.
Charlotte could have stretched it out another two months. Not that she didn’t intend marrying him. He was her best opportunity for delivering Beatrice from the genteel poverty that would be their lot if Charlotte didn’t seize this last opportunity for marriage to a man who found that her attractiveness outweighed her lack of reputation and funds.
And, at twenty-eight, there would be only a few good years to trade on that.
Lord Ashbrook was charming in his own way. He was handsome, not yet forty, with a title, financially stable. And he could offer young Beatrice a means of contracting a good marriage.
So, Charlotte put her hand on his sleeve and pretended she meant it when she said, “And you are a handsome, good man, hiding his traits beneath a wolf’s costume. Now, will you tie the bow a little tighter at the back, please? Then I think we’ll both be ready for our roles. All this will be over in less than twenty minutes, and then we can go back to enjoying the undemanding, uncomplicated process of being well-catered to in a household where our hosts have indeed lived up to their reputations for generosity.”
He did as she asked then paused, his hands on her waist as he looked down into her face, a sudden lustful gleam in his eye. “By gad, Charlotte, I can’t wait until we are wed. Yournun-like demeanour only inflames my ardor. The cool widow indeed!”
Chapter 11
Charlotte had to take a few steadying breaths before she could regain the composure she needed to step out from behind the screen.
Then, suddenly Katherine was at her side, gripping her arm to lead her to a position by the folds of the heavy red-velvet curtain that lined the makeshift stage.
“Wait here until I tell you to step forward,” she whispered hastily.
“And where is my script—?”
But Katherine had gone.
Lowering herself onto a fur-covered seat, Charlotte clasped her hands on her knees and looked on as Lady Fenton began to play the opening bars to the performance on the pianoforte. It was a lighthearted melody, and Beatrice was, to Charlotte’s surprise, smiling happily as she skipped onto the stage looking very sweet in a white, sprigged-muslin dress covered by a red cloak.
Charlotte turned to see who else was lined up ready to play their parts. Jessamine was perched daintily at the top of the ladder, running her fingers through her long, unbound hair, which curled in glorious golden abandon about her waist.
Charlotte swallowed down a surge of jealousy. This young, carefree young woman, confident in her powers of attraction, would become Alexander’s wife.
And there was Alexander, tall and straight, toying with the heavy old-fashioned sword at his side as he awaited direction from his precocious director, flicking an idle glance at Jessamine.
Charlotte could see nothing of what was in his heart betrayed in his features. Did he truly love her? He must do, she supposed. Otherwise, he’d not pledge his life to her. Alexander, in Charlotte’s memory, was a man of principle who, when his passions were aroused, would let nothing stand in the way of achieving his goal.
Once, Charlotte had been his goal.
