Page 21 of The Wilful Widow
She closed her eyes briefly and thought back to their encounter on the stairs. During their walk? Had his heart beat as wildly as hers?
Oh, what foolishness? Why was she doing this to herself?
She sighed, her gaze resting on Ashbrook, who looked bored and peevish as he removed his wolf’s head to scratch behind his ear.
Charlotte didn’t love him, but did shelikehim? Was she compromising her principles too much to marry a man just because she believed in Beatrice’s need for the financial security a father such as Lord Ashbrook would bring?
When Charlotte lost her looks in a few years, what would sustain them?
She put her hand to the black hood, which covered her dark hair, coiled into a loose twist at the back of her head. It was her crowning glory, and she remembered her shy, nervous anticipation at the prospect of Alexander running his hands through it; looking at her with the adoration that never failed to thrill her heart.
His nobility and his honor and decency had been as important to her as his genuine ardor. He’d wanted to make her his wife. The urgency of this desire had led to that most shocking of proposals: an elopement.
But he would not tarnish her good name by going so far as to compromise her, to put her in danger.
How ironic that Busselton’s jealousy had labeled her what she was not: impure; fallen, had she been unmarried; faithless, had she been his wife.
He’d found Charlotte’s last desperate, lovelorn letter to Alexander when Charlotte was nearly at term with Beatrice, who’d been conceived within a month of their marriage. Yet Busselton’s discovery that Charlotte’s heart belonged to another seemed to have deranged him. He’d become convinced that Charlotte had been unfaithful, and that Beatrice was not his.
“I must take some apples to my grandmother who lives on the other side of the wood,” she heard Beatrice say in a merry tone, obviously enjoying the role as she lookedout at the other guests who were seated in three rows of chairs, smiling politely at the children as the play began.
Poor Beatrice. How cruel it was to be falsely branded a bastard. Of course, she’d been born within wedlock, so even if Busselton hadn’t been her father, he was still officially listed as such.
Yet, Busselton had planted the seed in society’s mind that Charlotte’s daughter had been fathered by another man. His hard-won, scandalous divorce had been on the basis that Charlotte had been untrue. In the face of his determination, and his deep pockets, she’d not had a leg to stand on.
The only person who’d believed in her had been the kind, gentle clergyman who won her as his wife. Poor Septimus. He’d waited so patiently, and what had been his reward? At least he’d died on a gasp of ecstasy when his heart had given out on their wedding night.
“Oh, hello Grandmother! My, what a big nose you have!”
Charlotte smiled to hear the audience titter at Beatrice’s girlish horror. Ashbrook had risen up and shaken his head, as directed, causing Beatrice to shriek. He was not enjoying himself, Charlotte was sure, for Ashbrook detested anyone laughing at him. It hadn’t taken Charlotte long to learn he was not a fellow to make merry with, other than on his own terms, for he liked to think his humour sophisticated and urbane.
Little children did not amuse him at all.
Charlotte looked down at her sober garb.
Ashbrook was a sensual man with a stronger sexual drive than she had supposed.
An irony that she should be playing a nun—she, who’d been branded a scarlet woman for the number of husbands she’d had, and whose reputation had been shredded for the false allegation Busselton had pinned on her.
She might as well have been a nun for all the bedroom sport she’d enjoyed during her lifetime. Busselton was the man she’d lived with longest, yet he’d only bedded her for a month before jealousy had turned him against her.
“And Grandmother! What big eyes you have!”
The audience laughed once more, and Beatrice responded as a true thespian, hugging herself in pretended fear.
What role would the nun play? Charlotte wondered. What words would she have to say? If all Charlotte was good for was a bit-part playing a passing nun, then Ashbrook was well cast as the villainous wolf, she thought with amusement. It would have been wrong to have had Alexander in that role.
No, he deserved to play the hero for he was, without a doubt, the most heroic of them all. And the most handsome.
And the kindest.
A painful, churning feeling needled her. Ashbrook was not interested in pandering to the desires of others. Yes, he’d been kind enough to buy Beatrice her new dress, but…
She bit her lip. He’d done it to please Charlotte, not Beatrice, of course.
Before her mind could go too far down this ominous path, she became aware that the music had taken on a darker tone, foreshadowing what was to come.
Beatrice was now cowering by the cottage door, and Charlotte was again astonished by how well her little girl remembered her lines. Beatrice acted her part as if she’d practiced all night, knowing exactly when to ask questions and when to deliver the required almighty shriek as she realized that the wolf had eaten her grandmother.
