Page 22 of A Bride for the Ruthless Duke

Underneath the hoping, another voice began to speak.

It was quieter than panic and more patient than grief, and it could not be put down with reasons. It made her think of Charlotte in the carriage with her hands folded in her lap. It made her think of the half-second too long at her wrist, the whole silent summer, the September note with no apology in it, and the way Vance had asked her, with such tenderness, whether there was anyone he need fear, as though her heart were a position he meant to hold without ever quite committing the troops.

“I am not Charlotte,” Ellen said into the dimming room.

The quiet voice answered without sound.

I am Charlotte.

She turned her face into the pillow, breathing through the linen and lavender until the sharpness behind her eyes became something she could command.

I was Charlotte the whole time he was kissing my hand, the quiet voice said. I did not know it, and he did.

“No,” she whispered, fiercely enough that the word warmed the pillow beneath her mouth. “He remembered the watercolours. He came back. He asked me to wait.”

CHAPTER THREE

“She has one attachment of note, Your Grace. A militia officer.”

Pearce stood on the far side of Theodore’s desk with the report open in his hands, reading in the flat, unhurried voice he used for every species of human folly. It was the morning after Henry Middleton’s second visit. The lad had arrived at ten on the hour as instructed, bearing a list that proved flawed in three distinct particulars; Theodore had accordingly placed him at the small writing table by the window, where he remained under close supervision until a second inventory was produced. This corrected account extended to four pages, amounting to a total of eight thousand four hundred pounds.

The sum had come within a hundred of Theodore’s own estimate.

Theodore rested two fingers against the edge of the desk. “Read me the officer.”

“Lieutenant Charles Vance,” Pearce said, lowering his eyes to the page. “West Sussex Militia. The acquaintance began last Season.”

“How public was the acquaintance?”

“Public enough to be noticed, private enough to be denied.”

Theodore’s mouth hardened. “That is an answer designed to irritate me.”

“It is also an accurate one, Your Grace,” Pearce replied evenly. “There were letters, according to my source. Walks without a chaperone, though the cousin who was meant to serve in that capacity appears to have found blindness convenient.”

“The cousin is Mrs. Dalton?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Continue.”

Pearce turned a page with careful fingers. “There were two evenings at the Davenport ball when Miss Middleton and Lieutenant Vance were absent from the supper room longer than strict comfort would allow.”

A sharp, unbiddable emotion stirred beneath his dark hair, and a sudden shadow crossed his dark eyes before he could put a name to it, leaving him deeply vexed to find it there.

“Whose comfort?” he asked.

“Anyone inclined to count the minutes.”

“And was anyone inclined?”

“Few enough to preserve the lady from whispers, Your Grace.”

Theodore tapped once against the desk, then stilled his hand. He had no interest in imagining what had occupied two young people for those missing minutes, and was annoyed to discover that the thought had presented itself at all.

“How long?” he asked.

Pearce glanced up.