Charlotte cracked opened her bedchamber door and peeked into the corridor. The light flickering beneath Albert’s door indicated he’d finally lit his candles and retired for the evening. Assured that she would be alone, she hurried to the kitchen to make herself a much-needed pot of hot, soothing tea. She pushed open the kitchen door and halted as if she’d walked into a brick wall. Albert leaned against the wooden work counter, a biscuit in one hand, a steaming cup in the other hand. Her appearance in the doorway froze his hand halfway to his lips. He appeared as startled and disconcerted as she.

Charlotte’s heart slapped against her ribs as she took in his appearance. His light brown hair was badly disheveled, as if he’d overindulged in his habit of raking his long fingers through the thick strands. The glow from the low burning flame in the grate cast his lean features into stark shadows, accentuating the shading along his jaw-line from the nighttime stubble of his beard. Her gaze traveled downward, and her heart threatened to cease slapping altogether.

He wore the dark blue flannel robe she’d given him for his last birthday, almost a year ago. At the time, she hadn’t thought twice about purchasing such a personal item for him-he was Albert, after all. Part of her family. But after he’d opened her gift, he’d hugged her, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead. Simple gestures of gratitude, nothing more. Yet it was as if she’d taken a blow to the head. He’d never done such a thing before. Indeed, it sometimes seemed that Albert went out of his way not to touch her- as if he sensed her aversion to a man’s hands on her-and she’d appreciated his sensitivity.

That hug and tender kiss to her forehead were the first time in her life a man had ever touched her with kindness and gentle care. With friendship. Without expecting or wanting more from her. It was a revelation, and one that had set her on this destructive course of impossible, unacceptable feelings for Albert.

Her gaze traveled downward, and her mouth went dry. The robe gaped open at the chest, revealing a V of hair-dusted skin. Skin she instantly wanted to touch her lips to. The robe ended just below his knees, revealing his calves, one noticeably more muscular than the other due to his injured leg. His feet were bare. Desire, strong and unwanted, gushed through her, and she bit her bottom lip to contain the moan of longing that threatened to spring free. If she’d been capable of it, she would have laughed at herself and the sheer irony of this situation.

When she’d arrived on Meredith’s doorstep five years ago, badly beaten and pregnant with a child, the identity of whose father she could only guess at, she’d sworn she’d never want another man to touch her again for as long as she lived. And she’d kept that vow. Until she’d given Albert that damnable robe.

God help her, she had to make these feelings go away, but how? He was a loving, caring, decent young man who deserved a beautiful, innocent, adoring young woman. Not a jaded, homely, used-up former whore five years his senior. He knew what she’d been, how she’d lived her life before Meredith took her in. He’d always been kind enough to never throw her past in her face, but that only made her love him more.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” they said simultaneously.

Charlotte forced a weak smile, trying her utmost not to show how unnerved she was. “I could not sleep. I thought some tea might help.”

He nodded toward the kettle, his gaze never leaving hers. “I already made some. Yer welcome to it.”

Relieved to have something to do that allowed her to turn away from him and busy her hands, Charlotte set about pouring her tea, but her attention remained riveted on the man behind her. She heard him set his cup, then the biscuit, down on the counter. Heard his shuffling gait as he crossed the floor, then stopped behind her.

“Why couldn’t ye sleep, Charlotte?”

He stood close. Too close. It took all of her strength not to step backward until her back touched his chest. “My… my mind is just busy. Wondering how Meredith is faring at Vauxhall. How about you?”

The instant the question left her lips, she longed to snatch it back. What if he couldn’t sleep because he’d been thinking about some beautiful young thing he was smitten with? He’d never spoken of anyone, but she knew all about young men his age and the urges that ruled them.

“I couldn’t sleep, because, like ye, my mind was busy.”

She drew a deep breath, summoned her courage, then turned to face him.

He stood no more than two feet away from her. “Are you worried about Meredith?” she asked. “It is after midnight.”

“No. If she were alone with that Greybourne bloke who looks at her as if she were a pork chop and he were a hound, I might be. But other folks are there. Actually, it’s you I’m worried about, Charlotte.”

“Me? Whatever for?”

“Ye haven’t seemed yourself lately.”

Dear God, had she revealed herself? “In what way?”

He frowned. “Can’t explain it exactly. Like yer out of sorts. With me.” His gaze searched hers. “Have I done somethin‘ to upset ye?”

“No. I’ve merely been tired lately.”

“I can see that. Ye’ve circles under yer eyes.” Before she realized what he was about, he reached out and brushed the tip of his index finger under her eye. She drew in a sharp breath at the heat his feathery touch shimmered through her. Jerking her head back, away from his hand, she pressed her hips against the counter and leaned as far away from him as possible.

He slowly lowered his hand. There was no mistaking the stricken look in his eyes. “Charlotte… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He dragged unsteady hands down his face. “But surely ye know I’d never hurt you.”

Shame filled her that her reaction would make him think for even an instant that she’d believe he’d hurt her. But how could she tell him that she’d rejected his touch not because she didn’t trust him, but because she did not trust herself? Unable to form a word around the lump in her throat, she merely nodded.

None of the tension left his expression or stance. “I’m glad ye know that. And I’d never let anyone else hurt ye. Not ever again.”

What was left of her heart simply melted. He looked and sounded so fierce, like a robe-garbed warrior defending his castle. “Thank you, Albert.” She’d certainly had no intention of touching him, but somehow, of its own volition-perhaps because she wanted to so very badly- her hand lifted, and she laid her palm against his cheek.

The instant she touched him she realized her grave error. Her gaze riveted on the provocative sight of her hand resting against his face. His skin was warm, and the stubble of his beard lightly abraded her palm. The urge to stroke her fingers over his cheek, to explore the stark panes of his face, overwhelmed her. And she might well have given in to the temptation… but then she realized he’d gone completely, utterly still. A muscle jumped spasmodically beneath her fingers, indicating he clenched and unclenched his jaw. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if he were in pain-the sort of pain one suffered when placed in a grossly uncomfortable situation. Like being touched by someone you did not want to touch you.

Embarrassment and humiliation scorched her, and she snatched her hand away as if he’d turned into a pillar of fire. To her further mortification, hot tears pushed at the backs of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She needed to get away from him.

“I… I think I heard Hope,” she said, grasping at the first excuse that came to mind. “I must go. Good night.” She ran from the room, not stopping until she’d reached the safety of her bedchamber.

What an impossible situation. She could not continue living like this much longer. Her only hope was to avoid him completely, but how could that be accomplished while they lived under the same roof? If she remained, it was only a matter of time before she gave herself away. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She ached at the thought of leaving here, the only true home she’d ever known. Of taking Hope away from Meredith and Albert. Of taking herself away from them. What on earth was she going to do?


Just before one a. m., after safely delivering first Meredith, then Catherine to their respective residences, Philip pushed aside the green velvet draperies in his private study. After yanking off his cravat, he removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his hands down his face. A knock sounded at the door, and he blew out a resigned sigh. He had no desire to rehash the evening, but knew there was no point attempting to put off the conversation. “Come in, Andrew.”

Andrew entered the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed the maroon and gold Axminster rug, pausing at the brandy decanters. “You look as if you could use some revivification. Would you like one?”

Philip lifted the snifter he’d set on his desk. “Beat you to it.” Watching Andrew pour himself a fingerful of amber liquor, he mentally counted off the seconds. Five, four, three, two, one…

As if on cue, Andrew said, “Clearly the evening did not go as you’d hoped.”

“On the contrary, I thought the orchestra quite good.”

“I was not referring to the music.”

“Ah. Well, it’s true the food was only adequate, and the portions quite sparse, but as none of us were particularly hungry, it did not bother me.”

“Nor was I referring to the food.”

“The wine was excellent-”

“Nor the wine. As you damn well know, I meant Miss Chilton-Grizedale.” He gently swirled his brandy. “Where did you two disappear to?”

“Were you worried about us?”

“Actually, no. Your sister expressed some concern, but I assured her you merely wished to discuss the finding of your future bride with Miss Chilton-Grizedale in private. I then, with my usual wit and charm, managed to keep Lady Bickley’s attention diverted until you returned… looking a bit disheveled, I might add.”

“It was quite breezy.”

“Yes, I’m certain that it was the breeze which rendered Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s lips swollen and rosy, and retied your cravat in a different knot than the one you’d sported prior to your walk.”

Unease slithered down Philip’s spine, along with self-recrimination. Damn it all, he should not have risked kissing her in a public place, regardless of the fact that he’d done so under the cover of darkness, hidden away from prying eyes. The last thing he wanted was to further harm her reputation.

“Did anyone else notice, do you think?” he asked. “Catherine-?”

“No. You both did an admirable job of looking perfectly innocent when you rejoined us. I only noticed the differences because I was looking for them. I’m not trying to pry, Philip. I’m merely trying to help. It is obvious you are out of sorts.”

Philip tossed back a swallow of brandy, relishing the burn that eased down his throat. Perhaps Andrew could help. Could talk him out of this insane attraction to a woman he barely knew. “This woman you care for… how long were you acquainted with her before you knew how you felt about her?”

A humorless sound erupted from Andrew. “I’m guessing you want me to say I knew her for months or years, and that my feelings developed slowly over time, but it was nothing like that. It was more like a lightning bolt struck me. She affected me in ways I’d never before experienced the instant I laid eyes upon her.” He stared down into his brandy, his voice taking on a rough, almost angry edge. “Everything about her fascinated me, and each detail I learned about her only served to deepen my feelings from that first initial attraction. I wanted her until I ached, both physically and mentally. She was everything I wanted…” Andrew looked up and his lips quirked with an attempt at humor that did not quite reach his eyes. “You have no idea how many times I imagined the untimely demise of her husband. In some very inventive ways, I might add.”

“And if he were to meet with such a fate?” All vestiges of humor were wiped from his expression. “Nothing would stop me from making her mine. Nothing.”

“But what if the lady did not share your feelings?”

“Is that what has you out of sorts? You believe Miss Chilton-Grizedale is not enamored of you? Because if so, you are wrong. She is accomplished at hiding her feelings, but they are there, if you know where to look. And to answer your question, if the lady did not share my feelings, or needed some persuasion, I would court her.”

“Court her?”

Andrew looked toward the ceiling, shaking his head. “Bring her flowers. Spout poetry. Compose something called ‘Ode to Miss Chilton-Grizedale Upon a MidSummer’s Evening.’ I know romance is not in your scientific nature, but if you want the woman, you must adjust. But before you do, ask yourself how far you plan to let this flirtation go, and where is it going to leave her-and you-when it’s over.”