“I’m heading back to London. Oxford and I don’t mix.”
William noted the flask on the empty desk.
South followed his gaze, and grimaced. “No lectures, please. At some point I’ll have to face my father, and I may never hear the end of it then.”
“But I can help you—”
“You’vebeenhelping me. Last year, getting me home a few times this summer from various spots when I wasn’t fit to walk. I still manage to fail—classes, bets, life.”
“South, no. Please don’t throw this opportunity away. I’ll do more, help more. ’Tis only a few more months.” William wasn’t sure how, but he could not bear to see his friend leave. More, he worried what South would do alone in London with no one to carry him home. He was ready to not sleep for the rest of university if it meant stopping his friend from becoming like his father.
South stopped packing and stared at him. “Will, I appreciate the kind offer. I know it is well meant. So please do not take this the wrong way.” He sucked in a breath. “I don’t want you to.”
William’s shoulders dropped. He nodded, stepping in to hug South and pat him on the back. “I’ll write, and be down to see you as soon as I can. Please don’t be a stranger to Folly.”
South returned the hug without responding.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte’s autumn had been troughs of wallowing in misery, occasionally interrupted by posts from William.
She paced the library. She was beyond being calmed by the warm floral tones and fluffy throw pillows. “Dratted puppy!”
Belle lounged sideways in her chair at the tea table in the corner, one arm slung carelessly over the back of the intricately carved chairback, legs crossed and the top one swinging. She watched like the soliloquy was Shakespearean theatre, a half-smirk betraying her amusement.
“What am I to do with this?” Charlotte shook the latest letter full of cramped handwriting and the two poems at her friend. The book lay where she had tossed it on the table.
“Frame it?”
“Belle. I’m serious.”
“You’re also being silly. You needn’tdoanything with that. Respond if you like, ignore it if not. You ignored his last letter.”
“But, but…”
“Exactly. You cannot, because he knows you, perhaps better than anyone.”
Charlotte flashed her a look, uncertain if Belle was comparing the rakelet to her husband. Belle’s face was expressionless, eyes following her as she roamed the room.
Belle continued, “I told you, he is a great match for you in spirit, intelligence, and in bed. I understand why you think you need to, but I maintain that you should stop fighting this and enjoy finding such a partner. This proves my point yet again. He knew just how to engage you, even if you don’t respond.”
Charlotte threw herself down across from Belle and poured more tea. “You were the one who suggested it as a fling, a-a-practice!”
“That would have worked, too, had you not fallen for the puppy. When you did, I adjusted my advice accordingly.”
“Convenient.” Charlotte pressed her lips together, irritated more at herself than Belle for allowing William to continue to affect her this much. “Belle, I cannot. That girl meant no harm, but we must have an end date given my barrenness. And I was devastated. I have no desire to go through another loss—worse, one of my own doing.”
Belle arched a brow, recognizing what Charlotte knew. Her reaction at the end of summer said she already had.
“I understand your concern, dearest,” Belle said, patting her hand. “But you’ve said yourself, you wish to wed again, you want to find someone to spend your life with and enjoy intellectual pursuits with. Why not him? The rakelet has made you cry and laugh just through letters. There aren’t many aristocrats out there who would spend that amount of time or effort.”
Charlotte recalled his letter with the poem on grief. She'd been sniffling by the end of it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she reread his words about losing her forever. A small, mean part of her was a tiny bit glad he was as miserable as she was. But more, the maturity to read that and empathize with her loss impressed her. He was so often lighthearted and playful but then surprised her with his thoughtfulness and perception.
Then the more recent letter with overt references to a threesome. He was outrageous and funny and caring and…kept giving her cause to fall further in love with him even from a distance. Dratted, beloved puppy.
* * * *
Charlotte spent Christmas in Peterborough at the family estate, with her brother-in-law Edward and his lovely wife, Sophia, but kept her trip short.
