When he lowered himself to the chair next to her, she did not lift her head. He reached for her hand, tugging it away from the beads to cradle it in both of his.
“Mistress.”
She dragged her gaze to his, trepidation in her eyes, her lips quivering.
“I am sorry about that. Would you like some air?”
“Are you—are you staying, then?” she managed.
He frowned. She thought he might leave? Did she not see him as an adult either? This night was becoming more frustrating by the minute. He began to see why she had dreaded outings, but he refused to give in to stupid rules that did not make sense.
She was watching him.
“I am doing whatever my Mistress wants, as I always try to do.” He gave her a gentle smile.
“William.” Her breath whooshed out. Her shoulders sagging, she grabbed his arm again. “Yes, please. I’m sorry, but could we just go?”
“Of course. Come, then.” His hand under her elbow, he hauled her upright. Tucking her hand around his arm, he cinched it between his bicep and his ribcage and directed them back out the way they had come.
Neither of them looked around for his mother.
* * * *
Fury and fear fought within William. He peered at Charlotte in the dark carriage, trying to read her expression in the flickering light of the street lamps.
She petted her heart pendant once before letting her hand drop to her lap.
Being chastised by his mother like a schoolboy was frustrating enough, but seeing its effect on Charlotte took his anger to a new level. He had planned to ignore his mother and ensure Charlotte had an enjoyable evening, but altered that plan when he found her pale and upset. Had she heard what his mother had said? Or was she envisioning the worst-case scenario?
His mistress needed reassurance, and that was hard to give in the confines of a carriage. He settled for holding her hand until they arrived back at her townhouse.
As he handed her out, she turned to him. “You should go, William. Will your mama not expect you home?”
He growled, trepidation morphing into irritation. “Why do you both think that I am answerable to my mother?”
She shook her head wordlessly.
He stalked up the front steps to where the butler held the door. “Mistress? Am I invited in?” Teeth gritted, he all but snarled the words at her.
“Yes, of course, William.” Her voice sounded tired, sluggish.
Turning, she aimed for the library, but William did his best talking in her bedroom. It accented the power dynamic between them, keeping him in the mindset of pleasing her while making his own wishes known. The downstairs was for visitors, for learning Latin. The bedroom was for relationship dialogues.
He caught her arm and gently redirected her. It was a testament of her ennui that she allowed him to turn her even before he whispered, “Please, Mistress, upstairs.”
In her room, he led her to her chaise longue, a piece of furniture he’d never seen her use. It seemed too passive for her forceful nature most days, but suited the moment now. Laying her back, he stepped over to the bed, turning down the covers. He poured them each a sherry from a decanter on a side table and returned, perching on the edge of the couch by her knee to hand her a glass.
She took it without comment but did not raise it to her lips.
“Do you feel better now? You were quite pale.”
“I am fine, William, thank you.” Her fingers touched her pendant then dropped away.
“You seem to take solace from that necklace.” He had wondered about her habit.
She started and blushed. “I am sorry. I suppose I should remove it. ’Tis from Charles.” She did not reach up to unclasp the chain, though.
They had already discussed her loss, her grief, thus he had some understanding of how that might be soothing, especially as his own relationship with Charlotte was complicated.
