Once it had been a beautiful house, when Mother had been alive, but she’d died when Charlotte had reached twelve years and her father had increasingly stayed in London – drinking and gambling. Years’ worth of repairs had not been made and now Charlotte couldn’t afford any either.
The stairs had woodworm, the chimney breasts percolated smoke and the roof joists were rotten. Her governess pay was not enough for its upkeep. Yet it was her home – her constant haven and future security. And now Marmaduke’s place of refuge too.
She stared to the cold night sky, watching her breath mist and vanish before wiping away a foolish tear. She never cried – what was the point?
“Charlotte? What the hell are you doing?”
Twisting, she was caught up in a black cloak, warm and scented with leather and Marcus. “I…”
“You’re freezing.”
She watched him reach for her hands but could hardly feel them. “I-I…” Her teeth chattered.
“Damn it, why are you still out here?” And she was hastened to the terrace door, the handle was twisted and she was propelled none too gently inside.
A fire crackled in the study hearth while a half glass of amber liquor sat on the desk aside reams of papers and documents.
Cosy warmth, shelter and protection.
The terrace door was bolted, a hefty curtain drawn across, a leather-upholstered chair lifted with little effort and placed aside another by the fire. Then she was thrust into it before he shook off his greatcoat and a glass of similar amber liquor appeared in her hand.
“Drink.”
Charlotte obeyed. Well, sipped at least. The glass clattered on her teeth and the brandy seared her throat.
“I-I’m fine. I was just wool-gathering.”
“You were crying.”
One tear. That’s all it had been, hadn’t it?
“The c-cold made my eyes water,” she muttered, opening a palm to the flames.
Marcus grunted and kneeled before her, flipping her hem upwards.
“What are you doing?” she nigh shrieked.
“Your feet are wet.”
In truth, she could not feel them to know they were wet.
“A governess should never reveal her ankles.”
“Charlotte, I have seen them before. I used to lose our wager of running to the tinker’s cart deliberately so I could lag behind and watch you hoick your petticoats.”
“How contemptible,” she said, waggling her toes as he eased off her frost-sodden boots.
“I know. I felt all sorts of a lecherous fiend but the sight of your ankles caused me odd sensations at that stage of boyhood.”
“Harrumph. And I suppose you moved on from ankles when you went to London.”
He glanced up, scowled. Then stood.
Oh, why had she said that?
Her glass was refilled before he turned to loiter in profile to her, staring into the flames.
His throat was bare of cravat, shirt loose and waistcoat unfastened, and yet he seemed more aristocratic than ever.
