Not the eager boy she’d known but a formidable man of command and strength.
“Thank you for offering the carriage, Marcus.”
“You need a footman at your house.”
She stayed silent.
“And the door frames fixed. It’s not safe. If you sold me the place–”
“It’s my home,” she railed. “And that of Marmaduke. W-where would he go? I suppose you’d send him to some madhouse.”
He spun. “But if you sold that colossal old place, you could buy something smaller. In the town, perhaps? With neighboursto help you. My intention is simply to assist you when I offer to buy your house.”
Oh.
Charlotte closed her eyes. “I suppose…perhaps, you’re right.” She opened them and sipped the brandy. “It’s just… It’s my home too. So many memories are there.”
“Memories are not in the fabric of a house, Charlotte. They are held within yourself, never to be forgotten. Even ones we’d rather forget thrust their way to the damn surface to catch us unawares.”
Her lips curved to a smile. “Such whimsey sounds like the old Marcus.”
“No.” He grimaced. “He is no more.”
“What… What happened to him?”
The fire spat, his shirt rustled, yet he made no reply.
But the brandy had compelled a certain boldness within her. “When you came back from London, Marcus, you…you’d changed. I… It was as though we were all too lowly for you. Country bumpkins that–”
“Leave it be, Charlotte,” he growled. “Leave it in the past.”
“But…” She stood, her thin cloak and his woollen one tumbling to the leather chair. “You left Ambleside as a…a carefree, l-lovable young man and returned a haughty duke who seemed to think only of money.”
He twisted, nostrils flaring as he took in her déshabillé of solely a night-rail. “I do not wish to discuss it.”
“But–”
“Not now, Charlotte. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I thought you hated me and–”
“Bloody Hades, Charlotte, it wasn’t you I hated but myself!” He pinched his forehead. “Leave it be, I beg of you.”
“I don’t understand.” She reached for his sleeve. “Why would you–”
“Because I lost it all!” he thundered, grabbing hold of her upper arms, bringing her so close to him – warm skin and leather. “Satisfied now?”
“Lost…” She frowned. “What do you mean?”
Shaking his head, he abruptly released her to pace the rug, muttering, fingers raking through his hair. Then he paused, thrust hands to hips. “Oh, why not? Why the bloody hell not?” And he swivelled, eyes fierce.
Charlotte lowered herself back into the chair and remained silent.
“When I left for London, I was so cocksure of my future. Mother wanted me to go, to take my place in society, but I was keen also to gain worldly experience, have a lark, attend the theatre, balls and have a bushel of friends. I would drink and carouse while young.” He scowled. “Then, I told myself, after a year or so when you were old enough, I would return and whisk you off your slippers. We’d…”
He inhaled sharply.
As did she.
