The silence was extensive.
One could hear the wind buffeting trees at the end of the upper lake.
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean–”
“Yes. Yes, you did, Your Grace.” She rose and pulled her skirts straight. “And if you would care to review the reference, you will see it was written by Amelia Cadwalader, his new bride. They were most helpful to me whilst I was in London and I count thembothas friends.”
Marcus got to his feet also, aware that in Charlotte’s company all his restraint and composure fell like damn dominoes. Emotion began to steer him and that must never happen again. He would refuse her proposal. It was best for all concerned. But first… “My apologies for my errant conjecture.”
She nodded, and it was at that moment he became aware of several matters.
Charlotte had always been slender but her wrists were…too thin.
Her woollen skirts were patched. And re-patched.
Skin pale as milk.
And for all that her lips smiled, the dusky shadows beneath her eyes conveyed utter weariness.
He knew she lacked money but…
“I agree to your deal,” his mouth said without his mind’s approval.
Mrs Mossop could at least feed Charlotte up.
“I…” She nibbled her bottom lip.
He shifted. “Not that you’ll win. Not a hope.” And then abruptly realised those words were taken straight from their childhood, further memories drifting in like dust motes.
When young, they’d wagered over the most nonsensical matters at Christmastide: what weight the plum pudding would be; the hour of the first snowfall; who’d trip over their own feet when they danced together.
He’d state those same arrogant words and she’d always reply…
“We’ll see about that.” And those broad lips grinned. “Shake?” Her bare hand waggled over his desk.
He clasped it – warm, silken and too bloody slender.
“May the bestmanwin,” he murmured, releasing it as though it were molten.
“Three Christmastide events, Marcus. No hiding in your counting house or bank vault, although I doubt there’s much room amongst all the guineas.”
His fists clenched. “If we could avoid the most mawkish seasonal events, I would sleep better at night.”
“You’ll not have time to sleep at night, Your Grace.”
He allowed not a twitch of eyelash, not a tremor of lip, not a quake of groin at such words – innocent or not. For so long, he had successfully purged Charlotte from his mind and body, and he refused to regress. Now he was a man of nigh three decades with his desires firmly in check.
So he bestowed a ducal nod.
“I’d best pack for tomorrow then.” A curtsey. “Your Grace.”
Marcus watched her depart his study, and then frowned as he noticed all the mince pies had gone, but before returning to his ledgers, he wandered to the window.
Wansfell Pike had now been smothered in a mantle of fog and drizzle and he could only hope that snow would not hinder his imminent departure for Carlisle and those canals.
For he never lost a deal. Business or otherwise.
CHAPTER TWO
