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And when she had been unable to keep up the pretense any longer, she had begged Mr. Lanscombe, her and Blaine’s attorney, to help her get away from that stifling life of lies and regret. He had come to her with this position less than a week later.
It had astonished her; how easy it had been to just up and leave. For so long she had been petrified of what Blaine would do to her if she tried to leave him…and suddenly, she could just go. Without any fear of repercussions. The reality of her newfound freedom had been staggering and overwhelming.
And utterly terrifying.
“He was a bastard,” Charity admitted beneath her breath, and she immediately smacked a hand over her mouth as if trying to cram the words back in. But they were out…hovering in the space between them. They sprouted wings and took flight and were out in the world before she could call them back.
Four words. Each one brutally weighted down by so much sadness and despair that she felt unburdened and lighter than air once they were out.
The freedom that she should have rejoiced in after his death finally unshackled by her quiet admission, and Charity’s lips lifted in delight.
“A total bastard. I hated him, and it’s an awful thing to say but I don’t miss him at all.”
Miles didn’t respond. His face remained impassive but his eyes were kind…even understanding, and the lack of anything resembling censure in that gaze made her choke up.
For so long, she had kept those words locked in a metal box in her heart, terrified that if she spoke them, if she confided in anyone, they wouldn’t believe her. She had been petrified that they would judge her for saying such an awful thing about the man they thought they knew and loved.
But here he was: Miles H. Hollingsworth. The most unlikely confidante in the world. And while he didn’t—couldn’t—comprehend how much this moment meant to her, he had allowed her to speak her truth in an entirely safe environment.
Her eyes flooded, and she looked away self-consciously, terrified that she would break down in front of him.
The hot tears burned the back of her eyes, and she shut them in a futile attempt to force the scalding moisture back. She slowly counted to ten—using every language in her arsenal—while keeping her breathing measured and under strict control.
She was so focused on her internal struggle that she jumped in fright when she felt his roughened palm close over her forearm. It wasn’t skin on skin contact, she was still wearing her jacket, but it was contact nonetheless and it was unexpected.
But not unwelcome.
“It’s okay.”
The quiet words nearly undid her. And she withdrew her arm from his hold and covered her face with her shaking hands. Not wanting him to see the tears that finally overflowed.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, her words so muffled behind her hands that she wasn’t sure he could hear them.
“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, his words emphatic. “It’s okay, Charity. You’re allowed to feel whatever it is you’re feeling. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
No, he sho
uldn’t have to tell her that…but it was nice to hear it nonetheless.
She sucked in a deep, messy breath and laughed self-consciously at the wet sound. She swiped at her damp cheeks with the back of her wrist, and when she opened her eyes, Miles had his eyes on Stormy, clearly giving Charity the privacy she needed to gather her composure.
She looked at the table and saw a monogrammed blue handkerchief neatly placed beside her plate. She smiled and traced the letters with a shaky index finger.
MHH
It was such a quaint custom, to carry a monogrammed handkerchief, but one that suited Miles to a T. She lifted the expensive linen square and dabbed at her cheeks, before—cringing at the necessity of the action—blowing her nose heartily.
“Thank you,” she said, and he lifted his gaze back to hers. She grimaced at the sodden handkerchief and sighed. “I hope you weren’t expecting this back right away.”
He started to say something but Estie came shuffling around the corner. She fussed happily, praising them for mostly eating all of their food before clearing away their plates and promising to return with their coffee and cake.
“On second thought, Estie, let’s change the coffee to a nice strong pot of tea,” he instructed the woman. The demand made Charity smile. She knew why he had ordered it.
She had noticed that about Miles Hollingsworth before. Tea was his remedy for everything. From a hangover to a broken heart. She had often seen him administer it to his distraught siblings. His demeanor brisk and efficient, but his eyes concerned.
She had always considered it a sweet quirk in an otherwise aloof character.
Estie nodded, and they watched her depart.
