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“Of course,” he capitulated.
They wandered down the lane in search of some item that could be taken back for the relief of Lady Charity’s father.
“What ails him?” Neville asked after a short while of silence.
“It is nothing,” she said, as if suddenly thinking she had already told too much. Her father was a Peer of the realm. One did not let loose the news that a Peer was unable to fulfill his duties. One did not say that his wife and steward had been running the Earldom for some time now. No. One did not confirm such rumors especially to one such as himself.
Lady Charity blushed furiously. Much more flustered now, than she had been, she turned from him, and he did not wish her to turn away.
“I am sorry for your pain,” Neville said catching her gloved hands in his own.
She sighed and for just a moment her eyes brimmed and her thoughts were far away from him.
She turned her direct gaze back upon him with a dazzling smile and the moment of weakness was gone.
“I am sorry,” he repeated. “And will help if I am able,” Neville offered while replacing a small bottle of smelling salts that Lady Charity had deemed unworthy upon the seller cart.
“Do not feel pity for me,” she replied. “My father and I share a great love, a bond beyond illness and time. He is a great man.”
“I am sure that is so.”
Lady Charity finally selected a small vial of perfumed water that might be sprinkled upon her father’s bedclothes.
“There,” she nodded. “Now he might rest easy when I leave for an evening. He worries so for my welfare. It is only right I worry for his.”
What did Lord Shalace have to worry for his daughter? Neville asked himself. She had everything, and more. Or, was it something that he could not guard, such as her heart, which might be at risk? For the first time, he found that he cared for the answer.
Neville warned himself that those thoughts never ended well. It would be best to remember that Lady Charity Abernathy was no different than the other ladies he had encountered as of late – fleeting at best. He had no need of anything more permanent. More than that as a daughter of an earl, a dalliance was out of the question. Any misstep would lead only to marriage. And that he would not allow. Still he silently wondered if perhaps a bit of lavender water might be just the thing for Edmund’s troubles.
Lady Charity dabbed once more at her glistening skin while she made some further comment that his mind could not gather. Her neck and the regions southern occupied his mind without exception as she attempted to find some reprieve from the heat.
She looked up at him with heavy lids. It was then that Lord Wentwell recognized that they were standing, quite alone, in an isolated way that bridged the distance between two of the most populated shopping centers of Bath.
If the Lady stepped forward but an inch, their bodies would be a mere breath from touching. Lud, she was so very soft. She turned her face up toward his; their lips, but a second from colliding if he simply chose to lean down upon her. Her breath was heavy, which sent every fiber of his being into chaos.
Lady Charity did not close her eyes in anticipation, as he had expected. Instead, she watched him as he stood with a question in his eyes. Would she allow his kiss? He wondered. It was a bright afternoon. Even so isolated, he could not risk it.
Her teeth, the one ever so slightly out of alignment, clamped down upon her lower lip and as she worried it, he realized that was what made her lips so pink and alluring. A moment later her tongue darted between those lips, moistening them. The action did more to Lord Wentwell’s control than he cared to admit. That tender flesh was trapped beneath her teeth while her pale eyes bore into his soul. For the first time in ages, Lord Wentwell felt as if someone could see the truth in him, rather than what he chose to reveal.
“I…” she gasped but did not continue. She licked her lips again, and dragged the handkerchief up from her bosom to her chin. She lifted her chin a little and met his eyes.
He stood over her, unsure of how to proceed. Lud, he want to kiss her. His hand snaked forward to settle, ever so gently, upon her waist. Yet, he did nothing further to invade her space. He watched her with shuttered eyes, leaning forward ever so slightly, willing her to turn her face an inch or so upward inviting him, so that he could press his lips to hers. He could not recall the last time that such an urge has so fully possessed him. All had been an act until now.
“Lord Wentwell,” she breathed. Her words rippled across her lips and he could think of nothing else. He never nearly told her to please call him Neville, but he did not. To do so would imply a familiarity that he could not allow himself.
He let his eyes close and reopen languidly to see her still hovering an inch or so away. He would let her come to him with her lips. He could not take, but only sample what was freely given. Only a breath of wind might bring them together now. He waited for her tacit approval. One small, delicate hand crept forward to rest against the beating of his heart, her gloved hand, so small upon his chest.
Their eyes connected and it was as if the world stood still. She saw him, the truth of him, he was sure.
“Lord Wentwell,” she repeated.
His name upon her lips did something to him that he could not explain. It was like a branding of his soul. She had laid claim, and he was willing.
“Call me Neville,” he said wanting to hear his given name fall from that sweet mouth.
“Lord Wentwell,” she said again, with purpose, and the air about them suddenly cooled. “Do not ever doubt that a woman is capable of the same pretense that you pedal. She is no more or less capable than a man.”
Her words were like a dagger in his heart. He knew that. God be good, he knew, and yet he had allowed himself to forget. The softness of this woman had beguiled him. Women were not sweet and helpless things. They were vipers. Now, this one, this soft angel had proven her point, a point that until this moment he had forgotten. How had he ever forgotten?
