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Authors: What A Woman Needs

BOOK: Caroline Linden
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Charlotte felt herself drift. She did hate him, she really did, but he had left her quivering with desire last night, and maybe it would be fair to let him ease some of the need he had created in her.
It’s just a kiss
, she told herself, letting go.
It means nothing
.
Stuart heard her sigh and wondered what it meant. She was soft and warm in his arms, perfectly female although as stiff as iron, and then she changed. The fists behind his neck unfolded to grip his shoulders, and she went up on her toes, pushing into him. The passive form in his arms came alive, clinging as if she would never let go. And her kiss ...
Stuart had never been kissed like this by any woman. Even the most experienced courtesan seemed tame in comparison. She twined her tongue around his, sucking it deeper into her mouth in such blatant imitation of intercourse, he felt faint. And more alive than ever before in his life. He leaned into her, pinning her against the wall and leaving his hands free to explore at will.
He palmed the full curve of her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple through the silk. Her moan was acquiescence and delight and encouragement all rolled into one. Stuart stroked his other hand over the curve of her shoulder, around her waist and down to pull her hips against his. Her back arched a little, and he felt again her incomparable warmth pressed against his erection. He was a fool for it, but this woman affected him like no other.
“Come home with me,” he whispered in between light kisses down the soft curve of her jaw. “Let me show you all I forgot to mention last night.”
His voice shattered the spell. Charlotte froze, horrified to realize she was letting the man who had broken Susan’s heart make love to her. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a betrayal, of her niece and of her vows to herself. “No.” She uncurled her fingers from his shoulders and turned her head away when he would have kissed her again. “Stop. Please.”
Slowly his embrace loosened. She stepped away, straightening her dress to avoid his eyes. “Someday,” he said thickly, “you’re going to have to finish what you start.”
“No,” she replied, reaching behind her for the drape, “you’re wrong. I intend to finish what I started, protecting Susan from you and all fortune hunters.”
“I don’t mean your niece, and you know it,” he said as she slipped back into the drawing room. “We’re not done, you and I.” The other guests had gone into the music room, and she walked rapidly out of the house. Lucia would fend for herself, and Charlotte wanted to be away as soon as possible. Stuart’s last words taunted her, and worried her; what would it take to finish things between them? And why did he have to speak aloud her deepest, darkest fear: that she did want him for herself?
C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
Susan didn’t say a word on the way home, and ran up the stairs as soon as they got there. Charlotte delayed a few minutes, trying to quiet her guilt at kissing the same man she had commanded Susan not to speak to, and to calm her still-fluttering reaction to that kiss. Then she went upstairs and tapped on Susan’s door. When there was no response, she opened it a crack.
“Susan? May I come in?”
“Why bother asking?” came Susan’s bitter reply. “You’ll only do what you want to do anyway.”
Charlotte bit her lip and eased into the room. There were no candles burning, and the room was very dark. Silhouetted against the open window was Susan, her back to the door. She didn’t turn around as Charlotte closed the door.
“I apologize,” she began quietly. “I know you were looking forward to the Martins’ party.”
“No,
you
were. I thought it would be a dreadful bore, but no one asked if I wanted to go.”
“But dearest, it’s the best society in town.” Charlotte was surprised and a little hurt. She thought Susan wanted to go out at nights. She was trying her best to provide appropriate entertainments.
Susan sniffed. “Dull old Tunbridge Wells. What I wouldn’t give to leave it at once.”
Charlotte had no reply to that. She knew her niece longed to see London, and by next spring, when Susan was eighteen, Charlotte told herself she would be ready to go. She changed the subject. “I am sorry if I embarrassed you in front of Mr. Drake.”
Susan said nothing for a long moment. “Why do you hate him so much? You hardly know him.” Her tone was flat, almost devoid of emotion. Charlotte hesitated; she had expected another blazing row, not this quiet resentment.
“Because he reminds me of someone I once knew,” she said slowly. “Someone who made me believe he loved me, when I was young. Just about your age, in fact. And when I had fallen completely in love with him, I discovered he was after nothing more than my inheritance.”
“Who told you? Some interfering relation?”
Charlotte sighed at Susan’s scornful question. “My father, who did me a great favor by exposing the man.”
“And then you ran away to Paris to nurse your broken heart,” said Susan. “How terribly you suffered.”
No
, Charlotte wanted to tell her,
my father sent me away because he couldn’t stand to have such an immoral child in his house. He foisted me and my humiliation off on a distant cousin and refused to acknowledge me for the rest of his life. It wasn’t my idea at all
.
Susan suddenly whirled around, fists at her sides. “How do you know he’s only after my fortune?”
“He is destitute,” Charlotte began to explain, but Susan snorted impatiently.
“So I may only marry someone with more money than I’ve got. How am I supposed to meet such a man, here in bloody boring Kent?”
“You’re only seventeen.”
“And how old were you, traveling across Europe by yourself? Papa used to tell me about you when I was a child: ‘Aunt Charlotte, who lives in Paris,’ then Nice, then Spain and Italy.”
“It wasn’t as romantic as you think,” Charlotte warned.
“And I have never even been so far away as London,” Susan went on savagely. “How I long to be out of here! I am always too young, or too rich, or too—too ... Oh!” She dashed one hand across her eyes. “Just go! You don’t know anything about me or what I want, and you can’t make me live my life to atone for all the mistakes you made in yours!” Charlotte felt as if Susan had struck her; was that how it appeared to her niece? “I wish my father had never made you my guardian!” With a flounce of her skirt, Susan turned her back again.
“I am trying my best,” said Charlotte softly after a moment. “I’m sorry if you don’t agree but your father did appoint me your guardian, and I shall continue to do what I think best. I hope you will understand one day.” Susan huffed loudly, but said nothing.
Reluctantly Charlotte turned and left. She went down the hall to her own room and sank onto her dressing table chair. For the first time, she was intensely glad she didn’t have children of her own. She would have been a wretched mother, to judge from the way she got along with Susan. Perhaps she had been foolish to expect to become friends immediately, but she simply didn’t understand why Susan viewed her with such animosity. It couldn’t be just Stuart Drake, although he was a major obstacle; Susan argued with her over everything. Charlotte’s suggestions about everything from the height of her slipper heels to the best time to walk in the park displeased Susan, and Charlotte simply didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t just allow Susan to do anything she liked, but it was breaking her heart to argue with the girl constantly.
Charlotte sighed, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She didn’t even look like a maternal woman. Her skin was still golden from the Italian sun, and her face was artfully painted with cosmetics. Her hair was arranged in the contrived disarray Piero had favored, claiming it made her look more alluring, and not in the neat, proper curls English ladies wore. And her dress ... She had always loved colors, and wore them with abandon. She looked, Charlotte realized numbly, like an expensive courtesan. What had been stylish and bold in Milan appeared brash and vulgar in England. No wonder she was failing so miserably. Charlotte dropped her head into her hands and said a silent plea for George’s forgiveness, for failing in her every effort to raise his daughter the way he would have wanted.
She could do better. She
would
do better. George had trusted her with his beloved daughter, and she couldn’t let him down. George was the only person who hadn’t condemned her all those years ago, when her youthful indiscretion had exploded in scandal. When her father banished her to the Continent for her behavior, George had made sure she was safely on a decent ship, and told her he would miss her. Charlotte hadn’t expected him to save her—he had had a wife and baby to take care of—but he was the only person who sympathized with her, a scared seventeen-year-old girl thrust into the world alone. And all her years abroad, George had written to her, somehow finding her once or twice a year no matter where she roamed.
Charlotte pulled the combs from her hair. She removed her jewelry and slipped out of her brilliant gown. It was time to start looking her age, or at least dressing it. She was used to being the focus of attention, particularly male attention, but it was time for her to assume her proper place with the matrons.
 
 
The next morning, she scrubbed her face but left it bare, pinned her hair into a simple twist, and wore her plainest gown. It was a deep bronze—hardly ordinary, but it was the simplest one she owned. Charlotte brushed one hand wistfully over the bright silks and muslins, then closed the wardrobe door and went down to breakfast.
Lucia stared at her. “What happened? Has someone died?”
“No. Why?”
“You look dreadful. Have you run out of rouge?”
Charlotte reached for her coffee. “English ladies don’t wear so many cosmetics, so I decided not to, as well.”
“Then you did not see Mrs. Fitzhugh last night,” said Lucia. “She must have used a butter knife to apply it. English ladies wear cosmetics, just not well.”
“Nevertheless, I am giving it up for a more dignified style. I am not a young woman anymore.”
“All the more reason to wear it,” said Lucia
sotto voce
. “Without it, you look so ...” She put her head to one side, grimacing. “Bucolic.”
Charlotte shot her a dark look. “Susan hasn’t come down yet?”
Lucia shook her head. “I would not know if she did. She does not speak to me.”
Charlotte sighed. Naturally, Susan would resent Lucia, who behaved with every bit as much license as Susan envied. When she had invited Lucia to visit, she had never thought of the bad influence her friend might be on her niece. “Perhaps she’s sleeping late. We had another argument last night.”
“It is hard not to argue with her. The child is spoiled.” “She is at a difficult age, in difficult circumstances.”
“Her papa would have taken a strap to her, and you know it. You are afraid she will never like you if you are harsh with her.”
“I’ve ordered her to stay away from Mr. Drake, haven’t I?” exclaimed Charlotte.
“For all the good it has done, no one would know.” Lucia rose. “I go to the lending library this morning. What book would you like?”
“The library?”
“
Si
.” Lucia smiled coyly. “A young man I met last night has offered to read me poetry there. Such adventures I have when you abandon me with the English.”
“Enjoy it. I’ll wait for Susan.” Lucia left and Charlotte finished her breakfast in silence. Of course she wanted Susan to like her, and of course she didn’t want to be too harsh with her. She didn’t want to be as strict as her own father had been with her, because she truly believed she would have behaved properly if he had trusted her more. But neither could she allow Susan to run wild and ruin her reputation while she was still too young to know better. Perhaps if she simply explained that to Susan, her niece would understand better.
She waited all morning, but Susan never came down. When luncheon came and went and still Susan hadn’t appeared, Charlotte braced herself and knocked on Susan’s bedroom door. There was no reply. An hour later there was no reply, and finally Charlotte knocked one more time. “Susan, please come out.” Still silence. “Then I am coming in,” Charlotte warned, putting the key in the lock.
She needn’t have bothered, for the room was empty. Charlotte’s stunned gaze veered from the open window to the undisturbed bed, and then she rang furiously for Susan’s maid. The girl came running, wide-eyed.
“Where is Miss Tratter?” Charlotte yanked open the curtains. A sturdy trellis climbed the wall nearby, not a difficult distance to reach for an agile young person.
The maid wrung her apron. “I dunno, ma’am. She never rang for me this morning, and since you told us not to enter until rung for ...”
“Why did you not tell me she never rang?”
The girl shrank from Charlotte’s wrath. “Well, I didn’t ... That is, I didn’t know it was important. Miss Tratter often sleeps late, and I didn’t think ...” Her voice died as Charlotte flung open the wardrobe doors.
“Check for anything missing. Don’t forget the new things we just bought this week.” The maid ran forward to do as told. Charlotte sat down at the writing desk and went through it swiftly. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and she moved to the bureau, which also yielded no information.
“A few dresses are gone, ma’am,” said the maid hesitantly. “They could be in the laundry, though; shall I check?” Charlotte nodded, and she scurried out the door.
The butler appeared as Charlotte pressed her hands to her forehead in growing panic. Where could Susan be? Where would she go? “Madame?” Dunstan inquired. “Is aught amiss?”
“Yes, Dunstan, Miss Tratter seems to have gone missing.” Charlotte’s voice trembled on the last word. God in heaven, what would she do if something happened to her niece? “Have you any idea, any sign of a break-in?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I shall check again at once.”
Charlotte paced the room, struggling to keep calm. First she must make certain no one had taken Susan; she cursed her laziness in not hiring guards the morning after Stuart had advised her to do it. She didn’t want to believe Susan had run away, but abduction wasn’t preferable.
A bit of white caught her eye then, a triangle of paper sticking out from under the bed. She snatched it up, and read her own name in Susan’s writing across the front of the letter as she tore it open.
Aunt Charlotte
I cannot bear it any longer. Can I stay here, when my heart goes hence? I must follow my love, no less than Juliet did. I know you can’t understand—I’m sorry you won’t be at my wedding—but if this is the way it must be, so it must be. Good-bye,
Susan
She was still standing motionless with shock when the maid hurried back in. “The dresses aren’t in the laundry, ma’am. Shall I—?”
“I’ll kill him,” said Charlotte softly. Slowly her fingers closed, crumpling the note. “I shall kill him with my bare hands.”
“Madame?” squeaked the maid in alarm.
“You are dismissed,” said Charlotte as she brushed past the girl. She went straight to her room and took a mahogany box from under her bed. With fury burning in her heart, she took out a pistol and loaded it, praying she wasn’t already too late.
 
 
Stuart’s last day in Kent was turning out much better than expected. He had just enough money left to pay the rent due, which meant he could leave without sneaking away in the dead of night. His valet, whom he had sent on forced furlough a fortnight earlier for lack of funds to pay his salary, returned unexpectedly, and Stuart gratefully set Benton to packing the linens and other furnishings. He continued packing his clothing, only pausing when he folded his old cloak.

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