The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (24 page)

She looked on the verge of tears. He tried to puzzle through what she had just said, but it didn’t make a bit of sense to him. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed, as though he had just guessed the winning answer in a rousing game of charades. “A very bad thing. Mr. Burton is my father’s heir, and now his wife is gone. Therefore, Papa is determined that I should marry the man.”

Marry him?
Hugh reared back, beyond shocked at the statement. First, the man’s wife had just died, and the viscount was already arranging his next marriage. Second, the idea of Charity marrying anyone else was an unexpected slap across the face. The very thought made his chest constrict.

Which was wrong. She wasn’t for him, so clearly she must marry someone else. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to loosen the band that seemed to have wrapped around his chest, he said, “That does seem very bad form.”

She blinked at him, dumbfounded. “Bad form?” She shook her head, looking at him as though he had said the surface of the sun must be mildly warm. “My father wants to marry me off to a grief-stricken widower—or anyone for that matter—and all you can say is ‘that it is bad form’? I thought . . . that is to say, when we kissed . . .” She faltered again, glancing down before meeting his eyes once more. “Have you no care for me at all?”

Christ, if ever there was a loaded question, that was it. Did he care for her? More than anyone he had ever known. She’d come to mean entirely too much to him in the past few weeks, and he didn’t know what the hell to do about that. All he knew was that her future could not involve him. His would always involve her, since he doubted he would ever be able to forget her or the astonishing effect she had had on his battered heart, but he would not allow her life to be ruined by yoking herself to a broken man.

“Of course I care for you, Charity. But this is very much a family matter. What did your grandmother say?”

Her fingers fiddled anxiously with a delicate little handkerchief. “She told my father I had a suitor who was ready to offer for me.”

Hugh froze. Had the old woman been referring to him? She had seemed to recognize something in him when they went to the theater. But he’d never, ever intended to offer. “Oh?”

Her eyes narrowed. Clearly he was not reacting the way she had anticipated. “So now my father is debating whether I should be foisted off on my cousin or handed over to the higher-ranking Lord Derington.”

Bloody, bloody hell.
The most selfish part of him rebelled violently against both options. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to rein that part of him in. He had no say over who her future husband should be. None at all. “And what is your preference?”

“My preference?” Astonishment dripped from the words. “I should think you of all people should know my preference. Or do you think I regularly invite gentlemen into my music room in the dead of night?”

This conversation was never going to lead to something good. He knew better—he bloody well knew better than to allow things to progress between them as they did. He had known he was making a mistake when he’d met her last night, far before their lips had even met. He’d done things wrong again and again, and now he was reaping what he’d sown. “Of course not. But we’ve already discussed this, Charity. You have your music, your family, and your whole life ahead of you. The two of us are wholly incompatible, and that will never change.”

“Do you not feel the pull between us? Do you not feel the passion when we are together?” Her eyes flashed in the dim light as her hands curled tightly over the railing. “I left a perfectly
compatible
betrothal because I knew that he would never look at me as though I was the only woman on the planet. The way
you
looked at me yesterday. For that, I would happily live with
incompatible
.”

“You say that, but you don’t know—”

“I know that I love you,” she exclaimed, shocking him into silence.

She
loved
him? But . . . that wasn’t possible. He was far too damaged to ever be worth that. He shook his head, unable to accept her words. “There’s a difference between love and lust.”

She gasped, rearing back as though she’d been struck. He’d never felt more like a bastard in his whole life, but he couldn’t back down. She deserved better, and
anyone
was better than him.

Instead of the fury he expected, compassion crept into her eyes. She leaned forward, straightening her shoulders. “I know what love is, Hugh Danby. I didn’t until I met you, but I do now. I love you. Your physical limitations don’t matter to me. They have nothing to do with who you are. I dare you—look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me. Tell me that you don’t want to marry me and spend the rest of your life with me.”

His heart hammered painfully in his chest, robbing him of the ability to catch a proper breath. She was wrong. She thought it didn’t matter, but witnessing one episode was nothing compared to living with it an entire lifetime. Even now, he could feel the telltale tightening of his neck muscles. The pressure was starting to build, and in less than an hour he’d be prostrate with pain. More helpless than a damned infant.

He would not sentence her to a lifetime being chained to a man like him. She felt desperate now because of the pressure her father was putting on her. A whole wealth of issues could be overlooked when one was of that mind-set. He was certain she’d be able to work out a solution that didn’t involve him if she just gave herself a little time.

He knew what he had to do.

With sudden, vivid, perfect clarity, he knew that there was only one way to ensure that she would accept that they weren’t meant for each other. For a moment, he just looked at her. He drank in her unique beauty, all those little things that made Charity, Charity. The freckles dusted across her face; her full, welcoming lips; and kind, expressive gray eyes. The curve of her cheekbones; the perfect shell of her ear. And his favorite of all, her beautiful, thick, glossy hair, the color of which he hoped would always linger in his memory.

Purposefully, he gave his head a negligent little shake. “We shared an attraction, my dear. Nothing more, nothing less. You’re a lovely girl, but I don’t love you and I certainly don’t wish to marry you.”

The lies burned a wretched path down his throat and straight into his gut. He fought to keep his expression slightly sympathetic but with an edge of condescension. The pressure in his head swelled, promising physical devastation to go along with his mental anguish tonight. Good. He deserved the punishment for allowing things to reach this point, where short-term heartbreak was the kindest thing he could offer her.

Unshed tears shimmered in her eyes as she stared at him, aghast. She shook her head, tiny little insignificant movements that spoke volumes as to her disbelief.

Hugh knew strategy. As a former officer, he knew damned well that sometimes the death knell wasn’t a punch, but a subtle idea planted with finesse. Charity would never believe him if he acted as though she suddenly didn’t mean anything to him. The trick was to simply make her think that he didn’t care
enough
. “If it will help, I’ll be happy to speak with Dering on your behalf. I believe your grandmother is right; with a little encouragement, he’ll no doubt offer for you.”

His words hit their target with deadly accuracy. The tears spilled over then, each one a separate dagger to his heart. His muscles bunched at the back of his neck, ominous warning of what was to come, but still he held his questioning expression, as though waiting for her to actually answer him.

At last she stepped back, holding her head high even as the tears rolled down her cheeks. “You’re not the man I thought you were,” she said, her voice a tight whisper.

His point exactly.

“W
e’re here, we’re here,” Sophie called, breezing into Charity’s bedchamber with May just behind her. “Your note sounded quite dire, so we came prepared. Biscuits, lemon drops, freshly ordered tea and,” she said, digging around in the little basket on her arm before pulling free a silver flask with a flourish, “brandy!”

“And I suggested poppet dolls, but Sophie vetoed the idea.” May rolled her eyes teasingly.

Charity had never been so glad to see the pair of them. She’d sent the missives only an hour earlier. Desperate not to run into her father, she had spent the morning holed up in her bedchamber, trying to figure out what on earth she should do. Her heart ached terribly, a physical pain that hadn’t lessened in the least since Hugh had broken it to pieces with his callous words last night.

Her eyes were dry and scratchy, her nose was runny, and she knew she had to look a proper disaster. She offered the others a wan smile—the best she could muster. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I know it’s early, and you both are dears for coming to my rescue.”

“Who says all knights have to be men?” May said, coming to sit on the bed beside her.

“Um, I’m pretty sure the king says it,” Sophie teased, sitting on Charity’s other side. “But we plan to fix things nonetheless. So let’s hear the whole story, start to finish.”

Sighing deeply, Charity did just that. She didn’t hold back this time about anything. Somewhere in the middle of the tale, she had paused long enough for a maid to bring in the tea service, but other than that, she was able to get the whole story out without interruption. Fairly remarkable, considering Sophie’s penchant for chatter.

When she was done, she curled her arms around her pillow and hugged it to her chest. “So that’s it—the whole dreadful story. Now, tell me what to do.”

“Run off to a nunnery?” Sophie said, compassion softening her normally cheery brown eyes.

“The Church of England doesn’t have nunneries,” Charity said with a tiny smile. “Though if I wanted my father to disown me, joining a Catholic convent may be the way to go.”

May shook her head. “No music allowed—you’d go mad as a loon in a week.” Sighing, she shook her head. “I hate this for you, Charity. Why is it men always seem to make a muck of things for us?”

“God-given talent,” Sophie replied, her normally light tone surprisingly sharp.

Coming to her feet, May paced back and forth in front of the bed. “I think what we need to know is, what do
you
want, Charity? If you could have any solution, what would it be?”

A more complicated question, Charity couldn’t imagine. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“No,” May said, stopping directly in front of her, her blue eyes boring into Charity’s. “Don’t think. Answer with the first thing that comes to your mind.
Now
.”

“I don’t—”

“
No thinking
. What do you want?”

“I want
Hugh
,” Charity cried, the words torn from the deepest part of her. “I want him the way I thought he was. Not the way he turned out to be.” Regret stung her eyes, bringing tears with it, but she refused to let them fall.

May nodded, sitting back down and putting an arm around Charity’s stiff shoulders. “If the Hugh you thought you knew is off the table, then we must move on to the second-best solution.” She somehow managed to be gentle and firm at the same time. It was helpful, having someone so pragmatic by her side.

Sophie let her slippers drop to the floor and tucked her feet up under her skirts. “You did seem to quite like Lord Derington. And he at least likes you back. Plus you’ve known him for ages, and he does love your music.”

Charity nodded. All of these were true. To another, it might actually be a dream match. But if she’d wanted that sort of match, she could have just married Richard. And why hadn’t she? Because she knew, deep down, that they would both be miserable in the long run.

Giving her head a little shake, she said, “No. I don’t want to marry Dering. If I cannot marry for love,” she paused, swallowing against the fresh wave of heartache, “then I might as well marry for duty.”

Silence reigned as the three of them let that statement sink in. Duty. She’d always done what her parents ultimately wished of her. With the notable exception of ending her betrothal—which, thankfully, had never been announced—she was a biddable daughter. She wouldn’t have even come to the festival if they hadn’t liked the idea.

“It’s my father’s greatest wish that the title remain with his direct descendants. After twenty years of disappointment, I have the ability—or at least the possibility—to grant his wish.”

The words brought hollow comfort. Finally, a chance to make right her ultimate mistake: being born a female. And if she couldn’t marry for love, that was at least something.

“Are you certain? Because you could always stow away in my bedchamber,” May said, her tone teasing but her eyes quite serious. “My aunt would never notice you were there.”

Charity released a tiny laugh and shook her head. She wanted children someday, so remaining a spinster certainly was not an option she wished to consider. “No, but thank you. At least I’ll have several months to change my mind while Mr. Burton is in mourning.” Though she very much doubted that would be the case.

Sophie tilted her head, eyeing Charity quietly. “So does that mean you have reached a decision?”

Closing her eyes against the sadness and keen sense of loss that echoed in her empty heart, Charity nodded. “It appears I have.”

*   *   *

“It has come to my attention, good sir, that you are in need of having your last rites read.”

Hugh cracked open a single eye to see the blurry image of Felicity’s damn brother standing over him. Groaning, he turned on his side, pulling the pillow over his eyes. “Go away, Thomas.”

“Three words never yet uttered by a woman, thank God.” The sound of screeching wood on wood rent the air as he dragged the chair over to the side of the bed.

Hugh gritted his teeth. He was going to kill the pup. “Get out,” he said, enunciating each word with as much malice as he could muster after a night of hell—his second in a row, in fact. The dull throb in the back of his head was practically a caress compared to the past thirty-six hours.

Thomas chuckled. “Unfortunately for you, I tend to act contrary to orders. It’s why I chose to go into the church; would’ve never made it in the military.”

Damn the irreverent arse. Flopping onto his back, Hugh shoved the pillow aside and glared at the intruder. “What the hell do you want? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”

“I
can
see that you’re sleeping. Which is interesting, because you were supposed to be out of this place by noon, and it was my understanding you were moving out yesterday. There’s a new tenant who’s quite anxious to claim it.”

Blowing out a harsh breath, Hugh sat up and squinted at the clock across the room. One thirty-two. In the afternoon, judging by the sunlight bullying its way past the curtains. He cursed under his breath, then reached for the nearly empty glass of whiskey sitting on the bedside table. It was stale and warm, but it would do.

“Cursing and drinking spirits in front of a man of God?” Thomas tsked, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “At the very least, offer to share, you ill-mannered miscreant.”

Hugh offered the good vicar a rude gesture before rubbing his hands over his eyes. He felt like absolute hell, and only half of it had to do with the hellacious attack. Knowing he’d hurt Charity, no matter how honorable the reason, gutted him in a way he hadn’t imagined. “Why are you here, anyway? What’s it to you that I’m late vacating the place?”

Extending one finger he said, “First, we’re practically family, so we must look out for one another. Second,” he said, holding up two digits, “I was worried when Jacobson said he was concerned about you. And three”—he paused long enough to pull his flask from his inner pocket and take a swig—“you’re in my house now, my friend.”

That got Hugh’s attention. “You’re moving in? How did you manage that?”

“The good earl thought he might like to attend the festival after all. Therefore I’m putting down stakes until he gets here. A good son does what he must,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

With a sigh, Hugh spun his finger. “A little privacy, if you please.”

Thomas obliged, coming to his feet and walking to the balcony door. Hugh threw aside the covers and pulled on the clothes he’d tossed to the floor the night before.

“What a handy balcony,” the vicar mused, pulling aside the curtain for a better look. “Especially given the lovely young ladies I saw leaving the adjoining townhouse last time I was here.”

Before either of them knew what had happened, Thomas’s face was smashed against the window, with Hugh’s full weight thrown across him. With his forearm pressed forcefully against the younger man’s back, Hugh hissed, “If you so much as look at the woman next door, so help me, I will throw you from this balcony on your sorry arse.”

Coming to his senses entirely too late, he pushed away, staggering back several steps. Thomas whipped around, fury darkening his perpetually jovial eyes. “What the
hell
was that about?” He jerked his shoulders, angrily righting his jacket.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Hugh breathed, raking both hands through his hair. What was
wrong
with him? Charity wasn’t even there anymore. According to what she’d told him, they would be hours down the road toward Bromsgrove by now.

“Sorry?” Thomas gaped at him in disbelief as he checked his nose for blood. “I’m going to need a better answer than that. I’m only just managing not to draw your cork as it is, you bastard.”

He exhaled harshly, dropping down on the chair in front of the windows. “I am a bastard. I’ve made a bloody mess out of things with the girl next door, and I overreacted.”

“For Pete’s sake, man, if you have a claim on the girl, you’ve only to say so.” Shaking his head, he went straight to the liquor cabinet and poured a generous glass of scotch.

Hugh gave a dry, mirthless laugh, laying his head against the leather padding. “No claim. You of all people should know I’ll never have a claim on any woman.”

Thomas’s glass halted halfway to his lips. “Why’s that?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Did you happen to see me when you came in? The worthless, prostrate man buried in his bedclothes, sleeping the afternoon away?”

Shrugging, the vicar took a swallow of his drink before answering. “Not so unusual. At least you have a good excuse. Most men are just recovering from a night cavorting when they look like that.” He shot Hugh a devilish grin. “And when I say
most men
, I mean
me
.”

Damn it, he didn’t need anyone trying to make him feel better. “I don’t need you turning me up sweet, Tom. I know what kind of man I am.”

Thomas gave him a sideways glance, assessing. “And what kind is that?” The question was mildly spoken, but his eyes held true interest.

“Let’s be blunt, shall we? I’m practically an invalid. Half a man, if that. You know what my attacks are like. No woman deserves to be married to someone so wanting.”

Thomas’s eyebrows shot up. “There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I’m not even sure where to start.” He held up a finger while he downed the rest of his drink, then set the empty glass on the bureau with a firm snap. Grabbing the chair he had dragged to the bed earlier, he lifted it in both hands, carried it to where Hugh sat, and set it directly across from him. “Right, so here’s my best go: You suffer from a chronic ailment caused by massive injury sustained whilst in the service of our great country, defending those of us too lily-arsed to do so ourselves. That makes you a hero, whether you like it or not. Your condition does not make you less of a man; it proves that you are
more
of a man. More of one than I’ll ever be—that’s for damn sure.”

“I’m not a—”

“No,” Thomas said, holding up a staying hand. “Hear me out or, so help me, I will claim that punch I still owe you.”

Hugh pressed his lips together, none too happy. He
hated
being called a hero. It was as ill fitting as a child’s tunic. But if Thomas felt he had something to say that would make the man feel better about this little tête-à-tête
,
then by all means, Hugh would keep his mouth shut.

“Here’s the thing, Hugh. We all still love you, whether you feel worthy or not. Based on what you’ve said, I wonder if this woman doesn’t feel the same way.”

Charity’s declaration echoed in Hugh’s mind.
I know what love is, Hugh Danby. I didn’t until I met you, but I do now. I love you.
His gut clenched, knowing what happened next. Recalling the words now brought him nothing but pain. “She deserves more, Tom.” She deserved to play her music as loud as she wanted, and dance the night away at every ball she wished to attend. She deserved a strong, able-bodied man to keep her and protect her.

“Does she think so?”

The muscles of Hugh’s cheek flexed as he leveled flat eyes on his friend. “It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t saddle an enemy with me, let alone Miss Effington.” And, really, thanks to their last conversation, she wouldn’t have him now, anyway.

Thomas tilted his head to the side and put a contemplative hand to his chin. “Does she know about your attacks? I mean,
really
know about them.”

Hugh nodded curtly. “Much to my dismay, yes. She witnessed one several days earlier. Much like you, I couldn’t make her leave, either.”

“What? She didn’t run screaming for the hills? Interesting.”

Rolling his eyes, Hugh dropped his chin to his fist and pointedly ignored the meddling vicar. He wasn’t about to share anything about that particular encounter. Almost a week later, and he still felt the sting of humiliation that she’d seen him at his worst.

When Hugh didn’t say anything, Thomas leaned forward. “Would you feel the same way if she were the one with the ailment?”

“Of course not,” he said defensively, before he could stop to think.

Smirking, Thomas nodded. “Then you have your answer.”