The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (15 page)

She gathered up her things, hoping that the library might offer a more relaxed atmosphere, where they could begin again on a better footing.

“You must be very pleased with this beautiful room,” Charity commented as she entered the library. She loved the musty smell of old tomes and the secrets they held within their covers. She crossed to the desk as Robin held the door open for Henry to stalk in after them. “I see you spend a lot of time here.” She flicked through the books stacked on the polished desktop. “You have some wonderful editions.

“Sit in the leather chair by the desk.” She took a brocade-covered chair for herself, placing her sketchpad and drawing materials on the wooden surface of the desk. “The light’s all wrong. But that doesn’t matter now.”

She began to sketch him, gazing up to observe the way his curly hair grew back from his broad forehead. His strongly defined eyebrows and noble nose with the small bump. Her pencil flowed freely today, as if she’d learned his face so well she could almost draw it from memory. She captured the gentleness in his eyes, the generous shape of his lips. He was a good man, who would never be deliberately cruel. A realization washed over her. She bit her lip, continuing to render an outline of his strong throat encased in the soft folds of his cravat, the perfect fit of his coat on his broad shoulders.

After a period of silence, during which Robin managed to remain quite still, she paused. “Well done,” she said with a smile.

He returned her smile with a shrug. “I haven’t done anything.”

“You’ve kept still.”

“Ah.”

Charity lost herself in the process as she added details. The silky folds of Robin’s cravat, the silver buttons on his bottle-green-and-white-striped waistcoat, tight over his wide chest, and down, the way his trousers creased across the top of one muscular thigh, his tasseled Hessians encasing long legs. She wondered what his body beneath the clothes would be like, how his smooth olive skin might feel to the touch. He tugged at one snowy linen cuff with long, graceful fingers, which could draw beautiful pictures of birds in perfect detail, and discovered her heart was beating very fast. A growing awareness lurked within her. The room had become very quiet. She met Robin’s smoky gaze, and her world appeared to turn upside down. Her pencil stilled.

Robin shifted in his seat. “Do you wish to rest?”

“Perhaps for a minute.” Her heartbeat had eased a little, but she suspected her cheeks were flushed. He was a sensitive man, and she feared he could read her expression and know her heart.

“Dare I ask if you have discovered my essence yet?”

She was afraid she would give herself away. “Only what I’ve always known about you.”

“What is that?”

“That you are a kind man, strong, but also gentle.”

“I’d rather you discovered something more interesting.” He sounded vexed.

“Of course there are many more facets to your character.” Flustered, she picked up her pencil again as a kind of shield to hide behind. “I imagine you are different things to different people.”

“But is that all I am to you?”

Her gaze sought his. “No, of course not. You are my very dear friend.”

Robin uncoiled himself from the chair. He leaned over her, silently removed her pencil from her fingers, and placed it beside the sketchbook on the table.

Charity watched him as if frozen, her eyes wide, as he took her hands and drew her to her feet.

“Robin…?”

His hand cupped her chin, and his mouth came down on hers.

Her heart thudding in her ears, Charity held on to his arms as they entrapped her. Like stone, they didn’t budge an inch as he purposefully slid his mouth over hers. She dropped her arms and murmured incoherently. His tongue pressed along the seam of her lips, and when she parted them, more to deter him than encourage him, his tongue dived inside her mouth.

She sagged as her breath deserted her, and she grasped his shoulders to stay upright when her knees almost buckled. The intimacy of such an act made all her senses come alive, his masculine smell, his strong body against hers, all sinew and bone and muscle, the sweet taste of his mouth, and his lips, taking possession.

“Charity!” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

Knowing she loved him, and how impossible that was, became almost more than she could bear. She pushed at his chest. “Let me go, please, Robin.”

Robin released her, and she sank back in the chair.

“I’ve been yearning to do that for a very long time,” he said, leaning against the desk beside her. The smile in his eyes contained a sensual flame. “I’d like you to think about that, Charity. Think what we might have, here, together.”

Had she invited the kiss in some unconscious fashion? She gazed at him as words failed her. The imprint of his mouth remained on hers, her body strangely heavy and bereft. She couldn’t seem to galvanize herself into action.

A knock sounded on the door. “Come,” Robin called without looking away from her.

A footman brought in the tea tray.

“Ah, the tea,” Robin remarked, sounding far calmer than she. “And crumpets. The chef knows how much I like them.”

“Do you?” Charity leaned back in the chair.

“I don’t intend to apologize for kissing you, Charity,” he said when the footman left the room. “I enjoyed it too much. I only ask that you consider the possibility of a future with me. Will you?”

“Robin, I just know I’m not suited to this life.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said in a frustrated tone. “God, Charity, promise me that you will consider those things in life which would be ultimately more important to a woman. Her children for instance.”

He was adopting his authoritarian duke’s voice again. It went without saying that she would love her children. She couldn’t explain because he was obviously blind to her feelings, so she merely gathered herself together and seized the teapot as Henry, discovering the presence of food, came to make his wishes known.

Chapter Sixteen

Robin took a bite of crumpet and dabbed at the butter on his chin with his napkin. Charity had taken him at his word. She’d poured him a cup of tea, added milk, and stirred in one lump of sugar without asking his preference. It hurt him to see it. She knew his likes and dislikes, but did she want him? He took heart in the fact that she’d taken a while to push him away. She’d liked the kiss.

“Why do you want to marry me?” she asked, picking up the butter knife.

“Because I want you in my life every day. And in my bed every night,” he added, to ensure she understood this was not to be a marriage based on friendship.

She blushed and made a business of buttering him another crumpet.

It had been so easy to pull her closer and mold her body to his, the curve of her breast and her thighs pressed against him. When his mouth came down on hers, everything that had plagued him a moment vanished and there was only her, her scent, her breath, her lips. It was a kiss that changed everything, at least for him. Surely she was aware of the unspoken implications of that shared intimacy? He watched her through half-closed eyes. Was she attempting to fool him? Or fool herself? He was quite certain that once married, Charity would grow to love him. His parents had not even had the luxury of knowing one another beforehand. But a deep, abiding love, respect, and affection had developed between them as the years passed, and when his mother died, his father never stopped mourning her.

“I know you like my work, Robin, but you have not once stated that you approve of my career,” Charity said, startling him.

“But I do, naturally,” he said cautiously. Dash it all. She made him question his true motives. Did he hope that by painting his portrait she would then be satisfied and give up any idea of painting others? “Although I confess I worry about the safety of such a venture.”

She turned him, eyebrows raised. “I don’t see the relevance.”

“This is a bad world, Charity. You have no idea. You’ve lived a sheltered life.” He knew it was unwise to broach this, but he seemed unable to stop. “Closeted in a room with someone like Gunn could place you in a position where you’ll be hurt.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she said stiffly. “But I don’t require fatherly advice. I have a parent for that.”

Fatherly? Frustration rose in him, but he wrestled it into submission before this turned into an argument that would seal his fate. “But you do see my point?”

“We can look on the dark side of everything in life and never venture outdoors.” She looked up suddenly and smiled. “Really, becoming a duke has made you lose your sense of humor.”

“I know it’s here somewhere.” Robin smiled back it her, eager to be on good terms. She referred to his sense of adventure, he supposed, although she was too polite to say it. And it was true. He’d felt stripped of both humor and his adventurous spirit of late.

Did she yearn for a different kind of life than she thought he could offer? He suffered a sudden clarity as to how much he’d changed since coming here. He’d never before wanted Charity to deny her own dreams. He wanted only to share that excitement with her. And would have, too, if he’d remained in Tunbridge Wells. She was not prepared to change for him now, and why should she?

After tea, Charity returned to her drawing, and he returned to his contemplation of her. His fingers itched to stroke the tender nape of her neck as she bent her head over the page. It was as if the kiss hadn’t happened. Now that he had kissed her, tasted her, he was going to want her for the rest of his days. But to win her, he would have to learn to listen instead of imposing his own needs on her. Trouble was he could hardly turn around and say that he didn’t mind her forging new horizons with her art—she would rightly scorn him. He feared he’d overplayed his hand, with no strong argument left to sway her. Bowed but not broken, he let his gaze drift over her as he subsided into a contemplative silence.

****

As she continued her work in the quiet room with Robin, they were both startled by a knock on the door.

“A message has arrived for Lady Charity, Your Grace.” The footman held out the silver salver to Robin.

“Wait, Samuel,” Robin ordered as Charity jumped up and took the missive from him.

“It’s from Father.” She quickly read it.

Robin came to her side. “News of Faith?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice catching. “I must go.”

Robin turned to the waiting footman. “Have the phaeton brought around.”

As they ran to the carriage, the short sharp message in her father’s note tightened her chest. “Come home now.” Impossible to know the reason behind it.

With Robin’s competent hands on the ribbons, the horses traveled at a clip. While they covered the miles in strained silence, a refrain repeated in Charity’s head.
Faith has had her babies. Everyone is well.

When they pulled up outside her aunt’s house, her father hurried down from the porch. “We must return to Tunbridge Wells today, Charity. Your mother writes that Faith is not faring well.”

Charity’s heart sank. She turned to Robin, her chin trembling. “We must say goodbye, Robin. I will write.” She had no idea when she would see him again.

Robin alighted and helped her down from the vehicle. He grasped her hands and squeezed them, his gaze filled with concern and compassion. “Try not to worry too much.”

She wanted to throw herself into his arms. Ashamed by her weakness and self-pity, she nodded and turned away.

“Have a safe trip, sir,” Robin said to her father. “I’ll pray for good news.”

“Thank you, Harwood.” As Robin turned the phaeton, Father ushered her inside. “I intend to leave in an hour, Charity. Be ready.”

Charity hurried upstairs, swallowing the despair blocking her throat. In her bedchamber, the maid was packing the last of her things into the trunk. “I do hope your sister is all right, milady.”

“Thank you, Agnes.”

Faith was a fighter, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she railed against Father’s choice of a husband for her and his initial dislike of Vaughn? It would turn out all right. It must.

Aware that the future lay in the hands of fate, they journeyed, stopping only to change the horses and have a meal until nightfall. The nights spent at coaching inns, where Charity failed to sleep, only served to cause more impatience and fear to build. Tired out, they arrived home, where her red-eyed and exhausted mother waited for them.

“I thought it best to come home, as Vaughn’s mama has arrived, but I shall go back tomorrow. Honor is there and the midwife too. The doctor calls every day.”

Father gathered her mother into his arms. He put his hand to her hair. “Now don’t distress yourself, my dear. Tell me what has occurred.”

Mama laid her head against his shoulder and sighed. “Faith is so stubborn. She refused to obey the doctor’s request for a lying in. She insisted on walking every day, even when the weather was deplorable. I feared she would catch a cold. The doctor says that, as the babies are two weeks late, it might come to a life-and-death situation, and he will be forced to perform a caesarean.” Mama’s voice became reedy and faint. “He will need to employ forceps, in any event, for Faith’s hips are so narrow. They have been attempting to dose her with laudanum for the pain, but she refuses! Such a stubborn girl!”