Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
BENNET HALL, SURREY - SEPTEMBER 4, 1816
CHARLOTTE
I missed my husband. It was so strange a notion that it had taken several days to worm its way into my understanding. Not once in the entirety of our marriage had I missed Ralph. In fact, I wasn’t certain I’d ever wished him by my side.
But Lee—just as we’d grown closer the harvest began nearly a month ago and occupied all of his time. And the babe occupied nearly all of my energy. I woke exhausted, went about my day exhausted, and fell into bed exhausted.
I sighed as Imogen ran a brush through my curls. It seemed a waste to dress with such care for a man who wouldn’t even see my efforts.
“Something amiss, my lady?”
“No, everything is fine.”
“Because if you were missing that husband of yours, I wouldn’t blame you.”
I met her eyes in the mirror. “You’ve been spending too much time with Brigsby. You’re becoming impertinent.”
“I’ve always been a little impertinent. It does not make me wrong.”
I handed her a peachy silk ribbon that matched the flowers lining the hem of my dress. “I suppose it’s possible I miss Lord Champaign. Only because I am without the diversions of London, of course.”
“Of course,” she nodded solemnly, entirely unconvinced if her tone was any indication.
“It is a good thing you’re off to see your sister soon. You’ve grown entirely too comfortable here.”
“Not as comfortable as you have,” she teased with a look toward my bed chamber where the coverings remained rumpled on both sides.
Before I could retort, an expectant hand appeared before me, awaiting a pin. She tucked a curl easily.
“It seems a waste. Such a lovely gown, and my hair is behaving so well today—and my husband isn’t available to appreciate either.”
She hummed, hand held out for another pin. “If I were to make another impertinent suggestion, would I be risking my employment?”
“It depends on precisely how impertinent,” I said, knowing there was absolutely no amount of insolence I would not tolerate from Imogen. I was already dreading her absence when she left to see her sister through her confinement.
“Well, as you said, your dress and hair are quite fetching. It is a particularly fine day. And, I have it on good authority that your husband is working on the Geller field just one plot over today.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that you take the picnic I helped Mrs. Fitzroy pack this morning and see if your husband wishes to have luncheon with you.”
“You did?”
“I did. Jack helped as well and was adamant that he receive credit for his efforts.”
“That does sound lovely, but I wouldn’t wish to interrupt.”
“He’s been scything and picking for days. I rather think he would welcome an interruption from his beautiful wife.”
“Imogen…”
“What is the worst that could happen?” she asked, leaning down so we were level in the glass, her hands pressing on my shoulders comfortingly.
“He could send me away.”
She shot me a look that told me precisely how absurd she found that notion.
“He could!” I insisted.
“I suppose you’re right. But he would never be cruel about it—and you know that.”
I took a steadying breath. “It is already packed?”
“Yes, a picnic for two.”
“Fine.”
“Good,” she retorted, rising and pinning the final curl with a jab to punctuate it.
I couldn’t explain precisely what had apprehension seeping into my bones. Imogen was right. Above all, Lee was kind.
Kind and tall. His was the first head I spotted over the massive stacks of wheat. Head. Shoulders. Back. Bottom. Thighs. Calves. Holy…
Unlike the men he was chatting with as he worked beside them, Lee had kept his shirt on—that wasn’t a surprise. But it was entirely irrelevant. He’d still stripped his coat and waistcoat, and the linen of his shirt was nearly transparent with sweat, his hair damp and curling around his neck.
My husband was a handsome man. He was also incredibly muscular, powerful, in a way that was easy to forget when presented only with his kind heart.
A dampness grew between my thighs that had nothing to do with the heat.
Lee laughed at something one of the men said. Brigsby noted me first, the sun turning his chest a shade that matched his hair. He nudged Lee’s shoulder.
“You just had a break Brigs,” Lee muttered, still swishing the long pole side to side.
One of the lads I wasn’t acquainted with noticed me before Brisgby could reply, his scything ceasing. “Lord Champaign…” he interjected tentatively, his gaze flicking to the curve of my belly.
At once, my trepidation, temporarily eased by lust, came roaring back.
“What, Geller?” Lee asked, never pausing.
The third and fourth man ceased their efforts and turned to stare at me as well. All of a sudden instead of fresh-cut wheat, I could scent stale ale and piss. That was the source of my worry—the last time I’d approached a group of men unasked and unannounced.
“Lady Champaign,” Brigsby directed to me with a bow.
“What about her?”
I could endure the stares no longer. “My lord?”
Lee froze before spinning on his heels, nearly taking off the Geller lad’s ankle with the scythe had the boy not jumped out of the way. Lee tossed the thing to his near victim and reached for me instantly.
“Charlotte? Are you well? What is it?”
One damp hand found my waist, the other my cheek, his gaze frantically searching my person. “I didn't mean to worry you. I just… I was wondering if you might be in need of a break soon? I brought some food.” I lifted the basket pathetically by way of clarification. My stomach was tied in such tight knots, I was nearly too distracted to appreciate the open neckline of his shirt.
“You brought me luncheon?”
I nodded, my gaze finding the ground so I need not see the inevitable rejection.
Instead of a polite dismissal, warm lips found the crown of my head in a gentle kiss. My eyes shot to his.
“Take a break,” he called to the men behind him without turning their way.
“Yes, my lord,” they answered, Brisgby with his usual impish note accompanying the title.
“Lee? I?—”
The men filed past us, Lee didn’t spare them a glance.
“Is there a blanket?” he asked, reaching for the basket. “Oh, damn?—”
“What?” Warriness crashed over me with the curse.
“I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I ruined your pretty frock.” He dipped his head toward my waist where a perfect, oversize dirt handprint remained.
“It is no matter?—”
“But you look so lovely. I’ll see about having another one made.”
“I’m certain Imogen can work some magic with it. And besides, you paid for it. In truth it is yours.”
“Charlotte…” An unfamiliar note slipped into his voice. My eyes flicked to his. “ This is not how I wish to ruin your dresses.”
“Pardon? I don’t— Oh …”
He chuckled, hands cupping my cheeks and pulling my lips to his. My belly and the basket ended up trapped between us as he offered me an entirely inappropriate kiss that I accepted gladly.
Once he pulled away, he finally tugged the basket from my hands and withdrew the blanket tucked on top. Eagerly, he spread it out right across the break in the row before urging me beside him.
I set about arranging the various fruits, cheeses, and cold meats between us when another chuckle broke from him.
“Come here.”
I scooted closer, and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at my cheeks. “Perfect,” he added once satisfied before working on his own hands.
He laughed when he presented me with the results of his efforts. “I’m afraid to say this might be as presentable as I come without a bath.”
Absolutely every bit of tension I’d felt before I arrived melted away at the bright sound of his laughter. This was nothing like the boxing match. And there was nothing at all of Wesley in my Lee.
“It is no problem,” I explained, coy coquettishness in my tone.
I grabbed a slice of apple off a plate and offered it to my husband. With a raised brow, he leaned forward slowly, giving me time to pull away, then took a bite of the slice in my hand.
Cheekily, I popped the rest of it in my mouth.
“Thief,” he cried.
The grapes were next. I held one out. When he leaned to take it, I shook my head. “Open.”
His grin was infectious as he obliged. Gently, I tossed it toward his open mouth and hit him in the eye.
Far from annoyed, my husband laughed, delight spreading across his face before being replaced by mischief.
“If you cannot manage it, I shall have to take over,” he warned. I plucked another grape off the plate and held it out expectantly. Rather than opening again, Lee’s hand wrapped around my forearm, holding me steady as he wrapped his lips around it. It and my fingers.
Dampness grew between my thighs when his tongue teased the pads of my fingers before pulling back impossibly slowly. “Lee…”
He pulled his hand away, his gaze lingering on the handprint left behind. When his eyes met mine, the earlier mirth was gone, replaced with a lust to match mine.
I caught him around the back of the neck and pulled his lips to mine. He obliged easily, clamoring over to my side before throwing a leg over my thighs. Lee met my ardor with his own and eased me down, down, down to the blanket beneath us. Laughter and kisses swirled in the balmy air.
Imogen took one look at me and nearly fell over laughing before arranging a bath. I settled before the mirror as maids and footmen worked around me. One look was all I needed to confirm that it was even worse than I’d thought.
Clear fingerprints and even entire dirty handprints traced the edge of the bodice and curve of my belly beneath my husband’s coat. Smudged stains lined the folds of my skirt where Lee had tugged it up with eager joy. Seeds, stems, and Lord knew what else littered my hair, which tumbled out of my coiffure.
Strangest of all was the smile on my face beneath the dirt. I was happy—truly, wonderfully—happy in a way I couldn’t recall ever being. It was nothing like the practiced, elegant smiles I’d offered the ton . Lines creased the corners of my eyes. My cheeks ached from smiles. Hell, my chest actually hurt from laughter—I hadn’t known that was possible.
After a refreshing bath, I wandered downstairs for a lonely supper, a less unpleasant prospect for having enjoyed my husband’s company earlier.
I floated along to the barren table that had been a source of my despondency until that very afternoon. Settling into my usual spot, I sent only a brief longing glance toward Lee’s empty place.
No sooner had I dipped a spoon into the squash soup than Crawford arrived carrying a silver tray.
“A letter for you, my lady.”
“Thank you,” I replied distractedly, then set down my spoon and took it from him.
Dread crashed over me, a rockslide crushing me beneath grit and boulders when I touched it. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why. But I knew it was from Wesley.
There was no sender. I’d seen his handwriting once, maybe twice. But in my soul, I knew that masculine slant was his.
At some point, Crawford wandered off, leaving me to my correspondence.
My heart pounded so rapidly it threatened to rip right out of my chest.
With trembling hands, I abandoned my plate. I shoved away from the table and strode through the house, filled with purpose—and nearly crashed into Imogen.
“My lady?” she cried.
“Not feeling well,” I called back, not turning as I rounded to ascend the stairs. They were a bit more effort in my current state, but at last I was flicking the lock on my bedroom door.
Carefully, I uncrumpled the parchment and stared at it through blurry eyes.
The mere sight of it made my comment to Imogen no lie, I did feel sick.
I collapsed on the settee and stared at the letter for an impossibly long moment, trying to will myself to open it, to slip a finger beneath the wafer.
A knock sounded, echoing through the room.
“My lady?” Imogen asked, tentative.
Without conscious decision, I shot up and cast the letter into the fire. The sight of parchment curling and blackening before flaking upward transfixed me.
“My lady?” she repeated.
I broke away from the fire and turned to the door to let her in.
“Oh, you do not look well. Would you like to turn in early?”
At my nod, she set about finding a night dress. My gaze turned back to the fire. No remnant of my letter survived the flames.
After Imogen helped me undress, I laid on the bed, curled on my side as night fell through the window. The moon had long cast its glow when I felt Lee’s familiar form curve around me. Silently, his hand found my belly and was greeted with a kick from the babe.
“Stop that,” he breathed toward my belly while I feigned sleep.
He dropped a kiss on my temple. “Thank you for today. It was perfect,” he whispered before his breathing evened out around me.
It had been—it was. I wouldn’t, couldn’t allow Wesley to take this from me. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in that letter that I cared to read.
Still, sleep refused to come, even as I lay wrapped safe and warm in my husband’s arms. Not until I felt him rise to ready for another day of harvest. And even when it came, it was fitful and full of wretched dreams.