Chapter Thirteen #2
Yet, should he warn Charlene?
The thought darted through his mind before he quickly banished it.
No. Not yet, not until he had something concrete.
To broach it prematurely would only send her guard up, and he needed her guard down.
He was uncomfortably aware of how selfish that seemed, but he had only one chance to set things right.
Adam’s thoughts trailed to the paper. He’d carried the apology with him all year and still hadn’t delivered it.
Unless he did, he didn’t dare woo her. He didn’t dare ask for her father’s permission.
And if that brother of hers found out that he’d already kissed her, he’d probably demand to duel him.
Thus, if he misstepped, if he erred in this delicate matter, the chance to win her family’s trust, to truly gain her favor, might vanish forever.
And the newly found trust between them was fragile.
The specter of his brother’s misdeeds whispered at the edges of his thoughts, an intrusion both unwelcome and inescapable for they threatened to shatter it all.
Miss Martin’s laugh cut through his reverie, light but brittle, an attempt at charm that only grated against his nerves. Charlene’s laugh was different, softer and more sincere, with a lilt that lingered. Without meaning to, his gaze raked idly over the gathering when, suddenly, he saw her.
She was half-turned, the pearls at her throat catching the candlelight as she tipped her head in response to some jest he could not hear.
Charlene.
The sight of her, so composed yet achingly vibrant, hit like a blow he should have braced for but hadn’t.
Everything stilled inside him. For an instant, the room fell away, the clamor of the crowd dissolving until there was only her.
She wore an emerald-green gown that would have paled on anyone else, but on her, it glowed, a perfect match for the hue of her sharp, perceptive eyes. His pulse lurched against his will.
Even from across the room, it was clear she knew precisely how many sets of eyes were wandering too long in her direction. She did not so much as blink under the attention. Present, yet always apart. This was Charlene.
“You’re so dreadfully serious this evening, Adam,” Miss Martin said with another feeble attempt at flirtation.
“Call me Rotheworth,” he replied absently, still watching Charlene.
“Why?” she pouted. “That’s so formal.”
“It is proper,” he returned coolly, finally dragging his eyes away. “Which I prefer.” With you.
“Honestly, Adam,” his mother snapped with impatience. “A dance is not a proposal. One would think you were being dragged to the gallows, not the ballroom.”
She put my name down without my permission. Four times! How is that fair warning?
He resisted the urge to agree, as it wasn’t far from the truth. Their plans thrummed like alarm bells in his head, and the way Miss Martin’s gloved fingers tightened on his arm as though fearing escape only solidified his decision.
Smart woman. He just might run away from her.
But always toward Charlene.
No, he most certainly would.
“You are not at the gallows,” he muttered when his mother arched a brow. “Is dragging me around like a prize bull with Miss Martin truly the method you think best?”
“I want what is best for this family,” she said off-handedly. “And it certainly isn’t spending the evening glowering in corners while everyone whispers about your brooding. It wouldn’t kill you to enjoy yourself.”
“It might,” he muttered. Not if the reason for his enjoyment wasn’t here. But she should be, so he had to get rid of his mother and Miss Martins.
Miss Martin gave another laugh. “If you don’t wish to dance, shall we at least take a turn about the room then?”
And then the back of his neck prickled, and his eyes crossed the ballroom, locking with hers. His breath hitched.
Charlene.
She stood near the farthest edges, her chin lifted in that defiant little tilt he knew too well.
He couldn’t tell what, if anything, flashed in her gaze, but she was still the most beautiful woman in the room.
Her gown wasn’t the flashiest in the room—but the way the candlelight clung to her curves, the swell of her breasts, her pale neckline… he couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t look away.
She didn’t smile.
Did she even see him?
She didn’t frown either.
Her gaze moved to Miss Martin beside him.
Adam stiffened. He had forgotten about her.
The fingers on his arm suddenly felt like shackles, and he nearly wrenched his arm free. Fortunately, he kept his composure, but Miss Martin’s hand still felt like a tentacle that refused to unwrap from him.
Charlene saw them. Of course she did.
And she was still looking.
What was going through her mind?
Did she think that he had chosen this? That he wanted this? That he was willingly paraded like a bull for auction?
Panic flared in his chest. He was going to be sick.
Or punch someone. Maybe both. Yes, she must. What else?
He didn’t know. But his limbs couldn’t work.
His brain wouldn’t work. He tried to step forward, to call her name, to do something—but Miss Martin tugged him closer with that hideous grip, and he inwardly cursed. A foul one.
Charlene’s brows lifted—just a fraction—but it was enough.
She turned away.
No.
Not again.
He would not lose her to a misunderstanding. Not after everything. Not now.
He didn’t care if he pulled his arm from Miss Martin’s with enough force to startle a gasp from her. He didn’t care if the whole damn room watched. He didn’t care if the whole world burned.
But it didn’t come to that.
Because Charlene suddenly turned back to him, and with chin held high, marched straight toward him.