Chapter Twenty-Two
Ralston forced his gaze over her head and tried to even the erratic thundering of his heart.
He had not sought her out tonight to indulge in the undeniable attraction between them. He wanted answers. And he expected to get them.
The woman made a soft humming noise, bringing his attention back to her upturned face. Her eyes were half-shielded by the sweep of her lashes.
“You have a very determined set to your jaw, mon grand,” she murmured.
Her use of the intimate endearment was clearly an attempt to regain some control in the current situation. All the same, it still sent a sharp arc of fire through him. As she’d no doubt intended.
“I know who you are,” he stated.
“Do you?”
Ralston met her guarded stare as he tilted his head. “Your father was James Dickson, a Scottish baron and the Countess of Henmere’s older brother.”
Her brows arched. “You sound as if you’ve made some sort of rare discovery,” she drawled with a sideways shift of her gaze. “I’ve never attempted to conceal who I am.”
He lowered his voice. “Your father died in Edinburgh when you were still a small child.”
“Two years old.”
Her tone was dry and flat. As though the details held very little value.
But her body fairly hummed with tension and she carefully avoided making eye contact with him.
He was balancing at the edge of something.
There was more to her past—to the story of who she was—and it was going to be a challenge to understand all the pieces. But he was determined.
“What I don’t understand,” he continued gruffly, “is why you haven’t been affianced before now. As a woman of noble birth, you should’ve had your debut years ago at eighteen like your peers.”
Charlotte chuckled with genuine humor. “At eighteen, I was the personal assistant and devoted companion to the most celebrated actress in Paris.”
Ralston stared at her, trying to assess the truthfulness of her words. The declaration did align with her earlier claim to have come to London from France. And it explained her fluency with the language.
Though she didn’t look at him, she must have sensed his confusion because her lips quirked and a hint of a challenge entered her tone. “Did your little investigation into my history tell you nothing else? Nothing at all about my mother?”
“I assumed she’d become reclusive in widowhood.”
Charlotte laughed in earnest then, the deep, rich sound drawing the attention of those dancing nearby. “My mother never had a reclusive bone in her body.”
She flicked her eyes to his. As the amusement fled her expression, her features twisted with some dark emotion as she murmured roughly, “I suppose I’m not surprised.
No doubt any whisper of the scandal had been swiftly and carefully buried.
As if none of it had ever happened,” she whispered. “As if she’d never existed.”
Ralston scowled. He’d assumed his quick investigation had revealed no reference to her mother because she’d been a woman of common origin. But perhaps he’d been wrong.
For a moment, her eyes sparked and her lips parted. But then she pressed them tightly together and furrowed her brow.
“Did you know my father was a talented artist?”
He shook his head which caused her to issue a deep sigh as regret filled her gaze.
“It’s tragic that his greatness didn’t have the opportunity to develop.
If he hadn’t died so young, he’d likely be as well-known as so many of his friends and contemporaries are now,” she stated proudly before her chin lowered and her voice softened.
“It was the artists who’d rallied around my mother and me after we lost Father.
They were the family we needed. They are family still. ”
Her voice faded into a pause pregnant with grief.
Then she gave herself a subtle shake. “It was the artists and actors and poets who took us in when we left Edinburgh and moved to Rome. They filled our days with sunlight and beauty steeped in history. And they encouraged my mother to explore her talent for the stage.” Her smile was warm and intimate as her eyes seemed to look back through memories of the past. “Not a recluse—my mother was a star. A beloved figure of the theater and art world. In Rome and then in Paris. She was revered by everyone who knew her and many who didn’t.
She was everything gracious and wonderful in the world. ”
The dark undertone threading through her words grew heavier and more poignant until she stopped with an audible swallow.
Instinctively pulling her closer, he willed her glistening gaze to his. “How long has she been gone?”
She drew a soft breath and released it in a gentle sigh. “Months. A minute. Forever.”
“I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could think to say. Her grief was a weighted, palpable thing. It soaked into him.
But then—like a bolt of lightning in the night—the sadness was chased away. In an instant, her grief was gone, replaced by something fierce and dangerous. Her body tensed and her jaw tightened as she lifted her chin forcing Ralston to instinctively brace himself.
“Don’t waste your pity on me, my lord. I have no use for it. It will not bring her back and it will not negate the pain inflicted upon her by those who should’ve loved her.”
Understanding dawned as Ralston held her sparking gaze. “The reason you’re here. The revenge you seek is on behalf of your mother.”
She did not reply. And he could see her regret over saying as much as she did. She didn’t trust him. And why should she? He was practically nothing to her. A distraction—she’d once called him.
But he wanted to be more.
She made a short sound in the back of her throat and turned her head to break eye contact.
“These truths…my history…they have no value to you. Or anyone else in this grand ballroom,” she added with obvious bitterness.
“But they are all I have left. I will not forsake my past. And I will not forsake her any more than I will accept her unnecessary suffering as a matter of course.” Her body trembled in his arms as her voice dropped to a whispered vow. “I’d never forgive myself.”