Chapter 4
Christopher set his cup down with more force than he intended. “I met a woman in an alley last night,” he said, trying to sound casual.
Edward’s knife paused over the butter. “A woman. In an alley. At night.” He looked up. “And what were you doing there?”
“Coming home,” Christopher said. “She was already there.”
Louise leaned forward, her interest immediate. “Was she hurt?”
“No,” Christopher said. “Not when I reached her.”
Edward frowned. “So there was trouble.”
“There were two men,” Christopher said. He picked up his cup again, then set it down without drinking. “They were trying to take her bag, and they did not seem to care how they went about it.”
Louise’s eyes widened. “And she was alone?”
“Yes.” He reached for the toast, broke off a corner, and let it fall back to the plate. “She acted as if being alone at that hour meant nothing at all.”
Edward gave a short huff. “Most women would have shown some concern.”
“She was not most women,” Christopher said. “She had no sense of self-preservation. She argued with them. She argued with me. She refused to be intimidated.”
Louise’s expression warmed with curiosity. “Argued with you? About what?”
“About whether she should leave the alley,” Christopher said. “She insisted she was fine. She insisted she did not need help. She insisted on many things.”
Edward leaned back in his chair. “You sound annoyed.”
“I was,” Christopher said. “She was reckless.”
Louise tilted her head, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “And yet you are still thinking about her.”
Christopher did not answer immediately. He reached for his tea, took a sip, and set the cup down again. “She was unusual. That is all.”
Edward gave him a pointed look. “You did not get her name.”
“No,” Christopher said. “It was dark, and the situation was tense, and she left before I thought to ask.” He paused, aware of both of them watching him. “It was a brief encounter. Nothing more.”
Louise exchanged a glance with Edward, then looked back at Christopher with a small, knowing smile. “If you say so.”
After a few moments, Edward cleared his throat. “We should speak of tomorrow.”
Louise nodded. “We leave for India at first light. I still wish we could stay for the wedding.”
Christopher placed his hands on the table.
“There is no need for you to stay, as it is not a family celebration. I have secured a special license through the Archbishop so that the marriage can take place within the week.” He kept his tone even, as if the matter were simple.
“I will follow you both to India within a month. Once the estate is settled and my bride is established at Sutherland, I will join you.”
Louise looked relieved for a moment, then her expression sharpened. “You speak of her as if she were a task to be completed. She is a person, Christopher.”
He let out a slow breath. “I am aware she is a person. I am not trying to be dismissive.” He paused, choosing his words with care. “I am trying to be practical. There is a great deal to arrange, and the timing is not ideal. I am doing my best to manage it.”
Louise looked at him closely, her voice gentler now. “You make it sound like a task, not a wedding.”
“I do not mean it that way,” he said. “I want to do what is expected of me. I want to see her settled and comfortable, and I intend to treat her well.” He glanced down at his hands, steady and neatly placed on the table. “I simply do not know her. That is all.”
Louise’s face relaxed. “That is more understandable.”
He nodded. “I will take a month to put everything in order, and then I can join you and Edward in India. It is the only plan that makes sense. I am not trying to run from her, but I want to make sure that I can keep my commitments on both sides.”
Louise reached across the table and touched his hand. “I only hope she knows what she is marrying into.”
The rest of the morning unfolded in its usual way, but the familiar tasks offered little distraction. After Louise and Edward left the table, he went to his study and reviewed the letters on his desk, although he absorbed none of their contents.
He walked the length of the room more than once, stopping only to straighten a stack of papers that did not need straightening.
He checked the time, then checked it again, all the while irritated with himself for doing so.
He told the housekeeper to ensure the drawing room was in order, even though it always was.
He changed his coat, decided it was unnecessary, and changed it back. Nothing he did made the time move faster or eased the certainty that something unstoppable and irreversible waited ahead.
By early afternoon, he could no longer pretend to be busy. He checked the clock on the mantel and saw that it was half past one. It was later than he expected, although the hours had dragged by.
There is nothing left to straighten, and nothing left to read. Stop pacing, he thought.
He left the study and walked toward the drawing room, his steps slow and steady, although his mind was racing. The corridor felt too long and the house too quiet, with every sound of his boots on the floorboards reminding him that the moment was approaching, whether he welcomed it or not.
He entered the drawing room and moved toward the hearth, the warmth brushing against his coat. He lowered himself into the nearest chair, trying to appear composed. The seat felt wrong the instant he settled into it.
You look like you are waiting to be summoned, he thought.
He stood again, smoothing his coat, adjusting the line of his cuffs, even though they needed no attention. Standing felt better. It was more controlled, and more fitting for what was coming.
I do not want to look like I am too relaxed, he thought. I do not want to give the impression that I am perfectly comfortable, or even worse, happy, about all of this. This is duty and obligation, nothing more.
He went over a polite greeting in his mind, something plain and suitable for a woman he had not seen since childhood. He expected the meeting to feel stiff, maybe even a little strained, and he prepared himself for that.
When the butler finally stepped inside and announced her arrival, Christopher smoothed his coat out of habit and turned toward the door.
The latch gave a soft click. The door eased inward, slow enough that he felt each inch of its movement. He straightened without meaning to, his breath caught somewhere high in his chest.
It opened.
A figure stepped inside, the light from the corridor outlining her before he could see her face. She paused, allowing the door to fall shut behind her with a muted thud.
She stepped fully into the room.
For a moment, he could not move. His hands remained at his sides, his breath catching as his thoughts slipped into a single, stunned thought.
No. It cannot be.
But it was.
It was her. The woman from the alley.
He was absolutely certain that he was looking into the same steady eyes he had seen the night before, eyes that had met danger without flinching and had met him with the same resolve. Her posture held the same steadiness and assuredness that he had been unable to forget.
He looked closer, searching for some difference that might prove him wrong. Her hair was darker than the childhood memory he had of Charlotte Blackwood. It was more brown than the pale blonde shade he recalled from years ago, but the change did nothing to disguise her.
She stopped just inside the threshold.
He stared at her, and she stared back. Neither spoke. The silence stretched between them like a held breath.