Chapter 10 - Charlotte #2
She felt the fear grow distant by degrees, crowded out by his steadiness, by the particular quality of his attention, as if as long as she kept her eyes on his, the danger beyond the door couldn’t quite reach her.
His thumb began moving against the inside of her wrist, slow circles that she doubted he was aware of, grazing her pulse point with a gentleness that made it difficult to think clearly. His eyes were nearly black, the dark golden flecks in them catching the faint glow like embers banked low.
The light grew stronger but she barely registered it, too occupied with the fact that she could see Mr. Fletcher more clearly now.
In the library, shadows had softened his features.
But here, with golden warmth catching the sharp line of his jaw and the strong column of his throat, he looked almost angelic.
Dark hair fell across his forehead in waves that begged to be brushed back, framing a face that was all carved angles and masculine beauty.
She was aware that the study beyond was not empty, that they were not safe, that there were a dozen ways this night could still end badly.
And yet none of it could quite compete with how close Mr. Fletcher was, or how impossibly unfair it was that he could look like that while she was probably flushed and disheveled.
The curtain rings scraped against the rod and Charlotte’s heart seized, the sound breaking the spell that had taken hold of her. Mr. Fletcher’s hand left her wrist in the same instant and she shifted carefully to the side, angling herself until more of the room came into view.
Someone stood at the window, the moonlight framing him from behind and the lamp in his hand lighting his face.
He held a book at his side, his shoulders drawn up, eyes moving through the room in a careful, deliberate way.
She recognized him after a beat. The butler who had led her aunt to Lady Penrose earlier that day.
His gaze swept to their side of the room and stopped, and for one terrible moment it felt as though he were looking straight through the door.
Charlotte pulled back from the gap and pressed herself as far into the closet as the space would allow, shoulder finding the wall, and shut her eyes hard against the light.
Footsteps began. Measured, deliberate, growing louder.
He had seen her. She was certain of it.
He was close enough that she could hear him now, the slight wheeze of his breathing, the rustle of fabric as he moved.
She didn’t dare open her eyes. Her mind raced through escape routes that didn’t exist, her body screaming at her to run even though there was nowhere to go and nothing she could do but hope and listen.
The steps stopped. A long, terrible stillness settled over the room.
Something landed on the shelf beside them, the thud of it reverberating through the wood at her back. Then his steps began to retreat, measured and unhurried across the room, the light fading behind Charlotte’s closed eyelids with each one until the door clicked shut and took it completely.
Neither of them moved for a long moment. Charlotte’s heart hammered against her ribs, her breath shallow and uneven.
“He’s gone,” Mr. Fletcher murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “You’re safe.”
She opened her eyes and found nothing but dark, Mr. Fletcher beside her reduced to a presence she could feel more than see.
“I’ll make sure the corridor is clear before we move.” he whispered, slowly easing the door open. “Can you wait here?”
Her hand found his arm without her permission, gripping it before she could think better of it, her heart still hammering loudly enough that she was sure he could hear it. He stilled. His hand closed over hers and squeezed once. “Just a moment. I’ll be right back.”
She forced herself to release him.
Her head found the wall and she stayed there, eyes closed, counting her breaths to ten the way her mother had once taught her, a long time ago, when nerves had threatened to undo her before a recital.
The butler had come to return a book. He had seen a disordered study and thought nothing beyond the obvious. Penrose’s mess, Penrose’s business. As long as they restored the room before he returned, no one would ever know they had been here at all.
Her hands had almost stopped shaking.
“All clear.”
She opened her eyes. Mr. Fletcher stood just beyond the closet door, the moonlight from the uncovered window catching the side of him, his hand reaching toward her.
She took it and rose, or tried to. Her legs, having been folded into too small a space for too long, refused to cooperate, and she stumbled forward with rather more momentum than was dignified, her hands catching fistfuls of his shirt to keep herself upright.
His arm came around her waist before she could fall.
The warmth of him struck her immediately.
Her gown had been damp since the rain and the heat seeping through his shirt undid something she had been holding carefully in place for the better part of the evening.
The exhaustion she had kept at bay arrived all at once, and with it everything else — the cold, the fear, the long hour of silence in the dark.
Her hands stayed where they were, her body refusing every sensible instruction she gave it and leaning into him instead. She rested against his chest and felt him lower his head over hers.
How strange that a man she barely knew could make her feel safer than anyone in her own world seemed capable of doing.
Just a moment longer.
His other hand came to rest lightly against her back.
“You know,” he murmured, “I’m starting to think you enjoy falling into my arms, Miss Fairmont.”
A quiet laugh slipped from Charlotte’s lips.
The night had been nothing but chaos, and somehow he managed to make her laugh in the middle of it all.
She felt his chest shake with silent amusement beneath her palms, the sensation sending an unfamiliar flutter through her.
It pulled her back to herself enough to release his shirt and step away.
“I assure you, Mr. Fletcher, it’s entirely accidental. ”
“Of course.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Pure misfortune on your part.”
“Exactly.”
A beat of quiet settled between them, almost easy, until her gaze found the desk. “We ought to put things back before we go.”
“My thoughts precisely.”
They worked quickly, gathering documents and sorting them back into stacks as best they could manage. Mr. Fletcher pushed the drawers shut and took a last look around the room.
“That will do,” he said quietly.
They slipped back through the corridors the way they had come, moving in silence through the dark, until they reached the small parlor with its open window.
He pulled his boots on at the sill, one hand braced against the wall for balance, then swung himself through and dropped to the wet grass below with barely a sound.
Charlotte gathered her skirts and let him lift her down, his hands steady at her waist. The moment her feet touched ground, he released her.
“Run.”
They fled across the grounds, keeping low where the night concealed them.
Charlotte’s slippers squelched with each step, her breath coming in short gasps as they reached the wall.
He boosted her up first, then pulled himself over.
They dropped into the field and kept running until the dark mass of the manor had faded behind them.
Only when they reached the road did they finally stop, both breathing hard. Charlotte pressed a hand to her side and looked over at him. A grin had spread across his features, wild and exhilarated, as though they’d just done something marvelous, and she felt an answering smile pull at her own lips.
A sharp wind tore through the night and the smile died as she shivered hard enough to make her teeth chatter.
“Here.” Fabric settled around her shoulders before she could protest, his jacket heavy and far too large, but warm.
The scent of him surrounded her, soap and old books, and without thinking she drew a slow breath, her shoulders dropping.
His hands lingered as he adjusted it properly around her.
“I’d rather not have you catch pneumonia. ”
“But—“
“Come.” He moved to her other side, putting himself between her and the worst of the wind. “I’m walking you home.”
“That’s not necessary—“
“Miss Fairmont.” He turned to face her, the faint glow catching the determined set of his jaw. “We can stand here in the rain and debate this if you’d like. I have all night. But I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re safe inside your house, so you might as well let me walk you there.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. The truth was, the thought of walking back alone felt overwhelming. And having him beside her, well, that didn’t feel terrible at all.
“Fine,” she conceded, pulling the jacket tighter. “But only because I’m too cold to argue properly.”
“I’ll consider myself fortunate, then.”
They walked in silence at first, both too exhausted for conversation. Rain pattered against cobblestones, the only sound besides their footsteps echoing through empty streets. Charlotte pulled the jacket closer, breathing in his comforting scent.
After several minutes, his voice cut through the quiet. “The arrangement you mentioned. In the library. I’m assuming that was Penrose?”
Charlotte’s steps faltered slightly. That conversation felt like a lifetime ago now. “You have a good memory, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I remember everything you said to me.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though it were not a remarkable admission at all. “So. Am I right?”
With anyone else she might have deflected, given some carefully assembled half-truth and moved the conversation elsewhere.
But this was him, and after tonight that felt like reason enough to simply tell the truth.
“Yes. Though I am beginning to think ‘arrangement’ is far too pleasant a word for it.”