Chapter 20 - Charlotte
Charlotte
Nothing would ever feel quite the same again, and Charlotte wasn’t certain she wanted it to.
Her lips still burned from his kiss, her skin still hummed where his hands had been, and even now, standing in the lamp-lit corridor, Charlotte could still feel the weight of his body against hers, the desperate tenderness in his fingers as they’d tangled in her hair.
“There you are, my dear!” Lady Bellamy’s exclamation sliced through her haze, sharp enough to make Charlotte flinch.
She summoned what she hoped resembled composure, though her heart still pounded so hard she was certain it must be visible through her gown. “Forgive me. I was—I was feeling rather faint from the heat.”
The lie tasted bitter on lips that still carried the phantom taste of his mouth.
The older woman’s gaze traveled slowly over Charlotte’s appearance, and whatever she saw made something flicker across her features—concern, perhaps, or understanding.
Without a word, Lady Bellamy produced a fan from her reticule and pressed it into Charlotte’s hands. The ivory sticks felt cool against her overheated palms, a stark contrast to the warmth still radiating through her.
“Perhaps,” Lady Bellamy said quietly, her tone carrying layers of meaning Charlotte was too scattered to fully parse, “we should visit the retiring room before returning to the music. Your aunt mentioned Lady Jersey has been asking after you.”
The words hit like cold water.
Lady Jersey.
Charlotte’s chest constricted as reality crashed back with brutal force.
How long had she been gone? She had been so utterly lost in him, in the dangerous perfection of their stolen moment, that she’d forgotten everything else.
The party. Her duties. The dozens of guests who would have noted her absence.
The scandal that even a hint of impropriety could unleash.
Dear God, what had she done?
Something in her expression must have betrayed the rising panic, because a hand found her elbow with sudden urgency. “Come,” Lady Bellamy murmured, her grip gentle but firm as she steered Charlotte down the corridor. “Quickly now, before anyone else sees you.”
They moved swiftly through the lamp-lit passages. Charlotte felt as if she were moving through water, her body still half-caught in that library where the world had narrowed to nothing but him.
Within moments, they were safely behind the retiring room’s closed door.
Charlotte barely registered the plush furnishings, the delicate wallpaper, the expensive soaps arranged on a marble-topped table. Her attention fixed immediately on the gilt-framed mirror above the washstand, and what she saw there made her breath catch in her throat.
She looked utterly ruined.
Her curls had come partially loose, several pins missing entirely so that auburn strands fell in disarray around her flushed face.
The garnets at her throat seemed to pulse with an accusing gleam in the lamplight, drawing attention to the place where his lips had burned against her skin.
But worst of all was her fevered expression and the telltale swelling of her mouth, proclaiming to anyone with sense exactly what she’d been doing.
“Oh God,” Charlotte whispered, pressing her fingers to her lips. They felt tender, almost bruised. “I look—“
“Thoroughly compromised,” Lady Bellamy finished quietly. She moved behind Charlotte, her reflection appearing in the mirror as her fingers began working at the remaining pins. “Though we shall remedy that.”
Charlotte watched as deft hands moved with purpose, each touch gentle but sure, smoothing away the evidence with the same care one might use to conceal a crime. Which, Charlotte supposed, with a hysterical flutter in her chest, was precisely what they were doing.
“I didn’t mean—“ she started, then stopped, unsure of how to finish. What could she possibly say? That she hadn’t meant to kiss him? That would be a lie. That she hadn’t meant to be caught? That was certainly true, but hardly excusable.
“Hush now.” Another pin was extracted from the remaining coiffure, letting a section of hair fall before rebuilding it. “The less said, the better. For both our sakes.”
Charlotte’s throat tightened. The kindness in that voice made everything worse somehow, highlighting the magnitude of what she’d risked. Not just her own reputation, but now Lady Bellamy’s as well, by proxy.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, meeting concerned eyes in the mirror. “You’ve always been so kind to me, and I’ve—“
“You’ve done nothing I haven’t done myself.
” Her hands paused for just a moment, resting lightly on Charlotte’s shoulders.
When their gazes met in the mirror, the older woman’s lips twitched.
“Did you think I was born a proper widow, my dear? That I emerged from the womb already draped in black crepe?”
Charlotte blinked, momentarily shocked out of her spiraling anxiety. She’d never considered Lady Bellamy as anything other than what she was now—dignified, respectable, the sort of woman who navigated society’s strictest rules with effortless grace.
“I met Lord Bellamy at my cousin’s wedding,” she continued, her fingers resuming their work.
Her voice carried a softness Charlotte had never heard before, fond and a little wistful.
“He was groomsman to the groom, I was attendant to the bride. We were supposed to process down the aisle together.” She paused, tucking in a pin with particular care.
“We spent the entire ceremony passing notes like schoolchildren. By the wedding breakfast, we’d disappeared into the rose garden. My mother nearly had an apoplexy.”
Despite everything, Charlotte felt a startled laugh bubble up in her chest. “She didn’t.”
“Oh, she most certainly did. Found us behind the folly, me with grass stains on my hem and him looking thoroughly pleased with himself.” Lady Bellamy’s reflection smiled properly now, her whole face softening.
“We were engaged within a month, married within three. Everyone said it was too fast, too impulsive. That passion couldn’t possibly sustain a marriage.
” Her hands worked steadily, transforming chaos back into order.
“We proved them wrong. Thirty-one years together before the riding accident took him.”
Charlotte remembered the funeral, how Henrietta had clung to her. How her brother Percy had left for Europe within the month, unable to stay. She understood that kind of loss all too well.
Her voice steadied, growing stronger. “But I had all those years of being thoroughly, scandalously happy. Of waking beside someone who made my heart race even after decades together. Of watching him be brave and foolish and utterly himself. Not many can claim that, my dear. And I would rather have had those thirty-one imperfect, passionate years than a lifetime of suitable contentment.”
The words settled into Charlotte’s chest like an anchor—or perhaps a lifeline. She’d been so certain she was alone in this reckless passion, so convinced that what she felt made her improper, unladylike.
“There.” She stepped back, gesturing to the mirror with a satisfied nod.
Charlotte turned her attention back to her reflection and felt her breath catch in astonishment.
Somehow, impossibly, she’d been transformed back into respectability.
Her hair was once again properly arranged—perhaps a touch less formal than before, a few artful tendrils deliberately loose, but nothing that would raise eyebrows.
The only things that remained to betray her were the persistent flush in her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, neither of which could be pinned back into place.
“You’re a miracle worker,” she breathed, half-awed and half-terrified by the transformation. “You must be. How did you—“
“Practice, my dear.” Lady Bellamy’s smile turned knowing as she produced a small powder compact from her reticule. “A great deal of practice. Now, a touch of this for those cheeks, and we shall be ready to face the lions.”
Charlotte accepted the compact, dabbing the powder across her heated skin. It helped, marginally, though she suspected nothing short of a bucket of ice water would truly cool the fire still burning beneath her flesh.
“Thank you,” She managed, setting the compact aside. The gratitude felt inadequate for what Lady Bellamy had done. “For everything. For not—“ She swallowed, unable to finish the thought. For not judging her. For not exposing her. For not treating her like she’d committed some unforgivable sin.
“My dear girl.” Lady Bellamy’s expression gentled further. “We help our own. Those of us foolish enough to follow our hearts rather than our heads must look out for one another.” She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. “Though I would offer one word of caution.”
Charlotte’s stomach tightened. “Yes?”
“Whatever this is between you and your mysterious gentleman, it cannot remain a secret forever. These things have a way of coming to light, particularly when…” A pause, then sympathy softened her expression.
“Particularly when there are those who would benefit from exposing them. Lord Penrose strikes me as a man who does not take well to competition.”
“I understand,” Charlotte said quietly, though what choice did she have? As long as Penrose held power over her family’s future, she had to tread carefully.
“Come now, the third part of the evening is about to begin. Lady Jersey will expect you to show proper appreciation for the remainder of her entertainment.”
Charlotte straightened her shoulders, summoning what remained of her composure. “Of course.”
They moved through the corridors in silence, the sounds of the gathering growing louder with each step. Voices murmured beyond the music room doors, the hushed anticipation of guests awaiting whatever entertainment Lady Jersey had planned next.