Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
If I could run, I would—but somehow Kitty and I thought it was a brilliant idea to trap ourselves in this corner of the Orangery.
“Damnation,” I whisper.
“There are ladies present,” Francis scolds me with a gasp.
I’m not sure if he is having a laugh or if he’s really just an absolute boob. I don’t look at him to find out; I can’t tear my gaze from him as he makes his way towards me with Elizabeth in tow. At least they haven’t got the children with them; that would be far more than I could handle.
“Christopher-Henry,” he says stiffly, once he’s near enough to speak without yelling.
What do I say? What do I call him? Does he know that I know? Does Elizabeth know? I stare at her, and she gazes back at me with watery eyes, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. Dear God, I hope she doesn’t.
“Sir,” I settle on with a nod.
He sneers, and I know in that moment that he knows I know.
Before he can get a word in, I speak again. “I hear congratulations are in order on the birth of your second daughter.”
He takes the comment like a slap to the face—as though he would throttle me if it wouldn’t dirty his hands to touch me.
What an absurd reaction. What a small man. Were I the sort who wanted children, I would be just as happy with a girl or a boy.
“Oh, Christopher-Henry,” Elizabeth whimpers, and I take a small step back.
“Elizabeth,” I say carefully. “You look well.”
“My Lady,” my former father hisses at me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I won’t have you calling my wife by her Christian name,” he snaps.
Ah. I see how it is now. I finish my champagne and set the glass on a passing servant’s tray with a silent nod of thanks. “Don’t worry, Father,” I say. “I have no interest in stealing your child-bride from you. You needn’t worry about my being too familiar.”
“How dare you,” he growls.
“Easily,” I reply evenly. “I would stay and chat, but I think I’d rather be drawn and quartered.” I turn to Kitty and take her hand, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “Good night, Katherine. Francis.” I look at Elizabeth. “Elizabeth.”
She dabs at her eyes and nods, and I bow to them.
Then, without another glance at Viscount Falmouth, I stride away from the small group.
Before I make it to the doors, I see a familiar face, one I would much rather avoid.
I turn away before Digby Hale and his father can lay eyes on me, and make for the French doors that lead out into the frosty, snow-covered gardens.
I step outside—and instantly my breath clouds around my head like the smoke from the Turkish man’s pipe. I trudge out of the way of the windows, shivering, and wrap my arms around myself to keep from freezing in the cold.
“Well, this was a great idea,” I say to no one.
“A bit cold for a walk in the garden,” no one says in reply.
Christ!
I spin around, a hand to my chest, and lock eyes with an exceptionally pretty young man: big brown eyes, beautiful lips, and a silly white wig on his head.
“Indeed,” I say, a bit breathless from my scare. “But far more adventurous.”
“Fan of adventure, are you?” he asks as he approaches me.
He has no idea. “Apparently so,” I murmur.
He chuckles, though he doesn’t understand what I’m really talking about. “My name is William,” he says. As simple as that, not a title in sight—though he clearly has one, from the quality of his wig.
Once upon a time, I would have drowned my sorrows with his mouth.
And some part of me still wants to be that Kit, wants to be free of my aching heart and grief for all that was ripped from me.
I don a grin and straighten my back. “Christopher-Henry,” I say, because somehow asking him to call me Kit feels like a betrayal to Captain Sharpe.
“A pleasure to meet you, Christopher-Henry,” he says as he takes yet another step closer.
“I’m sure it is,” I say coyly, and am rewarded with another chuckle. I both love and hate the small thrill I feel at the sound of flirtatious laughter. “Shall we take a walk, then?” I ask, motioning to the gardens. “There’s a fine pile of snow over there, by that other pile of snow.”
“Is there?” he asks, more laughter in his voice. “I’d love to see it.”
And then we are walking through the frozen gardens in search of a door into the private apartments of the palace, as my desperate need for oblivion does battle with my all-too-recently-broken heart.
Admittedly, I have no idea where I am going. I haven’t explored the halls of Kensington Palace without a guide since my childhood, and at that time it was at least thrice the size and the rooms had a tendency to move around.
I don’t know how to get back to my apartments from this garden, though I know there must be some convoluted path there.
We make our way back into Kensington Palace through a side door, entering into the conservatory.
At first the footman at the door looks alarmed—but then he recognizes me and bows without a word.
I give him a grateful nod as we pass, and he closes the door behind us.
We leave behind a trail of snow and dirt, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I lead William through to a drawing room, and though it is empty, I decide not to risk a dalliance here, lest someone walk in. We slip into the staircase behind the drawing room instead, and before we make it around the bend of the landing, his hands are on my waist.
I turn and let him crowd me against the wall.
His mouth covers mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck as he crushes his body to me.
We are similarly built, but the way he’s grinding his hips against mine is causing the wainscotting behind me to dig into my back.
It’s not entirely pleasant, but I try to ignore it.
I need this. I do. I try to shift my weight as we kiss—frantic, short-lived kisses with too much tongue and teeth, but still good. William is a far more appealing paramour than Digby Hale ever was—though he is nothing compared to my captain.
And just like that, my heart is no longer in it.
I push him back, perhaps a bit too roughly. Before I can explain myself, my cuff catches the queue of his wig and sends it careening to the floor. He gasps and twists away from me to try to catch it, but in doing so, he stumbles back a step and we both go toppling into the railing.
One of us kicks the wig—I’m not sure who—and it vaults into the air to escape down the stairs, then lands at the bottom with an inelegant flop.
We both stare at it, his arms still around my waist, our lips flushed and swollen. He begins to tremble against me, and I almost don’t want to look at him. Is he furious? Have I humiliated him?
Finally I face him and see that he is shaking with barely contained laughter. I let out a breath and a single soft chuckle of my own, and that’s all it takes to break him.
William bursts into laughter, one arm rising to drape across his eyes. He has a lovely, albeit messy, head of dark golden hair. I wonder why he chose to cover it up in the first place.
I let him go, and he slides to the floor. I sink down in front of him, one leg dangling off the steps as I laugh with him—my first genuine bout of laughter since I was on board the Deliverance.
But even that feels like a betrayal. As my laughter turns sour on my tongue, I understand that I’m not ready to be unfaithful to Captain Sharpe yet, no matter how lonely I may be.