Chapter 23 #2
Charlotte couldn’t explain the emotion filling her chest—some strange mixture of relief and betrayal and anger. “And, having gone behind my back in that, you thought you might as well pay him a visit without my knowledge?”
Anthony’s head whipped toward her. “Yes, Charlotte. You are welcome.”
“Welcome? You violate my privacy and meddle in my affairs, then expect my thanks? Did you think me incapable of handling things on my own?” She held his gaze, and when he said nothing, she stood and began pacing.
He had ended the arrangement without even speaking to her.
What would she do now to support her family?
“I thought,” Anthony said clearly, “that it was time I made good on the threats you made to him in my name.” He stood.
“Do you think you can bandy about my name and make threats on my behalf and I shall stand by while my betrothed is threatened? I am well-aware you think little of me, but good heavens, Charlotte.”
She paced the long rug that ran the length of the bedchamber, from the head of Anthony’s bed to the wall opposite.
Why was she so angry? There was nothing but relief in knowing she would not be obliged to defy Mr. Digby, in knowing she was no longer under his power.
There was gratitude—tenderness, even—in knowing Anthony had gone to such lengths to protect her.
She stopped mid-stride. That was it. She was coming to rely upon Anthony more and more .
. . and it terrified her. He had stopped her only means of providing for her family, and—as horrid as the employment and employer were—her family desperately needed that money.
By taking that away, Charlotte needed Anthony more than ever.
Yet, he would not stay. He would not be there to pick up the pieces that would inevitably shatter when their engagement ended. He would not be there to face the future and decide what to do next.
She shut her eyes, for the thought made her sick, and not only out of fear. How would she bear to lose him?
“I can take care of myself.” She said it as much to convince herself as she did for his benefit.
“I don’t doubt it,” he replied.
She turned toward him. “Then why? Why would you do such a thing? Why not simply ask me about the letter if you assumed it was from Mr. Digby?”
“I did, Charlotte.” He rose to his feet and approached her.
“I asked you, and you said it had contained nothing of import. But I knew that was not true. I had hoped, fool that I was, that you would confide in me of your own volition, just as I confided in you about Silas. We are engaged, Charlotte.”
“We are not!” she cried out. “Can you not see that your insistence on trying to get me out of scrapes is precisely the reason we find ourselves in this unbearable situation in the first place?”
The room went silent, and they stared at one another from inches apart.
Anthony swallowed and dropped his gaze. “True enough,” he said softly.
Charlotte’s chest rose and fell, and she fought the aggravating desire to cry. Her gaze went to the wound on his brow, and her throat thickened. “Did he strike you?”
Anthony shook his head and returned to sit on the bed. He took the damp towel in his hand and pressed it to the gash. “I slipped in the mud when I struck him. Hit my head on the fence.”
Charlotte cringed at the image his words conjured. The only reason he had this injury was because of her. She had brought nothing but trouble to him since their first meeting, and she hated knowing that.
She hated how her heart throbbed looking at him nursing the injury, hated how much she wanted to hate him as she had once done. But she did not hate him. She loved him. Fiercely.
Guilt pricked her conscience, and she let out a sigh, joining him on the bed. She reached for the towel in his hand, but he resisted. She waited, meeting his gaze, her fingers firm around his until he finally released the cloth, and their hands broke apart.
“So, you struck Mr. Digby,” she repeated.
“Something I have wished to do since the first time I met him.”
“And you have me to thank for giving you the opportunity.” Charlotte stole a furtive glance at him, hoping he would take the olive branch she was extending.
His gaze met hers, a subtle twinkle in his eye. “You were merely my excuse.”
“You are insufferable,” she said, using her free hand to move the hair that had fallen near the wound.
“And you unbearable.”
They smiled slightly at one another, and Charlotte felt that increasingly familiar nudge that teased with questions of what it would be like to kiss Anthony. Would it be so very bad to try?
She cleared her throat and pulled her hand away. Yes, it would be so very bad. As she had just said, they were not truly engaged or in love at all. She could not allow herself to fall any further.
“There. That is better. Perhaps your aunt’s cook can make up a poultice in the morning.” Standing, she took the towel back and placed it beside the porcelain basin. “I told my family the truth, Anthony.”
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“Not about Silas,” she clarified. “But about . . . us. And the caricatures.”
“And what did they have to say?”
“They were crushingly kind and understanding,” she said ruefully. “Far better to me than I deserve.”
“Hardly. They simply recognize the sacrifices you have made on their behalf, and they love you all the better for it. How could they not?”
Charlotte’s eyes flicked to his. His expression was impassible, however, giving her no clue as to whether he loved her all the better for what he saw in her. After his standing up to Digby, she couldn’t doubt that he cared for her, at least as a friend. But did he feel the love she felt?
“I was thinking,” she said, “that perhaps it would be wise to take the diary you already have to Barrington.”
Anthony’s brow furrowed, only to relax again as comprehension dawned in his eyes. “To replace the one there with. Yes. A capital idea.”
She walked to the door that led to her room, then stopped with her hand on the knob and shot him a smile. “I am not so incompetent as you think me.”
“I think you a number of things, but incompetent is certainly not one.”
Charlotte’s breath stuttered, and she forced a wavering smile. She desperately wished to know what he thought of her, but she dared not ask.
Instead, she wished him goodnight and returned to her bed, no nearer to sleep than she had been two hours ago.