Chapter 13 - Stephen #3
“I wouldn’t dare.” He raised an eyebrow at her lifted chin. “Though I confess myself curious about the frequency of these mishaps.”
“You’re deflecting,” she observed, stepping closer until he could feel the warmth of her breath against his neck. “Come inside. Let me—“
“Inside?” He stared at her as if she’d suggested something far more scandalous than basic medical care. “Yes, that would be much less foolish than walking alone at night. Sneaking a man into your bedroom.”
“Into the kitchen,” she corrected, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Unless you’d prefer to walk through London looking like you’ve been in a tavern brawl?”
“And here I thought it gave me a rather roguish air,” he said, touching his chin with mock consideration.
Despite everything that had just happened, she laughed—a genuine sound that rang clear through the night, nothing like the polite titters he’d heard from ladies in drawing rooms. This laugh was real, unguarded, with a breathless quality that suggested she’d tried to contain it and failed, and he felt the sound of it settle into his bones like something he’d been waiting his entire life to hear.
He would do anything to hear it again, would make a fool of himself a hundred times over if it meant she’d laugh like that, free and genuine and so perfectly herself that it made his heart stutter against his ribs.
“You’re impossible,” Charlotte said, shaking her head.
“So I’ve been told.” The words came out low, distracted by how her eyes had brightened, by the lingering smile that made him want things he had absolutely no right to want.
They stared at each other, her smile gradually fading as the air shifted between them.
Moonlight caught copper threads in her hair, illuminated the small clouds her breath created, the delicate pulse visible at her throat.
Nothing existed beyond this moment, this woman who had somehow become the center of everything without his permission.
An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness. Charlotte blinked, as if surfacing from a dream, and gestured silently toward the house.
She led him along the side, her steps sure and quiet despite the lack of light.
He followed, watching how she navigated the familiar terrain with ease, around flower beds, past what looked like herb gardens still clinging to life.
She paused before a wooden door at the back, opening it to reveal a darkened kitchen.
The space was small and orderly, illuminated by a single candle left burning on the counter. Charlotte moved quickly, pulling clean cloths from a drawer and filling a basin with water. Stephen stayed where he was, aware of how intimate this felt—the two of them alone, the rest of the house asleep.
As she turned to set the basin on a nearby table, Stephen spotted a worn volume on a small table near the hallway, its spine cracked from frequent reading. Even in the dim candlelight, he could make out the author’s name embossed in faded gold: Ann Radcliffe.
She must have been reading nearby and set it down when interrupted, forgetting to take it with her in whatever had followed.
He had already started the Ann Radcliffe novel she’d mentioned, and he’d search for a copy of this one as well, would track down every book she loved if he could.
He wanted to know them all, wanted to understand what captured her imagination and filled the quiet spaces of her mind.
“You seem remarkably prepared for tending wounded strangers.”
“Perhaps I make a habit of rescuing men from brawls.” She wrung out the cloth in the basin, a hint of amusement threading through her voice.
She gestured to a nearby chair. “Now sit, or you’ll be joining the ranks of the permanently wounded.”
Stephen settled into it, hyperaware of how the seat brought him to the perfect height so their eyes were nearly level.
She hesitated before reaching toward him, as if suddenly aware of the impropriety of what she was about to do. Her fingers hovered near his temple, not quite touching.
“This might hurt.”
She brought the damp cloth to his temple, her touch clinical at first, methodical as she cleaned away the dried blood. But there was something vulnerable in the way she bit her lower lip in concentration, the way her brow furrowed as she worked.
“Hold still.”
Stephen realized he’d been leaning slightly toward her without meaning to. He forced himself to remain motionless, gripping the edges of the chair to anchor himself in place.
“You’re lucky he didn’t do worse damage.
” Her fingers caught his chin, gentle but firm as she tilted his head to examine the wound.
Her skin was impossibly soft against his, warm and smooth in a way gloves had never let him notice.
Every previous touch had been separated by fabric, proper and distant.
But now there was nothing between them, and the simple contact made his pulse stutter.
“That ring could have opened a much deeper gash,” she said.
“You should see the other fellow.” Stephen tried to keep his voice light. “He’ll be sporting quite the impressive bruise tomorrow.”
“Such concern for his appearance.” She hesitated, her hand slowing. “Do you think he will be all right?”
Stephen gave a small nod, wincing slightly at the friction against the cloth. “He was conscious enough when we left. His valet will have found him by now.”
She let out a slow breath, and when she spoke her voice was barely above a whisper. “Why were you there tonight?”
All the things Stephen couldn’t tell her seemed to fill the space between them. “I could ask you the same question.”
“I was visiting my mother. But you… were you following me?”
He should lie. Should offer some convenient excuse about insomnia and aimless wandering. But with her hand still resting against his face, with barely a breath of space separating them, he found he couldn’t manage it.
“You brought her flowers,” he remarked, avoiding the question.
Charlotte’s expression softened. “Wild roses. English shrub roses to be specific, though some call them Rosa Charlotte.” A faint, sad smile touched her lips.
“My mother named me after them, actually. She planted them throughout our garden, saying they were the most honest flowers. Beautiful without artifice, impossible to contain no matter how you tried to tame them.” Her voice grew tender with memory.
“She told me once that love should be like those roses.”
Her hand drew back, and she turned her attention to the cloth, wringing it between her fingers without looking at him.
The fact that she’d chosen to share this with him— memories that obviously still hurt, beliefs that shaped everything she was—felt like something fragile and valuable that Stephen needed to hold carefully, needed to prove himself worthy of keeping safe.
“She sounds like she was remarkable,” he said quietly.
“She was. More than I knew how to appreciate when I had her.”
“I’m sorry.” The words felt inadequate the moment they left his mouth, an empty platitude people offered when they didn’t know what else to say.
Stephen knew from experience that condolences never helped, that nothing anyone said could ease the grief.
But perhaps knowing she wasn’t alone in carrying it might.
He paused, then offered, “My father died when I was eighteen. I still had him longer than some, but…” He stopped, searching for the right words.
“The memories make it harder, I think. When I’m reading, when I’m translating—he’s there in every word.
But I’d rather have those painful reminders than nothing at all. ”
Charlotte’s hands stilled. Slowly, she lifted her head until her eyes found his, and for a moment neither of them moved. “Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Something in the quiet that followed made Stephen want to offer more, to match the trust she’d placed in him.
“My father made sure I had every educational advantage he could give me,” The words came easier than expected, perhaps because of the late hour, or the quiet of this kitchen, or simply because it was her.
“He believed learning was the only inheritance that couldn’t be taken away.
After he died, I thought I’d find work that made use of what he’d taught me.
” He offered a slight shrug. “Life had other plans.”
“I’m sorry.” Charlotte’s voice was soft with genuine sympathy. “That must have been difficult.”
“Some days more than others.” A faint smile tugged at his lips despite the weight of the memory. “Though I suspect he’d be more disappointed in my melancholy than my circumstances. He never had much patience for self-pity.”
Charlotte returned the smile briefly before her gaze dropped to the cloth again.
“Sometimes I think forgetting would be easier. That if I could just stop remembering, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
But the memories are all I have left of her.
Even the ones that hurt. I don’t think I could give them up even if I tried. ”
She drew in a shaky breath, her fingers tightening on the cloth. “She’s the reason I can’t marry him.”
Stephen went very still.
“Lord Penrose, I mean.” Charlotte turned toward the basin, her movements suddenly mechanical. “My family thinks I’m being foolish. Impractical.” She wrung out the cloth with more force than necessary, water streaming between her fingers. “That I should be grateful he wants me at all.”
She released the cloth, letting it fall into the basin, and lay one hand flat against the table while the other pressed briefly to her lips, as though to keep something in. Her shoulders rose with a sharp inhale.
“According to my aunt, my mother filled my head with fantasies that have no place in real life. She says that love is a luxury we can’t afford. She tells me I’m choosing my own happiness over everyone else’s survival. That refusing Penrose makes me selfish and ungrateful.”