Page 8

Eight

CONFESSION

Confession, according to the Oxford English Dictionary:

The disclosing of something the knowledge of which by others is considered humiliating or prejudicial to the person confessing; a making known or acknowledging of one's fault, wrong, crime, weakness, etc.

C harles retrieved his riding coat and stood on the portico, waiting for Lord Beecham and Will. The icy snow pelted his skin, and he pulled his collar tighter around his neck. That poor woman was out in this abominable weather.

“What’s happening?” He jumped at Miss Weston’s voice. “What is the commotion about?”

Charles turned to her. “Lady Annette went for a ride and was caught in the snowstorm. Your father has gone after her and sent for the reserves.” He tried to make light of the situation so she wouldn’t worry.

“Oh no. It’s all my fault!” Her fingers gripped his arm, the panic in her words making his gut twist. “I was so selfish, so rude.” She took in a quick breath and covered her mouth with her other hand. “Please let them both be fine.”

He saw a tear slip down her cheek and wiped it away with a thumb. “People go for rides every day. It is not your fault.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand?—”

Charles faced her, placing both hands on her arms. “Stop. You’ve been through enough this week. Let’s go inside and get you settled. We’ll be back with them in no time.” He turned her toward the door.

She resisted and shouted, “Look!” and pointed.

Lord Weston had come around the corner of the house, carrying Lady Annette, whose arms were around his neck. “Call a physician,” he ordered as took the steps two at a time, holding the woman as if she weighed nothing. “I’m taking her to her chamber. She has a fever and is shaking uncontrollably.”

They watched as Lord Weston moved inside the entrance hall and went upstairs, again two at a time. He met Lord Beecham and Will halfway up. The earl’s bellow for a doctor could have been heard across the district.

Charles led Miss Weston into the parlor. “Let me get you something to drink,” he said, wondering if he should offer a lady wine or brandy in this particular situation.

“If she dies, I will be to blame.”

Definitely brandy.

He sat next to her and handed her the amber liquid. “Now, without more tears—and I know you can do it—why would Lady Annette’s health have anything to do with you?”

The words poured out in a rush. How she’d come across them kissing, the selfish fit she’d thrown. “And I haven’t been able to apologize. I’m sure she ran out after the scene I made.”

Without thinking, Charles put an arm around her shaking shoulders. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and he struggled with how to help her. “Hush, now. All will be well. She’s young and strong and a chill won’t be the death of her.”

That caused another sob, and Charles inwardly berated himself. Try again. “Think of how the two of you will laugh about this when you bring the grandchildren to visit. Lady Annette is a Page. The family is full of heart and a forgiving nature.”

She sniffed and peeked up at him from beneath her dark lashes. “Do you really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Then she surprised him by tossing back the brandy without a grimace.

Miss Weston handed him the glass. “Thank you, Mr. Wilkens. You are a good man.”

Charles pried his gaze from her lips. You have no idea how wicked I am, he thought. “There is nothing we can do until the physician arrives. We would only be in the way right now.”

She nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder.

The devil. Does she think I’m made of stone? Conversation. It would keep her mind off the sickbed and his mind off of her… everything.

“Was it lonely growing up with no siblings?” he asked.

She seemed surprised by the question but shook her head. “Papa was a constant source of entertainment. He and Aunt Lucy were devoted to me. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Three sisters, I’m afraid. Like your father and aunt, I am devoted to them too, but they are devoted to embarrassing me every chance they get.” He laughed. “Little sisters are not for the faint of heart.”

“I’m glad I had none. Papa always said a son would never equal the sunshine provided by his daughter.” She dabbed at her eyes, recovering both her demeanor and her voice. “I thought he wanted a younger wife to finally get the son he supposedly never wanted. I should have trusted him more.”

“As I said before, you’ve had quite the week.” The warmth of her cheek seeped through his jacket. And it felt so… right. Sitting next to him, head on his shoulder, pouring out her heart. With a certainty he’d never felt before, Charles knew this woman had been made for him. It didn’t matter if her father was a viscount. It would take some persuasion, but he would convince Miss and Lord Weston that she would not be happier with anyone else. He smiled and kissed the top of head, then caught his breath. The scent of lavender floated to his nose, and he fought the desire to sigh in satisfaction.

“Maybe I would have been a better person if I’d been raised in a big family.” She peeked up at him, her brown eyes glistening like the melted sweet. “I wouldn’t be so self-absorbed.”

“Nonsense. By questioning yourself, you question your father and aunt’s part in raising you. Would you insult them?” he asked. “The fact you are even asking the question shows you cannot be as selfish as you think.”

Her smile was a better reward than he could imagine.

“Thank you,” she said. Leaning up, she kissed him on the cheek.

Before he could stop himself, his hand slipped to cup her face. He gently pressed his lips to hers. Lightning struck, but it wasn’t outside. If Charles had thought there was a possibility of walking away from this woman, now he knew it was impossible. When his eyes locked with hers, he saw fear in the depths.

Nodcock!

Will stuck his head in the door, eyes widening at the couple seated together. “There you are. They are working to bring the fever down. The physician is examining her now.” Then he was gone.

“Miss Weston, forgive me. You have only recently broken your troth, and I am acting most ungallant.” He stood, realizing he still wore his riding coat. “I shall leave you.”

“No,” she said, grabbing his fingers and pulling him back. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”

He sat down reluctantly. “It was fear I saw in your eyes. I did not mean to frighten you.”

“I’m glad you did.” She smiled, her fingertips touching her lips. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

“Like what?” His curiosity might lead him into a very inappropriate conversation.

“Tingly. Like a shiver but in a good way. And here,” she said, touching her stomach, “there’s a fluttering. Like wings.”

“Yes, I have the same reaction.” And more, but he wouldn’t go into that.

“Papa was right, of course. He always is.” With her forefinger, she traced his knuckles. “He said if I was only angry about James, not sad or heartbroken, then I never really loved him.”

Charles thought his heart would leap from his chest. She hadn’t loved another man. And here he was in the right place at the right time. “So you do not feel as if you are in mourning?”

She shook her head. “No, I feel as if I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.” Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his, then withdrew, smiling up at him. “Yes, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

“I suppose you’ve kissed hundreds of women,” she said, her lips forming a pout. “You’ll find my reaction quite provincial.”

He tipped her chin and looked straight into her eyes. “There is nothing provincial about you, Miss Weston.”

“I think,” she said with a sly smile, “you should call me Phoebe.” She reached up and tentatively brushed back a strand of hair from his forehead, rubbed it between her fingers as if she’d never felt a man’s hair before.

He closed his eyes and groaned. May the saints help him. As wonderful as this scene was, he needed to be the gentleman and end it. “Miss Weston, er, Phoebe, I cannot profess to have kissed hundreds of women, but I’ve kissed my share. This desire rushing through me is unique to your kiss. No other. But we must stop now or risk yet another scandal.”

Once again, he stood, but this time held his hand out to her. “Shall we find out how our hostess fares?”

When they walked below the mistletoe, Phoebe jumped up and snatched a berry from the plant. Charles, with all the restraint he never knew he had, took the berry from her and dropped it in his pocket.

“No more kisses until you’ve had time to sort out of your feelings.” He grinned at her disappointed look. “I want you to get a good night’s rest, and we shall talk more tomorrow.”

“You are giving me the opportunity to take back my kiss?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

He shook his head. “Never. It will be a cherished memory until I die an old man. I am giving you the chance to change your mind about giving me another.”

And time to figure out, if the lady didn’t change her mind, how to broach the subject to Lord Weston. How would the viscount take a proposal for his only daughter from a solicitor?