Page 26 of Unforeseen Affairs (The Sedleys #6)

The table had been cleared, the port drunk—although Charlotte and her stepmother had abstained—and conversation had.

In their London home they never bothered with the ritual of shifting rooms; Ajax Sedley had never been one to stand on ceremony, though he did, on occasion, expect it of his eldest daughter.

Most of the time he couldn’t care less what she was about, allowing and even encouraging her interest in spiritualism and her desire to assist Mrs. Stone.

But sometimes he would look at her sadly, and Charlotte would know her father had been brooding, worrying himself sick over her prospects and future.

Then the suggestions would start. The introductions to young men she had no interest in meeting. The insistence that Cousin Bess accompany her everywhere.

It was a source of tension between the two of them, which dismayed Charlotte. She wished for nothing but to indulge her endless curiosity, and to know her family was well.

All of her family.

Sometimes it felt as if it had been so long since that fateful year, the last in which her mother could smile, laugh, and breathe easy.

If only Charlotte could know whether her spirit was at peace.

But the possibility of knowing had never before seemed as far away as it did tonight.

For they needed to upend Mr. Bass in order to set Mrs. Stone to rights, and Mr. Bass would never extend another invitation Sir Colin’s way.

On the other hand, judging by how well this impromptu dinner at her house had gone, there would always be room for the affable lieutenant at Ajax Sedley’s table.

Her father’s keen interest in world affairs had been on full display, as he had been a fount of questions all evening long.

He’d asked Sir Colin about the Russian meddling in Afghanistan and whether he had ever seen action in Asiatic waters, among many other things.

She would not have been surprised had he gone so far as to take notes in one of his small copybooks.

Thankfully, he did not ask just what Sir Colin had been after in attending séances across the city.

Charlotte did her best to hide her embarrassment, and decided instead to relax and enjoy the opportunity to look at Sir Colin—the thickness of his neck, the span of his shoulders, and the bright, coppery color of his hair when the firelight hit it just so.

She particularly appreciated his cheekbones and the cut of his jaw; they looked as lovely as they had felt when she’d caressed him.

It became apparent, though, that she had not done a good enough job of concealing her interest in him from her father.

After Sir Colin had made his goodbyes and left, the family’s conversation turned to more mundane topics. Charlotte was contentedly perusing the latest edition of The Spiritualist when her father caught her unawares.

“I suppose then, after all that, I ought to tell Mr. Simken to shoot off?”

The paper crinkled as she dropped it into her lap.

Her father was watching her intently, his head resting upon one hand, and he made no effort to disguise his smugness.

“Who is Mr. Simken?” Charlotte asked in a bored tone.

“The poet, dear,” her stepmother cut in.

Charlotte lifted the paper again. He knew. Hell and tarnation.

“Well, now,” her father chuckled, “I don’t see why I was worried.

Sir Colin is a fine young man. Gregarious.

A bit of a gambler, I think, but he can well afford it.

Humble, if you could believe it. Must be awfully sick of all the attention; the papers can’t get enough of the lad.

They all certainly hold him in high regard.

I think Dr. Collier is acquainted with him—I ought to ask.

Though… I confess I never would have supposed you a lion hunter. ”

“Ajax!”

“What? Susanna, I mean nothing by it! Only… he is of some renown.”

Judging by the contrition in his voice, Charlotte supposed her stepmother must’ve shot him her most censorious look.

Charlotte tried to focus on the article before her, and not the heat rising in her cheeks.

“If I recall, The Daily Albion spent several paragraphs of ink on the prize money alone.” Her father let out a low whistle. “I can understand him not having set back to sea; he could certainly retire in comfort right now if he wished.”

Charlotte tightened her hold on the paper, crumpling the edges.

She could still see the defeated slump of Sir Colin’s shoulders and the resigned frown upon his face as he lamented the downsides of fame.

You’d be surprised, I think, at what information about a stranger someone might bother to commit to memory.

“I confess I’m not well-versed in naval history,” Susanna mused, “but he could very well be the youngest sailor ever knighted.”

Charlotte felt a rising anger tighten her chest. Sir Colin didn’t like this sort of thing, she knew. He’d only touched upon it, but she knew it with certainty nonetheless, just as she knew the color of his hair and the cheerful rumble of his voice.

“It is possible,” she said from behind the paper as she glared at an advertisement for a pamphlet entitled Rifts in the Veil , “to consider a person separately from their achievements.”

“Of course. You are right, Charlotte. We ought not discuss those who are not present,” her stepmother agreed, slipping back into her governess tone.

“Although, I must say…” came her father’s voice once again.

Charlotte wanted to groan. But she would never.

“It is a wonder that he’s still ashore. I’d think many in his position would be desperate to be back at sea. Take Nelson, for example. Rose rapidly through the ranks, a post captain at just twenty. How old is Sir Colin? Twenty-five? He’s got to strike while the iron is hot!”

Behind the paper, Charlotte bit her lower lip, lest she blurt out something she might regret.

“Ajax…” warned her stepmother.

“Or is he of an age with you, Charlotte?”

“I could not say,” she answered mildly, knowing full well he was three years older than her twenty-two.

She frowned into the paper, her cheeks flaming for some reason. How do I know that so surely?

Blessedly, her father’s pointed interrogation was cut short by a gentle rap at the door—the nanny, apologizing profusely for disturbing them, had come to say that Lucius had woken and was inconsolable.

Charlotte peered around the paper, supposing this as good a time as any to make her escape.

Susanna moved her needlework from her lap, intending to go upstairs, but her father waved her off.

“No, no, sweetness—I’ll tend to it.” He stood up and placed one hand atop Susanna’s shoulder, followed by a gentle kiss atop her head. “Have your rest.”

He glanced back at Charlotte with a knowing smile that she did not care for just now. She stared back, stone-faced. She could hear his low chuckle as he left the room.

Irritated, she retreated back behind The Spiritualist and put on an air of placid indifference.

But Sir Colin would not leave her so easily, heating her cheeks with thoughts of his scent and the fullness of his lips on hers, how he’d tasted so clean and tantalizing.

How she could feel his raw strength when pressed against him.

How she wanted to be even closer to him than that—to be underneath him, as the delicious weight of his body held her down, pinning her in place while—

“Do not mind him, dear.”

Her stepmother’s calm, steady voice interrupted her lurid thoughts. She flushed with a curious guilt, though she knew there ought to be no reason for it. Such thoughts were biologically imperative, after all. Charlotte had read all she could find about the congress between the sexes.

And yet, having such thoughts in the presence of her stepmother—and former governess—felt strangely humiliating.

She swallowed thickly, glad for the flimsy shield of spiritualist ramblings about the nature of the Summerland and the necessity of purifying the corporeal form by abstaining from liquor and animal flesh.

“I do not,” she replied curtly.

Her own voice sounded close enough to its usual tone, she thought.

“Has something… happened? Something you might wish to talk about?”

Blast. Apparently not close enough.

“No.”

Her heartbeat ramped up again in the ensuing pause, but she remained motionless in her seat.

“Cousin Bess was asking after you. She says she hasn’t set eyes upon you in the past week or so.

Walter’s photographs have come back all wrong, apparently.

She aims to do another sitting, and I told her I would ask if you would attend once more to assist her.

” Susanna sighed deeply. Charlotte heard the telltale sounds of her gathering up her supplies—tiny scissors, loops of thread, the little cushion speared with needles.

“I am glad to have met Sir Colin. He seems a good friend to have.”

Friend?

The well-intended word stabbed Charlotte in the heart. She did not wish to be Sir Colin’s friend .

“Goodnight, darling. Do not stay up too late,” Susanna said, stifling a yawn. “Your father always worries when you keep odd hours.”

“Goodnight,” Charlotte murmured, still hiding behind the paper. She felt incapable of showing her face to anyone just now.

When finally she heard the door shut, she blew out a long, shaking breath. She threw the paper aside, frustrated by this hateful, unbearable yearning.

It was only a week ago that she’d merely reveled in the novelty of him.

She’d gone to bed thinking of Sir Colin’s handsome jaw, and the way he moved so confidently through the streets of London.

She’d caressed herself through her nightgown, teasing her body as she recalled the way he’d deftly yet casually twisted those bits of straw into cord, with fingers so nimble and precise.

It had felt good—luxurious, even—to dip into her own wetness and think of him.

A tiny shiver ran down her back at the recollection.

But now he’d kissed her. He thought her pretty. And, through his incessant apologies, he’d revealed his own frustration over their current circumstances.

Charlotte did not want his apologies. She wanted him on his knees before her, between her legs with his head beneath her rucked-up skirts, just as she’d seen in a ribald print on display at a printmaker’s shop years ago.

She wanted him behind her—with those wide, strong hands easily spanning the width of her waist—pulling her back into him, harder and more insistent with every thrust inside her.

It would not serve her well, this yearning.

Her mother had suffered endlessly for bearing a child out of wedlock, and the sins of the father had also been visited upon Charlotte; whispers about her bastardy followed her wherever she went.

It had never bothered her, and in fact seemed to wound her father more than any other.

But now Charlotte understood his guilt. She would not wish to bring another Sedley bastard into this cruel and cold world.

And still, she wanted to lie with Sir Colin. To rest her head upon his chest and listen to his every breath. She wanted to take his hand in hers and place a gentle kiss upon it every time he frowned, every time his brow creased with worry.

Just now, though, it seemed impossible.

As impossible as Mr. Bass forgiving them for causing a commotion at the spirit circle and inviting Sir Colin to another.

If none of the credulous dullards in attendance would report the events accurately and cast doubt upon Mr. Bass’s pathetic blame-shifting, then it will all have been for nothing.

Mrs. Stone would continue to be overshadowed by her fraudulent old rival, and Sir Colin’s friend would remain slandered and unvindicated.

Which meant Sir Colin could never marry the insufferable man’s sister.

Charlotte was suddenly hit with a bolt of clarity.

She didn’t want him to marry that girl.

Her heart thudded even more wildly in her chest, like a pendulum knocked off its rhythm. She slid a hand into her skirts and fished through her pocket.

She withdrew a small bit of twine, dry and ragged, made hurriedly of straw only several days ago. Rolling it between her forefinger and thumb, she considered its maker.

Just who was Sir Colin Gearing? And why did Charlotte care two figs about whom he chose to marry?

She sighed deeply with exhaustion, and closed her eyes.