Page 36 of Unforeseen Affairs (The Sedleys #6)

When Charlotte finally rose from the bed, she looked over the tiny room with different eyes. With the knowledge of a woman who’d tasted pleasure of the carnal sort.

Suddenly, so many things—every novel she’d ever read, every couple she’d watched on the street—made so much more sense to her. Her own mother and father. Her stepmother, even.

How were people meant to contain themselves in mixed company, buttoned up under layers of garments, suffocating under the weight of feigned politeness and forced conversation?

She paused before the mirror, studying her own nude form—the stiff peaks of her nipples, the elegant curves of her waist, the soft hair between her legs.

She was quite pretty, she realized. Hang mixed company; how could anyone, gentleman or lady, go out into the world and not wish to take the first attractive person they saw to bed with them?

It was a wonder, she realized, that anyone ever accomplished anything else when bedsport was available to be had.

A thousand intriguing possibilities of what she might do with Colin filled her mind. Right now, though, she ached where he’d entered her, so anything more would have to wait.

Besides, there were other pressing matters to address at the moment.

Her parents would soon realize she’d tricked them, if they hadn’t already.

She didn’t think anyone would know where to look for her, but the Sedleys had connections all over, and she was traveling with a well-known and recognizable person; there was no telling when they might be found, at which point she would be forced back to London.

Or to her father’s old pile in Yorkshire—exiled, perhaps, as punishment.

And they were still here in Fairhurst, a full day’s coach ride from Manchester. Or so the innkeeper had informed her the night before.

Charlotte looked out the window; the sun had fully risen. They’d better get on with it, then.

Masking her disappointment behind lips set in a firm line, she reached for the same bit of toweling she’d used to wash up the night before.

She dabbed it in the ewer, in the same stale water, and began to clean herself up.

She took extra care between her legs, where she felt quite sticky. The toweling came away bright red.

Blood.

She stared at it in her hand as a queer feeling came over her. She shut her eyes, trying to steady herself.

When she opened them again, she was surrounded by blinding light. The small, spartan room of the Fairhurst inn had vanished, and she was backstage in a theater, watching her mother out on the boards. Footlights ringed the stage, and the pungent smell of kerosene lamps hung thick in the air.

“Mama,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Her hand stung.

Charlotte looked down, and she started. A long gash cut across her palm, oozing bright red blood. She looked up again.

Her mother wore an outrageous gown, an over-the-top whirl of fripperies in garish colors. The costume projected its tastelessness all the way to the back of the balcony, carrying alongside her mother’s clear, resonant voice.

“Mama,” she whispered again.

Why would she not turn around and look at her? Why would she not help Charlotte with her hand?

Charlotte’s vision blurred as tears welled up and threatened to spill. She shut her eyes tight, not wanting to appear childish, but one tear managed to escape down her cheek.

When she opened her eyes again, it was all gone. The stage, the lights, the kerosene. Her mother.

She was back in Fairhurst, in the small room with whitewashed walls, dimly lit by the sunrise. Her hand, once again unblemished, held the rough scrap of toweling painted red by the loss of her maidenhead.

“Charlotte?”

No . Panicked, she shut her eyes again. Mama, come back! Look at me! She opened them to find herself still in the present. Distraught, she tried it again, the tears flowing freely now.

“Charlotte? What is it?”

No, no, no… she’d been so close. So close to what she’d been seeking these past several years. And now—

A firm hand took hold of her arm, tugging her backward into a warm embrace.

Colin.

“What is it?” he whispered, his voice urgent, agonized. “Are you… do you regret it that much?”

How to explain it?

You could try , a little voice suggested. Charlotte quickly dismissed it. This was her own private sorrow; she saw no reason to invite others into it.

Even with her father, the only other person in her life who had known her mother, she remained close-mouthed about her grief.

He sometimes made attempts to speak of it, in his own roundabout way, but Charlotte always resisted.

In a strange way she felt possessive of it, as if keeping her pain and longing locked away, all to herself, meant that her mother could never truly leave her.

She sighed, and sank into Colin’s hold.

His arms tightened.

“No. Of course I don’t regret it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His head dipped, resting against the back of hers. It felt quite nice.

“There’s something troubling you, though.”

“Only ghosts,” she murmured. It was truth enough.

“Ghosts?” He sounded unnerved.

“Yes,” she said, allowing herself to be more playful now. “The entire inn is riddled with spirits.”

Colin was silent.

“Of course, you are free to pay it no mind,” Charlotte said. “But we would do well to make haste.”

That put an end to their dawdling, and within a quarter of an hour both of them were washed and dressed and on their way out into the village. After a brief ride on a smallholder’s wagon, they arrived in Sheffield.

With the railway completely out of the question, and Charlotte unwilling to risk Colin’s head in a carriage, they settled on the only option left to them in their haste: post horses.

It took a fair amount of walking about and asking passers-by, but they ultimately found what they needed from a postmaster, who had been chuffed to recognize Colin and sent them on their way atop two hale and healthy mounts at an excellent discount.

“Are you certain about this?” Colin asked. “I am sure I could manage a coach, or a chaise. I do well enough with cabs in the city. And I can’t say I like the look of the clouds…”

Charlotte stared down at Colin as he secured her valise to the back of her saddle. It occurred to her how much she liked watching him do mundane tasks. He usually had a quiet assuredness about himself, just like this, even when his words were full of apologies and worries about her.

She liked that too, she realized. She liked it when he fell over himself to beg her pardon. It felt nice to be fretted over. Perhaps that was why she’d teased him for so long.

A wicked thought entered her mind, of what she might do were they together in the same bed once more, and she smiled, wondering.

“Miss Sedley?” he asked as he looked up at her, those gentle eyes questioning.

Charlotte felt a blush warm her cheeks, and she shook her head softly. “We will manage.”

“That we will.”

“And do not call me ‘Miss Sedley’ again.”

He paused, thinking for a moment, then smiled, and she felt her heart tighten. He had smiled at her several times that morning already. It made her want to reach out and take his hand in hers.

As if reading her thoughts, he took her gloved hand and kissed her fingers ever so softly.

Her body felt warm and flushed as he mounted his own horse. She’d been more than willing to admit an affection for him, but did that mean she must lose her senses as well?

Slightly disconcerted that she seemed to have suddenly lost so much of the self-control she had always prided herself on, she did her best to put it away for the time being. To not focus on the width of his shoulders, or the memory of his hard stomach and lean, ropey arms, among other things.

She was in for a challenging ride.

Around the halfway point between Sheffield and Manchester it began to drizzle. At first they shrugged it off, for what else was there to do? They had no choice but to keep on.

And then the sky opened into an enormous spring thunderstorm.

Colin kept glancing back, expecting Charlotte to beckon him back to her, ready to stop and find shelter. But every time, she only looked determinedly at him with her wide eyes, her hat soggy but her back straight. His heart swelled with pride; she’d have made an excellent ensign.

Not even the storm could distract him from the domestic fantasies that precipitated from the events of that morning.

Of what Charlotte might be like as a wife, or even a mother.

But although such thoughts took hold in his mind with a uncommon strength, resisting even his worries about what Commodore Gearing might say, Colin knew nothing of her opinions on the subject.

Of whether she, in turn, might consider him as a husband. And a father.

She had gently steered the conversation away from the subject when he awkwardly tried to broach it during the wagon ride to Sheffield.

It had humbled him and made the dull ache in his head throb, both at the time and when recalling it now, but then he thought of her moans, her eagerness to have him inside her.

And he felt slightly better; the pressure in his head had eased somewhat.

The sound of thunder persisted as they plodded along the soggy track, though blessedly the lightning seemed content to remain in the clouds.

In the distance he spotted a small structure—a shelter shed. It was nothing more than a slanted roof, open on all sides, intended as a temporary refuge for travelers or livestock. He fell back and drew his horse alongside hers. The hammering of the rain was deafening.

“Shall we wait it out, do you think?” he shouted, nodding toward the shelter.

“Very well,” Charlotte called back.

They were both soaked through by the time they dismounted underneath it, having dressed for a simple railway journey rather than mounted travel. Colin saw to the horses, settling them by stroking their necks and praising them in a soft, gentle voice.