Page 54 of A Perilous Passion

She pressed her hands together above his breastbone and rested her chin on it. “These are not the words of a rake,” she said consideringly.

“You deserve better than a rake,” he replied with equal seriousness, then turned his head away and exhaled deeply.

Realizing that signaled the end of their conversation, she pushed out a frustrated sigh and removed herself carefully from his supine form. Without his heat, without his caress, she felt lost, like a candle smoking forlornly after its brilliance has been snuffed out.

She pushed her feet into her slippers and pulled her woolen shawl closely about her shoulders. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and left the room.

After closing the door behind her, she leaned back against it, seeking comfort from its sturdiness. Her heart was hammering fit to burst.

She’d been just a whisper away from giving herself to him entirely. Thank heaven Rafe had more self-control than she did.

Admittedly, he’d said he would marry her. But how could she possibly ensure he honored that promise?

Especially given her checkered background…

If the Earl of Beckport married her without knowing her darkest secret, their marriage would be built on a lie. And when the story came out—as it surely would—she’d be damned by him, and they’d both be cast from Society by the ton.

It might not matter to her because she was nobody. But how could she wish such a fate on Rafe, a man who was risking his very life to redeem his good name and resurrect his tarnished reputation?

No, she couldn’t possibly put him through that kind of ignominy.

She had truly grown to love Rafe. Marrying him was her heart’s greatest desire. But she knew it could never happen.

Not in this lifetime.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Reaching for his walking stick, Rafe eased himself out of the chair in which he’d spent most of his waking hours for the past three days. His wound was healing cleanly, but the muscle around it was badly bruised by the impact of the ball, making it a struggle to stand.

Yet stand he did, and walk, as well. Every moment he remained in the Allston house brought the family closer to danger, and himself further away from catching his quarry.

Pain lanced through his thigh as he put his foot to the floor, but he gritted his teeth and started toward the door, determined to exercise the muscles.

Stiffly, he made his way to the window at the top of the stairs, which offered a view of the path and the world beyond the crumbling brick walls of the Allston’s cottage garden. Each step felt like a white-hot poker being driven into his thigh. But the pain would ease in time. It had to.

He approached the window, as he always did, on the shaded side, and peered out from behind the drape. It was many months since he’d dared reveal himself fully in a window, lest someone take a pot shot at him. If only he knew for sure that the traitors weren’t on to him, and that Culverdale had no idea he was being sought by someone other than the bumbling local militia.

Charlotte appeared below, looking divinely lovely, her unbound tresses catching the light like spun gold.

He sucked in a breath and his gut clenched. His fingers tightened on the drape as he watched her pace up and down in front of the house, engrossed in reading a letter.

It was unfair of him to blame her for what had happened the other night. She was innocent and untried. She genuinely didn’t understand what it meant to tempt a man beyond endurance.

The really difficult thing was, his interest in her now went way beyond simple flirtation. But to pursue her any further was to make a rod for his own back.

Yet, still he gazed at her, drinking in the sublime vision, barely remembering to breathe.

But as he watched her, he realized something was wrong. He’d learned to read people well—an essential skill for a spy. Charlotte was in distress; her shoulders were tight, her steps short and abrupt, and she gnawed at her lower lip.

She quickly folded up the letter she was reading, looked about her, and tucked it surreptitiously into her apron pocket. Fisting her hands, she marched back into the house, her face set.

He drew back. What was in that letter that had so disturbed her? And how had she come by it? There’d been no post today—he’d have heard it arrive. Having made the business of the household his own, he knew Charlotte had been to the village briefly this morning to visit a distressed widow by the name of Mrs. Scadden. Had she picked up the letter then?

Anything untoward that concerned her concerned him, too. He needed to know what was in that letter.

But how to find out without Charlotte’s knowledge? She certainly wouldn’t willingly divulge the contents of her private correspondence. Something to ponder…

By the afternoon, his leg felt strong enough for a careful descent of the stairs to join the family for luncheon. There, he declared himself fit enough to be hoisted onto a cart to travel, so Adam was dispatched to ask Thomas the Carrier to help get him home to Dovehouse Farm.