Page 39 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

A blatant lie. Next to ghosts, heights had always given her the whim-whams. She’d loathed high places, even as a child. Her mother had never had to worry about Charlotte becoming a hoyden—she refused to climb trees or ladders or walk on rooftops, as her younger sisters had done. But she could not give Wrotham the satisfaction of seeing her decline. Pray God she did not fall from the parapet.

“Well done, Lady Cavendish. But I insist you go first. In case you lose your footing, I will be behind you to assist.” Wrotham opened the door and they allowed Jane and Sinclair and the rest of the gentlemen, except Fernley, to precede them up the staircase. That gallant had elected to remain as protector of the rest of the ladies.

Charlotte took the moment of confusion to gather her courage. Just put one foot before the other.

Lord Brack shoved his wiry frame through the narrow doorway and disappeared.

Her breath sped up. Panic chased its own spiral path through her body. Pride be damned. She could not do this.

Wrotham’s steady hand clamped her shoulder, warm and comforting. “Your turn, my lady.” He gently urged her through the opening. “Watch that first step. The rest are quite even.”

She lifted the skirts of her gown, a fleeting prayer sent on high that it would not be ruined. The first step was very high, and Charlotte grasped the scratchy rope on her right, where a railing should have been, to keep her balance. Some light filtered down from above, but they remained in an uneven darkness. She must feel her way upward. Slipping her right hand along the rope, she resolutely stepped up.

Immediately, Wrotham’s presence close behind her reassured her. The heat of his warm breath caressed her nape. The clean scent of his citrusy cologne calmed her nerves. Still, she could not help thinking if she fell they likely would both tumble to their deaths. Serve him right for suggesting this excursion.

She took a deep breath and raised her foot to another step. This was torture. No view was worth this dangerous a feat.

Another step, another inch higher. She might as well crawl up the blasted staircase. What if she missed a step? What if the rope broke free? At that terrifying thought, she jumped and wobbled on the well-worn stone.

A hand came out of nowhere to steady her.

“Do not fret, Charlotte.” His whisper soothed her. “I have you safe.”

The conviction in his confident words staved off her rising panic. But wait; he had called her Charlotte. The wretch had taken the liberty deliberately, knowing she could not upbraid him due to her distress. Of course he had saved her from taking a nasty tumble. So perhaps she could overlook the slip this once. His even breath touched her neck, his warmth so comforting. Yes, she would let it go. This time.

Another step. Did she see more light now? She tried to hurry the last few steps, grateful to have the ordeal over. Her shoulder banged into the narrow passageway, unbalancing her. With a yelp of fright, she dropped her skirts and grabbed for the rope with both hands. Her ankle twisted and she screamed as she fell backward.

Her back thumped against Wrotham’s chest and she expected them both to hurtle down the cold stairs and dash their brains out on the stones below. A moment of sheer terror passed before she realized she still stood upon the stairs. Wrotham might as well have been made of the same stone as the staircase. A solid pillar, he withstood her fall without so much as a grunt of surprise. His arms snaked around her waist, and a sense of security welled up in place of the earlier fright. Whatever else, she knew Lord Wrotham would not let her come to grief.

“Steady, my dear. I have you.” His arms squeezed tight, and a stab of yearning shot through her, rendering her immobile. “Wait a moment and get your bearings.”

Not with his arms around her. She shook the disturbing thought from her head and nodded. A moment later, she was able to lean forward, breaking his grip.

“Thank you, my lord. I am sorry.” Charlotte sighed. “I seem to be forever falling into you.” She drew a deep breath to steady herself.

A warm chuckle sounded loud in her ear. “My pleasure, my dear. Take your time and be careful.”

His deep voice reverberated in the enclosed space, filling it with his essence. Even though she had moved a little way away from him, his presence at her back was still palpable. Still, she must focus on getting off this dratted staircase. Carefully, she lifted her skirts once more and grasped the rope. One step at a time.

Four more slow, torturous steps and her head emerged into the sunlight. Lord Brack offered his hand and she nodded her thanks as her feet finally made contact with the smooth, wide expanse of the roof’s flooring.

“The view is simply splendid to the north, my lady,” Brack said, taking her arm and leading her to the waist-high parapet.

Charlotte gazed around, drinking in the incredible sights. Wrotham had been correct—the prospect was magnificent. She peered over the edge and regretted it immediately. The sheer drop down the clock tower to the grassy lawn below made her head spin. Abruptly, she pulled her head up and turned to stare at Wrotham, who had joined them.

“An impressive view, would you not say, my lady?”

“Indeed, Lord Wrotham. If one does not look down.”

Laughter rumbled from his chest and he smoothly took her hand from Brack and wound it through the crook of his elbow. “Much obliged, Brack.”

“Not a’tall.” The amiable young man grinned at him and shot a speculative look at her. “I was just about to point out that odd round building there on the left,” Brack continued. “I wonder what it is?”

“That is the artesian well and pump house that supplies water for the village. We can visit it later if you like.” Wrotham then pointed to a large white manor house beyond the pump house. “And that is the rectory, just beyond it. You will hear the rector, Mr. George Moore, in church tomorrow. I think you will enjoy his service.”

“Did you enjoy growing up here in Wrotham, my lord? You seem very proud of it.” Charlotte smiled to think of him as a small boy, running wild in the village.

His brow wrinkled as he shook his head. “I have lived in Wrotham for less than two years, Lady Cavendish. I passed my childhood in a small house outside London.”