Her Prodigal Passion (29 page)

Charity stepped from behind the counter. "Yes?"

"You do know who I am?" One raven brow arched.

Recalling her manners, Charity dipped in a quick curtsy. "Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Countess Monteith." From the corner of her eye, she saw her father's puzzled expression. What did a titled lady want with her? Though Charity didn't know herself, dread percolated through her. She said, "How may I help you?"

Haughty eyes swept over her. "My, you
have
changed."

You haven't
.
You're as beautiful as you ever were,
Charity thought with a sinking feeling. And Paul was bound to think so.

"Are you looking for P—I mean, Mr. Fines?" she said quietly. "If so, he isn't here—"

Rosalind gave a casual wave of her hand. "Oh, I've seen him already. I make it a point to visit with my oldest and dearest friends when I'm in town."

The gleam in the other woman's eyes shredded Charity's heart. It was a physical pain, the slicing of her deepest self by a surgeon's precise blade. She couldn't speak for fear of what might come out: the cry of an injured animal—a pathetic, soul-deep sound.

"Actually, that is why I'm here. I believe I have something that belongs to you." With a smirk, Rosalind removed a handkerchief from her reticule. "He left this at our … meeting. Such exquisite embroidery work—yours, I believe?"

Charity had no choice but to take the dangling handkerchief. Paul's initials branded her palm.

"Men will be men," Rosalind said with a lilting laugh. "They always forget ordinary things, don't they? Leave them so carelessly behind."

"That is
enough
, you trollop!" Her father spoke up, and even through the veil of numbness, Charity could hear the anger in his voice. "Shame on you for flaunting your sins. Title or no, we Sparklers don't cater to the likes of you—get out of my shop!"

Still smiling, Rosalind sauntered toward the door. "I shouldn't blame myself if I were you. 'Tis a miracle you managed to land him in the first place. But then again, his weak spot was always pity. He used to laugh about it with me, the way his sister made him stand up with you for all those dances."

The barb struck the center of Charity's being. She pressed a hand against her mouth to prevent a choked sound from escaping.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it," Rosalind said. "I tire easily of novelty, you see, so you'll have your merchandise back soon."

The bell announced her departure, then … silence.

"Have a seat, daughter."

Charity remained standing, her body and mind frozen.

"Charity?"

Feeling a tug on her arm, she looked at her father. Saw the anguish mirrored on his plain, weathered face as he said hoarsely, "This is what I wanted to protect you from. The ugly world. It's no place for us."

"Father?" she whispered.

He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. It was a rare show of affection, an offer of comfort in a time of grief. An ache began to spread in her throat.

"I'll go make us a pot of tea. Keep your chin up like I taught you, and you'll get through this." He gave her another awkward pat. "Be glad you learned this lesson sooner as opposed to later, my girl."

Watching her father hobble off, Charity thought numbly,
Soon has come and gone. It's already far too late.

THIRTY-THREE

The next morning, the doorbell rang, and Charity knew it was Paul. Apparently, so did her unexpected visitors, for Percy and Helena said as one, "We must be off now."

She managed to keep her mask of calm in place. She'd worn it for the past half-hour while her guests had delivered the bad news. Knowing that Charity did not read the gossip columns, Percy and Helena had come to inform her of the sordid business before she heard about it from less well-intentioned sources. They'd tried to soften the blow.

Percy had insisted that the article in
The Times
about a rekindled flame between
Mr. F.
and
Lady M.
was nothing more than slander. Helena had stated her belief that it was likely all some sort of misunderstanding, a chance meeting blown out of proportion.

Charity had listened … and felt nothing.

Because she already knew that it was all true. Paul was in love with Rosalind; he'd always been. He'd only married Charity out of obligation. And whatever she'd believed to be developing between them since had been a figment of her imagination. Or physical lust, at the very best.

What finally deadened her heart was this: he'd lied to her. Broken his vow of fidelity to her. And while she might be plain and insignificant and not the wife of his choosing, she did not deserve that.

Paul came into the room, his gaze searching out hers. With an odd sense of detachment, she observed that for once he did not appear to be his impeccable self. 'Twas as if his godly veneer had been stripped from him, leaving behind a mortal man who'd clearly been engaged in worldly activities. A purpling bruise marred one side of his jaw, and dark shadows hung beneath his eyes. His hair was unruly beyond what fashion dictated, as if he'd run his fingers repeatedly through the gilded waves. Even his cravat lacked its usual finesse.

He stopped short at the sight of Percy and Helena, who were standing, ready to flee.

"Good morning." He did a perfunctory bow. "Have I interrupted a
tête-à-tête
?"

"You know very well why we're here." Percy scowled at him. "Dash it all, what is going on Paul? Why are the papers filled with this nonsense about you and—"

"Hush, dear." Taking Percy's arm, Helena pulled her toward the door. "I think we'd best leave the two to sort this out for themselves. See you both soon, I hope?"

"Thank you, my lady," Charity said.

"Your servant," Paul said curtly.

Then she and Paul were alone. The sea of silence and tension would once have intimidated her, but now she felt a strange calm. In this shabby parlor of this shabby house, she was where she belonged. She no longer had to hide who and what she was. There was a bittersweet freedom in that, a power in her knotted hair and unattractive dress.

Why should I try to please him? He doesn't want me anyway.

He took a step toward her, then stopped as if he didn't know quite what to do. Clearing his throat, he said, "Charity, you know it's not true."

Oh God, how much time had she spent deceiving herself, weaving futile dreams about their future? "Actually, I don't know that," she said coolly, without inflection.

He flinched, but said, "I gave you my word—"

"And I was fool enough to believe it. I know." She kept her gaze and voice level. "But I don't, not anymore."

"You ... you don't mean that."

Why did he sound so stricken? When she was the one who had to bear the brunt of his betrayal, his lies? Anger was an ice floe through her veins, numbing her against remorse, chilling her words.

"My father was right: you
are
selfish and irresponsible and incapable of keeping your vows. No pretty words can change that fact."

His eyes blazed. "That is bloody unfair! I have kept my vows—"

"Have you?" Her brows rose. "So you weren't foxed last evening and that isn't the souvenir of a drunken brawl on your jaw?"

His chest heaved, his high cheekbones stained with color. "That is different! Goddamnit, last night was the first time I've had a drink since ... since ..."

"Since you made that promise never to drink again?"

"Yes! I mean,
no
,"—his hands curled into fists at his sides—"I can explain, if you'd just listen to me—"

"I am
tired
of listening to you." Her voice shook with sudden violence, and she had to take a breath before saying more calmly, "I'm tired of being disappointed. And I see now that is what this marriage will amount to: disappointment for you ... and for me."

"I never said I was disappointed!"

She shrugged. "Your actions speak louder than words. So loudly, in fact,"—she gestured to the newspaper that lay on the coffee table, the one that Percy and Helena had come to warn her about—"that it seems the whole Town knows about it."

Pain spurted in her chest, and it took every ounce of self-possession to staunch the flow. While she had been trying to chase him down in order to apologize for her behavior, he had been out
cavorting
with Rosalind. Out pursuing his Daphne, the beauty who would forevermore be his fantasy. No, more than fantasy for she was flesh and blood. The image of Rosalind in Paul's arms made Charity's breath catch with agony: two exquisite people who fit perfectly together.

"It's not true. None of it is. And if you'd just give me a minute to explain—" Paul took another step toward her, a hand stretched out, but she cut him off.

"Were you or were you not with Lady Monteith?"

"I ... was. But not like that." His hand fell to his side as he grated out, "Nothing happened! 'Pon my honor, I swear it."

Charity couldn't take any more of his lies. Her insides were so cold, cracking like a sheet of ice. The rage was like nothing she'd known before, bone-deep, a wintry blast that swept away everything but the instinct to lash out. To erect a wall of ice between herself and the source of her torment.

"The way you swore never to drink again?" she said. "The way you swore to help my father? Or, perhaps, you mean the way you promised never to let Rosalind interfere with our marriage?" She gave him a withering look. "I'm tired of listening to your explanations. My father was right: you have no honor, no shame, and I won't believe another word you say, not ever again."

*****

Paul's chest burned with an agony worse than any he'd felt before. It was worse than the disillusionment of Rosalind, worse even than his father's harshest criticism. Because he could have expected those things—but not this. Not from Charity, his port in the storm. Too late, he realized that her faith in him had become a beacon, and now that light was gone. Extinguished. He could see no sign of understanding in her cold, opaque eyes.

He was abandoned, adrift.

Alone.

Panic cinched his throat.
What do you expect, you fool? You've shamed her in front of everyone, and she'll never forgive you. You've ruined everything—like you always knew you would.

Yet for some reason, words continued spilling from his mouth. "I'm sorry I've caused you embarrassment, but this article—engineered by Parkington, I'm sure—is pure defamation. Yes, I did see Rosalind. She approached me, asked me to ... speak with her."

Mouth pinched, Charity said nothing.

"I went because I ..."—he wracked his brain for the reason—"I felt I owed it to her. Yes, that's it. Because for so long I thought myself in love with her, you see ..."

Charity's cheeks grew even more bloodless, and he could have bitten his tongue off then and there.
Stupid, stupid thing to say! You just told your wife that you thought yourself in love with another woman, you moron.

"But I'm not," he said quickly, "and so I turned her down."

"You're not in love with her." He'd never heard Charity's voice so cold and unforgiving. She chilled him to the core, and the instinct to escape the squall took hold of him, but he soldiered on even as she said with scathing disbelief, "When did this happen?"

Confusion whipped at him. "I just ... realized it. That she wasn't who I thought she was. Or what I wanted." That was part of it, but there was more, more that he himself did not truly understand. Yet with a strained breath, he took the biggest risk of his life and said, "And that perhaps I ... I was developing feelings for you."

"How kind of you."

He recoiled at her indifference. Here he was trying to pry his heart open ... and she was
mocking
him? Who
was
this Charity? The uncertainty chilled him to the marrow, as did the icy fingers of self-doubt. He'd started to think that he might be falling in love with her, but did he know his wife at all? Had he misjudged his feelings yet again? He'd been wrong about Rosalind, certainly.

Rosalind's words mocked him.
You're meant to be a lover, not a husband. Good for fun, but not much else.

Anger suddenly erupted. He hadn't done anything wrong, so why was he constantly apologizing to Charity? Why did he always end up the one groveling, the one who got blamed for everything? Devil take it, he was
sick and tired
of being judged as worthless!

"I can see that your mind is made up," he said in a tone that matched hers, "and that there's no use discussing matters further."

Her lips pressed in a line, which enraged him further. "I agree."

"Forget what I said about my feelings for you," he said acidly. "I'm sure I was wrong."

"I didn't take any stock in what you said—in anything you say, in point of fact." She spoke through her teeth. "Why would I? You're as fickle as the weather."

"And you're as stubborn as a rock," he bit out. "A real chip off the old boulder."

"Do
not
bring my father into this."

"He does it himself by sticking his bleeding nose into our business at every turn." Seething, Paul gave his pent-up frustration full reign. "He treats me worse than dirt and you like his goddamned slave. Yet you welcome every lash, cower to his every demand—what the hell is the matter with you? Haven't you any backbone?"

"My father loves me, wants the best for me," she said in a shaking voice.

"Telling yourself something doesn't make it true."

She looked as if he'd slapped her. Remorse pierced his rage, but was wiped out in the next instant by her calm, clear tones. "You wish to know the truth? You don't even know what love
is
. The only one you care about is yourself."

"I gave up my bloody training for you!" he roared.

"I didn't ask you to. Nor did I ask for those stupid hats or a lady's maid or accounts at all those snobbish shops. Those were
your
desires, not mine." Her chin angled up. "You want me to be someone I'm not."

It was so far from the truth, such a twisting of his intentions that his vision actually turned red. He couldn't think; his lungs burned, his chest heaving as if he'd gone twenty rounds.