it had been too dark for details.
If Anne were not imprisoned somewhere, they would never be free of her. She posed a danger to them-and this baby. Charlotte had horrific visions of a figure in black, tossing the child into the sea.
Her hand gripped the windowsill. If she had to, she would leave Bayard Court, and all the worthy proposals in the world would not be enough to stop her.
Bay half listened in exhaustion as Mr. Buckland continued to sputter inarticulate inanities. Mrs. Buckland was silent, looking gray, her skin and hair blending into the gray dress she’d donned so hastily in the night. They had both seen their daughter for themselves in Dr. Dixfield’s study. Bay had had to pry her off once again when she threw herself at him in hysterics, then restrain her as she began to throw medical textbooks and bric-a-brac with abandon. The Bucklands had watched in relief when Jamie Dixfield forced her to swallow an opiate while Bay held her still, then watched in alarm as the doctor restrained her in his spare bedroom.
Bay had known Jamie Dixfield all his life. They were of an age, played together, drank together, even wenched together. As boys they both had worshipped the slightly older Anne Buckland from afar. “Young” Dr. Dixfield, who had succeeded his father, “Old” Dr. Dixfield, had looked about as sick as Bay felt during that fiendish hour as Anne thrashed about his study.
Her parents had seen most of it. Why were they so blatantly resistant to the truth? Impatiently, Bay pulled his shirt from his breeches and lifted it. Four inches shy of his navel was a perfectly round bruise. Mrs. Buckland switched from gray to bright pink.
“Cover yourself, man!” Mr. Buckland said, shocked.
“See this? It’s from the barrel of Anne’s gun. Probably one of yours, sir, but sorry, it was pitched into the sea. This is the method she persuaded me with last night when she chose to couple with me. I should be grateful. Last time she hired four men who kidnapped me and beat me senseless. You cannot keep making excuses for her, sir. They dishonor you and diminish Anne’s problem.”
“Her only problem is you! First disgracing her with that hasty marriage-why, she wasn’t even out of mourning- and then never leaving her alone! You-you forced her to break her wedding vows!”
Anne’s mother spoke, finally. She had progressed from pink to vermillion. Bay gave her a twisted smile. “Which ones? Mine or Whitley’s? I assure you I meant mine as much as he did. And I would have been kinder to her than he ever was. Look to yourselves-I know Anne came to you time and time again when he made her suffer. And you both did nothing.”
“He was a viscount,” Anne’s ambitious father said, as if that explained everything.
“And I am a mere baronet. Rich, though. I can pay for Anne’s treatment. Dixfield might know of a place-”
“No!” Mrs. Buckland’s face was white now. “She’ll be with
“Madam, I and my fiancee Miss Fallon-indeed my entire household staff-will not be safe unless Anne’s locked away. She can’t keep shooting my valet. Eventually, he won’t stand for it. Should harm befall Charlotte, I would have to take matters into my own hands.”
He stared down Mrs. Buckland, leaving no doubt of his threatened intentions. The woman looked away. “I’ll discuss it with Dixfield. You need do nothing more than-than sign the papers.”
Both the Bucklands suddenly looked their age. Anne was their only child, born to them when they had given up hope of ever having children. She had been spoiled from the instant she opened her blue eyes in her bassinet. They had wanted nothing but the best for her-which unfortunately included marriage at sixteen to a viscount with a vast estate and a predilection for cruelty. Anne had spent nearly twenty years paying for her parents’ willful blindness.
Mr. Buckland nodded. “Very well. Tell Dixfield-tell Dixfield we’ll cooperate.”
“Kenneth! Couldn’t we keep her at home? Hire s-someone?”
Her husband touched her gently, as if he knew she was already broken. “Marjorie, you know he’s right. It’s been an uncomfortable few weeks having her home again. You must agree.” He turned to Bay. “Thank you, Sir Michael. I’m sorry things have turned out the way they have. If I had known-well, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Tell Jamie Dixfield to do his best. It won’t be easy.”
No, it wouldn’t be. But if anyone had a hope with Anne, it might be the other lad who had loved her, too.
Bay wanted nothing more than his bed, with Charlotte beside him. Seeing Irene standing discreetly in the hallway as he saw the Bucklands out the door, his heart stuttered. “Is she all right?”
Irene blushed. “Yes, sir. A bit tired. She’s having a bath and would like to see you as soon as it’s convenient.”
Bay supposed Jamie Dixfield could wait a while. He’d lent the doctor the two stable boys for the day to serve in shifts as needed, and secured Mrs. Kelly’s niece, who lived in the village, to assist the doctor’s elderly housekeeper in the care of his difficult new patient. The man had access to drugs and restraints, so he was better equipped to deal with Anne Whitley than most.
He pictured Charlie in the bathtub. It was almost as large as the tub on Jane Street. He’d lost his neckcloth somewhere during the hazardous evening, but began to unbutton his shirt as he mounted the stairs. Hot water. The satin of Charlie’s clean skin against his heart. His pace quickened.
He didn’t bother to tap on the door but went straight to the little dressing room. Charlie’s back was slick with soap bubbles, her hair piled up in a hasty knot atop her head. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the pins and watched it tumble down.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you! You might have given me apoplexy,” she said, looking up at him, the tender skin beneath her blue eyes a perfect match for them.
“You did sleep a bit, didn’t you?” he asked, concerned.
“Off and on. I missed you.” She extended a hand of welcome. Bay dropped his wrinkled trousers and slipped gratefully into the water.
“I was rather busy.”
For a few minutes there was silence between them as Charlie lathered his torso, her wicked fingers teasing the hair under his arms and tracing the muscles of his chest. She made no mention of the purple circle at the base of his ribs, but brushed by it with a featherlight caress. What could she think of his honor and intentions, when she had found him with Anne last night? He stilled her hand. He had to tell her. Now, when the words were foaming up to the surface like soap bubbles. Words he was too stupid to say yesterday. “I love you, Charlie, and only you. You saved my life last night. If I had gotten the gun away from Anne, I think I would have shot myself. It was the only way to stop her.” He watched all color leach from her face; even her lips seemed bloodless. “I can’t kill her. Oh, I think about it, I’ve even talked about it, threatened her parents with it, but I can’t. There’s too much history. And pity. But if you can forgive me, I’ll make last night up to you for the rest of our lives. Please marry me, Charlie. I can’t live without you.”
She blinked, or perhaps he did. There were tears in his eyes, tears of frustration and impossible yearning. He hadn’t cried in quite some time; it simply wasn’t done. But all he wanted to do was hold Charlie’s beautiful wet body to him and weep into her sea-scented hair. He was so tired, so very, very tired.
He heard her sigh and then whisper the word he needed to hear. And then the problem of Anne seemed to float out of range as the miracle of Charlie’s love washed over him. Her kiss was so innocent. So hopeful. So hard to resist, and he would never have to. Why had it taken him so long to realize that love could be separated from obsession and defeat? Charlie would never collar him and tug at his leash on a whim. She would give herself to him without reservation, and he to her. Anne as an obstacle was removed from his heart and their path.
Her finger stroked the raised scar on his cheek, a permanent reminder of his stupidity. But he would brave any sword if it meant a future with Charlie. Perhaps every single stumble had led him right here where he should be, in cooling bathwater with this stubborn, loving woman. A woman who saved his life with a chamber pot. In the middle of the most delicious, the most disarming kiss, he began to laugh.
He couldn’t stop. Relief coursed through his blood like the richest wine. Charlie’s eyes flew open, her dark brows beetled. She looked as prim as if she had one of her ridiculous lacy caps on her head. She smacked his chest.
“You simply cannot get the hang of this proposing business. Just what is so amusing?”
“Oh, my love. Think about it. A short while ago I entered a dark house to commit the sin of seriously mistaking
