Page 64 of Touched By a Traitor
Her heart halted at his words. It was a life she never imagined she could have—a life with husband and children. Could she have it all?
Andrew ate his meal, showering her with praise until she blushed. After they finished eating, they washed the dishes side by side in companionable silence.
They sat on the sofa by the fireplace, Charlotte cradling a cup of tea and Andrew a glass of brandy. It was the closest Charlottehad felt toward Andrew since they’d become reacquainted. Now that the old feelings had begun to seep through her heart, she felt she soon wouldn’t be able to stop the flow. Her pulse began to race at the thought of sharing the bed with him again.
Could she press her luck and ask for another night to prepare for the eventual coupling? It wasn’t that she did not crave the physical pleasure he could give her, but she feared the connection they were beginning to forge would turn into ashes if she associated their intimate act with the trauma of her past.
Upon feeling his gaze on her, she summoned the courage to meet his eyes. As she glanced at him sideways, he smiled lazily, the flickering light from the candle casting dancing shadows across his pristine white shirt. With a languid movement, he reached up to his neck, loosening the cravat that encircled his throat. Flustered, she hastily averted her gaze, hiding her flushed face behind the delicate teacup.
“Are you nervous?” His voice was low and gentle, with an undercurrent of amusement.
“About what?” she replied, feigning nonchalance.
“I can’t say for certain. Perhaps you could enlighten me? You seem rather tense.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
She wasn’t quite ready to discuss such a sensitive topic with him. How could she explain the shame that consumed her over Cambridge—over giving what should have been his to a stranger out of sheer desperation? Though Andrew surely believed the duke had claimed that prize, the truth was somehow worse: She had traded her innocence not for love or even desire, but for silence and survival.
Despite the magical nature of their previous encounters, a cold fear gripped her heart. What if, when the moment came, her body betrayed her? What if the memory of that Cambridge night—the revulsion, the powerlessness—intruded upon what shouldbe beautiful between them? She had enjoyed Andrew’s kisses, his touch, but would intimacy awaken the trauma she had buried so carefully?
The thought of flinching from her own husband, of him witnessing her break apart from ghosts he knew nothing about, filled her with a dread that had nothing to do with inexperience and everything to do with the scars invisible wounds could leave upon one’s soul.
“Shall I venture a guess, since you seem either unsure or too abashed to say?” Without awaiting her response, he leaned back against the sofa, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her intently. “Perhaps you find yourself astonished by your good fortune in securing a husband as dashing as myself, and yet you feel nervous about expressing your gratitude.”
Unable to suppress the smile that tugged at her lips, she shook her head in denial.
“Could it be that you’re concealing a rather large mole upon your person, and the thought of revealing it to me fills you with embarrassment?”
Once more, she shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. With an air of exaggerated pensiveness, he rested his chin on his hand, the muscles of his biceps flexing and straining against the fabric of his shirt. Noticing her appreciative gaze, Andrew smugly unfastened the top four buttons of his shirt, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. She found herself unable to look away, transfixed by the sight of his tanned skin.
“Or perhaps,” he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble that sent shivers down her spine, “you fear that I may have turned feral since our last encounter, and that I might devour you whole when we retire to our bedchamber.” There could be no mistaking the intimate promise behind his words, the unspoken desire that hung heavy in the air between them.
His confidence, the practiced way he spoke of such intimate matters, made her acutely aware of her own inexperience.
“Surely, you must have known the touch of skilled women,” she blurted, the words escaping her lips before she could think better of them.
He fell silent, his expression unreadable as he regarded her with an intensity that made her heart race.
“What leads you to believe such a thing? Is it because of my work with Madame Tansley?”
Charlotte felt a pang of remorse, sensing that she had somehow offended him with her remark.
“You do have connections to them, and I cannot imagine that any woman would deny you,” she said softly, her gaze downcast.
He arched a brow and reached for a strand of her hair. “Why, Mrs. Creswell, that sounded remarkably like a compliment, and an acknowledgment of your excellent taste in husbands.”
Charlotte rose abruptly from her seat, a sudden wave of fear and anxiety gripping her heart. She felt the need to escape, to find solace in solitude and gather her thoughts.
“If it would not be too great an imposition, I should like to take a bath,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Andrew, ever the gentleman, inclined his head politely, choosing not to remark on her hasty request. “Of course. I shall see to the preparations at once.”
As he busied himself with the task of boiling water and filling the tub, Charlotte slipped away to change into her bathing gown. The thin, worn cotton felt like a flimsy shield against the turmoil that raged within her, but she clung to it nonetheless, her fingers tightly gripping the front as if it were a suit of armor.
She knew the coupling with her husband would be pleasant. However, her body repelled the thought of joining with a man, making her stomach queasy as her heart tried to escape her body.
When at last Andrew announced that her bath was ready, Charlotte could not bring herself to meet his gaze, fearing that her inner turmoil would be all too apparent in her eyes. She kept her head bowed as she made her way to the bathing chamber.
