Page 66 of Touched By a Traitor
Charlotte observed him with keen interest, curious as to what could cause her formidable husband to blush like a schoolboy. Just as she began to feel a prickle of annoyance toward the brazen women who shamelessly pressed closer to Andrew, offering him an unobstructed view of their ample bosoms, he cast a beseeching glance in her direction. To her amusement, he seemed to be silently imploring her for assistance.
With a graceful step, Charlotte approached and took Andrew’s hand in hers, offering the ladies a polite smile. “If you’ll excuse us, his lordship has promised me the honor of the first three dances.”
Paying no heed to their collective murmurs of disappointment, the newlyweds made their way toward the group of villagers dancing merrily by the musicians.
“I’m curious. What happened to make you so terrified of a few young girls?” she asked.
Andrew rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish gesture. “I wasn’t frightened.”
“Judging by the scarlet hue of your face, it was either fear or shyness,” she teased.
Averting his gaze, he said, “I’ve never been particularly adept at conversing with women, especially when they gather in groups.”
A chuckle bubbled up from her throat and spilled past her lips, eliciting a look of mild annoyance from her husband.
“Forgive me,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “I simply didn’t expect Andrew Creswell, the giant of a man and businessman, to be afraid of women. You didn’t seem particularly shy when we first met.”
“I was, in truth, but you appeared disinterested in me, which came as a relief. Then, when you spoke, your words caught me so off guard that I quite forgot myself.”
Charlotte beamed, delighted by this discovery. “And what is your usual course of action when a woman attempts to seduce you?”
He shrugged. “I find myself staring at whatever is deemed appropriate—the dance floor, the musicians, the empty space…”
“So, have all your past encounters been initiated by the woman in question?”
She waited patiently as he traced invisible patterns on the floor with the toe of his boot.
“That many?” she asked when the silence stretched on.
“Three,” he blurted, his cheeks coloring once more.
Her mouth fell open. “Three? Only three?”
He nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the floor.
“Well, that’s not many at all,” Charlotte mused, smiling softly as she gazed up at her husband in a new and endearing light.
“Three, if you count the twelve strokes,” he mumbled, his words almost lost in the din of the room.
“I beg your pardon?” Charlotte’s eyes widened, certain she must have misheard.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets. “I was asleep, you see, and I awoke to find a woman… she was doing things to me. She managed a dozen strokes before I was alert enough to leap from the bed.”
Charlotte gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she struggled to decide whether to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or be utterly scandalized by the woman’s audacity.
“And the others?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her jealousy.
“An older woman, when I was nineteen.”
“How much older?”
“Eight years, or thereabouts. She never did confide her exact age.”
“And what became of that liaison?”
He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair as if the memory weighed on him. “I proposed, and she declined.”
Charlotte’s hand climbed to her throat, the air suddenly seeming to vanish from her lungs. “Is it your habit, then, to propose to every woman who catches your fancy?”
