“A Christmas wedding,” sighed Charity though she didn’t believe it. Still, it’s what he needed to believe when she farewelled him. He could face whatever hardships were in store if he truly thought he’d ensured Charity’s protection and that, not only would he be still alive and wanting to marry her in two years, he’d be allowed to.
Family pressure was a very powerful force. Old Mr Adams was not going to let his son marry a girl from the gutter without a fight, even if Hugo was a man of independent means.
“Yes, a Christmas wedding,” Hugo promised, as he rose over her, smiling that sweet gentle smile that never failed to make her insides roil with love and excitement as he stroked her into arousal. For the moment, he was hers. She felt he always would be, even if he never came back.
“With mistletoe in my bouquet,” she whispered, gilding the dream they both needed to pretend, for now, would become a reality.
“And my mother’s locket around your neck.” His fingers brushed across her throat and she shivered with anticipation as he positioned himself at her entrance. “For you will be accepted as my worthy wife, my precious girl. My father will — ”
She stayed his words with her forefinger, gently trailing it across his cheek as she shook her head. “Your father will never accept me, Hugo, but I don’t need that.”
“But I do.”
Charity drew in a breath and closed her eyes as he entered her.
With a sigh of ecstasy he whispered, “I swear on my life that I will come back and marry you, my darling.”
Chapter 9
“Just your trunks to seal, sir, and you’re ready to sail.” Keating, the butler stood to attention, waiting for the order as Hugo entered the drawing room. He would not be taking much. Two sturdy trunks were all he needed.
“This will be the making of you, my boy,” his father said, rising from his chair by the fire and walking towards him. He’d come down from the country, ostensibly to farewell his only child though Hugo thought it more likely that it was to ensure that Hugo would be travelling alone. His father didn’t even trust his brother to ensure Hugo brought aboard no stowaways.
Hugo nodded briefly but made no reply as he went to the writing desk where he’d been working on his last drawings and poems for Charity.
“What have you got there?” His father’s tone was genial as he moved to stand behind him.
Hugo ignored him. If his father wanted tacit forgiveness from his son he’d not get it. Hugo would never forgive him for his collusion with Cyril. The beatings and other punishments were forgivable. But not this. His father had garnished a deal that would make Hugo beholden to him; make him his slave. And Cyril had been only too happy to oblige. Hugo had always despised his cousin but he despised his father more.
“A fine drawing. Very fine.” His father nodded at the finely rendered head and shoulders drawing of Charity. “She’s a beauty, to be sure, and you’ve captured that.”
Hugo studied his last work of art. The last picture that perhaps he’d ever draw of Charity when it was just the two of them together. The wistfulness of her expression had tugged at his heartstrings when he’d caught her gazing out of the window while Hugo had been telling her about his visit to Madame’s. A visit during which he’d gone through every possibility to ensure Charity was employed as anything other than a slave to the gentlemen who stepped over the threshold.
When he’d tried to reassure Charity she’d simply smiled. He knew she didn’t believe him but he had to try and keep up the pretence, if only to keep up her hopes when hope was all she had.
A woman had few options if she didn’t have connections. A woman without financial independence was at the mercy of the world.
And if her name were tarnished, or if she had lost her reputation; if she had no references to recommend her to an employer. Then all she had to barter was her body.
Charity was like so many women, Hugo thought bitterly, though God knew it was hardly her fault.
“A beauty, I’m the first to admit. And no doubt obliging and good-natured. Everything a man could desire in a mistress.”
Hugo remained tight-lipped, moving away as his father put out his hand to see the drawing better. The stack of drawings slipped from his hands and floated to the floor. More than a dozen sketches and paintings of Charity spread about them, her beauty painful to behold right now.
There was the only girl he’d ever loved gazing at the painter with gentle trust in one. Or with heart-breaking hauteur in another. Her hair was tumbled and her bosom a touch too much in evidence in another but the one he reached for first depicted her in a ballgown, every inch the equal of the heiress his father would have him marry. Yes, she had grace and dignity to equal any one of them.
; “You’ll thank me one day, boy.”
Hugo turned at the low growl, making no attempt to mask his dislike.
“If anything happens to her when I’m gone I’ll despise you ‘til the day I die,” he said under his breath, before bending to gather up the rest of the drawings.
His father stopped him when Hugo would have brushed past him and out of the door for there was one final task he had to do before he sailed.
“I can see the attraction, Hugo, for you paint true to life. But she’d drag you down. And you’d come to resent her for it. What basis is that for a marriage? When you’d be bound to her for life?”