He was standing near her, towering above her, his hard eyes trained on her.
After she opened her eyes, he put out his hand and touched her shoulder.
“Nice,” he whispered, stroking her bare skin. A light crept into his eyes and his lips turned up. “You’re shivering. You like it then?”
Charity focused every bit of loathing into her response. “I hate it.
He looked surprised before his eyes darted to the sideboard. “I’m paying you handsomely,” he said, indicating what was, indeed, a sum tucked beneath the brandy bottle that would keep her for a week.
“I don’t want your money,” she whispered. “I want my freedom.”
He continued to stroke her, though more tentatively now as he asked, clearly offended, “You dislike me that much?”
“I despise you.”
Now, he stopped the rhythmic movement of his hand that had been tracing the line of her décolletage and regarded her with a look that suggested he didn’t know whether to be outraged rather than merely offended.
Either way, he’d resort to violence. This is what men did when they were insulted. Charity watched the play of emotions cross his narrow, angry face. She began the count-down in her head.
And then the odd, tense silence was broken by the sound of running footsteps in the corridor, followed by a cry of outrage as Hugo burst through the doors, knocking aside a table as he hurled himself upon Cyril.
Charity was quick-witted enough to dart behind a large armchair by the fire as the two men crashed to the floor.
; “Fiend!” cried her beloved, gentle Hugo as he thrust his knee in the small of Cyril’s back and wrenched his arm behind him. His chest rose and fell and his eyes were wild as Charity had never seen them. “I’ll kill you if you’ve laid a hand on her!”
“She came willingly enough!” Cyril snarled, letting out a cry of pain as Hugo slammed his head upon the floor.
“Hugo, stop!” cried Charity as the blood from Cyril’s nose sprayed over the rug.
Cyril’s voice was muffled but she still felt the sting of his retort. “Good God! So she’s your little fancy piece. I had no idea.” He let out a surprised laugh, truncated with a cry of pain as Hugo slammed his head down upon the floor once more.
Chapter 8
Hugo took her to their special place. A house where no questions were ever asked. A house run by a kind matron who, perhaps, had her own reasons for turning a blind eye but who kept a neat, unremarkable lodging house where the rooms were clean and the bed was comfortable.
“I didn’t want to go with him,” Charity wept after Hugo had shut out the world and now cradled her against his chest in their warm, comfortable bed.
“My poor darling, I know that.” Hugo’s voice was thick with what Charity understood now were tears as she raised her head to look at him. They clung to his lashes but his voice was steady though his breathing was laboured. “Did he hurt you? Dear God, I’ll kill him! I’ll — ”
Charity shook her head as she raised her finger to his lips. “No, my love, he didn’t touch me. Well, only my shoulder. I promise you! You came just in time.”
She felt some of the tension drain out of him though his words were full of self-recrimination. “How will I protect you when I’m gone, Charity?” It was almost a cry of despair. “What will become of you? I can’t guarantee your security for the many months I’ll be away.”
“But you can guarantee my happiness now,” Charity whispered, tugging at the button that secured his collar. She’d soothe the worry from him as only she knew how. In the morning he’d be gone and Charity would be at the mercy of the world.
But for a few hours tonight, she could try and forget that. They both could.
And she’d do her very best to bolster his hopes that she would be safe.
He cupped her cheek and kissed her tenderly while Charity stroked his strong, young chest before wrapping her arms tightly about him.
“I will never forget you, Hugo,” she promised, revelling in the warmth and weight of him. He might be gentle but he was well built and well endowed. She might be innocent of other men but she knew her Hugo was more the lover than any of the gentlemen callers her friends entertained.
And more passionate.
“I won’t let you,” he vowed, his voice tight with promise. “You think I won’t come back to you? That I’ll fail in my promise to ensure your upkeep?” He rose above her on one elbow, his eyes bright. “I have managed, at least, to provide for you for the first two months I’m away. Madame has the money in trust so that you’ll not be turned into the street. I anticipate that by that time I’ll have managed to send you my wages after my first couple of months away. And I’ll write every day, Charity.” He took a deep breath. “I swear to you that in two years I will come back to marry you.”