could she, when the course of her life had altered so completely? The exposure now, after so many years of burying them, was shockingly raw, washing her with pain.
She slipped into the ladies’ retiring room to hide until the despair was once again suppressed, and it was nearly half an hour before she recovered sufficiently. She needed to return, but she felt exposed, as if a tiny window to her soul had been revealed.
Charlotte studied her reflection critically in a gilt-edged mirror provided by their considerate hostess. At least she hadn’t cried, although it had been a near thing. Red, swollen eyes would have been impossible to explain away. Hopefully, she would be able to hide her vulnerability from the curious.
Charlotte pinched her cheeks for color, took a deep breath and summoned a broad, false smile. She could do it. She could return to the gathering and leave the past where it belonged—in the past. And, somehow, she’d find a way to stand up to her mother, for her sister’s sake if not her own. It was too late for Charlotte.
Her pace picked up as she hurried down the corridor toward the ballroom, eager to reclaim the evening. Then she rounded a corner and plowed, nose first, into the wide chest of another guest. Her heart lurched and she swayed a moment before a strong grip steadied her.
Lud, she was clumsy. If she’d been paying proper attention, she wouldn’t have nearly run the poor fellow down.
She withdrew a step and looked up, but the apology died on her lips. Her pulse seemed to slow and the world dimmed to a narrow point. The orchestra and the din of the crowd faded, muffled like sound carried underwater.
Him.
Her past, her heartbreak and her perpetual purgatory wrapped in one starkly masculine package.
CHAPTER TWO
“Don’t you dare faint, Charlotte,” Daniel Walsh snapped. “I won’t catch you.” The fact that he had already reached to steady her belied his words.
If he hadn’t spoken, she’d have believed it another dream. How many times over the years had she imagined suddenly coming upon him in a crowd or finding him in some random place? Somewhere along the way, the bittersweet dreams of love and passion and reunion had curdled into a nightmare of hopelessness.
Daniel’s grip was hot upon her skin despite the evening gloves that encased his hands, and she was reassured that this was no dream; it was her nightmare come to life.
He looked both the same as she remembered and altogether different, if that were possible. He still stood precisely three inches taller than she, and broad shoulders gave evidence that he was no longer a gangly limbed youth. Deep wrinkles were now etched into his face, baked by the same harsh sunlight that had darkened his skin to the patina of well-aged oak.
But his eyes were the exact same shade of melted chocolate that she remembered. She hadn’t been able to choke down a cup of the stuff in years because it reminded her of the rich depths of his gaze.
Charlotte had no idea how long they stared at each other in awkward silence.
“I’m perfectly fine now, thank you,” she said, amazed that her voice barely wavered. For good measure, she added a courteous, “Mr. Walsh.”
His blond brows rose, and he dropped his hands as if scalded. His mouth twisted, but not with amusement nor disdain. It was an expression she had never seen before and had no idea how to interpret.
“Mr. Walsh,” he murmured as if he’d never heard his name before, and he stared at her as if trying to read her mind. Then the moment broke and his familiar manner transformed to aloof courtesy. He bowed slightly.
“My lady,” he said, but it sounded like an admonishment. “I beg your pardon. Entirely my fault.”
Her chest tightened at the distance in his voice; it was as if he were gone all over again. She wondered, for the countless time, why he had left, what she had done and why he had never seen fit to write.
“Where—?” she began, reaching out with words that
She slipped into the ladies’ retiring room to hide until the despair was once again suppressed, and it was nearly half an hour before she recovered sufficiently. She needed to return, but she felt exposed, as if a tiny window to her soul had been revealed.
Charlotte studied her reflection critically in a gilt-edged mirror provided by their considerate hostess. At least she hadn’t cried, although it had been a near thing. Red, swollen eyes would have been impossible to explain away. Hopefully, she would be able to hide her vulnerability from the curious.
Charlotte pinched her cheeks for color, took a deep breath and summoned a broad, false smile. She could do it. She could return to the gathering and leave the past where it belonged—in the past. And, somehow, she’d find a way to stand up to her mother, for her sister’s sake if not her own. It was too late for Charlotte.
Her pace picked up as she hurried down the corridor toward the ballroom, eager to reclaim the evening. Then she rounded a corner and plowed, nose first, into the wide chest of another guest. Her heart lurched and she swayed a moment before a strong grip steadied her.
Lud, she was clumsy. If she’d been paying proper attention, she wouldn’t have nearly run the poor fellow down.
She withdrew a step and looked up, but the apology died on her lips. Her pulse seemed to slow and the world dimmed to a narrow point. The orchestra and the din of the crowd faded, muffled like sound carried underwater.
Him.
Her past, her heartbreak and her perpetual purgatory wrapped in one starkly masculine package.
CHAPTER TWO
“Don’t you dare faint, Charlotte,” Daniel Walsh snapped. “I won’t catch you.” The fact that he had already reached to steady her belied his words.
If he hadn’t spoken, she’d have believed it another dream. How many times over the years had she imagined suddenly coming upon him in a crowd or finding him in some random place? Somewhere along the way, the bittersweet dreams of love and passion and reunion had curdled into a nightmare of hopelessness.
Daniel’s grip was hot upon her skin despite the evening gloves that encased his hands, and she was reassured that this was no dream; it was her nightmare come to life.
He looked both the same as she remembered and altogether different, if that were possible. He still stood precisely three inches taller than she, and broad shoulders gave evidence that he was no longer a gangly limbed youth. Deep wrinkles were now etched into his face, baked by the same harsh sunlight that had darkened his skin to the patina of well-aged oak.
But his eyes were the exact same shade of melted chocolate that she remembered. She hadn’t been able to choke down a cup of the stuff in years because it reminded her of the rich depths of his gaze.
Charlotte had no idea how long they stared at each other in awkward silence.
“I’m perfectly fine now, thank you,” she said, amazed that her voice barely wavered. For good measure, she added a courteous, “Mr. Walsh.”
His blond brows rose, and he dropped his hands as if scalded. His mouth twisted, but not with amusement nor disdain. It was an expression she had never seen before and had no idea how to interpret.
“Mr. Walsh,” he murmured as if he’d never heard his name before, and he stared at her as if trying to read her mind. Then the moment broke and his familiar manner transformed to aloof courtesy. He bowed slightly.
“My lady,” he said, but it sounded like an admonishment. “I beg your pardon. Entirely my fault.”
Her chest tightened at the distance in his voice; it was as if he were gone all over again. She wondered, for the countless time, why he had left, what she had done and why he had never seen fit to write.
“Where—?” she began, reaching out with words that
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