Pulling out her handkerchief, Charlotte leaned over him to gently wipe the blood from his mouth. She let her gaze move over his face, taking her time, enjoying the chance to peruse him closely. She had not realized that his lashes were so long or his nose so well-formed.
Running a trembling finger down his cheek, Charlotte felt the rough hint of stubble. Warmth, sweet and heady, spread through her, engendered by the simple act of touching him.
Emboldened by the heat that drove away the evening's chill, she traced his full bottom lip and shivered with the thrill of its form and texture. Reverently, she began again, lightly outlining the edges of his mouth, but when he stirred, she jerked her hand away. The flutter of his lashes made Charlotte straighten, for he might not welcome her touch.
She knew he would not welcome her love.
His eyes, those wonderful, chocolate eyes, opened at last, and he looked at her dazedly, as if he were confused. For one long moment, he stared up at her dreamily, and Charlotte stared back, enthralled by those deep, dark depths.
Finally, she opened her mouth to explain, wetting her dry lips with her tongue. But when she did, Wycliffe sat up so abruptly that she nearly fell back into the grass.
“What the devil?” he grunted. Then he groaned, grimaced, and put a hand to his forehead.
“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked.
She was rewarded with the blackest look she had ever seen slanted from under his long lashes. “No, I am not all right,” he answered through gritted teeth.
Charlotte searched his face and noticed that under the dirt, he was beginning to bruise. One eye had started to swell, as had his lip, but she certainly was not going to tell him that. Happily, she had no mirror with her.
“My head is splitting, and I ache all over. Do I look all right?” he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He stood up, glanced down at himself, and groaned anew. “Look at me. Just look at me!”
Charlotte's gaze swept up and down his tall frame, taking in his muscular thighs, his trim waist, his broad shoulders, his handsome, if rather bedraggled features, and her heart hammered irregularly. There was something rakish about his torn clothing and his less than perfect appearance that made him seem more desirable, more accessible...
”I think you are even more attractive than usual,” Charlotte said softly.
Max ignored her. “I cannot believe this! I have never in my life been involved in a brawl in the dirt like some... some country chawbacon!” He was raging now.
“Where is my horse?” he asked suddenly, dropping his hand from his temple. “Do not tell me my horse is gone,” he warned her in a low, decidedly menacing voice.
Charlotte stood up and shook out her skirts, but wisely said nothing.
“My horse is gone! Deuce it all, Charlotte! My horse is gone, and I am a bloody mess.” Wycliffe put a finger gingerly to his red lip, made a face, and glared at her. “No more, Charlotte. No more. Ever since I met you I have been dragged from one tangle to another, each more wretched than the last, but this is it. I have had enough. I refuse to—”
He broke off to lift a hand to his head, and Charlotte realized that it must be hurting him dreadfully. Still, his disgust with her, coming as it did on the heels of her discovery that she loved him, was rather painful. She met his dark eyes, and they bored into her with the farthest thing from affection.
“Something will have to be done to remedy the situation,” he said.
Charlotte felt her heart lurch. What would he do? Send her home? She blinked at him, feeling the pressure of tears behind her eyes, and told herself it did not matter.
Whether she was in London or Sussex or on the moon, nothing would change the way she felt about him, and nothing, obviously, was going to change the way he felt about her. She dropped her gaze, unable to look any further into the dark depths for what was not there.
“Something must be done, and I intend to do it.”
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