Aldridge sent his footmen home. “Get some food into you then sleep,” he told them. “Tell Richards I’ve given you the rest of the day off.”
“I will do myself the honour of escorting you to Winderfield House, my lady,” he told Lady Charlotte.
She put her chin up, her nostrils flaring as she took in a deep breath to wither him.
“It is my duty, as I’m sure my mother would insist.”
“I need no other escort than Yahzak and his men,” Lady Charlotte said, looking to her fierce guard captain for his support.
“Nonetheless…” Aldridge said, not wanting to explain—barely wanting to acknowledge to himself—his burning need see her safe inside her own home before he surrendered to the fatigue that was his reaction to the night they’d spent.
Especially the moment when he had stood by the mouth of that alley expecting Wharton’s hirelings, only to see Charlotte emerge, putting herself right in the path of danger when he had thought her safely out of the way observing from the rooftops.
Yahzak backed his horse a step, his face impassive, saying nothing. Her statement was undoubtedly true from the point of view of her physical safety, but the Easterner was implicitly refusing to come between his master’s niece and her…what? Friend? Champion, perhaps? Fool, probably.
Aldridge’s moment of heart-stopping fear had given way to anger when they’d ridden beyond the reach of the slum boss, and he’d been fighting ever since to contain his temper, to speak with her and the others with calm and civility.
Her obstinacy over the prostitutes had nearly defeated his control. Didn’t she understand how her own reputation could be tainted by association?
His civilised self knew that Saint Charlotte was nearly as well known for her virtue as for her works of charity, and that wouldn’t be changed by housing a pair of refugees from a brothel, especially two witnesses who could help bring down a dangerous criminal.
Actually, the value of the investigation was a good point to make if anyone dared criticise her ladyship in his hearing. Not that it soothed his irritation in the slightest. He was being irrational and he knew it. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
On the ride back through the steadily brightening streets, she ignored him. Probably as well. He didn’t trust himself to speak without disclosing more of his feelings than was consistent with dignity.
She had clearly been stewing, however. In the forecourt of the Winshire mansion, when he dismounted and reached her stirrup ahead of Yahzak, ready to help her down, she allowed the privilege, but stepped out of his reach while his body still hardened from her touch, turned both barrels of her ire on him and let fly.
“You take too much on yourself, Lord Aldridge. I am grateful for your help this past night, but that does not give you the right to dictate my behaviour or comment on my decisions.” She didn’t sound grateful.
Aldridge managed to keep his reply courteous, even pleasant, despite his pathetic emotional state. “I want only to protect you, my lady.”
“Because I am not capable of protecting myself?” she demanded, with heavy irony. “Because I don’t have a family of my own to support me?”
“No!” He clamped his mouth shut on the next words on his tongue. Because you are mine. She would kill him. Or castrate him.
She jabbed him in the chest with her forefinger, and kept jabbing to reinforce her points. “You have no right to tell me what I should and should not do. Furthermore, I am astounded that you have the sheer audacity to judge those poor women for their lives, given how you have benefited from their availability. Let alone your own reputation and the way I found you last night.”
Aldridge sucked in his breath at that low blow, unable to think—let alone speak—for the pain of it.
She was only getting started. “Women can be ruined for as little as a kiss out of place. Even less! But a man can have a score of women in a night, and still be accepted everywhere. Admired, even!” She stamped her foot and let out a frustrated growl. “It makes me so cross.”
