Chapter Nine
“Are you angry with me, Reilly?” Charlotte asked softly, standing hesitantly at her brother’s doorway. She had returned to Darton Hall in a giddy sort of daze, only to be reminded in full that the warm happiness she had enjoyed at Theydon Hall was not all encompassing. Her mother had fairly well barricaded herself in her chamber, refusing to emerge even for supper, leaving Charlotte, Caroline, Reilly, and Lord Epping to an uncomfortable, quiet meal without her.
Charlotte had kept her gaze trained upon her plate during supper, but when she would glance up occasionally, it would be to find Reilly across from her, his brows narrowed in visible, undisguised disapproval. She did not understand his reaction; her mother had made the observation scornfully, but the tone did not refute its accuracy. Kenley was Reilly’s friend. Charlotte would have thought her brother would be pleased for them, if not happy.
Several hours had passed since supper, and it was dark beyond the windowpanes. Reilly stood by his fireplace, cradling a snifter of brandy against his palm as he watched flames lick against the dry, crackling wood.
He turned his head at her anxious, quiet voice and met her gaze.
“Why would I be angry with you, Charlotte?” he asked. He brought the rim of his glass to his mouth and canted his head back, draining the brandy in a single swallow. He turned and crossed the room for his writing table, where a decanter stood uncapped. She noticed the tabletop, and the floor around it was littered with newspapers; it looked as though Reilly had sent his valet out that day to collect every daily gazette printed in the county.
“I… I do not know,” Charlotte said, watching him refill his snifter. Again, he drank it dry in a solitary swallow, and she blinked, startled and disconcerted.
Judging by the amount of brandy remaining in the decanter, he had been drinking it quite rapidly. He poured another glass and turned to her, arching his brow.
“Why indeed,” he remarked. “You do not want to marry James Houghton. Why would I be angry about that? I have already told you plainly—I understand your point of view. I sympathize in full with your plight.”
He walked back toward the fireplace. Charlotte stepped into the room. “Reilly,” she said, concerned for him, by the slight stumble to his gait as the brandy loosened his tongue and held effect on his mind.
“Why would I be angry that Kenley Fairfax is a self-absorbed, witless bastard?” Reilly remarked, gazing down at the fire. “An impetuous, reckless, incorrigible yob who acts without thinking, speaks without consideration and does precisely what he sets his mind to, regardless of sensible counsel to the contrary?”
He glanced at Charlotte. “Why would this make me angry?” he asked.
Charlotte blinked at him, surprised by the venom underlying his tone. “That is not true,” she said softly. “Kenley is your friend, Reilly. He adores you. What are you… why would you say such terrible things about him?”
“He adores me?” Reilly asked, pivoting to face her fully. “He apparently adores no one but himself, Charlotte. Obviously, he has no mind for anything except that which serves him. He has demonstrated that he cannot think of others; he cannot lend one moment’s coherent, rational thought to how the things he does, the words he says—the bloody foolhardy decisions he plows headlong and heedlessly into—affect others around him!”
His voice had risen as he spoke, spiking in a sharp, shouting crescendo. Charlotte flinched, shying back from him, her eyes enormous and confused.
“He does not listen!” Reilly snapped. “And I suppose to stand here and tell you to call off this preposterous ruse of an engagement would be wasted breath, because you do not listen, either. Yes, I am angry with you, Charlotte. I am bloody rot furious with you, and with Kenley. Neither of you wield a whit of sense. You are both bloody damn idiots!”
“I am not an idiot,” Charlotte said, her confusion fading in full to sudden, bright ire. She held her brother’s gaze, her brows furrowing.
“You are an idiot if you marry him,” Reilly said. “If you had any sense, you would let this go. You have triumphed over Mother. You have slapped her well and soundly into place, Charlotte. Congratulations all around! Do you not feel pleased? Does this not satisfy you? You have caused your stir; you have had your fuss, now let it bloody go!”
“I am not marrying Kenley to spite Mother,” Charlotte cried. “I am marrying him because I love him!”
“Love him?” Reilly asked, his eyes flying wide with incredulity. “You cannot love him, Charlotte! You do not know him! You met him three days ago!”
“I met him six months ago in London,” she returned. “Six months ago, Reilly, and he courted me properly. He—”
Reilly strode toward her, his brows drawn, the force of his boot soles shivering through the floorboards beneath her feet. He clamped his hand against her arm, and Charlotte yelped.
“You did not meet him six months ago,” he said. “Lie to Mother and Father all you wish, Charlotte. Shout it to the bloody damn moon. You no more met Kenley Fairfax in London than I have swapped spittle with the King.”
“You are hurting me!” she whimpered and he blinked at her as though snapping from a reverie. In that moment, as his expression shifted to something akin to aghast, she realized that he was not angry. No matter his vehement words, Reilly was not angry—he was frightened. Something had terrified him so badly, it had driven him to this, to drinking himself to near oblivion to lessen its effect, to venting whatever frustration and alarm that had so seized his heart upon his sister and Kenley.
She realized, and blinked at him, stricken. “Reilly, what has happened?”
His hand loosened, slipping away from her. “I am sorry,” he whispered.
“Reilly, what has happened?” she asked again, reaching for him. He shied from her proffered touch, her comfort and turned around. He shoved the heel of his hand against his brow, forking his fingers through his hair.
“Please,” Charlotte said. “Why are you being like this? What has happened?”
“It… it is nothing,” he whispered, anguished.
He walked away from her, his posture slumping, his shoulders hunching in shame. “I am sorry, Charlotte,” he said. “I did not mean it. I did not mean any of it. I… I just… please, Charlotte. You do not understand.”
“You are right, Reilly,” Charlotte said. “I do not.” “Please just go,” he whispered, standing over his writing table. He set his drink aside and brushed his hand against a haphazard pile of gazettes. “Please, Charlotte, I… I am sorry. I did not mean what I said. I was wrong, and I… please just go away.”