Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [49]
Neither do I, Charlotte thought painfully. Everything sounds banal and insincere. But that was no excuse; even clumsy help was better than ignoring grief, running away as if it were a disease and you were afraid of being contaminated.
“I’m Anastasia March,” the girl went on. “But please call me Tassie.”
“I’m Charlotte Pitt.”
“Yes, I know. Grandmama said you’d be coming.” She pulled a little face. Charlotte had already been given Grandmama’s opinion of that.
Further conversation was prevented by the doors opening again and William and Sybilla March coming in; she first, dressed in glittering black, lace around the smooth, white throat; he a step behind. Charlotte could see instantly how George had been fascinated with her. She had a vibrancy even in repose that Emily did not, an air of mystery and intensity that would intrigue many men. She did not need to do anything—it was there in her face, the dark, wide eyes, the curve of her mouth, the richness of her figure. Charlotte could well imagine how hard Emily had had to work, how unceasing her charm, how tight her self-control, to win George’s attention back again. No wonder Jack Radley had been drawn! But how careless had Emily been, with her mind solely on George? Could she have given away far more than she intended, and been too preoccupied to notice how seriously he had taken her advances?
And William March, the so slightly complacent husband—his face was anything but uncaring. His features were sensitive, ascetic; thin nose, chiseled mouth. Yet there was passion of some sort within him, even if it was more complex than simple adoration or a fire in the blood. He might despise both of those, and yet be just as much their victim.
Her contemplation was cut off by Eustace March himself sweeping in, immaculately dressed, his round eyes flicking from one to another, seeing who was absent, assuring himself that all was as he wished it. His gaze stopped on Charlotte. He seemed already to have made up his mind how he was going to treat her, and his smile was unctuous and confident.
“I am Eustace March. Most fortunate you were able to come, my dear Mrs. Pitt. Very fitting. Poor Emily needs someone who knows her. We shall do our best, of course, but we cannot be the same as her own family. Most suitable that you should be here.” His eyes flicked towards Sybilla, and he gave a slight, satisfied smile. “Most suitable,” he repeated.
The door opened again and the only unrelated guest came in, the one who troubled Charlotte the most. Jack Radley. As soon as she saw him standing elegantly just inside the arch of the lintel, she understood more of the problem than she had before, and felt the coldness grow inside her. It was not so much that he was handsome—although his eyes were amazing—as that he had a grace and a vitality that demanded a woman’s attention. No doubt he was totally aware of the fact; his charm was his primary asset, and he had sufficient intelligence to make the best possible use of it. Meeting his gaze across the short space of the green carpet, she could understand only too well how Emily had used him as a foil against which to win George’s attention again. A flirtation with the man might be enormous fun, and all too believable. Only it might prove more addictive than she had foreseen—and far harder to end than to begin. Perhaps after the heady excitement of a forbidden romance, the exhilaration of the game superbly played, George, familiar and predictable, would be a prize less worth the winning. Might Emily, perhaps without acknowledging it, have been willing to continue the affair? And had Jack Radley seen it as his chance at last for a wife prettier and far, far richer than Tassie March?
It was an ugly thought, but now that it was in her brain it was ineradicable without another solution to force it out, to disprove it beyond the smallest doubt.
She glanced at Eustace, standing with his feet a little apart, solid and satisfied, his hands clasped behind