In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 36

Charlie was avoiding Greyson.

After the third morning, it had become patently obvious. The closest she had come to enter his domain had been the morning after he had awakened. Charlie had halted outside his door, her hand poised to knock, but Charlie found she couldn't quite complete the action. She would remember the way he had looked upon her, the tenderness as he had cupped her chin.

The pinch of relief that had filled her breast as well as the tears that had filled her eyes. Her heart had thundered in her chest, and she desired nothing more than to pull Greyson to her, to cradle his head beneath her chin.

Charlie had frozen, the unfamiliar emotions bringing a bout of panic. What was Charlie to make of these emotions? How was she to feel in control of her future if she was so...taken with him?

Did that make her weak?

A laughingstock, perhaps, that a woman who had been burned one time too many would put her wellbeing, place her trust so willingly, into the hands of man?

Courage had abandoned her, and Charlie found that she was no more than a statue - still and stiff and pale.

It had become fodder about the estate later on in the day when, despite the many attempts of the earl to find her whereabouts, Charlie had found something far more pressing to attend to. Her walk about the grounds would take hours. A bath would be essential and then speaking with Lady Georgianna in the library. Finding herself a book. Plaiting the remnants of her hair which she was pleased to see had grown slightly to cover the dips and curves of her collarbone.

She wasn't able to escape Thorne, however, who always seemed to find her about the estate, determined to relate news regarding Greyson's recovery.

The second morning Charlie had barely seated herself to break her fast when Thorne had taken a place across from Charlie. His hazel eyes glinted with laughter as he regarded her over his plate of coddled eggs and sausage.

"It's as if he is an untrained pup swiping about with his paws at those unlucky enough to step into his path."

According to the viscount, Greyson had made enemies of his entire staff in merely two days. They were too frightened of the earl and his constant criticisms.

The fire wasn't built high enough.

The fire was barely present and he had taken a chill.

If the sheets were any stiffer he would find himself starched into the linens.

It seemed the most dastardly of his acts, however, was in turning Miss Martha against him. The cook had threatened to serve him nothing but grits if Greyson sent one more bowl of soup back to the kitchens for being "too cold" or the biscuits for being "a touch too hot." Or his roasted partridge appearing as if it were "still alive and clucking about on his plate."

Thorne had wiped away tears of mirth relating the story, glancing at Charlie from the corner of his eye. "Perhaps I should say he more resembles a yowling babe whose favorite toy was taken from him."

She hadn't liked the comparison.

That afternoon, however, Thorne's mirth had been entirely absent.

Thorne had stalked past her down the hallway, his gait slightly off kilter as he limped to his rooms. "Let's see him ring that bloody thing now."

His plunking footsteps had continued, until he opened his door, his blonde head disappearing and the door slamming behind him.

It was the third morning now, and Charlie didn't attempt to try. Her thoughts were running in circles, her equilibrium leaving her straddling the line of Bedlam.