The Lady of Charlotte, Part 8

In which the storm breaks...

Read previous parts here.

Photo by Vincenzo Marotta on Unsplash

Charlotte was completely soaked by the time she ducked into the forge. Olivier too—which of course, only made him that much more gorgeous. She wished she were seven years younger. She wished she were beautiful and clever and tall. Instead, she was wet and her roundlet had come entirely undone.

She must look a fright.

At least, though, Olivier was smiling (what a smile) and his dark, dark eyes were crinkled with amusement at the sight of her. “I think it is finished,” he said in his French accent, motioning to her roundlet. He had to yell to be heard over the hammering rain and rumbling thunderclouds.

“Yes!” she yelled back. “I am perpetually a mess. Can you help me?” The damned thing was all tangled, and one spot where she’d pinned it to her bun wasn’t coming undone.

He nodded and moved in close. Rain glistened on his bare arms. It had washed off much of the day’s work, though not from beneath his fingernails. She wondered if h…