Maximilian snorted. The answer to that was easy. “She’s a vicar’s daughter.”
To Maximilian’s surprise, Wroth laughed in that cool way of his, as if genuinely amused. “My dear boy, if I wish to marry the pig sticker’s daughter, I will. And I dare anyone in this town to gainsay me,” he said, his cold eyes boring into Maximilian’s warm ones. “If I wish to marry my sweep’s harridan grandmother, I will. That, I suspect, is the difference between us. I am wholly comfortable with who I am. Are you?”
The question struck so close to the bone that Maximilian nearly flinched under that chill gray gaze.
“I will excuse you, due to your youth,” said the man who was only a few years older than Maximilian. “But let me leave you with this bit of information. I like Miss Trowbridge. I find her uniquely refreshing, and I would be extremely...displeased...if anyone, including you, were to bring her unhappiness.”
Maximilian felt a hot rush of panic at the implication that the marquis held Charlotte deeply in his affections. “Just what are your intentions?” he demanded roughly.
Wroth laughed softly and rose from his chair. “My intentions, my dear fellow, are to find better company this night. But, if you are truly concerned about Miss Trowbridge, I suggest you investigate a certain baron who has been paying her court.”
“Burgess?” If the advice had come from anyone but Wroth, Maximilian would have scoffed, for he thought he had effectively maneuvered the baron and his proposal into a corner.
Wroth smiled coolly. “My sources tell me that he has always been a bit, shall we say, wrong in the upper story, and now he has developed a taste for a particularly obnoxious substance, which further distances him from reality. He appears to have become obsessed with Charlotte—and Charlotte alone—because of some past grievance against her family.”
“Burgess?” Maximilian asked again, unable to believe that the same mild-mannered gentleman he had practically tossed from his mother’s town house could be an opium addict and some sort of raving lunatic, to boot.
For a moment, Maximilian thought that Wroth would not deign to reply, but he slapped his gloves against his palm and spoke softly. “Some are not what they seem, Wycliffe. You would be wise to put your energies into studying people, not time clocks, for true power lies in the ability to control others.”
With a formal nod, the marquis took his leave, weaving easily among the men who crowded the club. Staring after him, his emotions stretched by now to the limit, sat Maximilian, feeling for the first time in his life overwhelmed and at a loss as to his own direction.
* * *
“A picnic! How delightful for you, my dear. You simply must go,” Sibylle said. She was finishing what Charlotte viewed as her interminable daily toilet, twirling around and showing off yet another new gown. Although Charlotte could not approve of the frivolous nature of so many of Sibylle’s concerns, the woman’s buoyant nature was infectious. One could not help liking her.
“Are you certain?” Charlotte asked again, turning her attention to the invitation from Sir Burgess. She could not share Sibylle’s careless attitude. The idea of defying Maximilian’s wishes so blatantly—even if his wishes were unreasonable—made her uneasy.
“I am never certain,” Sibylle answered airily. “Certainty is for people like Maximilian. But this will be an excellent occasion for you to acquaint yourself further with Sir Burgess. He seems to be the best prospect at this time, for I suspect Raleigh is but amusing himself, and I hold out no hopes for Wroth. Now that would be a coup!” Sibylle said wistfully.
“We shall wait and see,” the countess added, tapping her finger to her lips. “There is no hurry, after all. We can keep Burgess happy while Maximilian puts the man off indefinitely. Then, if Wroth comes up to the scratch, you shall be free to accept him.”
Charlotte looked askance at her sponsor, for she could not share Sibylle’s enthusiasm for the plan. Although she knew she must find a husband, it hardly seemed right to keep Burgess dangling on the line while she sought bigger fish. “Is that fair?” she asked.
“Fair?” Sibylle looked puzzled and then laughed. “What is fair in love, my dear?” She dismissed Charlotte’s reservations with an amused smile before turning to the mirror to admire her appearance.
Love. What did love have to do with it? Charlotte wondered. Here in London, marriage was a business proposition and far less romantic than she had ever dreamed possible. Love was something she dared not even consider.
“How do I look, my dear?”
Sibylle’s words brought Charlotte out of her dark thoughts. “Beautiful, as always,” she answered, forcing a smile.
“You are a sweet girl,” Sibylle said, reaching up to pat her on the cheek. “Now, let us see what horrible foods have been laid out upon our table. A French chef! La! That is what we need. Why have I not thought of it before! Chevalier!”
“The picnic, my lady. Will you join us?” Charlotte asked, trying to keep Sibylle’s errant thoughts on the matter under discussion. It was often a difficult task.
Maximilian’s mother laughed merrily. “Such simple, rustic entertainments are not for me, my dear,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal.
Invitation in hand, Charlotte blinked at the tiny woman who swept past her, and she felt, not for the first time, the unintentional bite of Sibylle’s tongue. After two weeks in the household, she had begun to recognize why Max was at odds with his mother.
Lady Wycliffe was hardly the maternal type. She could be kind, yes, and witty, but she was also vain and selfish. Charlotte thought of her own loving papa, her precious siblings and their mother—gone but not forgotten—and she felt sorry for the earl. He might have fancy homes and horseflesh and money to burn, but he did not have a loving family, and Charlotte would not trade hers for wealth any day.
“But what of a chaperone? Max—the earl said—” Charlotte protested.
His mother cut her off with a wave of her pale white hand. “Maximilian! La! As if anyone pays attention to what that stuffy old fustian says. What does he know of courtship? He lives and breathes by rules! The man is mad, as you said.”
Charlotte sighed. Although she did not like to be reminded of her outburst, Sibylle thought the accusation quite amusing and dredged it up constantly. No wonder Max was not devoted to his mother. Did he know she called him such names? Charlotte tried to picture her dear papa saying anything bad about his children, even in teasing, and she could not. The vicar could barely manage to discipline the boys at their worst.
Although Charlotte told herself she was still angry with Max over his high-handed treatment of her, sympathy for the earl was rapidly diluting her lingering ill feelings. And worse yet, she found herself aching to defend him—to his own mother.
* * *
Despite Sibylle’s assurances, Charlotte did not feel quite comfortable leaving unchaperoned with Sir Burgess. Traveling some distance was not like driving in the park, and although there would be others there when they arrived, Charlotte still was uneasy. Max had told her often enough that a misstep could result in her immediate expulsion from polite society, and she had no desire to court trouble.
She certainly didn’t expect any from Sir Burgess. He had always behaved in gentlemanly fashion. He was quiet, and a bit intense maybe, but not at all the sort, like Stollings, to presume upon her. Charlotte knew she would be safe enough with him, yet she did not want to draw anyone’s censure. And she was more and more aware that Sibylle, with her flamboyant French ways, might not be the best judge in these cases. And when Max found out...
Charlotte tried not to think of that, for, in truth, she did not know if Max would even care. He had studiously avoided her in the week since their argument, and for all she knew, had abandoned her entirely to her own devices. She stifled the ache in her chest that such an assumption engendered and tried to smile politely at Sir Burgess as he assisted her into the carriage. Adjusting the perky straw hat that was perched atop her tightly knotted hair, she settled b
ack to enjoy the drive.
They made polite conversation, but the warmth of the carriage and the late nights that Sibylle insisted upon keeping lulled Charlotte into a state of lethargy. Repeatedly, she adjusted her skirts and blurted out some question to keep from drifting off impolitely. She had the silly notion that if it were Max sitting across from her, she could simply sleep where she was without compunction. Better yet, she could join him and rest her head against one of his massive shoulders, taking in the familiar scent of him....
Charlotte looked up at the ceiling, vaguely disoriented. She blinked at Sir Burgess and then looked out the window. Had she been resting? They were in the country now, and the sun was moving across the sky. Surely, they had traveled past the picnic site. “Why have we not arrived?” Charlotte asked, her voice rough with the lingering edges of drowsiness.
Instead of answering her, Sir Burgess slipped from his seat and awkwardly dropped to the floor between them. He reached for her gloved hand and pulled it toward him gently. “My dearest, dearest Miss Trowbridge,” he said softly. “Forgive me for being so bold, but I had hoped to alter our destination.”
Charlotte sat up straighter in her seat and stared at the man before her. The white streaks at his temples abruptly took on a sinister look, and his gray eyes glinted strangely. She could see the marks of age in his forehead, but, unlike her father, he had no laugh lines about his eyes. He was too serious, but in a different way than Max, Charlotte decided. A grim way. She shifted uncomfortably. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”
Burgess looked at her hand reverently. “You must have some notion of my regard for you, my dear Miss Trowbridge. The other day when I spoke with you, I was given to hope that you looked favorably upon my suit.” He paused as if the depth of his emotion made it difficult to go on.
“I have no patience for delays that would keep us apart, so I have taken matters into my own hands,” he said, his eyes rising to hers again, with bold intent.
“Miss Trowbridge, we are on our way to Gretna Green.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Gretna Green!” Charlotte was aware that the Scottish town was a haven for lovers who wanted to elope, but she never would have dreamed that the quiet baron would come up with such a wild scheme. Raleigh, perhaps...Roddy, if he had possessed enough courage, but Sir Burgess? What was she to think?
For one tiny moment, Charlotte was tempted to go along with Burgess’s plan and be done with her husband hunting. She would have a good name, a nice country manor and enough money to assist her family, if she but let the carriage follow its present course. It was something that many other young ladies would not dare turn their backs on.
But Gretna Green! The very name reverberated with censure, and Charlotte knew that her dear papa would not really approve of such a hasty wedding. Neither would Sarah—or Max...
Unwanted, the image of the overbearing earl appeared in her mind, and Charlotte felt a piercing pang of longing. Suddenly, it did not matter that she knew she could never have him. She simply knew she could not settle for anyone else.
Charlotte’s fingers tangled in the fine material of her gown, crushing it heedlessly while she trembled with the force of the revelation. She loved Max. No matter how irritating and arrogant and bossy he was, she loved him with a potency that overpowered all else in her life.
Blinking into the pale face staring so intently at her, Charlotte realized she could not give her consent to this man, not now...nor ever. However rich and willing he was, however polite and kind, Charlotte could not imagine herself living with Burgess, day after day, night after night...when her heart belonged to another.
She envisioned his cold, thin lips upon hers and his hands upon her body, and she shivered. Although she was not well informed about the marriage bed, she comprehended the basics of reproduction, and the thought of sharing such intimacies with the man before her made her recoil.
The simple task of finding a husband to provide for her family had seemed so clear and easy most of her life, but now it took on a deeper significance. Charlotte knew, abruptly and irrevocably, that she could not do it if it meant giving herself over to someone like Sir Burgess.
Marriage, she decided, had to be founded on more than money and comfort and advancement. She thought of her own parents, who had filled a house with love, if not material goods. They had always gotten by, somehow....
Charlotte felt her heart thumping loudly in her breast as the consequences of her decision became clear. The children would have to fend for themselves, but was not that the way of the world? Sarah had done well enough right there in Upper Bidwell. And, as for the boys, something might turn up. Something always did....
Charlotte lowered her eyes, trying to disguise her growing agitation with a nervous flutter. “Sir! I am most flattered, most flattered, indeed, but my papa, the vicar, would not approve of such a wedding. He would want to preside at the ceremony himself. You understand,” she said, sincerely hoping that Burgess did. “If you are truly interested in making a formal request for my hand, you must speak to Lord Wycliffe—”
“Wycliffe!” Burgess surged to his feet and threw himself back down upon the cushions, his black eyes hard, his mouth pulled into an angry line. “The man will never approve of my suit. He wants you for himself! Everyone knows it.”
In spite of herself, Charlotte laughed. “Wycliffe does not want me for himself, I assure you,” she said, a bit brittlely. “However, if you do not want to speak with him upon the manner, you may present your offer directly to my papa.”
“I think not.”
Charlotte’s head flew up at his answer, and she looked at Burgess with a new wariness. His gaze was hooded and his lips were drawn almost into a smirk. As he crossed his arms upon his chest, she was cognizant of a subtle change in him, as if he exuded a hint of danger that had never clung to him before.
Charlotte was stunned. She realized with belated insight how very little she knew about her suitors. The ridiculous rules that governed courtship among the ton did not allow for much familiarity, and perhaps there was more than one reason for that. A delicate young lady might not be so eager to marry if she knew more about her husband-to-be! Burgess, curse him, had pressed his suit as a quiet, gentle, self-possessed older man, when, in fact, he might turn out to be some kind of vicious wife beater.
“My dear sir,” Charlotte said as steadily as she could. “Please turn this carriage around instantly and return me to Lady Wycliffe’s town house.”
“I cannot,” Burgess said smugly.
“I must insist.”
“And I must refuse, my dear Miss Trowbridge. I apologize if my haste has unnerved you.” The near smirk was replaced by an ingratiating smile, which did not reach his eyes, and Charlotte stared at him, amazed at his subterfuge. “Perhaps the wedding will not be all that you might wish, but we cannot go back. We have been gone, alone together and traveling far, for a long time. Your reputation has been compromised.”
Burgess dropped his gaze as if he could barely contemplate the shameful issue, but Charlotte was not fooled. He had planned this! So much for Sibylle’s idea that they keep the man dangling. Drat Wycliffe’s mother! Charlotte knew she should have been chaperoned. If only Sibylle had listened to her, she would not be in this dreadful coil.
“No one need know,” Charlotte replied sensibly. “If you turn around now, some excuse can be made. Lady Wycliffe can easily concoct a tale to explain my absence.”
“I could not in good conscience allow you to face such disgrace,” Burgess protested.
Conscience, my eye, Charlotte thought, assessing him under her lashes. Obviously, he was not going to consider her wishes in the matter. So adamant was he that Charlotte almost suspected him of harboring an ulterior motive for this abduction. Heiresses were regularly rushed off to Gretna Green, but not vicars’ daughters.
Was the baron so enamored of her? He certainly did not look it, nor did he act as if he were in the throes of some wild passion. Thank heaven
for that much, Charlotte thought. After that last business with Stollings, she could not imagine being trapped for hours in a coach with an amorous admirer...unless it was Max. Max! Perhaps a threat might work where pleading and demanding had failed.
“My lord Wycliffe will be most...distressed,” Charlotte said, in what she imagined was an understatement. She folded her hands in her lap neatly and gazed down at them. “He is quite close to Papa, you know.” She sighed. “And he does have a temper. There was that nasty business with Captain Stollings—”
Burgess cut her off with a hissing sound. “Wycliffe can do nothing!” Startled, Charlotte glanced up to see him positively glaring at her. “We shall be legally wed, and he will have no power to interfere.”
Trying not to let his anger unsettle her, Charlotte gave Burgess a look that said she was unconvinced. Although she hesitated to say so in the face of her companion’s fury, she would not be surprised if Maximilian came upon them at any moment. He had, after all, extricated her from all the other scrapes in which she had become embroiled since coming to London.
Instead of raging at her disbelief, Burgess relaxed and smiled slyly, which disconcerted her even more. “If you are expecting him to appear before the ceremony, let me assure you that he will not. Wycliffe spends the third Friday of every month engaged with members of his driving club. Baring extremely foul weather, of course.”
Smirking openly now, Burgess pointedly glanced out the window to confirm that snow and hail were not in the forecast. Then he paused to make his final words most effective. “Wycliffe has never, ever missed a meeting in the two years since the club was formed.”
Charlotte leaned back against the seat, dismayed by that piece of news. She had no doubt that Burgess was, in this case, speaking the truth. She realized she had just assumed that Maximilian would come to her rescue as he always did, an elegant knight who took his duty to her papa very seriously.
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