Breathing hard, she closed the door and locked it, then flopped onto the nearest chair, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. Her stomach roiled and she clenched her fist against her abdomen. She huddled into herself, surrounded by misery. Though she tried valiantly not to cry, she felt the cold, wet tears escape.
It could not end this way. The thought made her shaky, filled her with restless anger, made her want to scream. He had kissed her, he had held her, he had desired her. How could he not want her?
But apparently the intimacy between them meant nothing to him. How utterly humiliating. She would have made him a good wife. He needed a woman like her in his life. Someone who would challenge and interest him and make him laugh. Someone who would search beneath the proper stiffness he often assumed and bring out the boyish delight.
But it was not meant to be. Edward had rejected her, thoroughly and completely. How foolish she was to desperately want something that would never happen. Oh, Lord, Charlotte groaned inwardly, how would she ever find the courage to tell her grandfather what had happened?
And how could she possibly face the earl and countess? The pressure on her chest increased and she shivered. She wanted to run from the room, run from the house, run back to the safety and comfort of Quincy Court, yet Charlotte felt so frazzled she could barely put two thoughts together.
She took a steadying breath and tried to force herself to stay calm. Running away was not the answer. She had to stay and brazen it out, to act as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing was upsetting her.
She had her pride. It would somehow sustain her. She would face this calamity with courage and grace. No one must ever know how devastated she felt at this moment, no one must ever know how she had yearned for the affections of the one man who would not grant them.
Clearly, Edward was gone from the manor. Perhaps that was for the best. At least she would be spared the humiliation of facing him. How strange that she could love someone so deeply and hate him at the same time. Charlotte shivered, and a feeling like ice traveled up the back of her spine and settled in the pit of her stomach. She stared stonily ahead, unseeing, as a plan began to formulate in her mind.
"Tomorrow is Christmas Day," she whispered miserably, but Charlotte remembered that the Chambers sisters had said they would be departing the day after Christmas. She and grandfather could easily do the same without arousing any undue suspicion.
Two days. She could manage for two days. She fought to draw in air and promised herself she would not think about what she had shared with Edward. She would merely exist, hour by hour.
It was settled. Charlotte sighed heavily and the weariness of her emotions forced her eyes to close. As the darkness swirled around her, a painful feeling of desperate yearning invaded her soul and the need to release her grief was overwhelming. With a quivering cry, Charlotte pressed her face to the sleeve of her gown and wept openly.
She cried for a long time, cried until she had no more tears. When she was done, Charlotte rose to her feet. Standing tall, she squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine, shook out the creases of her gown and stuffed her damp handkerchief in her pocket.
Deliberately ignoring the way her heart was squeezing inside her chest, Charlotte left the room with her head held high, determined to never again allow thoughts of Edward Barringer to bring her to self-pity.
CHAPTER 4
Six Years Later, London
December
"The newspapers have arrived, my lord."
Though Edward heard his secretary's voice clearly, he did not move a muscle to acknowledge the man's announcement. Instead, he continued to stand before the fireplace in his posh London business office, staring at the dancing flames as if mesmerized. Yet he did not really see the fire. His mind, and his vision, were far away, focused on the incredible turn of events that had suddenly turned his life upside down.
Several minutes passed. Someone cleared his throat sharply. Edward finally turned and saw his secretary, Mr. Crenshaw, standing in the doorway, his gaze down, his arms filled with newspapers. His normally pale complexion was suffused with color.
"Put them on my desk, Crenshaw," Edward instructed. "And make certain to tell anyone who calls that I am busy. I want no one admitted to my office. No one."
"As you wish, my lord."
The clerk bustled out, leaving Edward to wonder how truly bad the newspaper stories were to put his normally reliable assistant in such a state of agitation. Why the man had even reverted to bowing several times in a nervous fit before quitting the room.
Exasperation flared, but swiftly died. It was hardly fair to blame Crenshaw for this current mess, especially because it was a disaster of a personal nature. Though Edward realized when all was said and done, it might affect his business empire too.
Giving the desk, and the newspapers atop it, a wide berth, Edward crossed to the opposite side of the room. He lifted a crystal decanter, positioned on a small mahogany table, and poured himself a full glass of whiskey. Never in his life had he gotten drunk before noon, but today might be an exception.
Lips set in a grim line, he took a long swallow. The intense burn engulfed his throat and stomach, then spread throughout the rest of his limbs. He finished the drink, then refilled the glass.
Unwittingly, his gaze traveled to his desk. The newspapers lay neatly stacked in the center of the polished wood, awaiting his review. Swirling the contents of his glass with a circular motion of the wrist, Edward contemplated those papers for several long minutes, wondering what they had written about him.
Well, there was only one way to find the answer to that pressing question. Edward set his whiskey glass aside and purposefully crossed the room. He reached for the top paper, snapping it to attention between his hands. His eyes quickly scanned the front page, though he knew in his heart he was dallying.
The news concerning Edward Barringer, ninth Earl of Worthington, would not appear on the front page. It would be on the sixth page, among the announcements of engagements and marriages. And the more lurid, juicy details of the scandal would be reported in the gossip column. More than likely as the lead story.
The scent of fresh ink and paper filled his nostrils as he turned the pages. It did not take long to find what he sought:
Mr. George Menton regrets to announce that the marriage of his daughter, Miss Henrietta Menton, to Edward Barringer, Earl of Worthington, will not take place as scheduled this comingFriday morning.
This announcement was only the first part of the blow. The real dirt was on the following page, where the sudden elopement of Miss Henrietta Menton to Mr. Harold Strider was reported. In amazing detail, considering the pair had just run off together in the middle of the night.
Edward refolded the paper and tossed it on his desk. No need to read about the speculation as to why Miss Menton preferred marrying a penniless poet instead of a wealthy, successful aristocrat.
However, Edward could not hold back his smile when he recalled the lines that said, according to a reliable household staff member, the bride had managed to take along her entire trousseau-the very same one that had been created for her marriage to the earl.
He had not realized that Henrietta could be so practical. Though he supposed in her new circumstances she could hardly afford not to be, for it was widely known that her new husband was something of a spendthrift who possessed little wealth. Perhaps this notoriety would aid in the selling of his poetry, but it certainly would not be enough to sustain the couple for very long.
Edward made a mental note to himself to make certain his household staff was always adequately compensated, ensuring that they would never be tempted to become the "reliable" source for any of these stories. Though he supposed the lack of pertinent, truthful information never really stopped the paper from printing a story. Especially one that featured the misfortunes of the members of the wealthy and privileged.
Lord what a mess! He had approached the arrangement of his marriage with the same thoughtful, pr
ecise attitude he used to run his business. Before he made a decision, he analyzed it thoroughly, with detached, tempered emotions so as not to be unduly influenced by sentiment or greed. It was a process that had brought him incredible success and few failures.
George Menton had garnered a massive fortune in mining. His family background was humble, yet genteel. Edward admired his business acumen and his dedication to both his work and his family. They had met, ironically enough, after both pulled their financial support from a mining operation that had showed signs of failure.
In hindsight, it had been Menton who first suggested the union with his eldest daughter, but he had been uncharacteristically subtle in his matchmaking attempts. After all, Edward was an earl and men of his class seldom married outside of it, especially when there was no financial need for such an arrangement.
Yet Menton had shrewdly realized that Edward was not an ordinary member of the aristocracy. With him, anything was possible. And thus the mutual respect and close business relationship the two men shared gradually shifted into a social relationship as well and Henrietta Menton entered Edward's life.
Henrietta was a pretty, slender girl devoid of an abundance of womanly curves, which was Edward's preferred style. Though she lacked an impressive family lineage, he thought she was the embodiment of female English refinement. She had been raised with every financial advantage, educated in the finest boarding schools in Europe to be a lady, traveled extensively to complete and polish her manners, and it showed.
Whenever Edward was with her, Henrietta was fashionably and flatteringly dressed, friendly, yet restrained in her conversation, and modest and demure in her actions. A dainty English flower, with pale blond hair, deep blue eyes and a steady temperament.
The ideal wife for an earl.
Yet as he reminisced, Edward recalled several times after their engagement was announced when Henrietta's face was shuttered and unreadable, her manner distracted and withdrawn. He had not been able to spend a great deal of time with her before the wedding and he attributed this occasional behavior to her natural shyness. He thought it would pass once they were married.
Oh, hell, the truth was he had barely thought about her at all. Certainly not as a woman. She was merely a means to an end, the reward of an excellently negotiated business deal. As he searched within himself, taking responsibility for his part in this fiasco, Edward admitted his biggest mistake was not bothering to take into account Henrietta's feelings and desires.
Edward was looking for contentment and friendship in a marriage. Apparently Henrietta had been searching for something entirely different: love. And she had been smart enough to realize that he would never love her, at least not the way that some men loved their wives.
Perhaps she had done them both a favor by finding a way out of the marriage. But did she have to do so in such a public, humiliating manner?
The sound of thunder growling and clapping, and the bursts of intermittent rain drew Edward's attention away from his melancholy thoughts. He returned to the small mahogany table and picked up his whiskey glass, then went to the windows, opening the center window a few inches, hoping the clean smell of the winter rain would help clear his head.
Alas, it did not, but the cold felt invigorating.
The hesitant knock on his office door was followed by a timid murmur.
"My lord, I do beg your pardon-"
"I said no visitors, Mr. Crenshaw," Edward barked out in a forceful tone. "And I meant it."
"Don't bite the poor man's head off," a familiar masculine voice exclaimed. "He tried valiantly to stop me, but I was having none of it. I told him repeatedly I am not a visitor. I am family."
Despite his mood, which could be described as a miserable mix of despair, anger and misgivings, Edward found himself smiling.
"Hello, Jonathan." He went forward to grasp his brother's outstretched hand and let himself be pulled into a fierce hug.
"I came the moment f heard," Jonathan whispered.
Edward pulled back and gave his brother another muted smile. "So, it's all over Town?"
"More or less. "Jonathan removed his coat and a shower of cold droplets spattered on the floor. Though it was a task far beneath his duties, Mr. Crenshaw took the sopping wet garment and hung it on a nearby brass coat rack. Then he wisely disappeared.
"I imagine my enemies are celebrating and toasting with glee over my recent misfortune?" Edward asked, though he was uncertain if he really wanted to hear a truthful answer.
Jonathan drew back a pace. "You have far fewer enemies than you may think," he replied. "Those who truly know you are genuinely concerned about your well-being, and as for the rest. . ."Jonathan's voice trailed off, then he shrugged. "They can all rot."
Edward gave his brother a wry smile. The gossip must indeed be scathing if Jonathan was making light of it. Still, it was a relief to hear the truth from someone he could trust. It was also a relief not to have to pretend to be stoic and uncaring over the matter.
"I have learned these past few years that men in business as well as men who enjoy the life of an idle aristocrat share many traits, among them the ability to find great pleasure at a colleague's misfortune," Edward said with a trace of bitterness.
"You are hardly the first man in the world to have misjudged a woman," Jonathan insisted. "Nor will you be the last."
"I might not be the first, but I am surely among the most foolish to be so publicly humiliated," Edward said with a sneer. "Bloody hell, I was nearly left standing at the altar, thrown over for a man who has neither a title or a fortune, nor the means to ever acquire either." He lifted the pile of the newspapers off his desk and then threw them down in disgust. "The Times even felt it was enough of a noteworthy event to mention. Lord only knows what fun the scandal rags have made of it. I fear I do not possess a strong enough stomach to read them all and find out."
Jonathan shrugged again. "Do not flatter yourself, brother," he said. "Not everyone in England is all that interested in your affairs. Truth be told, you are known to be a rather boring fellow, with an unenviable reputation for being stodgy and straightlaced."
'Which is precisely what makes the scandal even more entertaining," Edward countered, his mouth twisting into a grimace.
Jonathan watched him speculatively. "Did she break your heart?"
"No. Merely wounded my pride." Edward was quiet for a moment, focusing his gaze on the rain that pelted one of the nearby windows. "I'll admit I did not know her very well, but I liked her. She was never silly or giddy, like so many young debutantes one meets these days. Whenever we were together, we were always able to converse on a wide variety of topics, anything from art and music to architecture and history.
"Her observations were thoughtful and perceptive and I believed we were slowly building a rapport. But what assured me most about our future life together was my belief that Henrietta was a sensible young woman."
Jonathan moved closer and set a comforting hand on Edward's shoulder. "Well, she was sensible enough not to marry you, especially when she was in love with someone else."
Edward was momentarily taken aback to hear the words spoken aloud. Henrietta had been in love with another man while engaged to him. And even worse, Edward had been blissfully unaware of it. She was the woman he had chosen to spend the rest of his life with, believing they were a well-suited pair, yet he had gotten it all terribly wrong. How could he have been so blind?
"If you tell me 'tis all for the best, I shall punch you in the nose," Edward told his brother, attempting to lighten the mood.
"It is for the best. And if it makes you feel any better, go ahead and punch me."Jonathan slowly lowered himself to the chair on the other side of Edward's desk. "I think living the rest of your life without love is a very sad business. You deserve better, Edward."
Edward was humbled by his brother's support. Leave it to Jonathan to get to the heart of the matter with such lethal efficiency.
"I feel like such a fool," Edward
admitted. "As I look back upon it now, I realize there were clues suggesting that Henrietta might have been coerced by her family into accepting my offer. I imagine she must have felt manipulated and helpless. But I never bothered to pursue the matter with her."
"I suppose you could have asked her," Jonathan said. "Based on what you have said about her, I have a feeling she might have confessed the truth."
"Maybe I did not want to hear the truth," Edward muttered.
He paced the floor, back and forth between the windows, and tried not to think too hard upon the matter. It was simply too distressing.
"You need to come home, Edward,"Jonathan sub gested. "It will do you good to get away from London, away from the gossip."
"Home? To Farmington Manor?" Edward ceased pacing. He blinked his eyes and tried to focus. "Why go back? So Mother may gloat at my misfortune? I imagine that will lift her spirits enormously."
"Edward, that is unkind and untrue."
Edward sighed. Jonathan was wrong. His mother would delight in hearing that his fiancee had jilted him days before the intended nuptials. It was exactly the type of perverse revenge that would bring her pleasure, a just punishment for all the supposed wrongs he had heaped upon her head, for all the humiliation she was reported to be suffering by his "defection."
For years Edward had been relieved that Jonathan knew none of the ugly details concerning the rift between himself and their parents. But at times such as this, his brother's lack of knowledge was a real hindrance. For if Jonathan knew all, he would know what he was suggesting was ludicrous.
"Returning home will serve no useful purpose," Edward stated flatly. "Besides, I do not want to appear so wounded by this incident that I am forced to flee Town rather than face my business associates or partake of any of the social events of the ton. It smacks of cowardice."
Jonathan's snort was loud, yet elegant. "Then why did you tell Crenshaw to admit no one to your office?"
The Christmas Heiress Page 5