She barely heard her answer, barely heard the marquess’s words of protest as she floated off into this new lord’s arms. Was barely aware of anything save the way his dark blue eyes captured her, caressed her, made her feel like she was dancing on air.
“Who are you?”
“Besides a knight in shining armor?”
A chuckle escaped. “Besides that.”
“Besides a man who wishes himself a poet to do justice to your eyes?”
She blinked.
“Would you permit I should steal words from a poet? ‘Around her shone the nameless charms unmarked by her alone—the light of Love, the purity of Grace, the mind, the Music breathing from her face …’”
“Who wrote that?”
“Byron.”
Her gaze lowered, her cheeks heating. “Mama does not permit me to read his work.”
“I hope she won’t mind you hearing his work.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You will have to wait to find out, won’t you?”
She glanced up. He smiled, blue eyes lighting, and her heart began beating rapidly. And as they danced, and chatted, and laughed—and he did not once step on her toes—she began to wonder if perhaps this was the man who would prove husband material. Markham. Why had that name not leapt from the pages of the copy of Debrett’s Peerage Mama had forced her to memorize?
As the music swelled, she caught a glimpse of her father standing next to an indignant marquess, and felt a moment’s regret.
Her companion leaned down and murmured, “The marquess will look a little more sharply the next time he chooses to dance with such a beauty, I’ll wager.”
Though she smiled, his words drew her mind back to what she’d overheard earlier—wagers over the new child of the Duke of Hartington. The violins seemed to play a sadder strain, and in the middle of the ballroom, in the middle of her glorious debut into society, she found a prayer rising from her heart that all would be well.
CHAPTER THREE
Hartwell House
Hanover Square, London
THE SCREAM RENT THE NIGHT.
William, Duke of Hartington, pushed his head into his hands and slumped over his desk. A prayer half formed on his lips before the darkness took it away. He’d be hanged before he prayed for her. Hanged before he let his heart be touched again. Hadn’t he prayed enough?
Heat banded his chest, constricting his lungs until he grew desperate for air. He drew in a deep gulp and, for a few minutes, forced himself to concentrate on breathing: inhale, long exhale. Inhale, long exhale.
The room was unlit, the only light coming from the crackling fireplace. Red light danced behind his closed eyelids, echoing the fire threatening to consume his soul. His fingers clenched. With a great force of effort, he managed to release them, to straighten them, only to clasp his hair like a madman.
A madman. Laughter sputtered, died. How ironic. Had the board at Bethlem Royal Hospital and Asylum known the absurdity of offering a trustee position to one such as he? Mad? The heat within grew. Surely an understatement. How long would it be until he did not feel this insane rage?
Lord …
He couldn’t pray the rest, wasn’t even sure if God was real anymore. He certainly hadn’t made His presence felt the past few months.
A scratching came at the door. He lifted his head but said nothing, waiting for the door to open as it always did, regardless of whether he’d issued instructions about his wishes to be disturbed or not.
“Your Grace?”
Jensen’s voice.
“Your Grace, please come.”
His valet knew everything, yet still made this request? “Go away.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Your wife is calling for you. She needs—”
“My wife?” He almost spat the word. “She made it clear long ago she needs me for nothing.”
Not his love, not his seed. Only his name.
“If you do not, you will live to regret—”
“Do you truly dare to presume to tell me what I shall feel?” He eyed the man silhouetted in the doorway. “You have no idea what I go through!”
His valet said nothing, light from the hall lamp revealing his steady gaze.
A pang struck. Actually, Jensen did know. He was the one person William had taken into his confidence, the one person who knew the devastation caused by the discovery of the affair. The one member of his household who knew about last night’s affair of honor. Paid almost a king’s ransom to keep his lips sealed, the only man he could trust.
That maniacal laugh came again. How had he come to this, where his only friend was a paid servant?
“Your Grace?”
At the worried note in his valet’s voice he forced his whirling thoughts to slow, to focus; forced himself to take a deep breath. “Yes?”
“The doctor … the doctor thinks it won’t be long now.”
A spike of resentment shafted his heart. “Until the brat is born?”
“Until your—the duchess is no more.”
“What?” He spun in his chair to fully face his valet.
“Dr. Metcalfe says it is a hard case, that she has lost a great deal of blood. He believes it only a matter of hours.”
For once the usually expressionless features held a measure of emotion, something that looked like pity. Hardening his heart, William said roughly, “Why should I care?”
“Because, if I may say so—”
“Never stopped you before, has it?” he muttered.
“If you don’t, there may always be a measure of regret that things were left unresolved.”
Like with his parents. William’s hands clenched. He did not want that again, did he?
No. He didn’t.
He grunted, pushing to his feet to follow Jensen. The great hall’s lights made him squint and gave him pause, as the faces of his footmen smoothed from ambivalence to something approximating their usual impassivity.
No doubt they all knew, would be busy gossiping about his misfortunes, if they hadn’t been so already. Hypocritical gossips—as bad as any matron from society’s scandal-breathing ton.
He trudged up the stairs, heart hammering as another cry of desperation sliced the air.
“Your Grace?” Maria, his wife’s dresser, hurried toward him, eyes reddened. “Oh, sir, Madam needs you. She—”
He waved an impatient hand, cutting off her words as he strode to the main bedchamber. Bracing internally, he entered.
Something akin to a collective sigh filled the room. A half dozen people scurried around on the room’s periphery, but his vision focused only on the figure writhing on the giant bed. Horror suffused his chest, chasing away all previous emotions.
The brunette gnashed her teeth as a violent trembling shook her distended belly, almost like an invisible giant shook her. Beside her, a gray-haired man held one arm, while a couple of housemaids prevented the other from flailing. Blood stained the nightdress, stained the bed linens; too much blood it seemed from one small person.
Another low moaning sound swelled into a scream, piercing his soul.
He yanked his gaze away to focus anywhere but her face, her once adored, once so beautiful face. He focused instead on the carved bedposts twisting upward to a labyrinth of intricate cavorting gargoyle-type creatures. He’d always hated this bed.
“Is he here?” The voice, a hoarse whimper, drew his attention again, stealing past his internal barricades.
“I’m here, Pamela.”
“William?” Blue eyes he’d once described as moonlit turned to him, focused on him.
For a moment he was transported back in time, back to last summer, when she’d last looked at him with something approaching kindness in her eyes. That single night when he’d tried to convince her of his love, show her his love, had tried to put aside his wretchedness in a final desperate attempt for an heir. Back before she’d taken up with Lord Wrotham again.
His heart
hardened. “What is it?”
She whimpered, her face tensing, squinting, lines of pain furrowing her forehead as her back arched once more. “Oh, dear God!”
Her desperation seized him, stirring long-depleted compassion. From somewhere deep within he found the rest of the prayer. Lord, help her, heal her.
She gasped, eyes closed, the pains finally releasing their hold, as the accoucheur looked up at him, beetling gray brows pushed together.
“The child?”
“We … cannot get it out,” Dr. Metcalfe said in a low voice.
“But surely …” He gestured helplessly to the bloodstained medical instruments. “Perhaps someone else?”
“There’s no time, sir.” Maria gazed up from her mistress, eyes filled with accusation.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
The finality of those words pummeled within. No. Lord, no! If only his resentment had not precluded his appearance sooner. If only he—if only she …
“William, please.” Pamela’s hand strained toward him. “Please believe I am sor—” Her words ended in a scream, before she slumped back motionless.
He staggered back from the bed, out of the way of the rush of women.
No! It couldn’t end like this. God!
Horror crawled across his soul as the limbs refused motion, as Metcalfe received no response to his frantic pleas.
Lord God!
“She’s gone.”
“No!” A terrible wailing sound emanated from the far side of the bed. “Not my lovely!”
The screams, the sobbing, the frantic ministrations of the doctor seemed to fade as weight clanged against his chest like Westminster’s bells. Nausea heaved within. Emotion lined his eyes, clamped his throat. No …
“You! You did this to her!” Maria staggered to her feet, finger outstretched in accusation. “I will never forgive you for what you have done!” She spat.
He dodged, though not quickly enough, as some of her spittle landed on his coat. She lifted a hand as if to strike him, so he grabbed her arm, twisting her around until she faced away from him, panting foul curses as the room’s inhabitants watched in horrified fascination.
“And I will never forgive your role in all this.” Swallowing the shakiness, he murmured in her ear, “You let your mistress play the whore, then have the nerve to blame me? How dare you?”
“Your Grace—”
William ignored the doctor, thrusting the Frenchwoman to the door. “Get out. Leave my home immediately. Jensen!”
“Here, Your Grace.”
“Please ensure this person never darkens our doors again.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Your Grace—”
“You’ll be sorry, Duke of Hartington!” She spat another vile obscenity. “I’ll make you sorry that you breathe!”
“I doubt it.” How could she, when he already felt that way?
Jensen, now assisted by some of the footmen, dragged the screaming maid away, her curses mixed with vulgar French he had little desire to understand.
“Your Grace!”
He spun to face the doctor. “What?”
The elderly man held a small bundle in his hands. “It’s a girl.”
“What?”
Dr. Metcalfe moved closer, holding the child toward him.
The tiny face seemed too tiny, too red, too still. “Is she—?”
“Alive, yes. For how long, I can’t say.”
His throat clamped, as for a moment, something melted in his heart. He reached to touch the tiny fingers. “How? I thought—”
“Sometimes when a body relaxes …”
He shuddered. His wife was now but a body?
“And we can pull them more freely …”
Ignoring the gory details, he focused on the silent child, before the reason for her existence rose again. His wife. Wrotham. That night. He shuddered. “Take her away.”
“But—”
“I said take her away!”
And before any of them could see the moisture leaking from his eyes, he strode away, slamming the door to his bedchamber, where he could weep in solitude.
For of course the babe would be a girl.
Not an heir.
Not even a child he could call his own.
CHAPTER FOUR
Exeter House, Grosvenor Square
Three days later
“OF COURSE SHE must go.”
“But Mama—”
“Charlotte, please do not interrupt. Your father and I agree it would be impolite not to attend.”
Charlotte glanced at her father, whose face wore signs of impatience, not agreement.
“Oh, hurry up, child. We cannot be late. Half of London will be there.”
“But why?”
“Because she is—I mean, was a duchess!”
“But why must I go? I’ve never even met either of them.”
“Something to be thankful for, if the rumors are true,” Henry murmured, adjusting his black gloves in the doorway.
“I beg your pardon?” At the shake of his head, she looked to her mother. “How do you know the duke will even be there?”
“Because he always attends services. Now, this is not the time for idle speculation, Charlotte. Get yourself ready, and be downstairs in ten minutes.”
Charlotte bit back an unladylike retort sure to get her into more trouble and motioned to Ellen to continue her ministrations. Wiry strength lay in the older woman’s hands.
Within minutes she was downstairs, dressed in black crêpe, a small veil on her head. A short time later they were travelling in the landau to St. George’s, the site of today’s service, the regular Sunday time of communion sure to be packed with those wishing to pay their respects. How terrible an event to have occurred, on the very night of her ball, to have such sadness so close to where she’d spent the happiest evening of her life.
She studied her black gloves. Why did Mama want her to attend today? Their church attendance was sporadic at best. And with Mama’s insistence on Charlotte’s appearance, then releasing Ellen to ensure Charlotte’s best looks, it almost seemed as though she wished Charlotte to make a positive impression. Surely she did not wish Charlotte to secure a grieving widower, even if he were a duke. Mama wouldn’t, would she?
“Charlotte? Stop frowning.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She exchanged glances with Henry, then turned her attention outside. Spring had brought a flush of flowers, and the bright green new leaves were very pretty. Her spirits surged. Lord Markham, so assiduous in his attentions since the ball three nights ago, calling every afternoon, might even be amenable to taking her on a drive. “Do you think we could soon go and see Richmond Park? I’m sure it would be quite lovely at this time of year.”
Mama’s brow puckered. “Why you must suggest such a thing on such a sad day I do not know.”
“But it’s not as though we’re sad, is it? You yourself said only yesterday we scarcely knew—”
“Charlotte, that’s enough!”
“Yes, Mama.”
Charlotte returned her attention to outside the carriage, which even now was slowing, no doubt due to the crush of vehicles the closer they drew to Hanover Square.
Minutes later they were being escorted to their box near the front, a box for which Papa paid a large sum each year, even if he rarely attended, and when he did, always complained of the condescending attitude of the minister.
Charlotte looked around her. Whilst not strictly a funeral, the number of black bombazine adorned congregants gave heavy suggestion of mourners. She smiled at Lord Fanshawe, seated across the aisle, which he acknowledged with a nod and grin.
“Charlotte, it is impolitic to acknowledge a young man in church.”
“Yes, Mama.”
It seemed impolitic to acknowledge a young man anywhere. Mama had been less than pleased with the post-ball visits from so many gentlemen she deemed minor conquests. Approval for Saturday’s visit to Hyde Park with Lo
rd Markham had been hard won, granted only by Henry’s reluctant attendance. Never mind. They’d had a wonderful hour, and getting to know her brother’s friend a little more had only deepened her attraction. He was such a handsome, charming man, always so amusing. Conversation with him always left her thrilled, wanting more …
The murmur of the congregants suddenly hushed, broken by a whispered, “The duke!”
Charlotte carefully peeked over her shoulder, working to make her movements as discreet as possible and not draw Mama’s ire, as the man walked slowly down the center aisle. She eyed him curiously. Thin, not above medium height nor particularly handsome, he was dressed smartly, though completely in black, right down to his black neckcloth. The most notable feature of his face were the dark, dark eyes above which rested thick dark brows, which seemed a little incongruous with the lighter brown hair. No, he would never be generally held attractive. His head was held stiffly, as if he were aware of the crowds watching him. He was stopped by someone—she squinted, the Duke of Sutherland?—before moving to enter the box across the aisle and one row in front.
From this position she could see him more clearly, see the shadows lining his eyes and jaw, even see the clench of his jaw as Lady Someone-or-other turned to pat his hand. Something twinged in her chest. How awful for him to have lost a beloved wife and much-wanted child. How awful to be forced to grieve so publicly. Moisture clogged her throat, filled her eyes.
“Charlotte! Stop staring!”
But Mama’s whispered recrimination could not force her gaze away. Poor man. He wore almost a haunted look. Hunting through her reticule, she found the black-edged handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
At that moment, the duke shifted, head turning as if he finally deigned to acknowledge the watching crowd. Something cold stole through her soul at the expression his face wore, as if he knew the reason the church was packed today and was contemptuous of the sudden increase in congregants. Shame bade her to avert her eyes, when she realized his gaze had landed on her.
The darkness in his eyes sent coldness up her spine, yet heat to the back of her eyes. Poor, poor man. Caught between wondering whether to deflect her look and pretend she hadn’t been staring, or whether to continue her perusal, she felt a tear trickle down her cheek.
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 3