June 15
“MAMA, PLEASE. I’D give anything—”
“No.”
“Oh, but—”
“Charlotte, it is simply not appropriate for a girl your age to be interested in such things.”
“Out of curiosity, Mama, just how old should a girl be before such things are of interest?”
“Henry!”
Charlotte shot her brother a thankful look and pleaded her case again. “Mama, truly, how many opportunities will there be to see such splendid sights?”
“When you are older, perhaps.”
“Yes, but when she is older there won’t be a parade celebrating such a glorious occasion. Surely, Mama, you do not think Napoleon makes a habit of gathering troops to fight again?”
Charlotte silently applauded her brother. It seemed Henry had felt more than a twinge of remorse at being the chief reason for Charlotte’s expulsion from London society for a fortnight. Upon news of Lord Markham having quit the season to head north, Henry’s arguments that Charlotte be brought back to London and under Mama’s watchful eye had finally found a soft ear. But while glad her family had finally seen reason, the very fact she’d been sent away in the first place, courtesy of his interference, continued to rankle. Coupled with the news that Lord Markham had not even left her word but had gone meekly on his way, doubled her desire to see her brother make amends.
She eyed him again, raising her brows.
Henry sighed. “Mama, I cannot understand how you consider Charlotte old enough to wed and take on the responsibilities of managing a household, but cannot find her old enough to watch a simple parade.”
“That is because you are not a mother,” Mama said with a sniff.
Henry exchanged glances with Charlotte, as if to say he’d tried his best, but Charlotte wasn’t ready to concede. “Mama, if the person of whom you disapprove is not there, then what can be the matter?”
“There might be others.”
“Other young gentlemen, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well of course there will be,” Henry said. “I’ll be in attendance, and I’m sure Fanshawe won’t mind putting in an appearance.”
“No Fanshawe,” Mama snapped.
“But Freddy is as good a man as any. Mama, you’re not still thinking of selling Charlotte off to the highest bidder?”
“Oh, I wish your father were here to stop this silly brangling!”
Charlotte wished that, too. But he was in Parliament—or so he said.
After another exchange of glances, Charlotte bit back the heated words and summoned up a smile. She would try to live higher than her emotions.
“Very well, Mama.”
Her mother blinked. “Well! I’m pleased to see you have come to your senses.”
“I understand you have no wish to be embarrassed by me, Mama.”
“Oh, but—”
Charlotte kissed her mother on the cheek. She would behave with dignity and decorum. Even if she felt like she might explode from the tension coiled within.
She left the drawing room and forced herself to walk slowly up the stairs to her room.
Footsteps hurried behind her. “You’re taking things awfully well, Lottie.”
“I am not quite the child everyone thinks me, Henry.”
“Decided not to go, eh?”
“My decisions count for naught anyway,” she said, plastering on a smile.
She paused. Except … her decision on how to respond to disappointment really was a choice. She did not need to react in the heat of the moment. What was that verse Lavinia had spoken of? Something suggesting that as far as it depended on her, she would live at peace with others. Surely this applied to forgiving her brother, too?
“What is it? Lottie”—Henry cocked his head, smiling, as if to pacify his use of the old name—“you’re not planning anything underhand, are you?”
“I don’t know what you mean. The only decision I’ve made is to trust that Mama will see reason.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, I might even pray about it.”
“How very devious! I gather this is our cousin’s doing?”
“Perhaps. I know this may surprise you, Henry, but I’ve no wish to be thought a child all my days.”
He laughed, and the sound caught her heart.
Yes, she might not have many choices open to her, but she could make choices about what lived in her heart. And just as she’d tried to protect Lavinia from the excessive concern of Mrs. Florrick, perhaps Charlotte needed to make choices to protect her own heart from those emotions that begged to hold sway. Her choices could lead to bitterness or shared laughter.
Her smile grew genuine. Today, at least, in forgiving her brother, she’d made a better choice.
TWO DAYS LATER, Charlotte was requested to attend Mama in her bedchamber. After making her wait for what seemed an eternity while Ellen fussed with her hair, Mama finally pronounced herself satisfied and eyed Charlotte in the looking glass.
“I have decided, due to your good behavior, you shall attend the parade after all.”
“Oh, Mama! Truly?”
“Truly.” Her mother smiled. “I am not coldhearted after all, and I still recall my first season.” She sighed. “I remember what it was to find a young man appealing. In fact …”
Charlotte clamped her lips as her mother continued her reminisces, espousing the merits of some army officer she’d found quite attractive, until her own mother had put an end to it.
Mama sighed. “After Grace, you know …”
She nodded. Lavinia’s mother, eldest daughter of a duke, who’d chosen love over a title, a quiet country life over the one to which she’d been born.
“Mother insisted I marry befitting my rank, and George was all I could ever ask.” She sighed, smiling. “I tell you this because I want you to marry appropriately, and not throw yourself away on someone unworthy.”
Was she suggesting Grace had thrown herself away on Lavinia’s father? Yet wasn’t Lavinia one of the kindest, loveliest people she knew? How could such a thing be a mistake?
“Your father has arranged for a room along the parade route. We shall invite a few of our more intimate friends and make quite a merry party. After all, it’s not every year we shall have opportunity to celebrate the peace. That little man will not run riot over Europe again.”
“True.” She fought a smile at such an idea.
“So it will behoove you to look your best, and to ensure these next few weeks are ones where not the smallest whisper of scandal can be heard. I hope I’ve made myself clear?”
“Clear as crystal, Mama.”
“Good.” Mama turned back to the looking glass. “Not too many young ladies are fortunate enough to receive such opportunities, let alone a second chance with such a man.”
Her spirits dropped. “With what man?”
“Why, with the duke, of course!”
THE DAY OF the twentieth dawned clear and sunny, excitement at the forthcoming parade lending wings to everyone, as regular morning preparations requiring hours seemed to take only minutes. Even Mama was dressed and at the breakfast table before her usual time, submitting to Father and his constant demands to hurry.
Their meal finished, they left Grosvenor Square and joined the stream of carriages headed to the Strand. In addition to the vehicles, pedestrian numbers were increasing. The air of excitement that so filled the streets had Charlotte abuzz, too.
Finally, she would once more be part of the season. If today went well, Mama might even see fit to let her attend the dress party at Carlton House on the twenty-first of next month. Seeing the Queen again held less anticipation than the opportunity to dress up most magnificently. And if she could capture the heart of someone less stuffy than the old duke, then so much the better. For the sooner Mama put away all this nonsense about him, the happier everyone could be.
By the time they reached the rooms hired for their use, the streets were pressed ti
ghtly with sightseers. Anyone setting out now would no doubt be sorely disappointed.
“I hope Fanshawe makes it in time,” Henry grumbled. “It would be just like him to arrive late and leave me stuck talking with ol’ Hartington.”
Hartington. Her spirits drooped. She would have to look like she was making something of an effort with him, otherwise Mama would surely suspend further excitements and attractions.
The upper-story room, whose large windows afforded an excellent view of proceedings, had a number of sofas positioned to capture the scenes below. To the back of the room, a long table held a variety of victuals, including savory and sweet pies, fruit, ices, and jellies.
“Well, you have done things in style, my dear,” Mama said with a pleased look at Father.
He harrumphed, muttering something about not being willing to put their distinguished guest to the blush.
Henry filled a plate as if he hadn’t eaten two hours ago, prompting Charlotte to steal a small pastry. Her mouth filled with an explosion of creamy sweetness mingled with the tart tang of berries. How delicious!
“The Duke of Hartington,” the footman announced.
Charlotte quickly wiped her mouth, chewing hastily. Why did he have to be so punctual? She eyed his outfit, even as he made his bows to the room. Dressed soberly as always, he still presented a neat, elegant figure, which she could only approve.
The duke turned, forcing her to gulp a too-large mouthful. “Lady Charlotte.”
Pain trembled down her throat at the pastry’s slow descent. She curtsied, hoping that would suffice, but Mama’s whispered, “Charlotte!” forced her to mumble around stubborn flaky flecks of pastry, “Duke.”
A tiny piece flew from her mouth. Mortification heated her cheeks.
But rather than the disgust she felt sure to see, his eyes seemed to lighten with unholy amusement, as if he found her a particularly silly creature at the Royal Menagerie.
She swallowed, lifted her chin. Not that it mattered what he thought. She only had to behave respectfully enough to satisfy Mama; then she would be free to go on as before.
Finally released from Mama’s rapid chatter, the duke moved forward. “I gather you would recommend the creamy buns?”
“How did you—?”
He motioned to the side of his mouth, and she mirrored his actions, as if she were in a trance. Removing her finger, she found a spot of cream on her glove’s fingertip. Oh …
She turned hurriedly away, desperately wiping at her face before Mama’s eagle eyes became aware of her faux pas.
The duke moved nearer, murmuring, “There is nothing more.”
She nodded, his kind tone drawing moisture to her eyes. Offering him a tight smile but refusing to meet his gaze, she returned to the settee near the windows.
“Charlotte?” Mama said in a startled whisper. “What is the matter? Why are your cheeks flushed?”
“I—”
“You do not want to give the duke a bad impression, remember?”
Too late for that.
Fortunately, further enquiry was cut short by the footman’s announcement of Lord Fanshawe.
“Fanshawe, at last. We had begun to give up hope that you’d make it,” Henry said.
“It’s busier than I anticipated,” Lord Fanshawe said, his round of bows far more elegant than the previous arrival’s. His eyes rested warmly on Charlotte. “But I would not have missed this opportunity for the world.”
Her heart fluttered. Lord Fanshawe was truly a gentleman, suavely exchanging politenesses while moving to her side. He would never laugh at her!
“Dear Lady Charlotte! May I say, you look divine.”
“Indeed, you may.”
He smiled, bending over her hand, pressing a kiss, then looked up, his blue-gray eyes watching her carefully.
While no Lord Markham, Lord Fanshawe was eligible, and more importantly, available. Charlotte drew in a deep breath as she removed her hand, removing her gaze to see the duke avert his attention, a crease in his forehead suggesting he did not like what he saw.
She shrugged mentally. The sooner he knew he’d never hold her heart, the better. She drew closer to the window, watching the spectators below, working to ignore her inner unease.
The streets were crowded now, so crowded in fact it seemed impassable. She shuddered. How awful to be squeezed amongst so many strangers. Indeed, the press of bodies and the day’s heat meant every so often a spectator collapsed. “Oh!”
“Lady Charlotte?” Lord Fanshawe moved to her side. “Is something the matter?”
“That lady, there”—she pointed—“she just fainted.”
“Silly widgeon,” Henry said with a laugh. “She won’t be the last.”
“How long do you think until the next swoon?” Lord Fanshawe said. “I’ll lay you a pony it’s not more than ten minutes.”
“You’re on.”
Charlotte bit her lip. It seemed uncommonly cruel to be placing wagers on other people’s misfortunes. She peeked across at the other guests. Father and Mama seemed indifferent, but the duke’s frown had deepened. Rumor had it he disliked gambling, no doubt due to his wife’s reputation for reckless deep play. But really, did he need to show such antipathy? Did he ever enjoy himself?
His gaze shifted, meeting hers. Her skin prickled. But now the dark eyes seemed almost sad.
She hastily returned her attention outside, where the hum from the crowd had intensified, along with the commentary from her brother and his guest.
“I think the procession will take awhile yet—oh, look! Another one down. You owe me twenty-five pounds, Feather.”
As Henry grumbled something, Mama sighed, the disconsolate lines of her face smoothing as she smiled at the duke. “Well, if we must wait longer, I suppose we should do justice to some of Monsieur Robard’s fare. I hope you like glazed ham, sir. One of Robard’s special sauces which he refuses to share, even when I’ve had the likes of the Regent himself request the recipe.”
“Thank you.”
Why didn’t the duke respond in kind? Mama was trying to make him feel welcome, but he seemed so aloof, so removed from anything like sociability. How dull could one man be?
Lord Fanshawe drew to her side. “Lady Charlotte, may I fill your plate?” He leaned closer. “I’m told I have excellent taste in knowing just what a young lady likes.”
Charlotte blinked. Did he intimate something else? She shook her head. How ridiculous!
“No? I assure you, I seek only to be of assistance.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
“Anything you prefer?”
“I love peaches. They are my favorite fruit.”
“It amazes me how many things we share in common.”
For a few minutes the room was filled with the clatter and bustle of filling of plates, during which she noticed that despite Mama’s insistence he go first, the duke had barely placed a thing on his plate. “Thank you, madam, but I ate earlier.”
Charlotte glanced down at her plate, filled to overflowing with pies, small cakes, and fruit—but no more pastries. She wasn’t exactly hungry either, but Robard cooked so exquisitely, it would be a shame to see his good efforts go to waste. She discreetly removed her gloves and placed them in her lap.
Henry and Fanshawe began a low-voiced conversation, leaving her to follow Mama’s lead and begin eating.
“So, Hartington,” Father said, his plate filled, “tell us what brings you to London.”
The duke returned his forkful of food to his plate. “My coachman remains unwell, and I remain unconvinced the doctor attending him has explored every avenue for success.”
“Ah, doctors.” Father nodded, shoving in a large piece of ham. “Who’d you have?”
“Dr. Lansbury.” The duke lifted his fork.
“Lansbury?”
At her father’s question, he placed the fork down again.
“Never heard of him,” continued Father.
A wisp of a smile crossed the
duke’s face. “He is a local man.”
“Never trust local men. What would they know?”
“In my experience, I’ve found they usually know a great deal more than those from the city.”
“Yet you’re here now,” Father said in a tone almost aggressive.
“Yes.”
At the duke’s bland look and quiet word, her father nodded, before finally returning his attention to his plate. Charlotte almost wanted to cheer as the duke finally lifted his fork and ate. His very mildness seemed to have a soothing effect on her father’s sensibilities, and made her wonder how often he employed such meek strategies.
Mama placed her fork down. “Well, that was delicious, if I do say so myself.”
Charlotte smiled inwardly. How typical of Mama to take credit when she hadn’t lifted a finger.
“I cannot believe the poor princess has broken off her engagement. Can you, sir?”
“Constance, don’t bother the man when he’s eating,” Father said, as if he had not done the very same.
“But the talk is all over town, isn’t it, Charlotte?” Mama said, with inclined head.
“Yes, Mama,” Charlotte said obediently.
“Poor thing. Not knowing her own mind. But there have been rumors, you know.”
“I try not to pay attention to rumors,” the duke said, without lifting his gaze from his plate.
“Oh! Well, yes, of course.”
For a moment, the room filled with the unspoken, like a dozen crows circling the room, silently shrieking about the duke and his wife, and that ridiculous rumor about a duel. No wonder he didn’t want to talk about the latest on-dit.
“Mother, don’t tease our guest with thoughts on Slender Billy,” said Henry. “Next you’ll be saying again you’d prefer the princess marry Gloucester.”
“Silly Billy,” interjected Fanshawe, with a grin.
“I beg your pardon, Duke,” Mama said with high dignity. “It is not my desire to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but your conversation does not discomfort per se. Truth be told, I find the situation rather sad.”
Charlotte paused.
Yes. She’d never realized it before, but the princess’s situation was sad. To be forced by one’s father to live apart from one’s mother. To have every move scrutinized and gossiped over in a thousand places. To have your choice sneered at by the very people who then curtsy and smile. She remembered back to her brief glimpse at the Queen’s drawing rooms. The princess was pretty, and by all accounts warmhearted, too. How sad she could not find happiness …
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 10