The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  She sat, gazing up at him. Her brow still held a wrinkle. “Are you a social reformist, sir?”

  “I would never advertise the fact—”

  “Then it is a fact?”

  Gladness warmed him to again see the sharp mind behind the pretty face. “I believe so.”

  “But you are a duke.”

  “And you are a marquess’s daughter.”

  “Yes.” Her lips curled to one side. “But I don’t see why you would care for those not of your, not of our—”

  “Our rank, you mean?” At her nod he felt a pang of disappointment. “Surely you do not think those unhinged of mind are only from the lower levels of society?”

  “I … I confess I have not thought on it at all.”

  Of course she hadn’t. What kind of fool was he to speak on such matters? Pamela had thought him mad for wishing to help the poor souls locked away in their torment. “Forgive me. I should not speak about such—”

  “No, please tell me. I wish to know why you care. Please don’t treat me as a child.”

  Her gown, whilst modest, revealed her form to be far from childlike. He swallowed.

  “Sir?”

  Dragging his thoughts back to the question, he said, “Are we not commanded by our Lord to love our neighbor as ourselves?”

  “But they are hardly our neighbors.”

  “Do you think Jesus intended us to restrict the meaning to such a literal interpretation?”

  She bit her lip, before eventually saying in a small voice, “No.”

  The night sounds sharpened, the soft splash of a fountain, the call of a night bird, the smell of roses tickling his senses. Far beyond them he could hear the low laughter of a man, followed by the higher tinkly giggle of a lady, making the most of this evening made for romance. His lips pushed to one side. And here he was, charming his companion with talk of insane asylums. He shook his head at himself.

  “Does my father know?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Does my father know about your social reformist views?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call them reformist views.”

  “What would you call them?”

  “Merely the views of every aware man and woman who call themselves Christian.”

  Her brows pushed together. “You sound like Lavinia and the earl.”

  He chuckled. “We share a number of values, yes.”

  She turned slightly, and he ventured to study her profile, the delicate sloping nose and firm chin, the golden curl kissing her cheek and the one springing behind her ear.

  His words seemed to echo in the silence, making him wonder just how many values he might share with this young lady. Surely that was of importance, especially when he was considering—

  “Do you think if someone does not care about such poor creatures then he or she is not Christian?”

  He blinked. “I would hesitate to make such a claim.”

  “But you said before that all those who call themselves Christian should be aware of the plight of such people.”

  He thought back to what he’d said minutes earlier. What had he said? “I believe that I said every aware Christian.”

  “Meaning some are not.”

  “Yes.”

  Her brow puckered once more, as if she were engaging in heavy thought.

  “I do not intend my words to distress you, Lady Charlotte.”

  “They have not. You have merely made me see how blind I’ve been. I believe, but have never really considered claims of faith requiring action.”

  His heart gave a little ping of gladness. She shared his faith, which was more than Pamela had. “I hope I’ve not made you feel uncomfortable?”

  “No.” She shivered.

  “Would you like to return? I would not have you grow cool.”

  “Thank you, I am well. As much as I enjoy balls, I’m not especially fond of crowds and being jostled. Besides, if we were to return, Mama would simply plague me with what you said, and what I said, and I do not think she’d be enamored to know we talked of such things.” She tilted her head up at him and smiled.

  Her smile caught him by the heart and refused to let go, stealing his breath.

  “Sir?”

  He swallowed, willed himself to talk normally. “Forgive me. So you do not care for our conversation?”

  “I did not say that. Only that Mama might not approve.”

  “So I must endeavor to speak on things that might win her favor. Let me see, do you believe stars might suffice? Flowers? Or is there another topic you would like to discuss?”

  She bit her lip, as if worried.

  “You do have something?”

  “I … I have wondered something about you, sir.”

  Many had. But he’d never felt inclined to satisfy their curiosity the way he wished to satisfy this young lady’s. “Ask, and I will do my best to answer.”

  “It isn’t—that is, Mama might consider such a topic … indelicate.”

  “But she is not here, and unless you choose to tell her, she shall never know. I certainly have no intention to report the substance of my every conversation to your mother.”

  She laughed, shoulders unstiffening. “Something we share in common.”

  One thing, at least. “Go on.”

  “People say …” Her cheeks pinked.

  “All sorts of things, but it doesn’t mean they’re all true, now does it?”

  “No.” As if gathering her courage, she drew herself up. “People say you have a child.”

  “Ah.” The tension that had seemed to afflict her now enveloped him, banding his chest.

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, that is true. A little girl.”

  “Oh.” Her features seemed to deflate, as if disappointed with his answer.

  For some reason, her response coiled shame within. How was this even a question? How could he have been so backward in his duty to not have publicly acknowledged the child? He cleared his throat. “I can see why your mama might find such a question to be a trifle forward.”

  She glanced up with wide, worried eyes. “Oh! I’m sorry I—”

  “Please, no.” He drew closer, placed a hand on her arm, felt her freeze. He dropped his hand. “I said to ask, and so you did.”

  “But it was improper of me.”

  “It is improper for us to sit out here unaccompanied, yet the impropriety did not seem to concern your mother terribly.”

  Her eyes widened even more, then she jumped up. “Oh! I should—we should return, before—”

  “Before the gossips run out of speculation? I doubt we will ever see that day.”

  She nodded, but the smiles and confiding air of earlier had gone, leaving her with a troubled look. He drew her hand onto his arm, and patted it. “Pray do not concern yourself with tittle-tattle. If one always wonders what others are saying, one shall go mad.”

  “And be placed in Bedlam?” she said with a slanting look.

  “Precisely. And we are agreed that conditions there are not what they should be.”

  “Not yet, perhaps.”

  Her quiet words heartened him, like she held confidence in his determination to change conditions there. Perhaps it was foolishness but he couldn’t deny the lift in his spirits. Pamela had never believed in him.

  They ascended the steps, and the music swelled.

  When they had reached the top, she stilled, glancing up at him with those entrancing blue eyes. “What is her name?”

  Whose name?

  He must have looked confused, for she smiled and said, “The name of your daughter?”

  His daughter? The words washed over him, anger mingling into guilt and regret, swirling into his heart, his resolve. “My daughter’s name is Rose.”

  She nodded, and he felt the affirmation of something far deeper than mere approval of a name. Almost like the Lord Himself was shining approval from heaven that William had finally decided to confess young Rose as his own.


  A fresh twist of shame pierced him. How could he profess to care about the well-being of strangers in an asylum when he barely acknowledged the young babe to whom his wife had given birth?

  They stood on the threshold, and he heard her draw in a breath, as if she too were bracing for the social onslaught. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  They reentered the ballroom, with all its glitter, clamor, and speculation.

  She had lied. She wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready to return from peace to uproar. Wasn’t ready for her mother’s knowing glances or satisfied smile. Wasn’t ready to encounter the flashing eyes of Lord Fanshawe or the fans rising to hide forked tongues. She wasn’t prepared to see the haunted gaze of Clara DeLancey standing quietly with her mother and the Dowager Countess Hawkesbury, staring after Lavinia’s husband. Her heart twisted, remembering last year’s scandal when Miss DeLancey’s well-publicized near-engagement had ended in dust, as the earl’s true feelings for Lavinia had become known.

  She felt similarly exposed, as if everyone knew where she had been and with whom. It made her smile feel brittle, her facade fragile, a facade which might slip any moment and reveal her inner turmoil. Oh, if only they could return to that pocket of quietude again …

  The duke murmured his farewell, promising to call on them soon, and Charlotte was quickly swept away by a plethora of partners, who insisted on dancing until the small hours. But even though her smile was firmly affixed, the troubling revelations from earlier continued to resound. Why was there such mystery over the duke’s daughter? Rose. Such a pretty name, doubtless for a pretty girl. She bit the inside of her lip. And why had their discussion of social reform led her to feeling such unease? Was it his comment about Christians being aware?

  She sensed something profound had happened in those quiet moments outside, something suggesting her life had been rather shortsighted in her awareness of others. So why should she care now? Her prayer from months ago—something about not being shallow?—wafted into memory. Oh, Mama would have a fit! She’d always protested whenever Lavinia mentioned things to do with faith, saying such matters were private and to speak of them most indecorous. But how could Mama hold such scruples when she’d agreed to such a scandal-worthy thing as to permit Charlotte to remain outside and unchaperoned with a young gentleman?

  Queasiness roiled.

  That question only had answers she did not wish to consider.

  Finally, finally, when Charlotte’s cheeks ached as much as her feet, the Regent and princesses departed, and they were freed to take their leave and return home. But the conversation in the carriage rekindled her concerns.

  “And how was your chat with the duke?”

  She sighed. “The same as the last time I answered, Mama. It was pleasant.”

  “He is such a personable gentleman.”

  Her brows rose. Personable was overstating things. “He was pleasant.”

  “Pleasant?” Her mother sniffed. “I should think so.”

  Father leaned forward. “And you like the young man?”

  “The duke?”

  “Which other young man is there?” her mother snapped.

  “I like him well enough,” she hurried to say, smiling brightly before Mama’s glare demanded further explanations.

  “Good, good.”

  Fortunately their curiosity seemed to subside, leaving Charlotte to retreat upstairs, succumb to the ministrations of a yawning Sarah, and finally retire to a deep, uneasy sleep.

  Waking at noon, Charlotte was greeted by Sarah with a refreshing cup of chocolate and the news that Father wanted to see her. When finally deemed presentable by an exceedingly fussy Sarah, Charlotte moved downstairs to discover her parents in the study.

  “I gather you had an enjoyable time with the duke last evening?”

  “Yes?” she replied cautiously.

  “Good, very good.” Father coughed. Beside him, Mama was nodding, a pleased expression on her face for once.

  The earlier unease grew. “Why is that so good?”

  “Because I’ve had an interview with the man this morning.”

  No.

  She studied the landscape on the opposite wall. Perhaps if she said nothing, the awful suspicion would not eventuate. Perhaps if she said nothing, she could go back to bed and this would have proved to be a very bad dream. Perhaps she could enter that painted woodland glade and hide behind that grove and nobody would ever—

  “Charlotte?” Father’s voice now held a frown.

  Returning her attention, she discovered his face now matched his voice. “Yes, Father?”

  “I said I had an interview with the duke this morning.”

  Please God, no. It could only mean one thing. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  His gaze softened a little, taking her back a dozen years ago, when she’d sometimes felt his approval, and yes, even his love, when she’d dared believe she’d been the apple of his eye. Even Mama in those days had been warmer …

  He cleared his throat, a far more guttural expression than the duke’s. “I understand this might come as a bit of a shock, but I think it only fair you know”—he hurried on, as if he knew the news would be unpleasant—“the duke has requested your hand in marriage, and I have accepted.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  No! No, NO, NO.

  “Why are you shaking your head, Charlotte?” Mama said peevishly. “It has been decided—”

  “But not by me!”

  Father had the grace to look a little ashamed. “Now I know he might seem a little old—”

  “A little?”

  “There is no need to take that tone, young lady!”

  “I’m sorry. It … it is a shock.” She bit her lip to stop the tremble.

  Her father nodded. “I understand you might not wish to become a stepmother—”

  Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, clogging her throat. Why hadn’t she refused her mother’s request last night? Why hadn’t she said more of how she felt? How had she permitted this situation to turn so bad so quickly?

  “But I truly believe this will be a splendid match for you.”

  “How can you think such a thing?” she rasped.

  “He is a duke!” Mama snapped. “Any other young lady would be thrilled to be so honored. How you can sit there whimpering when you will be a duchess I cannot know.”

  “But I don’t want to be a duchess!”

  Mama blanched as if Charlotte had blasphemed. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “What do you want?”

  Her father’s kind tone forced her to bite the inside of her wobbling bottom lip, but she could not answer his question. What did she want? To be married, certainly. One day. When she’d had the pleasure of a season. But to a man of her choosing. A man she loved. Helplessness muddled her words, clamped her throat. How could she explain this to her parents? She could only shrug hopelessly.

  “See? She doesn’t even know what she wants,” Mama said with a sniff.

  Her heart stung. Why did Mama have to be so dismissive? Couldn’t she try to understand?

  “And even if you did, well, we don’t always get what we want in this world, do we?”

  Charlotte dashed away the moisture flecking her lashes, to stare at her mother. Why was Mama so adamant? Why did she sound so bitter?

  “Do you have some objection to the man?” Father asked, a query in his brow.

  “How anyone can have any objection, I hardly know. Why, to think you’ll get to live at Hartwell Abbey! It is said to have one of the finest staircases in all of England.”

  Staircases! Was Mama serious?

  “Think of the jewels, of the clothes, of the carriages—well, perhaps not them, just yet. Forget any silly speculations. Why, just think, I will even be forced to curtsy to you!”

  While that thought contained some merit, her mother’s words about silly speculations had aroused a new fear. “Some … some say he is cursed.”

  “Cursed
? Nonsense! Whoever got you believing such an outrageous notion?” Mama’s eyes narrowed. “I bet it was that ridiculous Fanshawe creature. Jealousy makes people say the vilest things. He’s never had a kind word to say about poor Hartington.”

  “But if you describe him as poor, why must I be forced to marry him?” Why could they not see this? Her chest constricted. Why were they so unreasonable?

  “Why are you so opposed?”

  “I do not love him.”

  Father looked at her, concern etched in his forehead, as Mama snorted. “Love? What does love have to do with marriage?”

  Her father’s lips tightened.

  Sympathy for him hurried Charlotte into speech. “I … I always hoped to marry for love, like Lavinia.”

  “Lavinia?” Mama snorted. “Why she chose to marry that man I’ll never know.”

  Heat coiled inside, begging release. “She chose Lord Hawkesbury because she loves him, and he loves her!”

  “Charlotte, calm yourself please. Such outbursts are most unladylike.”

  She drew in a breath, praying for some measure of control over her temper. “Mama, this … this is a shock.”

  “A shock? What do you think we’ve been doing these past weeks? It certainly wasn’t so you could throw over someone of the wealth and importance of a duke for a near nobody like that frippery Fanshawe.”

  Her shoulders grew suddenly heavy. Her mother was right. She had known, or at least suspected Mama’s intentions. But to announce it in such a way, so suddenly …

  “Now, go upstairs and mend your face. The duke is arriving shortly and wishes to speak with you. He shan’t wish to speak with a miss with blotchy cheeks and a red nose.”

  She ducked her head and hurried from the room, happy to escape her mother’s cutting observations and her father’s compassionate look. She stumbled up to her bedchamber, where she succumbed to the mute ministrations of Mama’s lady’s maid, who nevertheless seemed to be quivering with excitement. Had Ellen been told? Of course she had. Mama had never been known for discretion. So if Ellen knew, then all the servants must know, which meant she had nobody who understood just how trapped she felt.