Somewhat mollified, William tried to appease them with the suggestion of a house party in a couple of weeks.
“At Hartwell Abbey?” Lady Exeter’s eyes shone. “Well, that would be good.”
Her husband looked somewhat relieved. “It has some merit.”
William glanced at Charlotte and stretched out a hand, relief filling him when she slipped her hand into his. “We have determined to conduct this relationship”—he inwardly cringed, the word too heavily laden with meaning—“with the dignity and respect it deserves, and as such, I will brook no interference from those wishing for more than what either of us can reasonably be expected to own or to give. I hope you take my meaning?”
The marchioness flushed, before saying stiffly, “Your meaning is very clear, sir.”
“Good. For I would be loath to learn that undue pressure was being exacted upon my dear Charlotte here.”
He watched the battle on her face between her wince at having her intentions exposed and delight at his last words. Delight won. “My dear sir”—she smiled brightly—“how can I possibly wish anything but the very best for both you and my dearest daughter? Her happiness is our only wish.”
The hand in his tightened suddenly, as if its owner recoiled from her mother’s words. He glanced down to meet Charlotte’s wry expression. A sudden feeling of overwhelming protectiveness flooded his being. Sweet and innocent, Charlotte was hardly different from little Rose at home in Hartwell. Victim of circumstances beyond her control, subject to the whims and decisions of others, robbed of a voice of her own because of her birth.
He gently squeezed Charlotte’s hand in return. He would do his utmost to see her protected, too.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
St. James Park, London
August 1
CHARLOTTE FELT TRAPPED in a haze of confusion. The crowd filling the park surged and pressed around her, her senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds—and smells!—of Londoners readying for celebrations as her thoughts continued their frantic pace. She needed escape, needed to breathe! The past ten days had barely left her with a moment to herself, consisting of a welter of shopping and visitors, as somehow London learned of her upcoming betrothal.
Her lips twisted. Of course, she didn’t have to look too far to discover the source of that particular rumor, Mama’s ability to keep a confidence virtually nil. It seemed news of her good fortune had been whispered about in many a drawing room, Mama so keen to share her daughter’s most marvelous expectations. Charlotte could barely move through London society without encountering a knowing smile. Nor could anyone reasonably expect the many mantua-makers and milliners visited in past days to keep their mouths closed when tasked with dressing the future Duchess of Hartington.
Sarah was in high ecstasy, knowing she would likely receive Charlotte’s castoffs, and while Charlotte had always enjoyed obtaining new clothes, the sheer volume of new attire seemed excessive. And almost unimportant. Not when compared to the weight of responsibilities that would be demanded by her new role.
A hurried visit to Salisbury and her grandmother had been a respite of sorts, away from London’s congratulatory tattle-mongers, even if it had brought home just what was expected of her. But her grandmother’s sharp eyes and sharper tongue had always left her feeling intimidated. Lavinia had confided her own particular method for dealing with the grandmother she had first met less than a year ago: to remember just how lonely she must be and filter all her words through the ears of grace.
Grace hadn’t helped her much, though. Instead it had proven rather hard to remember when Grandmama had gazed at her with those beady eyes.
“So, I hear you are to marry Hartington.”
She’d forced herself to nod.
“Hmph. Suppose he’ll do. Rich enough by all accounts. Bit of an odd fish if I recall, but that family always had a most peculiar interest in scientific rubbish.”
Charlotte hadn’t known what to say, her smile feeling like it might slip at any moment.
“Have a tongue?”
She’d blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“So it is there.” Her grandmother chortled. “Thought you might have lost it.”
Charlotte had murmured something incoherent, her grandmother talking over the top in her usual indomitable style. “I don’t suppose you’re fool enough to imagine you love the man?” She snorted. “Not like that cousin of yours. Marrying such a man. Stupid girl. Well, at least you’re not sinking that low.”
This criticism of Lavinia placed words in her mouth. “She and Lord Hawkesbury are very happ—”
“I have no interest in hearing that person’s name! Lavinia I will tolerate, but as for imagining herself in love with a member of such a family, well I—” She shook her head before gazing sharply at Charlotte. “You did not answer my question. You think you love him?”
She swallowed. “Mama says it is a splendid match.”
“Well, it is. But you didn’t say you did. Good.” She sniffed. “Love is something for romantic simpletons. If you don’t have money, or the connections a good match brings, then you are wasting your time.”
Mama had nodded, like Grandmama’s marionette bobbing on a string. Charlotte smiled internally. Really, it was most unreasonable to expect Mama to think anything but what Grandmama dictated. Hadn’t Lavinia once said something about how Grandmama controlled the purse strings?
The older woman’s brows pushed together. “But didn’t I hear something rather disturbing about that gentleman? What was it?” Her expression cleared. “That’s right. His wife was something of a trollop, wasn’t she?”
“Mother!” Mama said in agonized tones, casting a pleading look at Charlotte.
“Good heavens, Constance. I didn’t take you to be so prudish. Well, I can only hope your daughter won’t cause such a scandal as his first wife did.”
Charlotte had glared at her, which only seemed to make her grandmother to laugh.
“Well, well. Perfect that look, my dear, and we’ll make a duchess of you yet! One requires something of a backbone and at least an ounce of spunk, in my experience.”
That backbone was what was keeping her head high as the crowds filled St. James Park. Henry had wondered if the festivities at Green Park would be better, the talk of the balloon ascent and temple illuminations sounded all that was wonderful. But instead they were here, preparing to watch the reenactments on the canal. An exotic seven-story Chinese pagoda stood atop a picturesque yellow bridge, the pagoda and four bridge pavilions each topped with a bright blue roof.
“Is it true you have a Chinese pavilion at Hartwell?”
Charlotte glanced at the duke as he answered Mama. “Only a little one, I’m afraid. In my Oriental garden. Nothing of the height and substance of the one before us.”
“Oh, how I’d love to see it. I’ve always said I love the Orient.”
“Have you really, Mama? I cannot recall—”
“Of course, Charlotte! You must have forgotten,” Mama vigorously asserted, cheeks pinking. “I assure you, Hartington, that I find such things most fascinating.”
“You never cease to surprise me, madam,” the duke said.
A giggle pushed past Charlotte’s tension.
“Look!” Lavinia pointed to dozens of rowboats moving toward each other in mock battle, their colors signaling Lord Nelson and his opposition at the Battle of the Nile.
Charlotte watched for a while, but the tactics failed to engage her attention for long. She glanced away, hating the crowds, the stifling heat, the air of oppressiveness. She drew in a deep breath, caught a wisp of bergamot and musk, the duke’s scent subtle and refined.
“May I get you a refreshment, Lady Charlotte?”
The quiet voice drew her attention. The duke’s tone matched his attire, an understated elegance that stated he did not need to try as some might to garner attention.
She nodded, thankful for his offer, even as she found his solicitous nature perversely irritating. W
hy did he have to notice things all the time? Why couldn’t he leave her be? The tension inside her mounted. He was too careful, too courteous. His very attentiveness fed remorse that she did not feel the same.
Her gaze slid past his shoulder, to where the earl had wrapped a protective arm around Lavinia, her cousin leaning back to smile adoringly into her husband’s face. Her heart wrenched, as a desperate yearning took hold. If only she could marry someone whom she loved! If only she felt a tenth for the duke what Lavinia seemed to feel for her husband. Her fingers clenched, released.
Charlotte glanced to where the duke had remained, surprised to see him watching them, too. A look of something like regret crossed his features, before his face smoothed to its usual impassivity as he turned to her. “Forgive me. I shall attend to your drink immediately.”
Irritation burned anew. Why did he have to be so polite? If only she could make him lose that genteel mask so she could learn what kind of man he truly was. “Please, do not trouble yourself.”
His head inclined. “It is no trouble, I assure you.”
A man, stinking of cheap alcohol, jostled her. She made a noise of disgust, inching away, only to step on the duke’s foot.
Mortification heated her cheeks. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“It is nothing. Perhaps”—his dark eyes studied her—“perhaps you might prefer to move away from these crowds. I recall you are not overly fond of such things.”
Annoyance pricked again, irrational though it was. Why was he so considerate?
“Would you like to see if we can find a less crowded location?”
She looked at him in alarm. Surely he didn’t mean to suggest …
He smiled, soothing away the annoyance from before. “I promise to take no liberties.”
“No, of course not.” Of course he wouldn’t, passionless creature that he was. She lifted her chin. “Very well.”
William murmured a brief explanation to the marchioness and, having secured her permission, offered his arm to Charlotte. She took it, her manner and posture as stiff with him as it had been all afternoon.
What had made her lose the confiding air? She was a mystery. At times she was so easy to read, her innocent blushes saying as much as her lips. Her artlessness enchanted, her frank—at times wry—remarks suggesting they might share a similar sense of humor. But at other times …
Somehow he managed to extract her from the throngs and draw her to a slightly more spacious section. He didn’t blame the crowds for coming; each of London’s major parks would be crowded with those wishing to celebrate the victories and see the Regent’s overpriced spectaculars.
A horde of soldiers approached. William drew her to one side, noting the drunken widened eyes and muttered oaths as they spied his pretty companion. For her part, Charlotte seemed far less vain than a young lady of her good looks might normally be. Either she truly did not notice the attention or her good breeding demanded it remain unacknowledged.
He drew her toward a booth selling lemonade. “Two glasses please.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Well, if ain’t a fancy lordship.”
“His Grace, actually,” Charlotte corrected.
“A dook? Aw, go on wiv ye, luv. This ain’t no dook, else I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
“Well, perhaps you’re a monkey’s—”
He bit back a smile, placed a hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Surely it does not matter what others so completely unconnected to us might think.”
She drew her arm away and turned back to the woman. “Why do you say he’s not a duke?”
The woman cackled. “He ain’t tall enough for one thing.”
He fought the cringe, conscious Charlotte had straightened.
“Precisely how many dukes have you had the honor of meeting?”
“Me? Meet a dook? Oh, you’re a saucy thing, ain’t you?” The woman cackled again, handing him the refreshments he now wished he’d never bought.
He passed one glass to Charlotte then fished out a more than appropriate coin. “Thank you.”
The woman looked at the coin, eyes nearly popping out of her head. “Is this wot I thinks it is?” She bit it, then turned to her husband. “I think he is a dook!”
William turned away, noting with a smile that Charlotte’s glass was empty. He handed her the next.
“This is not for you?”
“I find I have no desire for lemonade this evening.”
“Oh.” She glanced at him doubtfully. “Are you sure? Despite that woman’s rudeness, it is very good lemonade.”
“I am glad.” He drew her to one side as a drunken man chased another down the path. His pulse raced, at the feel of her so close, her scent—roses? lilies?—drifting to stir his senses wildly. Did she notice? She appeared unmoved.
He guided her back to her family, politely dismissing the marchioness’s thanks. He did not wish for her gratitude. He wished only her daughter would not dismiss him quite so obviously. He glanced at Charlotte again. Even now she did not look at him, instead peering around behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing but a sea of faces. When she next met his gaze she shivered.
He wished, like Hawkesbury, that he had a husband’s right to wrap his arm around her, but they were not yet betrothed, so any touch must be seen to be innocent. “What is it?”
“A woman was looking at you most peculiarly.”
“Perhaps she wished to know who was so fortunate as to be escorting such a lovely young lady on such an evening.” He smiled, thankful that for once he’d managed to say something that sounded complimentary, like what he imagined her many suitors would say.
Her smile peeked out, and she glanced behind him again, only to freeze once more.
He turned with the aim to identify the mysterious woman, but saw no woman staring their direction. Instead, his eyes fixed on a far more concerning sight.
A young gentleman, staring at Charlotte beside him.
Lord Markham.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hartwell, Northamptonshire
Four days later
THE CLATTER OF carriage wheels had long ago settled into a bumpy rhythm that echoed the jolting in her heart. Markham. Hartington. Which man? Markham! Hartington. Hartwell? Heartsick. Hartington …
Charlotte shifted her head, uneasiness sliding queasily within. Dreams of balloon ascents and Chinese pavilions, fireworks reflected in the Serpentine, pagodas on fire—on fire!—mingled with other, stranger dreams, ones scented with bergamot and wry humor that fueled security to her core …
Her eyelids drifted open to meet the same scene of the past three hours. Mama, seated opposite, a handkerchief covering her face, quivering with each breath. Father beside her reading, making occasional low-voiced conversation with Henry, who sprawled next to Charlotte. Unwilling to interrupt, she turned slightly to face the view outside.
Unlike the pretty hills of the Cotswolds, this area was much more flat, but its patchwork of fields and farms held a rustic simplicity she appreciated, despite her avowed preference for city life. The carriage slowed, turning to pass a large gatehouse before they rode along an avenue of trees. Thick woods bound the avenue, ancient tree branches intertwined overhead. What creatures lived there? Mama had talked about the duke’s deer park, but it seemed a haven for fairy folk, too.
Finally, the carriage escaped the shadows and pulled into the afternoon sunlight. Mama stirred, and Charlotte sat up, her eyes widening, mouth drying. Grandmama’s estate at Salisbury had forever been her touchstone for elegance, but this …
The Palladian-styled house rose majestically on the far side of a shining pond, its three stories gleaming white in the sun. A central bay possessed four Greek Ionic columns, which supported a handsome pediment and was flanked on either side by two wings stretching five windows deep, finished with handsome Venetian windows.
The road curved back, allowing a view of the triple-arched stone bridge before the carriage passed over it and drew closer. Her he
art thumped. All this could be hers.
As if sensing her thoughts, Mama eyed her. “I trust you know what is expected of you.”
“Yes, Mama.”
But she hoped her mother remembered what was expected of her. For all his mildness, the duke had appeared surprisingly firm about Mama’s need to desist from interference on that morning two weeks ago.
The carriage slowed, then stopped beside the steps, lined with a score of servants.
And the duke.
Her skin goose-fleshed.
Another moment later and the duke was handing them out, bowing to their curtsies, uttering a warm welcome in his quiet way. Her eyes met his before skittering away, nerves rising as they always did when they met after absence.
She passed inside, to find a great hall with checkerboard floor, sided by oak panels, protected by gleaming suits of armor in each corner. Large cabinets lined each wall like one might find in a museum, above which hung magnificent allegorical paintings. Her breath caught. “I thought this was an abbey. It seems more like a palace!”
The duke smiled his charming smile. “About seven hundred years ago, the original building was founded by Cistercian monks, and used as a place of worship, until the dissolution of the monasteries, when Henry VIII handed possession to the first Duke of Hartington in 1547.”
She studied the decor. Already she could sense what was important to him: family, history, nature. She moved to study the contents of one of the glass cases lining the walls: animal specimens.
“What is this?” She pointed to a gray creature, smaller than a cat, with dark tabby-like stripes and a pointy face.
“That is a merrnine, a banded hare wallaby, brought back from the wilds of Western Australia.”
“And why do you—?”
“Have a specimen? Because my father gave me it when I attained my majority.” His lips turned wry. “I suspect it was something of a joke, seeing as our family emblem is a stag.”
A hart. Yet the slight build of the duke could scarcely support a vision of that majestic beast. But to give a small, hopping creature instead … Sympathy panged. How unkind for the previous duke to mock his son that way!
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 16