As if sensing her pity, he turned away, gesturing to the staircase. “The Abbey contains many treasures, not least of which is the stairs.”
Her head tilted. “They are … impressive.”
“Among the first cantilevered staircases in England. If you move to here,” he gestured her forward, “you will see they almost seem to float.”
“Are they safe?”
He chuckled. “They have supported generations of Hartingtons, so yes, they are quite safe.”
She stiffened, embarrassment washing over her. What a stupid question. As if she needed to be seen as naive.
As if to make up for his laughter, the duke drew closer. “I am glad to see you again.”
Her gaze dropped. “And I you.”
She swallowed a bubble of panic. She did not wish to lie, but neither could she look into his honest brown eyes and admit the truth: that time apart had made the absence sweeter and had not stirred her affections in any way. She couldn’t admit such a thing, not when it might hurt him. Especially with her mother listening avidly, even while pretending she was not.
“You must all be weary,” the duke said, as their trunks were brought inside. “Travers will show you to your rooms so you may rest. We shall be dining at six.”
“Thank you, Hartington,” Father said.
“Thank you,” Charlotte managed to echo.
An hour later, freshly washed and dressed, she sat at the dressing table, waiting as Sarah fussed with her hair, remembering the events since the last time such a fuss had been made.
Two weeks since the duke’s proposal. Two weeks of enduring society’s knowing smiles and little jests. It was a strange position to be in. Few could express what was truly felt, knowing if they gave offense, she had every likelihood of one day being in such an exalted position she could afford to give the cut without fear of recrimination. On the other hand, whispers about her former dancing partners had never truly gone away. But how could they? Not when the feelings she had felt had never truly gone away, either.
She had seen Lord Markham again two days ago at Almack’s. Had tried in vain not to watch him. But her traitorous heart had refused reason, impelling her to look over the duke’s shoulder and meet the steady gaze. What she had seen had caused a shock that caused another shiver now.
Lord Markham had grown thin, nearly reed thin, and about him were the marks of dissipation. Henry had said of his friend that he spent too much time in gambling halls, had nearly been forced to seek the moneylenders, save for a lucky throw at hazard. He hadn’t said any of this in a vindictive way, merely stated it as fact, but Charlotte couldn’t help feeling it was her fault, that if only she’d been permitted to follow her inclination, his manner of life would have been spared, her dowry sufficient to preserve his remaining family fortune.
An unlucky chance had caused them to brush shoulders in the supper room. A startled glimpse and muttered oath from him, a wretched inner pang from her. Somehow in that too-brief moment of time he’d managed to say in a low voice, “Can you be serious? Marrying him?”
The haunted eyes had plagued her dreams, had caused her many a sleepless night. Oh, how unlucky was she, to have been forced to answer as she had. She cringed again, remembering her careless words: “I am not married yet.”
His eyes had lit, igniting hope, before the flow of masses had forced them to move away. But later, when a dance had shifted partners, she’d encountered him once more. Just the act of standing up with him was agony—his scent, the way his eyes crinkled in the corners, as if delight at seeing her filled his being. Surely he loved her still …
“I cannot bear to see you with him,” he’d whispered. “You cannot know what I feel, having lost you, knowing he has won.”
How she regretted her next words. If only she had possessed an ounce of her cousin’s fortitude and dismissed him, or better yet, ignored him. If only she’d not said what she had.
“He has not won my heart.”
His eyes had lit again. “Tell me I’m not too late.”
She could not answer, could hardly believe he would dare say such things.
“I understand,” he’d said finally. “You cannot speak. It is not wise. Only know I will be looking for a way to help you, to hinder this … this God-forsaken match.”
She should have told him no.
She should have told him to forget her.
She stared at her reflection.
But she had not.
The next day
It still seemed extraordinary to have Charlotte here. William glanced at his companion, glad to have finally escaped the rest of his guests for the chance to talk with the youngest—and prettiest. For while Charlotte’s family, the Hawkesburys, his sister Cressinda, and her husband, the Earl of Ware, and several others could each be amusing in their ways, nobody compared to the vivid creature beside him whose freshness was balm to his heart.
She shifted the parasol to her other shoulder, allowing him a better chance to see her face. She held a thoughtful expression, like a scholar trying to memorize for an examination. “So you have a forcing garden, a medicinal garden, the Orient garden, and this—”
“The arboretum.”
She nodded, repeating it softly, pausing to touch one specimen’s feathery leaves. “What is this called?”
“This is an acacia. From southern Africa.”
“It is very pretty.”
“It is only a young specimen, but they are said to grow nearly thirty feet tall.”
She nodded, wandering to the next tree. “And this?”
“A eucalyptus. From New South Wales.” He plucked a leaf and rubbed it between his fingers, releasing the pungent oil. “What does this remind you of?”
She sniffed. “Lemon? Aniseed?”
“Very good. Did you know their seeds require fire to open? I find that most interesting.”
“I think it quite marvelous how so many different varieties from so many parts of the world can grow in one place.”
“I think so, too.”
Charlotte’s pensive expression disappeared in her wisp of a smile. The strain lifted a little more. He needed to remember she took a while to relax around him.
“I suppose it must be very pretty in autumn, with so many different trees changing colors at different times.”
“I hope you will be here to see it.”
“Oh! I … I thought this only a short visit.”
“Perhaps next year, then.”
Her shoulder drooped, and he fought the disappointment. What could he say, what should he say to make her realize this arrangement could work well?
“My sister enjoyed meeting you.”
“Oh! Your sister seems charming.”
She could be when she wanted. “I have told her to make a good impression.”
“Why?”
“Because I have no wish for her to dissuade the young lady I hope to persuade.”
Her cheeks pinked, and she ducked her head.
He truly wished his older sister would not give utterance to her doubts. Cressinda had been astounded at his decision. “I’ll grant she’s very pretty, but William, she’s so young!” She’d shaken her head. “I cannot imagine such an innocent presiding over house parties and the like. She’s too dominated by that awful mother of hers.” She’d shuddered delicately. “I cannot think you employed any great manner of reason to reach such a decision, William, but were attracted to her less intellectual qualities, shall we say?”
Her smirk had heated his neck and brought a swift change in conversation. But he couldn’t deny part of his fascination was Charlotte’s fresh and incomparable beauty.
William pointed out the well, from which Hartwell was blessed by an underground spring, then rounded the corner, where workmen were putting the finishing touches on the carriage house.
Charlotte stopped. “I forgot to ask. Did you ever find out who was responsible for the fire? You mentioned something about rags catching fire. I imagine they
didn’t set fire to themselves.”
“It appears an accident.” Not strictly true, but he did not wish to be reminded of such unpleasantries, not on such a lovely day, with such convivial company.
“You seem to have had a spate of such accidents. I hope there are no more.”
“As do I.” Heavenly Father, let there be no more such incidents.
There had been another one a week ago, more annoying than dangerous. Paint had been spilled in the near-finished carriage house, spoiling the work of the men who had labored many a long hour to scrub soot and ash from the two walls that remained from the previous structure. Everything else had either been destroyed in the fire or deemed unsafe, necessitating demolishment. While the two new walls and roof were finished, the inside had been readied for painting, but the spill of paint had required buying new supplies, thus delaying what he’d hoped finished by his houseguests’ arrival.
That “accident” had also necessitated employing an enquiry agent, to discern if Wrotham had indeed left the country as promised, as well as the posting of a guard: two men to walk the premises. He nodded to one of the men now, who waited for them to pass, hat doffed. William waited a moment for Charlotte to precede him, before murmuring, “Anything?”
“Nothing, Your Grace.”
“Very good.”
He caught up to his guest, who was eyeing the Abbey from the west side. Whilst not designed to be quite as impressive as the approach from the south, the banks of windows were still imposing, as was the pediment hanging above.
“Does your Abbey hold any ghosts, sir?”
He smiled. So, she held a preference for things of a Gothic nature. “I don’t believe so. However, my sister was once convinced there was a lady who walked the landings at night.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes. That was until she learned it was our mother’s maid. Cressinda was sorely disappointed.”
Her laughter trickled joy into his heart. Finally he’d said something that amused. “I don’t think Hartwell has ever had much in the way of clanking chains or headless specters. But we do have some secret passages.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit.
Clearly he was in form. “I’m afraid the passages are blocked up now, but there are some sliding panels I can show you.”
“That would be wonderful!”
So he’d finally learned one thing she enjoyed.
A whinnying sound drew her to a stop. “Oh, sir! Would you mind if we visit the stables?”
Make that two things. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”
Once inside, any other doubts about what harnessed her passion were extinguished. Light suffused her face, leading more than one stable hand to slow their work to gawk. Having no wish to draw further attention to his relationship to Charlotte by reprimanding such looks, he contented himself with pointing out the horses, to which she asked innumerable questions of both himself and Evans, the head groom. Finally they stopped outside the stall of his newest acquisition.
“Oh … she is beautiful.”
“That she is, my lady. Not two years old, and as pretty a stepper as any I’ve seen in a long while.”
Charlotte held out a hand with the carrot helpfully supplied by Evans. The gray filly tossed her white mane before moving closer, thick lips snuffling the treat. “What is her name?”
“She be a new ’un. We haven’t got round to naming her yet.”
“She was called La Belle Princesse Magnifique,” William said.
“The beautiful, magnificent princess,” Charlotte murmured, stroking the mane. “Most appropriate, but a bit of a mouthful.”
“What would you see her called?”
“Me?” Charlotte looked up in surprise. “You mean she is not for your sister?”
“Cressinda has never had great inclination for horses.”
“Like Lavinia.” She shook her head. “I’ve never understood those who cannot appreciate how wonderful it is to ride.” Her face grew wistful.
“Would you like to ride her, Lady Charlotte?”
“She looks just your height, if I may say so,” Evans added helpfully, with a sidelong look at William.
He pretended not to notice, pretended that he hadn’t asked his head groom to source a fine horse to meet the exact requirements of the young lady standing beside him.
“She is used to riders?”
“Of course. Her previous owner had to sell her, most reluctantly I might add. Debts.”
“She looks so gentle. She is not too docile though, I hope?”
“Runs like the wind,” Evans said confidently.
Her smile lit up her face. “Then I would love to ride. Would this afternoon be too soon?”
“Not at all, my lady,” Evans said with a grin.
Pleasure filled him. The stiff asking price had been worth it for such a win.
“But I think we need to shorten your name, just a tad. Perhaps Bella might work?”
The horse nickered, tossing her head as if in agreement.
And the sound of Charlotte’s laughter buoyed his heart—and his dreams.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Three days later
“WELL DONE, MY lady,” Evans said, as he helped her dismount. “You are quite the bruising rider, if I may say so.”
“I gather the duke does not have too many ladies jump the fences,” she said, patting the horse’s nose gently.
“No. The previous duchess only liked a mild horse. One as spirited as your Bella there would never have done.”
Her Bella? Surely he did not mean to imply the duke had bought the mare for her? She shook away the disquieting thought. “What was she like?” She didn’t like gossiping with the servants, but Evans’s open nature, and the fact he’d been in the duke’s employ for many years, gave reason to suspect she might learn more about the goings on around the Abbey.
“The duchess?” His face closed. “She was a pretty, flighty thing.”
Hardly a crime. Charlotte had been accused of much the same.
At her raised brow he hurried on. “I mean no disrespect, but she was not content, was always restless.”
She nodded. Now she knew why the duke seemed so anxious to please. He would not want a repeat of his first wife’s seeking contentment beyond her own hearth. She patted Bella one last time, giving her the sugar Evans had handed over, before thanking the head groom and moving back toward the house.
From this position, she could see the Abbey’s original features, the narrow windows and ancient twisting chimney stacks, below which rested the fan-vaulted cloister that had once lined the Abbey chapel, long since demolished. The duke’s tour of the house several days ago had provided a wealth of information, not just about the Abbey’s architectural secrets, but also a little about the lives of those who served God here so many years ago.
The duke himself had also proved far more interesting than first impressions, and she felt the cords of fascination pulling more tightly around her heart. Was there anything this man did not know? Part scientist, part gentleman farmer, part researcher, everywhere he took their little party had revealed another facet of his eclectic interests. Whilst she cared little for road improvements or new farming methods, riding alongside Father, Henry, Lord Hawkesbury, and their host on these excursions allowed her to appreciate the depth and breadth of the duke’s projects and his humble passion for improving the lot of humanity, as well as enjoy the fresh air and countryside, so pretty in late summer.
Other times she did not have to pretend interest. She was genuinely charmed by the gardens, particularly the assortment of trees he had imported, and found the collections of animals and art inside most fascinating. Many of the rooms, too, were decorated in a manner most intriguing, such as the beautiful morning room painted with flowers, butterflies, and birds. The duke had seemed quite pleased by her admiration, admitting it had been his mother’s favorite room. And as for the secret passages … well, a girl would not have to read Gothic novel
s if she lived here. The walls very nearly hummed with ancient tales! The duke and his sister had taken great delight in showing her the priest hole in the dining room, and the entrance to a—thankfully blocked up—passage from the master bedroom to the stables. Indeed, his interests were so varied, it was enough to make her wonder why he took such interest in her.
She moved inside to the breakfast room, yet another of the Abbey’s surprises, and studied the collection of works by Canaletto. The views of Venice were so realistic she could almost imagine she walked along the Great Canal or walked through the Piazza San Marco.
“Lady Charlotte.” Travers interrupted her musings. “Do you wish for anything?”
“Thank you, no.”
Nothing a butler could arrange, anyway. She returned her attention to the vivid paintings. What would Venice be like to visit? Upon seeing her absorption the other day, the duke had murmured of wishing to visit Italy again. Perhaps under all his solemnity lurked a romantic after all.
An opened window carried conversation from outside.
“I still think you a fool, William.”
Charlotte frowned, having recognized Lady Ware’s voice. “Of all the chits you could choose, why her?”
The duke made a low-voiced comment, too quiet for her to hear.
“I will admit she is pretty, but she doesn’t seem to hold an original thought in her head. I’m sure she has no interest in anything beyond her next gown. Granted, her youth may make her easier to mold to your ways, but can you truly say you would be happy with someone so frivolous, so beneath your own intellect?”
Charlotte’s chest tightened. Was that truly how others saw her? A pretty little half-wit? While she was the first to admit she had no desire for the intellectual pursuits that so consumed Lavinia, she wasn’t quite the dunce people believed. She liked poetry. Even if she preferred words penned by Lord Byron to those of a long-dead John Donne.
She dashed at her cheeks, escaping the room, and the older woman’s censure—the older sister whose affection the duke had clearly exaggerated, if not downright lied about.
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 17