The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  “Well, I thank the good Lord above you were here. And I’m sure Pattinson does, too. Well, he will once the swelling goes down.”

  “Mrs. Bramford was able to help?”

  “Aye. She wants him resting. The doctor will doubtless tell the same.” Evans eyed his grazed hand. “Her salve will work for you, too.”

  “And I’ll get that seen to as soon as possible.”

  But he did not want to run the risk of distressing his houseguests more than he could help.

  He hastened to the veterinarian, packing up his bag. “Mr. Noyce, thank you for coming.”

  “We’ve been able to save them, but whoever stuck that sorghum in with their oats should be strung up.”

  William jerked a nod. The culprit would be lucky to escape the ire of the stable hands, if he were ever found. “So you’re sure there’s nothing more we can do?”

  “Like I said earlier, sir, there’s nothing you can do. We have to let nature run its course. It’s just a good thing your men were here early enough to see the problem and get them walking before any of them had sickened too much.”

  “Thank God for Evans.”

  “Thank the Almighty for more than that. Young Pattinson has a lot to be thankful for with your quick thinking, Your Grace.”

  He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “I only did what anyone would do. Pattinson didn’t know the mare would turn on him like that.”

  Sorrow panged again. He didn’t wish to admit it, but sweet Bella had shown her true colors, proving her unsuitable for Charlotte’s use anymore. It was such a shame, when her joy in riding Bella was so evident. But he couldn’t run the risk of the horse hurting Charlotte. Couldn’t run the risk of anything hurting her.

  He reiterated his thanks to Mr. Noyce and his men, and turned back to the Abbey, taking a moment to study the great building. Would it be secure? With so many windows and entrances, someone could get inside quite easily. His heart thudded painfully. Would Charlotte be safe? Was she safe right now? He knew Travers could be trusted to lock up well at night, but should he begin posting guards within as well as without? Or were such musings more fit for a madman? Investigations had proved Wrotham to be on the Continent. If not him, then who? Heavenly Father, what do I do?

  The prayer hovered unceasingly, as he spent the next couple of hours discussing matters with Hapgood, dictating letters, examining ledgers, checking his calendar to schedule another visit to Barrack, wishing a thousand times he could spend his time with Charlotte instead.

  Charlotte. How had the guards he’d thought posted around his heart been knocked asunder by such loveliness?

  Charlotte. He groaned. Heavenly Father, what do I do?

  The burden of a hundred responsibilities and unanswered questions seemed impossible. He slumped over his desk, burying his face in his hands.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  IT WAS ONE thing to be invited by their host to visit the conservatory to inspect the hothouse flowers. It was quite another to be made to feel by his sister that Charlotte’s company was unwanted, or as Cressinda put it so delicately, “Rather a distraction from his important duties.”

  Charlotte pushed to her feet, offering a stiff smile to the woman sitting opposite. “If you’ll please excuse me?”

  “But where are you going, Charlotte?” Mama demanded.

  She shot her a look she hoped appeared demure. “Surely a lady may retire momentarily without divulging every detail?”

  “Very well, then,” Mama said crossly. “Sad mismanagement, somewhere.”

  Charlotte hurried from the room, cheeks heating. Not that she cared what Cressinda and her foppish husband thought. If only Mama was not quite so unbridled in her comments. Sighing, she ascended the great stairs, one hand trailing the smooth wood, one flight, then two, up to visit baby Rose. But when she knocked, the cranky nurse barred the door, saying the child was sleeping. With a sigh, she conceded she would not be granted admittance and went downstairs again.

  She paused at the landing, glancing out to where the stable yards were. Why, there was Neptune! He wasn’t lame at all! Why had the duke said he was? She leaned against the glass, one hand pressed on either side of her face, and watched the horse kick out violently.

  No, definitely not lame. But definitely not well, either. She had never seen any of the duke’s horses so agitated. She watched a moment longer as the stable hands struggled to keep him from bolting, the combined efforts of two young men finally enough to constrain him back into the stables.

  Her mouth dried. Had something happened to the horses? Who would do such a thing? Lord, please protect them. Give the duke wisdom.

  Upon descending to the Great Hall, she paused, not anxious to return to the others. Restlessness wove through her, fueling a desire to somehow help. But what could she do? She could not walk the horses—he had stable boys for that. She could not strap on a pistol and chase poachers. But surely there was something she could do?

  She stopped at the exhibit cases, eyeing the one containing the specimen from the Antipodes. What had the duke called it? A banded wallaby, was it? She strained to remember the inadvertently sad little story he’d mentioned. Something about his father, and a jest she hadn’t thought funny. She turned to study the large paintings presiding over the hall. The dark-eyed, dark-haired dukes of Hartington lined up, watching her, dressed in Elizabethan ruffs, austere Jacobean robes, the ornate lacy neckcloths of the Georgian-era seventh and eighth dukes. In each one, the Abbey was positioned in the background. She peered more closely. In each one, she recognized the stag, the family emblem, as she recalled.

  Now she remembered. The ratlike little wallaby, with its black stripes and long tail had been a joking gift from the eighth duke to his son as a jest about his height. How cruel! Indignation heated her chest, pricked her eyes. Is that why the duke tried so hard at so many things? Was it an attempt to prove himself? That while he might not bear the height and heft of his predecessors, he wished to show his mind and talents still valuable for something?

  Sympathy melded with understanding, tugging at her heartstrings. Poor man. Dear man. What could she do?

  She sank into a seat and thought very long and very hard for a good many minutes. When she finally rose, purpose lay in her tread as she exited through the side door. She was going to find him and tell him exactly what she thought.

  “BUT MISS, HE is not here.” Evans mopped his brow. “He would have my hide if he knew you were out here. He said on no account—”

  “On no account was I to visit the stables, correct?”

  He nodded miserably. “The horses ain’t well.”

  “But not lame?”

  “One is.”

  So he hadn’t lied completely.

  He sighed. “Kicked too hard and hurt her foot.”

  “Not Bella?”

  “Aye. I’m sorry, my lady, but she’s proved to have a wicked little temper.”

  “Surely he is not going to get rid of her?”

  Evans glanced at his feet, shuffling, but did not answer.

  “He is planning to get rid of her! But why? What made her act in such a way? She’s always been such a sweet girl.”

  “I can’t rightly say, my lady.”

  “Can’t say, or won’t say?”

  Her tone must have been enough like Grandmama’s for him to finally meet her gaze. “I think it be best you speak with him.”

  “Very well.” She nearly flounced off when she remembered something else. “The duke. Was he injured earlier?”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  Heat filled her cheeks, and she hurried on. “I noticed his hand was grazed.”

  Why she felt she had to explain herself to a servant was something she did not want to investigate. How ridiculous!

  He shuffled again. “He had to haul out young Pattinson when Bella began kicking him.”

  “Oh no!”

  “He only just got him free before Bella nearly splintered the walls where he’d been.”


  “Oh my goodness!”

  “Aye. Pattinson’s been thanking his lucky stars His Grace was there.”

  “He’d do better to thank the Lord above.”

  A grin cracked the man’s weathered face. “Funny. That’s what His Grace said.”

  She nodded, inordinately pleased to have said something the duke had agreed with. “He is something of a hero, it would seem.”

  “Aye, that’s plenty certain.”

  Resentment at hearing her Bella was to be disposed of had nearly dissolved by the time she returned to the house. She walked around the east wall, careful to avoid being seen from the conservatory’s great glass windows, where she hoped Mama and the others still remained. No doubt Mama had already dispatched a servant to discover why Charlotte was taking so long.

  As she rounded the corner, she glanced in at the long window on her left. And stopped. The duke sat in what must be his study, head bowed, clasped in his hands.

  Pity wrung her heart. He looked so alone, so sad, so … defeated.

  Her steps slowed as she made her way through the front entrance and across the checkered floor of the great hall.

  “Oh, Lady Charlotte! There you are,” Sarah said, hurrying forward. “Your mother is most anxious about you.”

  “That is hardly new.”

  “Yes, well.” Sarah shivered, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve been hearing bad things about this place,” she said in a lowered voice.

  “What kinds of things?”

  “I shouldn’t say …”

  “But you will.”

  “Oh, my lady! I do not want to be like one of these foolish women in those novels you read, but I can’t help thinking this place is cursed.”

  “Cursed? That’s ridiculous. The duke has simply had a run of bad luck, that is all.”

  Sarah looked doubtful, and Charlotte did not want to stand here all day listening to the silly creature’s fears.

  “Please inform Mama that I’ve decided to have a rest.”

  “But you are not.”

  But she was taking a rest from Mama’s continual sniping. Charlotte smiled. “You need only say I told you to inform her that I am.” Which would mean Sarah would not technically lie.

  “But—”

  “Oh, go away, Sarah. Tell her the truth only if she wants to know more.”

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  As she watched Sarah retreat, misgivings filled her. How could she ever aspire to be a duchess if her own servants refused to listen? Why did people pay her no heed?

  Before she could be questioned by anyone else, she slipped past the stoic footmen, round the corner to where she judged the study to be. A man came out. Mr. Hapgood? She nodded at his murmured greeting, and then pretended interest in the small glass case nearby. A coati, she read on the label. A type of raccoon from Brazil.

  She glanced over her shoulder and, judging she was unobserved, stepped forward.

  A thousand butterflies lit the sky. Red, and white, and pink, and lavender. William kept his eyes closed as the images danced across his vision, the sun picking out the jeweled colors and their softer hues. He breathed in. Out. Forced the whirling thoughts to still.

  Be still and know that I am God …

  Still. Be. God.

  He bowed his head, his conscience assailed. How long since he’d sat trying to hear God’s voice? He prayed, he questioned, but how long since he’d actually waited for an answer?

  Heavenly Father …

  Despair pressed against him, demanding his attention. His failures soared like scavenging birds arising from their blood-smeared feast. Never good enough. Not strong enough. Not tall enough. Not man enough.

  Heavenly Father …

  Still nothing. No quiet voice. No response. He really should get back to the piles of work demanding attention, but he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. Had nothing left to offer. No energy. No hope.

  Instead, the torturous dream continued.

  Her. Smiling at him. Holding out a hand. A hand he pressed to his lips. Causing the strangest of sensations to fill his body, before her face twisted into disapproval and disdain, leaving him bereft, feeling hollowed inside.

  Heavenly Father …

  He breathed in again. Hoping breath would push out fears. In. Out. In.

  Roses. He could smell roses and lilies now.

  Now he could hear music, a soft lilting sound that brought a measure of comfort to his soul. He breathed in again, more deeply, the respite from his pressure too brief.

  The music continued, louder now, more insistent. Music? Insistent?

  Was he going mad?

  He cracked open one eye. Two. Dropped his hands and nearly fell from his chair. Forced his shaky legs to stand. “Charlotte!”

  Concern suffused her features as she hurried close. “Oh, sir, what is wrong?”

  He shook his head, his hands clenching the sides of the desk. “There is nothing—”

  “Oh, please don’t treat me as a child.”

  His previous fatigue peeled away as she moved closer still. He swallowed. “Why are you here?”

  Her lips curved. “You wanted me to come. You said so yesterday.”

  “I mean here, in my study.”

  “I know it’s not quite proper to be here, but I want … I want you …”

  His heart thumped. She wanted him?

  “I want you to not despair.”

  Pain flickered across his chest. She didn’t want him. Of course she didn’t.

  Perhaps it was best if she left. She’d be safer at home. He turned away, eyes smarting. “You should leave.”

  She did not answer.

  “Please, Charlotte. For your own sake. I will speak with your mother, but please leave.”

  Another long moment, then a soft, “You do not want me?”

  He waited for the rest of her sentence. When it did not come, he turned, saw the look of rejection in her eyes. It was all he could do not to crush her to his chest and beg her to stay. He forced his head to shake. “You must not stay. I could not bear it if—if—”

  He could not finish, could only watch helplessly as she drew nearer still, an arm’s length away.

  “You do not wish to marry me?”

  “No! That is …” His mind raced. How to make her understand? “I cannot hold you to anything. None of this was to your liking, I know. But fool that I am, I dared hope—”

  “Hope what, sir?”

  He swallowed. “Hope that one day you might not hold me in such dislike, and find it in your heart to like me just a little.”

  “But I do like you.” She did? “Even if you insist on removing Bella.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know someone is trying to harm me. You see, I cannot let you stay, not if it brings you into harm’s way, too.” He groaned. “I should remove Rose, too.”

  She moved to where he stood beside his chair, her blue eyes holding him prisoner. “You do this often, don’t you? Sacrifice your needs and wants for those of other people.” She sighed.

  “I … I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Her mouth opened. Closed. She drew herself up a fraction more. “Do you … do you believe we could be happy together?”

  “Yes! One day. When this is over—”

  “Then I am saying”—she paused, as if collecting her courage—“if … if you were inclined to reiterate your offer from before, then … then I’m of a mind to accept it.”

  The last near-cold embers of hope suddenly fanned into flame. Surely she wasn’t saying what he thought she was?

  Her smile seemed sweetly unsure. “But only if you ask me.”

  This was not what he’d imagined, not where he’d wished. He’d dreamed of proposing down among the roses, or in the little red pavilion in the Oriental garden. Good heavens, he’d even have settled for the drawing room in Grosvenor Square, but not here. Not among piles of paper, and everyt
hing that screamed of his desperation.

  He studied her, emotions racing, clashing inside. He should say no. He should send her on her way. But …

  He held out a hand. “Come with me?”

  She nodded and placed her hand in his.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHARLOTTE’S HEART RACED. Her stupid impulsiveness had nearly backfired, the duke by no means certain to hear her out. She followed along as he strode past the footman, giving no sign when Travers called his name. She only knew the feel of her hand in his made her feel so safe, and wanted, and protected, and gave this sense that whatever obstacles they faced together could be defeated. They walked through the front doors, down the steps, across the close-cropped lawn to the rose garden. In the middle, beside the fountain, he led her to a rustic bench. He gestured to it, and she sank onto it, grateful for the chance to sit, as her legs felt suddenly shaky.

  This was it.

  She took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of roses. Instead of speaking, the duke pulled out a small knife, and then proceeded to cut three roses. One white. One pink. One red.

  He presented the white rose. “Do you know what this symbolizes?”

  Of course she did. Every young lady knew the language of flowers. “Innocence.”

  “And purity. But it can also signify faithlessness and death.” For a moment his eyes shuttered then he held out the pink rose. “And this?”

  “Friendship.”

  A fleeting smile. “I seem to remember you once suggested such a thing was necessary for a marriage to succeed.” He displayed the red rose. “And this one?”

  She swallowed. “Love.”

  “True love. Deep, abiding love.”

  The words hung between them, challenging, assuring.

  Did she love him? Well, perhaps never in that foolish way with Lord Markham, but she respected and esteemed him. Deeply. Wasn’t esteem close enough to love? Memories rose of the love Lavinia shared with Lord Hawkesbury, the affection enhancing something deeper, something more powerful, a commitment to protect and persevere, to seek the best interest of the other, no matter what. A blessing, like she hoped her actions might bring to the duke. Was that enough?