The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  “I know you are innocent.” He placed the white rose on the seat, held out the pink. “You said a few minutes ago that you liked me. I hope that means I have your friendship.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “Yes.”

  He laid down the pink next to the white, still holding the red rose. His dark eyes studied her carefully. “But what I want to know, what I need to know is, are your affections engaged elsewhere?”

  She swallowed. In choosing the duke she was choosing the better man. Lord Markham was impossible, any thought of him to be ruthlessly quashed. She could do so; she would do so. She had chosen so when she’d seen the duke’s despair through the window and determined to do the one thing she could to help him. This she could do. “My affections … are only for you.”

  She held out her hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers, gazed upon her hand like he might a prized treasure. When he next glanced up, his eyes kindled with emotion. “My dearest Charlotte, will you do me the greatest of honors and consent to be my wife?”

  Her mouth was suddenly dry. She swallowed. Swallowed again. “I will.”

  “Truly?” Light filled his eyes.

  She nodded.

  His charming smile lit his face. “I never dared dream, never dared hope—” He pressed a soft kiss to the back of her hand, another to her palm. “You have made me the happiest of men.”

  As his head bowed, she was struck by the desire to smooth down his hair. Would he think such a thing terribly forward? But they were now betrothed, after all.

  She reached up a hand, stroked the auburn highlights. Heard his breath catch.

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  “William. Please call me William.”

  “I’m sorry, William,” her cheeks grew hot, “but it was mussed—”

  “Don’t apologize, my dearest Charlotte.” His lips lifted.

  She offered a tentative smile in return.

  “Oh, how I love you.” He leaned close, closer, and suddenly his lips were on hers, and she was drowning in a dozen sweet sensations that gripped her body. Oh …

  His arm stole around her back, and he tugged her closer still. His lips were warm, tenderly possessive. Heat kindled deep within. She was kissing him, he was kissing her—

  “Charlotte!”

  She pulled back hurriedly, bumping noses as she did. She met the amusement in his eyes then saw the storm in her mother’s. “Hello, Mama.”

  “What do you think you are doing?” she snapped, turning to the duke. “I demand you release my daughter immediately.”

  His smile widened. “Do you refer to my betrothed?”

  Betrothed. Charlotte fought the shiver.

  Mama gasped. “Really? You are finally, truly engaged?”

  William’s hand slipped to firmly hold Charlotte’s. “Your daughter has consented to be my wife, yes.”

  He smiled at Charlotte, and the light suffusing his features curled warmth through her, making her so glad she had found courage enough to approach him. Surely the shadows would lift now, and he could be happy.

  “Oh, my dear!” Mama tugged Charlotte up into an embrace, before smiling broadly at the duke. “Oh, sir! Forgive me. I just never dreamed you would propose in such a public place.”

  “Mama, this is hardly Hyde Park.”

  “It is hardly discreet, either. Why, anyone could have come up that drive and seen you carrying on in such a fashion! How a daughter of mine—”

  “Forgive me, madam. I should have been more circumspect, but I got swept away.” His smile tugged as his gaze dropped to Charlotte’s lips, where she could still feel the taste of his, a combination of hope and honey, coffee and leashed passion.

  “Yes, well, I would have thought a man of your experience would have had a little more sense about these things. But never mind—”

  “Thank you, madam, I shan’t.”

  “Oh, but this is wondrous news indeed! My heartiest congratulations, sir, and for you, too, Charlotte. I knew you were so pretty for good purpose—oh! We shall have to return to London!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “For Charlotte’s wedding clothes, of course. Tell me, when do you think of setting the date?”

  The duke murmured something noncommittal, squeezing Charlotte’s hand again as Mama’s long-cherished plans finally bubbled to the surface. “It should be London, of course. I must write at once … marriage settlements already signed … satin and lace … oh, so happy!”

  When Mama finally hurried back to the house, the duke—William!—turned to Charlotte, tenderness in his eyes. “Thank you, my dear. You have made me the happiest man on earth.”

  Her smile was automatic. But was she the happiest woman? Inside, she felt strangely flat, the triumphant gleam in her mother’s eyes at Charlotte’s capitulation to her wishes having dispersed the earlier joyous fizzing sensations like a vapor. Perhaps she was not to live by her feelings, but surely love should feel more assured than this?

  And when she returned to the house, Sarah’s odd reaction only reinforced her unease.

  “Well, I’m sure congratulations should be in order, my lady.”

  But Sarah’s doubtful look made believing her good wishes quite impossible.

  “Is something wrong, Sarah?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “I don’t understand. Back in London you said how good the duke is. Have you changed your opinion?”

  “That was before I knew.”

  “Knew what? What do you mean?”

  “The maids, they were talking. Seemed the night his wife was birthing he refused to see her. He refused to acknowledge that child as his until you came along.”

  “But he believed her to have been unfaithful.” Her mind flicked to the white rose.

  “God forbid he ever thinks such things about you. They said he was awful angry, with a fiend’s own jealous temper.” Sarah shook her head. “I don’t trust the quiet ones. No, much better to be open-like, like Master Henry. One never doubts where one stands with a man such as he.”

  Or a man such as Lord Markham. She could almost hear the unspoken words as easily as she could feel the poisonous doubt steal in. She could see the duke’s face as he asked her if her affections were elsewhere. Would he continue to believe her? Charlotte pulled her spine straight. “Sarah, you need to stop. I do not want to hear such things about the man I’ve just pledged to marry.”

  “Oh, but miss, have you asked him about the duel?”

  What?

  “Aye, now you look at me like that. One of Lord Ware’s maids heard him talking. Seems Lord Ware was at the duel—”

  “No.”

  “Yes! Seems the duke called Wrotham out but he denied it so they met at Bishoplea. The duke wounded him then forced him to leave for France. They say he’s a crack shot at Manton’s.”

  The duke a crack shot at Manton’s shooting gallery? Where Henry liked to boast about shooting wafers? “You must be mistaken.”

  “Am I? You should ask His Grace about it. Or at the very least, ask Lord Ware.”

  Something cold rippled over her soul. Sarah sounded so certain.

  No. She shook her head, refusing to believe it.

  Refused to believe he was anything but the kind man she had always seen.

  Refused to believe scurrilous rumors, scandalous lies, even if the people had known him for so much longer, even if he’d once admitted to his temper being the worst of his faults, even if—

  No! She refused to think badly of him.

  Her eyes filled with tears. Who was this man she’d agreed to marry?

  Oh, what had she done?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE HOPE FILLING his heart leaked out the next day when he saw the way Charlotte barely looked at him. Gone was the impudent chit who had entranced him into proposing, leaving instead a mere shadow of such a girl. He wondered what her mother had said to her last night. Or had it been his kiss that frightened her so? His heart panged. He best master his desire and gi
ve her no reason to cry off.

  From across the breakfast table, the marchioness glanced from him to Charlotte’s averted eyes, before smiling broadly at him. “Hartington, I’m afraid we must return as soon as possible.”

  “Of course.” He inclined his head. “I shall arrange for the carriage to be at your disposal. Will tomorrow be convenient?”

  “This afternoon would be preferable.”

  He blinked. “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I … er, trust that nothing has occurred to make you wish to speed your departure?”

  “No, no, not at all,” she said, smiling in an overly bright manner. “Charlotte is merely anxious to return to London for her fittings.”

  He glanced at Charlotte. She still avoided his eyes. He fought to overcome the disappointment. Perhaps it would be best if they were in London. She would be safe, and he would have time—please God—to learn the truth about the mysterious happenings at the Abbey.

  “Of course!”

  He glanced up to see the marchioness clap her hands.

  “We shall have a party to celebrate.” She smiled at him. “I am sure you would not object to a short visit in the next few weeks to celebrate such an auspicious event?”

  Any doubts about the marchioness’s intentions fled. “Of course not.”

  “Excellent! Let’s see, we should have a ball, and, perhaps a dinner, exclusive of course, for only family, and a few special guests, such as the Seftons, and Castlereaghs, and …”

  HEAVEN HELP HIM.

  Evening shadows cast by the flickering candles only seemed to reinforce his loneliness.

  The carriage had left hours ago, taking a piece of his heart with it. He was glad Charlotte was safe. But now she was gone.

  The Abbey felt too big, too grand, too … lonely.

  He shivered. The creakings and sounds of the house had never really unsettled him before. They had long been a part of the Abbey as much as the magnificent staircase, and his scientific mind had long-ago known of the settling of bricks and old timbers and foundations. But now the sounds seemed ominous, a portent of doom.

  “I’m being ridiculous,” he muttered to the room.

  Flames glowed in the fireplace, gleaming gold as he swirled the yet-untasted brandy. He’d wanted a drink tonight, something to dull the pain of her departure, but the smell had been enough for his stomach to resist so far. His nose wrinkled—he’d lost the taste for such things—and he placed the glass back down as he thought of his betrothed.

  His betrothed! So vibrant, so compassionate, her buoyant spirit the perfect counterpoint to his more serious ways, their shared faith and humor and mutual interest in art, botany, Wordsworth, and so many things surprising yet reassuring. And soon to be his! Excitement flickered, sputtering as doubts stole in, like the drafts whistling past the window frame.

  Would Charlotte really marry him? Did she even want to? She seemed so uncertain at times. Was that her mother’s influence, or her own doubts? Did she still hold affection for that Fanshawe fellow? For the Markham man? Would she prove faithful?

  His heart clenched. “Heavenly Father, help me to trust.”

  The word seemed to soak into the old walls: trust. He had to trust both God and Charlotte. Trust that God truly did have good plans as promised in the Bible, and trust that Charlotte would learn to love him, and fully give him her heart, just as he had given his.

  “Heavenly Father, help me trust.”

  A measure of peace stole into his soul. In the quiet he heard the faintest echo of a verse read at his wedding years ago: “Charity … beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”

  The challenge rose before him, like a wavering flame. If he claimed to love, he would need to trust. “God, help me.”

  London

  One week later

  “Oh, Charlotte, you look beautiful!”

  “Tres magnifique!” Madame Lisette confirmed, in an accent that did not sound entirely French.

  As the dressmaker bent to fiddle with the hem, Charlotte’s attention returned to her reflection, unable to quite believe the exquisite picture presented was truly she. The ivory satin gown, cut square and low at the bodice, lay beneath an overdress of white spider-gauze delicately embroidered with silver roses. The short sleeves were lavishly trimmed with point Brussels lace, and the silk skirt possessed three tiers of ruffles cascading to the floor. The most beautiful dress she had ever seen, and far, far lovelier than that ridiculous court dress of so many months ago.

  “Mademoiselle approves?”

  “I … of course, yes.”

  Mama frowned at Charlotte, out of sight of the mantua-maker. “You look very lovely. I am sure the duke will approve.”

  The heavy emphasis on her future husband’s title caused a twinge across her chest, but only seemed to make Madame Lisette glow with glee. “Of course! The beautiful maiden with the oh-so-sad duke. Ah, but he is rich, non?”

  “One of the richest in the kingdom,” Mama said proudly.

  Before many more minutes had passed, they’d exited the shop and crossed the freshly swept street. Charlotte gave the street-sweeper urchin a coin before noting two figures approaching. Her heart sank. Lady Winpoole and her daughter, Clara.

  “Ah, Lady Exeter.”

  “Lady Winpoole.”

  The mothers exchanged stiff curtsies, as Charlotte did with Clara.

  Lady Winpoole turned to Charlotte. “I understand I’m to wish you happy.” Her cold eyes and smile did not lend sincerity to her words. “When is the happy event?”

  “Soon. We shall celebrate the announcement with a ball,” Mama said, in a way that left no room for speculation that the Winpooles might expect to receive an invitation.

  Lady Winpoole’s face seemed to stiffen even more.

  As the two mothers engaged in a volley of icy politenesses, Clara moved a little closer. “I am pleased to hear your news, Lady Charlotte.”

  “Thank you.” She studied the older girl who had endured several seasons now. The hard edge seemed eroded from the polished young lady she’d first met nearly a year ago. “How was your trip north?”

  “Oh, we did not make it so far, after all.” Clara’s cheeks flushed.

  Her chest heated. So Aunt Patience had been right about the dowager’s wicked scheme.

  “I was wondering, Lady Charlotte, how does your cousin? I … am sorry about her situation.”

  The words, uttered in a tone without the slightest hint of falseness, accompanied as they were by Clara’s drawn features, compelled Charlotte to cautiously own the truth. “Lavinia is … as well as could be expected.”

  Clara nodded, they soon parted, freeing Charlotte to follow in Mama’s wake and reflect on her cousin’s words from yesterday.

  The earl and Lavinia had visited, calling in on their return to Lincolnshire, having spent time at St. Hampton Heath. The roses had returned to Lavinia’s cheeks, her kindly interest in others undaunted as ever. But occasionally Charlotte had caught a wistful look, which saddened her and renewed her wish for her cousin to find joy and peace again. Lavinia had been all delight at Charlotte’s betrothal, all happy acceptance to delay their return north to attend the upcoming dinner and ball to celebrate the engagement. It was only later, when Father, Mama, and the earl were firmly engaged in conversation, that her cousin had asked the question that caused sleep to elude her last night.

  “Charlotte, please forgive my temerity in asking such a question, but do you love him?”

  “Of course,” she’d managed to say in a light tone.

  “Of course?”

  “Yes!” she said impatiently. “Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know.”

  “You do not know?”

  An eyebrow rose, prompting further honesty. “I felt sorry for him.”

  Lavinia blinked. “You’re marrying him because of pity?”

  “No! There are many other reasons.”

  “Keeping your mother happ
y should not be one of them.”

  “I think he is a good man. He wishes to marry me,” Charlotte said, adding quietly, “he says he loves me.”

  Lavinia nodded, biting her bottom lip.

  Mortification washed over her. “You don’t think I’m good enough for him, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t think that. But he’s been hurt, and if he’s unsure of your affections—”

  But she had kissed him—had even enjoyed it! Surely that was proof?

  “—might struggle to trust you.” Lavinia opened her mouth as if to say more, then seemed to think better of it, and closed her lips.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “I … forgive me for such an impertinence, but I want you to be certain in your choice.”

  Choice? For one glorious moment she’d thought she had decided, thought she could make him happy, and even be happy herself, but Sarah’s silly speculations had fed doubts most toxic. She’d tried to talk to Henry, but he’d dismissed her, saying something about a husband’s natural right to jealousy, and that if she behaved as she ought there’d be no need to worry. His words only fueled her anxiety, and her resolve to speak with William when next they met—if she could ever decide what to say.

  Charlotte’s thoughts returned to the present as she neared the carriage and Mama issued instructions to Ellen and Sarah about purchases still to be made. A footman handed them in, along with their packages. “Now, mind you only purchase the best.”

  The maids murmured assent, then continued their journey. Mama settled against the cushions. “As for us, we’ll visit Gunter’s for a restorative ice. Such excitement is quite wearying.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Mama’s brows drew down. “I was concerned back at Madame Lisette’s. Did you not like the gown?”

  “It is very lovely.”

  “Well it should be, seeing as she’s charging so much. I simply did not understand your lack of enthusiasm.”

  Charlotte pasted on a smile. “Forgive me. I’m a little tired.”

  “Yes, well, we have been a trifle busy this past week, I suppose. It might do you good to have a rest this afternoon. We don’t want those roses lost,” she said, stroking Charlotte’s cheek.