The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  For some reason her mother’s uncharacteristic caress filled her with tears, forcing her to pretend interest in the ribbons of her reticule until she had sufficiently blinked away the emotion.

  “No doubt you are missing him,” Mama said.

  “Missing whom?”

  “Why, the duke of course!” Her eyes narrowed. “Who else could you think I meant?”

  “No one,” she said, forcing her lips to smile and her uneasy thoughts back to her betrothed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Grosvenor Square

  September 14

  THE ROOM GLITTERED with a thousand points of shiny light, the bright glow from the chandelier above glinting off heavily beaded gowns, tiaras, and the silver epergne centering the dining table.

  Charlotte glanced up to meet the dark gaze of the duke—no, William. She smiled, but the nerves tripping inside soon lowered her gaze to her plate. Ever since waking this morning, her stomach had been gnarled with knots, refusing even now to let her eat beyond the merest mouthful, forcing her to move the food around on her plate.

  She’d half hoped the duke’s arrival earlier would calm her nerves, but his careful, quiet conversation had only heightened her tension. There had been little of the lover about him, certainly no kiss, nor anything else that indicated he held any deep affection for her. Was he having second thoughts? Perhaps he did not trust her. She’d struggled to act normally, as other questions loomed inside. What was she to say? “Is it true you are a crack shot at Manton’s? Could you tell me about the duel with your wife’s lover?” For once she had been almost glad for her mother’s intrusion, her gay insistence that they join the new arrivals, “For we cannot have tongues wag!”

  Charlotte had caught the way he’d stiffened, and his polite smile, a troubling smile that did not meet his eyes. Was he also concerned about what tonight’s announcement would bring? More disquieting was how such action elicited the memory of Sarah’s words. Was the duke quiet by nature or design? And if by design, what was he not saying?

  An hour later, she stood in the receiving line, cheeks sore from smiles as the cream of society came to pay their respects. From this position, between Mama and William, her nerves had reached fever pitch, her pulse a frantic patter in her veins. She drew in a desperate breath.

  “Lady Charlotte?”

  The quiet voice drew her attention, the duke’s hand on her elbow providing support and comfort. She drew in another breath, caught the slightest tang of bergamot. She steadied, heart calming, and eased a fraction closer to his side.

  “Charlotte,” her mother whispered, still managing to sound shrill. “Remember, eyes are watching.” In a louder voice she said, “Ah, Lady Buckington. How wonderful of you to visit.”

  When the countess had passed, Mama murmured, “You should have eaten more.”

  Of course she should have. But it was not the lack of food that filled her with trepidation.

  Soon the strains of the musicians led to their release from the reception line. William captured her hand in his and led her in the first set.

  Faces and gowns blurred into glimmering indistinction. She forced herself to focus on her betrothed. Dark slashing brows bade her glance away.

  She caught Henry’s frown. Caught Lavinia’s concerned look. Around her the noise only increased. She felt her smile slip; she hitched it back up. She glanced back at the duke. He was speaking, but she could scarcely hear him over the musicians and the rushing in her ears. She forced herself to concentrate, to lean in to hear his words.

  “Appear to be a trifle unwell.”

  Who did? Oh. Judging from the serious look in his eyes the duke referred to her. She swallowed, cheek muscles aching from her pose. “I am quite well.”

  He nodded slowly, as if disbelieving, so the next half hour was spent forcing herself to laugh and talk, until a comment about Lord Ware’s garish waistcoat made him laugh aloud and her smile real. He did have a nice laugh, she thought, eyeing his smile lines and the warm sparkle in his eyes with approval—even if he did not laugh terribly often.

  William’s partnering soon gave way to the Duke of Sussex—high honor indeed, Mama said, as he did not appear at every young lady’s ball—followed by a host of other gentlemen.

  By the time the supper bell was rung, she was very happy to escape the crowd, but her nerves still did not permit her to eat more than a mouthful.

  “Charlotte?” William moved near. “Is there something I can get for you?”

  “I … I feel a little warm.”

  “Would you care to go to the terrace? I’m sure your mother would have no objection.”

  Was this a belated attempt to show his affection? Or was he simply being kind?

  She accepted his hand as he murmured excuses to her mother. Once outside, the cool air seemed to knock sense into her, and she drank in great drafts. Slowly the nerves jangling through her system calmed. She was making the right choice. She was! Wasn’t she?

  “Forgive me, Charlotte, but you still seem a little pale. Do you wish for a drink? Perhaps some lemonade?”

  She nodded. She wasn’t thirsty, but if she could be by herself for a moment—if she could only think!—perhaps clarity would come. She grasped at the excuse like a lifeline. “Yes, please.”

  “I should not leave you on your own.” His eyes held a slight frown.

  “But I would relish it! Oh! I’m sorry. Not that I don’t appreciate your company.” As his lips curled to one side, she rushed on. “It is just I have been overwhelmed by all, by all … this.” She lifted a hand, gesturing helplessly.

  “I understand,” he said, in a tone that suggested he really did. “But the efforts have been worthwhile. If I may say so, you do look truly beautiful.”

  She fought the spurt of irritation. If he may say so? As her husband-to-be, wasn’t he supposed to say so? Why had he waited until now before saying something? The other men she had danced with tonight—why, even Henry!—had barely ceased in their compliments on her gown, her hair, her beauty. Was it too much to ask for the man she was supposed to marry to say something?

  With a bow he was gone, her smile faded, and she rubbed her sore cheeks. For a few precious moments she savored the solitude, savored the fresh night air. She exhaled, praying for the internal clamor to cease, when awareness prickled around her and within. Someone else was here. Her pulse accelerated. Had those threatening the duke come for her, too?

  “Excuse me, m’lady.”

  She jumped, turning wildly, to see a footman wearing the Exeter livery. “Yes?”

  “A … package has arrived for you.”

  “Oh! Is it a gift?”

  He inclined his head. “If you would come with me?”

  She frowned, following regardless. Why would Mama insist on such a thing now of all times?

  Upon reaching the corner of the garden where the light was most dim, he stopped. “I’m told this is something you’d prefer above all.” He stepped back into the shadows, as another man stepped forward.

  She blinked. Blinked again, as the rushing in her ears returned, accompanied by a dizzying sensation. “You!”

  Dark blue eyes flashed.

  “Yes, only I.”

  “What … what are you doing here?”

  “I had to see you.” Lord Markham gave a low, bitter-sounding laugh. “I know you enjoyed my company in the past.”

  Chagrin writhed within. Her attentions to him had been a trifle marked.

  “Is it true? You chose Hartington?”

  “I—”

  “How could you?”

  She swallowed. “It was Mama and Father’s doing.”

  “You could’ve said no!”

  “I—no. It was never like that.”

  “It is always like that.” He drew near. “Why couldn’t you wait for me?”

  Before she knew what had happened, his arms were around her, her lips were under his.

  She froze for an instant, before wriggling and straining, push
ing him away frantically. She pivoted her head, dragging her lips away from his hot, insistent mouth. “My lord, please—”

  “I love you, darling Charlotte. Can’t you see how much you mean to me?”

  Dazed, she shrank away, even as he pressed his lips to her cheek, scratching her with his unshaven chin. “I—”

  “Good God, say you will not marry him.” His breath was hot on her neck. “Say you love only me!” His ardent eyes glittered in the darkness.

  “I love—”

  “Markham! Get your hands off my daughter!”

  Mama’s low-pitched voice, so unlike her usual intonation, managed to pry his arms away. She stumbled to her mother’s side, shaking, but Mama refused to look at her. “You wicked villain! How dare you?”

  “Lady Ex—”

  “Do not speak to me, and do not ever attempt to contact my daughter. If you do, I’ll ensure my husband knows of the mischief you have tried to cause, and he will ensure you will hang. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now go!”

  When his shadow had melded with the dark and they were sure he no longer remained, Mama turned, clutching Charlotte’s arm with a pinching grip.

  “Mama, I did not know—”

  “How you could treat the duke in such fashion I do not know.”

  “But—”

  “Give me no excuses! Your conduct is appalling! How you could behave so—I am so ashamed I do not know where to begin!”

  “But Mama—”

  “You will go inside and act like nothing happened,” she said grimly. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, the duke will call things off and you will die a lonely spinster. Is that what you wish?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “Then return and behave as if nothing happened.” Iron underpinned her mother’s voice. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  They returned to the ballroom, only to immediately encounter the duke. “Ah, Lady Exeter, I see you found her at last.”

  Charlotte attempted to smile. Her cheeks remained frozen, her heart numb. How could Lord Markham profess his love and then treat her so? His love was neither patient, nor kind, nor unselfish, though it seemed to persevere—

  “Please forgive my daughter, sir. She’s a trifle tired.”

  “I should not have left you.” He gave Charlotte a glass of lemonade and an apologetic smile. “Such a crush of well-wishers.”

  She felt as fragile as crystal, like she might shatter at any moment. She prayed away the tears, prayed the smile would appear genuine enough. “Th– thank you.” The fizzing liquid trickled down her throat.

  He glanced at her mother, a faint frown between his brows.

  He had been looking for her? Had he seen her in that wicked embrace? Oh, what would he do if he ever learned what Lord Markham had done? She felt herself sway.

  He caught her, half leading, half supporting her to a couch. “My dear.”

  The quiet concern pricked her heart anew, drawing heat to her eyes. Why couldn’t he approach her with just an ounce of Lord Markham’s passion?

  Her mother fluttered a fan, cooling her cheeks, whilst murmuring something about hartshorn and smelling salts. Charlotte closed her eyes, drawing welcome reprieve from the cacophony of sounds and light. Her mind formed a barely coherent prayer: Lord, help me …

  “You must excuse her … so busy … hardly eaten a thing all day … perhaps another visit to the country … oh, yes, Charlotte loves hunting … thank you, sir, that would be very kind …”

  She pried her eyes open, to see the duke standing next to her mother, the pair of them all outward solicitude, but both sets of eyes holding matching frowns.

  Hartwell House

  Hanover Square, London

  William studied the ceiling, shadowed in the dim light of dawn. Something had happened. He could tell by the way mother and daughter did not look each other—or him—in the eye. He prayed Charlotte had no second thoughts. Now their announcement was published in The Times he had no wish for further speculation. His offer to have them stay was mere guise for his real intention: more time with her. But still he sensed she would not care for his attentions, would shy away from his affections. After all, hadn’t his betrothal kiss frightened her, making her timid with him later?

  But part of him was growing greedy for her presence, greedy for the sunlight she brought into his world. Greedy for the hope of a future.

  He rolled over in his bed, remembering how dignified and beautiful she was tonight, remembering her quick wit and their shared laughter, remembering the swell of her lips, remembering the curve of her lovely form in that gown.

  Heavenly Father, help me.

  He wanted her. Oh, how desperately he wanted her.

  And how he wanted to believe that one day she would want him, too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hartwell, Northamptonshire

  September 19

  CHARLOTTE SWALLOWED a yawn as the carriage slowed through the village of Hartwell. The journey had seemed interminable, the knowledge they neared their destination sweet relief. She glanced out the window, past Henry who rode alongside, to study the thatched cottages and other stone buildings rolling by, the neat hedges, their leaves gilded in the afternoon sun, the medieval church. All owned by the duke. All hers to share as soon as she became his duchess. Her heart panged.

  She glanced across to where Father dozed and Mama glared, the frown in her eyes far more perceptible these days. The frost evident since that terrible night five days ago had grown icier, as if she could not wait for Charlotte to finally marry and be off her hands. She still refused to listen to Charlotte’s pleas of innocence. It had grown to the point where Mama seemed to barely speak without snapping at her, something that had caused Henry to remark in surprise more than once, and had led him to insist upon accompanying them to Hartwell Abbey. Had led him also to attempt to speak with her, but her embarrassment had been so great she could utter nothing save some incoherencies about pre-wedding nerves.

  For the wedding date had been set. Four weeks hence she would be married from Hartwell’s tiny Norman church. She was here ostensibly for the hunting, but everyone knew it was to be much more. The banns were being posted this Sunday.

  The carriage slowed to a walking pace.

  Through the open window, her eyes met those of a woman dressed in black. Charlotte frowned. Had they met before? Nonsensical, but still, she appeared somewhat familiar.

  The woman edged forward. Now that she was closer, Charlotte could see the grooves etched on her face. “Pardon me, my lady, but are you to be the new duchess?”

  She nodded, as her mother snapped, “Oh, don’t speak to the riffraff, Charlotte!”

  Cheeks aflame, she caught the woman’s glare, then returned her gaze to her lap. The duke’s ring gleamed from her finger. She turned it over, studying the facets of the sapphire as the carriage jerked back into motion. He said it had been his grandmother’s, that the blue stone reminded him of Charlotte’s eyes.

  “I trust I shall not have to remind you of your obligations?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “You will not do anything to jeopardize your future with him.”

  Was this a statement or a question? She murmured, “Of course not.”

  She knew what was expected. Had known her family’s expectations all her life. She would simply have to show the duke that he was right to choose her as his bride and trust God to help her love him and work this out for good—and trust this was not some gigantic mistake.

  “And this is called a hellebore, though some call it a winter rose. It grows in the foothills of the Himalayas.”

  She nodded, but otherwise said nothing, her marked look of disinterest as plain as his sinking hopes. William tried to reason with himself. Perhaps she was merely tired from a day’s long travel. Or perhaps showing off the new acquisitions in the hothouses was a ridiculous idea, even though he’d thought the exotic bloom
s would prove to her taste.

  He trailed after her, watching as she briefly examined the plants. The arrival of his London guests had filled him with anticipation, but his spirits had dipped when he saw his intended, wan and weary, as though drained by something other than travel. Rain showers had reduced his hopes for a romantic stroll through the gardens to a visit to the greenhouses to see the flowering camellias and hellebores. But what would he know? How could he have hoped her previous all-too-brief visit enough time in which to learn to please her?

  She glanced over her shoulder. He forced his lips up. “I trust I’ve not hugely bored you.”

  “I am not bored.” Her forehead creased. “Did I give that impression?”

  “You did not give an impression of great enthusiasm, shall we say.”

  Her smile flashed, then her expression took on a pensive note again. “I think your flowers are lovely, sir. Thank you for showing them to me.”

  She pointed to his table, where an array of beakers held a variety of concoctions Callinan used for the plants. “What are these?”

  He explained a little about his formulas, the distilling process, how plants held a range of special qualities that made them useful for everything from fertilizer to medicine. He pointed to the glass containers, whose contents were locked away each night. “This contains arsenic, this one cherry-laurel water.”

  “What a pretty name.”

  “But not a pretty drink.”

  “No?”

  “I distill it for medicinal purposes. In tiny doses it helps suppress asthma, but in larger quantities it would make one very sick.”

  “How sick?”

  “Deadly sick.”

  She nodded, eyed it carefully, then looked back at the house, as if she could not wait to return.

  Where had the vivid Charlotte gone? What had happened? Was he that dull she could not bear his company? Could he ask that? Of course not! He glanced around, looking for something, anything that might hold her interest. Plucked a delicate blue orchid. “For you, my lady.”

  A wisp of a smile appeared. Disappeared. “Thank you.”