His mother’s father had been a tailor, operating a small shop in London’s East End. Kingston’s grandmother had passed away when his mother was still in leading strings. At his grandfather’s death, she had been left alone with very little funds. She could not even secure a marriage for herself. She was too poor and too lacking in connections. She’d utilized the only resource available to her—her considerable beauty.
Charlotte Langley did not suffer even remotely similar circumstances. Indeed, there was no pressure of any kind as far as he could determine.
He did not look back at the house as he strode away.
He did not want to see it again.
He had walked through each and every room alongside Charlotte, forcing a polite expression and courteous words, imagining her inside its walls, beneath its roof. With her husband and future children.
His feelings on that were complicated. Jealousy was not an emotion in which he was accustomed to, but he could not help wondering if what he felt was not that very thing.
The thought of her rubbing herself all over the Pembroke lad in the same manner she had rubbed on him? Doing the things that would result in the begetting of those children? Intolerable. It was intolerable.
He wished he could rid himself of the images from his mind.
He had seen enough of the home she was planning to share with Pembroke. It was a nice house. It would serve as a nice home for someone.
Only not Charlotte. Obviously, she didn’t know that, but he did.
He did not believe she would find the contentment she sought within its walls.
He knew something of feigning contentment. Of passing each day as though there was nothing amiss. He’d watched his mother play that game . . . and lose.
Reality had a way of catching up with a person. Eventually. In his mother’s situation this had become true in the very worst way.
Did Charlotte think she was going to find happiness with Pembroke? No house could fix what was broken . . . or what was never right in the first place.
It was stone and mortar and timber. Nothing else. Nothing more. It was no cure for all the little hollows and disappointments in life.
A skeleton. Bones. A shell. That’s all that house was. An echo of what was once living and pulsing. She thought she could reclaim it. She was trying to recapture the past. Only that was the problem—or blessing—with the past. The past was gone. Only memory. Impossible to re-create.
He was walking a hard line across the countryside, scarcely paying attention to his surroundings as these many thoughts churned through him.
“You there! Sirrah! Over here! Over here, please!”
He stopped at the desperately shouted words and scanned the landscape, immediately spotting the tidy little farmhouse to his left and the older woman outside it, tugging on a cow that appeared impervious to her efforts. And her efforts were considerable. Her cheeks were red with exertion and tendrils of gray hair fell from her bun to straggle in her face.
The cow was tethered, but the good woman did not possess the strength to budge the tan and white beast who was happily munching the flowers in her front garden.
“Help!” she squawked. “She’s eating my poppies!”
Kingston hurried to her aid, running lightly through knee-high grass and hopping over her fence in one easy motion.
The woman eyed him distrustfully as he approached, he noted with some irony. A smile played about his lips, his mood lifting. She was calling him for help, but she eyed him as though he were a highwayman come to rob her.
The cow eyed him, as well, but with less distrust. In fact, the large brown eyes appeared generally unimpressed.
“Come now, Buttercup,” the lady in distress chided, grunting as she renewed her efforts to remove her cow from her garden. “Poppies aren’t good for you,” she said, continuing to speak to Buttercup. “Nora said too many can make you sick.”
Nora? Charlotte’s sister? He turned that over in his mind, recalling Charlotte had said her sister was an herbalist of some repute in the community. The woman must be referencing her.
“Well, are you going to assist me or stand there gawking, young man?” she snapped at him.
“Oh, yes. My apologies.” He lunged forward, reaching for the rope.
“Of course my Mr. Pratt is inside having himself a fine nap right now.” She glared at Kingston as though he were somehow responsible for that. “Claims his back is aching him again. His back has been aching him since the morning after our wedding. Forty years ago!”
“That’s . . . a . . . shame?” Kingston murmured, presumably to Mrs. Pratt, uncertain what was expected of him in this moment. What should one say when a complete stranger was complaining about her husband?
Kingston seized the rope the older woman clutched whilst the cow continued its contented chewing, one long stem with a bright red poppy the size of his fist jutting from her mouth.
Buttercup worked her jaw until the poppy disappeared in her great maw. She then dipped her head and tore off more flowers as though two humans weren’t standing nearby pestering her.
The woman made a sound of distress as more of her garden was lost to Buttercup’s ravenous appetite.
“Do something!”
He closed both hands around the rope and yanked, forcing Buttercup’s head up. She issued a long low of protest.
“Stubborn old girl.” The country dame swatted the cow’s considerable rump. “I feed you enough. You’re as big as a house. Leave my flowers be!”
Buttercup clearly did not care for her treatment. She tossed her head to the side, striking Kingston in the chest. Hard. The force caught him off guard and he dropped back a step to keep his balance.
Buttercup took full advantage of his suddenly lax grip and bolted faster than he would have thought an animal her size capable. She barreled past Kingston, knocking him to the ground.
He landed in the garden with a muffled epithet, rolling in soil that smelled of pungent dung.
“Ack!” Mrs. Pratt fluttered her hands helplessly, staring after the rebellious creature and not sparing him a concerned glance. “She’s getting away! We need to get her back in the pen.” She finally looked down at him with an expression of exasperation. “Young man! You’re crushing my flowers. Up with you, sir.”
Kingston hopped to his feet with a mutter, ignoring that he was now covered in manure. He gave chase, but Buttercup was surprisingly spry. She cut turns sharply like a sheep dog, evading all his lunges for her tether.
“Kingston?”
He stopped abruptly at his softly uttered name and located Charlotte. She passed through Pratt’s gate, staring back and forth between him, Mrs. Pratt and Buttercup with wide eyes.
“Miss Langley,” he returned.
Her gaze skimmed his length and he resisted the urge to look down at himself. He didn’t need to see himself to know he was covered in filth. He only need inhale to confirm it. He could smell the stink of Mrs. Pratt’s garden all over him.
“You two know each other?” Mrs. Pratt suddenly looked intrigued. Then she shook her head as though she had no time to cave into her curiosity. She pointed to her cow. True to form, amid everyone’s distraction, Buttercup trotted merrily back to the flower garden.
“I was trying to assist Mrs. Pratt,” he explained, motioning to the frazzled-looking woman.
“Buttercup!” Mrs. Pratt howled, waving her hands in the air. “Oh, would you look at that? She’s back in my poppies now. There will be none left!”
“Not to mention, they are bad for her,” Charlotte reminded in a polite voice.
“Yes. And that,” Mrs. Pratt agreed.
Kingston caught up with the beast, easily seizing the tether this time. He tugged on the rope, but the overfed bovine resisted with a long braying low.
“She’s like dead weight,” he grumbled.
“Mrs. Pratt,” Charlotte calmly inserted. “If you will pardon me?”
Mrs. Pratt blinked. She and Kingston tracked Charlott
e as she marched across the yard and disappeared inside the farmhouse.
She was gone a short time, returning moments later with a cluster of carrots in her hand.
She glanced at Kingston as she passed him, and there was something smug in the look. “Did Mrs. Pratt fail to mention that Buttercup often escaped onto our property?”
The older woman shrugged rather defensively. “I’ve been telling Mr. Pratt he needs to see about replacing the fence around the pen.”
Buttercup must have caught the scent of the carrots. Clearly it was a treat she knew well . . . and enjoyed.
Charlotte was not even in proximity before the cow whipped its head in her direction and charged toward her. She held her ground even as it looked as though the animal might plow over her.
At the last moment, Buttercup pulled to a hard halt.
Charlotte extended one of the three carrots she’d appropriated from somewhere inside the Pratt house, permitting Buttercup to delicately pluck it from her. Charlotte started walking backward. Buttercup followed her, still chewing her carrot, the long green stems dangling from between her teeth.
Just before Charlotte rounded the house, she offered a second carrot to the cow.
Kingston followed. Rounding the house, he spotted Charlotte as she offered the final carrot, simultaneously securing Buttercup in her less than secure pen.
Kingston circled the pen, examining it. A stiff wind might send the whole thing crumbling. It was a surprise that hadn’t already happened.
“She gets loose all the time, bumping against the gate and dislodging it, but she knows where home is. She always returns,” Charlotte volunteered as though she could read his mind.
He nodded.
“Thank you so much, Charlotte,” Mrs. Pratt called from behind them, hastening forward rather breathlessly, walking in her uneven gait. “You are always so good with her.”
Charlotte shook her head. “She merely likes carrots.”
“She merely likes you.” Mrs. Pratt glared at him with a hmpf. “I suppose I should thank you for your attempt to assist me, sirrah.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgement of his failure. “You’re welcome . . . for whatever it is worth, madam.”
Charlotte studied him as though he was some mystery, a puzzle she could not quite piece properly together. “It was very kind of you to stop and offer assistance.”
He shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable from the praise.
She pressed on, “Most gentlemen would not roll through all manner of muck and take on a cow to help . . .” Her voice faded away as she shot a quick glance to Mrs. Pratt.
To help a humble country dame.
She did not finish the words, but he could infer, and he would have to agree. Most ton gentlemen would fear mussing their garments. He possessed no such airs. Kingston knew what he was, and it was not a man with a sense of self-importance.
He wasn’t too good to roll around in shit.
He’d spent a lifetime surrounded by it, after all. He had not been raised with any real moral compass. Whatever code he possessed, he’d had to fashion it on his own.
“Always happy to help a lady in distress,” he said gruffly. “You should know that.” He could not help the last meaningful prod. He meant it only in jest, but her eyes flared wide and she shot a horrified glance to the matron, as though she feared Kingston would reveal their liaison to her.
Mrs. Pratt did not even seem to hear his remark, or if she did, it did not strike any significance. Her eyes narrowed on him. “I’ve never seen you before and I know everyone in these parts.” She slid a suspicious glance to Charlotte. “And how is it you know my Charlotte here?”
“Mrs. Pratt, may I introduce you to Mr. Kingston? He is kin to His Grace.”
“Kin? How so?”
“Warrington is my stepbrother,” he replied.
Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, indeed?” She looked him up and down, no doubt assessing his person—which was still covered in manure. “Well, it is very fine to meet you, sir. How long will you be visiting up at Haverston Hall?”
Kingston and Charlotte spoke simultaneously.
“Oh, he won’t be here very long—”
“I’ve not yet decided.”
Charlotte’s cheeks pinkened.
Kingston went on to say, “I believe I shall stay a while and enjoy all the delights of your lovely village.”
“Ah.” She nodded, measuring him with her veteran gaze. “Brambledon does boast unique riches.”
“I can believe that.” He could not stop his gaze from traveling over Charlotte.
The pink in Charlotte’s cheeks deepened.
Mrs. Pratt tittered. “You are a charming young man.” He resisted rolling his eyes. The old dame had not been of that opinion before she learned of his relationship to Warrington. “Perhaps you will take a shine to our young Nora? Marriage and a few babes will curb her restless spirits.”
“Mrs. Pratt,” Charlotte admonished. “Nora is much too young for courtship . . . and there is nothing amiss with her spirits.”
“Rubbish.” She waved a hand. “She is no little girl anymore. I wed Mr. Pratt when I was only ten and five. The lass needs to occupy herself with something other than her experiments and herbs and books.” She looked Kingston over with renewed interest. “I am certain you are quite appealing when you don’t reek of dung.”
He chuckled.
Charlotte pressed her lips into a mutinous line. Naturally courting her younger sister would be awkward given he and Charlotte now had a history of shared intimacies.
Not that he would court Nora. He had no interest in her, however vivacious and interesting she might be. Unfortunately, the only Langley sister to capture his interest was the one who stood before him . . . the one he could not have.
“It was a pleasure, Mr. Kingston, but go on with you now.” Mrs. Pratt waved a hand, gesturing in the direction of Haverston Hall. “You need a proper bath. Make yourself presentable and consider my words. Nora Langley.” She nodded emphatically. “She might seem a bit unruly, but she will make a fine wife. Just needs a bit of domesticating.”
Domesticating? As though she were a feral beast that required breaking. He winced.
Charlotte snorted in patent disapproval.
An awkward silence fell. Charlotte glared hotly at Mrs. Pratt who was oblivious that she had given offense.
Kingston inclined his head in acknowledgment, ready to put an end to the exchange. “Good day to you, too, Mrs. Pratt.”
Charlotte muttered a muted farewell.
As Mrs. Pratt turned for her house, they fell in step side-by-side. He kept a careful distance from her as they strode from the Pratt farm lest he offend her with his odor. They walked for several moments before she blurted out, “You stay away from my sister.” Emotion shuddered in her voice.
He nodded and then recited, “Stay away from you. Stay away from your sister. You’re very free with your commands, Charlotte.”
“I mean it.”
“I have no interest in your sister. Have no fear. I won’t trouble her with my attentions.”
Yes. He would leave Nora Langley alone. He deliberately made no promises when it came to Charlotte.
Again, he knew himself. He knew what he was.
He was not a perfect man, but he had never been a liar.
He would not become one now.
Chapter 14
The following day, Charlotte paced Nora’s bedchamber, or rather her laboratory, with the restless energy of a caged cat.
It was almost as though her skin felt too tight and no longer fit her frame.
There had been no proper night’s sleep since he arrived. She had tossed and turned in her bed and even when awake, as now, she could not hold still. There was no peace to be found.
She should feel triumphant over yesterday’s encounter. She and Kingston had not touched. No inappropriate physical interaction had occurred whatsoever. That felt like a cause for celebration. It
was a relief, to be certain. Even if the conversation had grown heated between them and their dialogue had become overly intimate, there was no more repeat impropriety between them.
She’d felt this restlessness ever since her conversation with Kingston . . . Samuel . . . at her house. Ever since she saw him smelly and covered in filth. All to help Mrs. Pratt, the old busybody. He possessed a generous nature. She had not expected that.
Charlotte tried to imagine her betrothed rolling up his shirtsleeves to help any of the villagers. It was a struggle to envision. Her husband-to-be was a kindhearted man, but not the type to get his hands dirty. He was much too genteel.
She had not succumbed.
Her sister’s bed was covered in books. Charlotte motioned to it. “How do you even find room to sleep?”
Nora glanced distractedly at the bed. “Oh, there’s room enough. I just stack the books to the side when I’m ready to go to sleep.”
Shaking her head, Charlotte acknowledged there was some irony with her being so concerned with her sister’s sleep habits whilst she had spent the majority of last night tossing and turning and wide-awake. She could not forget Samuel’s words. His voice played over and over in her head.
But you are not in a position where you have to marry anyone unless you want to. Unless you are in love.
She’d never considered the matter of a grand love affair. It was not something she wanted or expected for herself. She wasn’t like Marian with her duke. Passion was not in her makeup.
At least it had not been before Kingston. Now her body came alive in his presence, fairly burning—
No.
She gave herself a swift mental slap. It had naught to do with Kingston. She did not burn for him specifically. It was merely the tonic. It woke her to certain physical needs.
If she had taken the tonic and stumbled on her William in that corridor she would have assaulted him, too.
She idly examined all the various herbs and materials littering Nora’s worktables, sniffing at the pink contents of one glass cylinder.
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