“I cannot believe my boy has married again,” the lady proclaimed as she fed herself a dried fig from her plate with elegant beringed fingers. It was not the first time she had made such a proclamation. In the last half hour, she had expressed her astonishment a number of times.
“She’s a pretty lass, make no mistake of that, but I never thought you would try your hand at matrimony a second time, Nathaniel.” She nodded to Marian, who sat with a stiff smile about her lips.
Charlotte knew her sister well enough to know she did not appreciate being spoken of as though she were not even present at the table.
“You married a second time, Mother,” the duke pointed out coolly, lifting his glass and taking a drink.
It was not lost on Charlotte that her brother-in-law’s expression had only grown more dour since they sat down to dine. The line of his shoulders was tense, too, rigid as a slat of wood.
“It takes two tries to get it right apparently,” the earl pointed out rather heartlessly as he stabbed his fork into the hunk of pheasant on his plate, holding it in place as he sawed at it with his knife. “This one can at least set a fine table.” He paused and looked skyward. “What was the last one’s name?” With a shrug, he continued as though it were of no significance. “Whatever her name, she never had quite the knack for that.” He reached for his wine, taking a big gulp into his already stuffed mouth. “An accomplished cook is worth his weight in gold.” He spoke around his wine-soaked food. “She never understood that.”
Charlotte stared at him in immediate dislike. She couldn’t help herself. Her indignation burned hot in her chest. Was the man actually insulting his late daughter-in-law’s memory so carelessly?
Not only that. The two mistakes he referenced happened to be deceased—Warrington’s first wife and Warrington’s father, the late duke.
Charlotte knew next to nothing about either one of them, but that was neither here nor there. They had belonged to Nathaniel—and Nathaniel to them. You did not malign someone’s father and wife—even if they were deceased.
Especially if they were deceased. It was just not done.
Marian reached for her glass of sherry. Bringing it to her lips, she took a long, fortifying drink.
Charlotte knew her well. There was nothing she could do to hide her discomfort. Her sister had wanted this evening to go so well. She had wanted these new relatives of hers to like her. As they should. Marian was lovely.
Charlotte’s fingers clenched around her fork and knife.
Such insensitivity was astounding. Earl or not. Countess or not. They were appalling people.
Suddenly it seemed everyone was staring at her, and it took her a full minute to realize she had spoken aloud. She had just declared them appalling people to the room at large.
Nora broke into laughter. “Oh, this is rich.”
Kingston leaned back in his chair and clapped slowly in approval.
The earl scowled and stabbed his knife in the air toward Charlotte. “And who is this chit?”
“This is Miss Langley, my wife’s sister. We introduced you, if you recall,” the duke reminded him.
Marian grinned, looking at her rather proudly.
“What do you know of anything?” the earl sniped, glaring at Charlotte. “You should keep your tongue in check rather than insult your betters.”
Of course, he was correct. This was the moment she should beg for pardon. Even if he was not an earl, he was a guest in her sister’s home.
Instead, she heard herself saying, “You’re an unkind man.”
She glanced around the table, reading the agreement in most everyone’s expressions.
Except Samuel. He wasn’t looking at her or anyone. She could not judge his thoughts. He was staring away from them all, through the window to the evening outside.
“Unkind?” The word rolled from the countess’s lips like it was a foreign object. Laughing, she patted her husband’s arm, her expression one of delight. “My dear husband is many things, but not kind. That is quite true.”
His wife’s agreement only made the earl’s scowl deepen. Clearly he did not enjoy anyone laughing at his expense.
He waved his knife at Charlotte again in a fairly menacing manner. “I’ll hazard a guess and say that you’re unmarried.”
“I’m yet unwed, my lord,” she admitted, avoiding looking at her sisters while they still did not know the truth of her severed engagement.
“Aye, I thought as much.” He took a deep swig from his glass of wine, sighing in satisfaction as he placed it back on the table. “You’ve the pinched look of a female in dire need of a prick between her thighs.”
Gasps flew about the table. Charlotte’s was one of them.
The man was an earl. She had naively thought an earl’s manners would be above reproach, but now she realized that a title meant nothing. If anything, the aristocracy was given far too much forbearance.
This earl had likely lived his entire life doing and saying whatever he wanted without consequence.
“Apologize.”
The word was growled in a voice so deep and dark that Charlotte was not certain where it originated at first. Her gaze swept the table. One glance at Kingston’s face and she knew, of course.
His expression was brutal, the light gone from his usually shining eyes as he glared at his father.
The earl glared back at him. “You’ve a yen for the chit, is that it, King, my boy?”
“He’s correct,” Warrington seconded. “You will apologize to Miss Langley for your gross behavior.”
The earl didn’t even glance her way. He continued to eat with fervor, not reacting to his son’s or Warrington’s apparent displeasure with him. Picking up a leg of pheasant, he began to tear the meat from the bone with his teeth. “I don’t apologize,” he said as he chewed. “Especially not to backward country gels who have no respect for their betters.”
“You will apologize,” Kingston cut in, his voice battle-hard as he tossed his napkin down on the table.
A dreadful silence fell in which father and son stared each other down.
Everyone watched. Waited.
The duke finally broke in, “You will apologize to my kinswoman or take your leave of this house.”
“Your kinswoman,” the countess interjected, her hand fluttering to her throat, all levity gone. Her eyes sparkled indignantly, as bright as the jewels at her throat. “And what am I? Am I not your kinswoman? He’s my husband. If you cast him out, you cast me out. I am your mother, Nathaniel.”
“It takes more than blood to be family,” Kingston quickly cut in. “’Tis a lesson I’ve learned long ago.”
The earl and countess both wore expressions of bewilderment at this comment.
“What rot are you spouting?” the earl demanded.
“What’s gotten into you, Kingston?” the countess added.
“Neither one of you understands what makes a family.” Fury vibrated from him.
The earl banged a fist on the table. “Have I not supported you? Did I not pay for your schooling? Get you started with a parcel of land, which you later sold to that rail company? You made a tidy sum from that.” He wagged his leg of pheasant, sending bits of meat flying.
Kingston shook his head and looked down at his plate. When he next spoke, his voice was hoarse with emotion. “Do you even know?”
“Know what?” His father looked at him blankly.
“What’s become of her? Do you even know? Do you care?”
“Her . . . who?” the earl asked in bafflement. He pulled a face and glanced around the table as though seeming to say: My son has gone daft.
“Good God . . . my mother!” Kingston slammed his palm flat on the table, rattling the dishware. “Are you even aware what’s become of her?”
“Ah. Her.” The earl reached for his glass and brought it to his lips, taking a drink. “Should I be aware?”
“Indeed, Kingston. Why would he know anything about her?” The countess sniffed. “
He has had no communication with her in years.”
“Because she is my mother. And my father was with her for three years. Three years before he severed all ties with her, taking back the house he had given her and sending her off with a pittance, forcing her to find another protector, and then another after him, and then another . . .” Hot emotion glittered in his eyes.
A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat as she watched him, afraid to move as Samuel unleashed himself. She couldn’t breathe at the glorious visage he made, angry and hurt . . . a seething cauldron of emotion. He was a man who felt deeply, and she ached for him. Ached for the wounds he bore deep.
“I believe that is the nature of a whore’s work, is it not?” The earl spoke so calmly, indifferent to the gasps around the table. “I saw to your care, did I not? It’s more than some men would do. I should be commended, not forced to suffer your puerile temper.”
“You should be horse whipped,” Samuel hissed.
For the first time, Norfolk looked uneasy. Leaning back in his chair, he asked rather bewilderingly, “Why are you so angry, son?”
Son.
One look at Samuel’s face and she flinched. She knew. She understood. Samuel did not want it. He did not want to be this man’s son. He did not want this man to be his father. With one look at his face, she knew all of that.
“You took everything you wanted from her, used her until you were satisfied, and then cast her aside like rubbish. Did it never occur to you what would become of her? Did you care at all? Did you think what it might mean to me?”
The earl cleared his throat. “King, now is not the time—”
“When is the right time? After she’s dead? Will the time be right then? Because that will be any day now.”
“Samuel,” Charlotte whispered. He was too far from her—across the table—but she wanted to reach him.
He continued, “She has the pox. Did you know that?”
Silence met the shocking declaration. There was a rustle of clothing as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Charlotte did not look away from his face. He’d mentioned an ill mother. She could not have imagined the awfulness of this, though.
“Did you know?” Samuel thumped his fist on the table again.
“No, I did not.” For a brief moment, the earl looked guilty. “How should I know that? I haven’t communicated with her in years.”
“Exactly. She’s blind now. I don’t suppose you knew that either. And quite mad. She doesn’t even know me. I sat at her bedside for weeks. Hoping she might remember me . . . or herself . . . as she withered away.”
The earl shrugged. “I do not see how this is my fault. I did not . . . infect her.”
“No. But you didn’t protect her, did you? When you released her, you never gave her another thought. As the mother of your only child, you might have cared enough to look out for her. Provide her with even a modest allowance.”
“She was not his responsibility,” the countess dared to insert.
“Indeed.” Samuel’s father nodded stiffly. “You cannot blame me for her lack of discernment.”
Samuel laughed then. “Discernment? Discernment is for those who have the luxury, the privilege, of choice.”
The countess pushed up from the table then, her slender frame quivering in outrage. “We will not stand for another moment of this abuse. To think we came here all the way from Town. We had countless invitations and chose to come here! We could be at a house party in the Lake District right now. I’ve never been treated so abysmally. And by family, no less.” Her glare swept the table, falling pointedly on the duke and then Samuel. “You.” She pointed a damning finger at her stepson. “You are fortunate your father even saw fit to acknowledge you. You’re naught but a bastard. Son of a whore. You should thank him for not casting you into the nearest stream.”
“Out,” the duke growled from where he sat at the head of the table, his lean frame deceptively relaxed. His locked jaw attested to his tension.
“Gladly.” The regal lady lifted that haughty chin of hers. “We will gladly take our leave.” She cast one last fulminating glare at her daughter-in-law. “Your Grace, the pheasant was dry.”
That said, she swept from the room.
The earl did not even look in the direction of his son before following.
“Well,” Marian announced after some moments. “Shall I ring for dessert?”
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Samuel murmured as he pushed back his chair. “The meal was delicious.”
Without another word, Charlotte watched him depart the room at a steady stride, aching to follow, to go after him even though it was not her place to lend him comfort. Should he even need or want it from her, he was not hers to console.
She looked around the table at the others. They, too, looked after him, watching him go, Marian and Nora with varying expressions of pity. The duke’s expression was more ambiguous.
Samuel departed the room, a servant shutting the door after him, but moments later the sound of a cry alerted everyone.
They all surged as one body from the table and spilled out into the corridor—just in time to observe Samuel standing over his father, his hand knotted tightly in a fist. Clearly he’d just delivered a blow.
“You never apologized,” Samuel said tightly over the man sprawled on the floor, clutching his bloody nose.
The countess screeched and squatted beside her husband, attempting to help him into a sitting position.
Charlotte blinked rapidly as Samuel gestured in her direction. “I said, apologize to Miss Langley.”
The earl cast a dazed glance her way. “Apologies . . . Miss Langley.”
She nodded dumbly, astonished at the brutish display and uncertain what to think.
Samuel looked at her and the anguish was etched into his features. He didn’t feel better. Hitting his father had not cured him of his anguish.
He didn’t linger. Without another word, he turned and strode away.
Her sisters turned their attention to her, assessing for her reaction.
Charlotte fought to school her features, certain her heart was in her eyes.
Impossible, she realized. She hurt for him because she knew he was hurting. As long as he hurt . . . she hurt. This awareness settled over her in jarring impact, robbing her of breath.
There was no hiding the emotion from her face because she was very much in love with him.
Chapter 22
Sleep would not come.
Through the mullioned window of his bedchamber Kingston watched his father flee the house with his countess, servant after servant carrying out what seemed to be their endless amount of baggage. They gave no thought to the fall of night shrouding them. They simply wished to be gone. He’d effectively run them from his brother’s home.
Kingston watched them go and felt nothing. Even as he realized he might never see his father again, he felt nothing inside. Only numbness. A great void. There would have had to be something there in the first place for him to feel any sense of loss.
He did not know what he had hoped to gain from his outburst. Perhaps he had hoped to see regret in his father’s eyes. To hear words that even vaguely resembled remorse.
Of course, he’d been foolish in that hope. He knew what kind of man his father was. In truth, he had not been so very different from him a year ago—before he visited his mother and came face-to-face with her condition.
He had cared only for his comfort and baser pleasures. When he heard his mother was ill, he had called on her, but he had no notion at the sight waiting to meet him. He’d had no idea the gravity of her illness.
The pox was an awful way in which to perish. It was a long, lingering disease, eating away at both body and mind.
The sight of his mother afflicted like that had killed something in him. His ardor for women had swiftly died. He’d had no interest in the fairer sex.
Until Charlotte.
With a curse, he sprang from the bed. No
sense lounging about. There would be no sleep for him. At least not any time soon.
He left his chamber. He’d had no appetite at dinner and while that had not greatly changed, he could eat something. Better that than staring into the shadows of his chamber.
Tomorrow he would leave.
Tomorrow he would find a place to go.
Somewhere. Anywhere other than here, near the brother who didn’t want him, who was not even his real brother but rather a connection made through the father with whom he’d just severed all ties.
Anywhere other than near a woman he wanted but could never have.
Charlotte dressed for bed, but it was pointless. She didn’t even attempt to sleep. A maid had pulled down the counterpane for her, but she didn’t bother slipping inside the waiting comfort of the bed.
There would be no comfort for her. Not while the newfound realization that she’d fallen in love with Samuel Kingston bounced through her like a marble set loose.
Perhaps she had known for a while, since their first encounter, but it wasn’t something she could admit until she’d freed herself from commitments and entanglements.
She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything except she had to see him. The urge was too strong to resist. The man had her aflutter.
Charlotte grabbed her dressing gown from the foot of the bed and slipped it on, belting it at the waist. She crept from her chamber, gliding down the near-dark corridor, looking over her shoulder for fear that she might be caught. She had no desire to explain what she was about to either one of her sisters. She could scarcely explain it to herself. She loved a rogue—a rake who had no desire for the type of life she wanted. She might not be quite the dull creature she once was, but she still craved all the same things for herself. A home of her own. Hearth. Love. Family.
Samuel wanted none of those things. He’d never said as much, but she knew. He eschewed convention. He was no typical gentleman looking for a wife. In all their trysts, he’d never asked her to end her betrothal. Never suggested that they marry, and it wasn’t honor that kept him from uttering those words. He simply was not interested in such traditional trappings. He was not that man . . . not that person.
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