~.~
Chapter Eight
Charity returned to the house in the early hours of the afternoon. She was still shaking her head at the memory of her encounter with Lord Wentwell. It served him right that she had given him a dose of his own character. The gentleman needed to be reminded that his actions had consequences that would not be tolerated by all of the gentle sex, certainly it would not be tolerated by one, Lady Charity Abernathy. Still, she felt remorse for her action.
She liked Lord Wentwell more than she cared to admit, and regretted that she had, perhaps taken her lesson a little too far. He had seemed hurt by her revelation, more so than she had expected. Perhaps she had touched upon some sensitive issue. Charity had only meant to wound his pride a bit. Lord Wentwell was entirely too prideful. But she was not an intentionally cruel person, and it seemed that he had been genuinely hurt. She had not enjoyed how his lips tightened and the tic in his jaw jumped. She lamented how the light had gone out of his eyes, and he had looked at her with icy coldness.
Ah well, she thought. It mattered not now. Charity had no intention of interacting with Neville Collington again. In fact, she prayed that she might never cross the path of the charmer for the rest of her life, though that was likely impossible. All of the Ton knew one another, and as a daughter of an earl, she was unlikely to avoid Lord Wentwell entirely. She would meet the members of the peerage and their families on occasion.
~.~
On their way home from the Grand Pump Room, Charity’s father made a comment while they rode in the carriage that she had thought seemed out of sorts. “Do you feel better, Father?” she asked him, but he did not answer, and before they had driven a block, he was snoring. She hoped that the waters helped him. At least he seemed to rest easy.
Charity had not explained to her father the drama of the day. In fact, she thought it best that she not mention it. Though her father was less likely to ridicule her behavior, than her mother, he would not have expressed compliance with her interactions with such a gentleman. Charity also knew that he would have been right. She was playing with fire. Lord Wentwell was best avoided. The last thing that she needed was a rumor about her involvement with the ne'er-do-well. She resolved she would put him from her mind. His opinions did not matter in the least. Neither did his strong arms or his gentle touch or even the light in his very green eyes, green with darker flecks, like bits of fire.
~.~
That evening in Charity’s dressing room, while Jean brushed out her hair, Charity shared the encounter with her maid. “The gentleman shall get himself in a scrape if he continues to toss his affections around to land where they may,” she grumbled to Jean who was listening with half an ear as she set Charity’s curls for the evening. “I want no part of it.”
“Nonetheless, you seemed to have shed your melancholy, my lady. Did you enjoy your outing?”
“I did,” Charity agreed. “It was wonderful to share the afternoon with Patience.”
“Only Lady Beresford?” quipped the maid, and Charity launched into an explanation of the morning’s events, laughing aloud as she told of their antics, and soon the conversation centered on Lord Wentwell.
“Your mother would scold you for your boldness,” Jean surmised. Of course she was well aware that even her mother’s censure would do little to dissuade Charity once she had set her mind to the act.
“You cannot deny that Lord Wentwell was in need of a lesson,” Charity said.
“No, but few ladies have the gall to confront a gentleman as such,” Jean said as she arranged a particularly stubborn curl.
“He is no gentleman,” Charity intoned.
“Still, he is an earl,” her maid said. “Do you not fear repercussions?”
Charity shook her head. “He is a member of the peerage. He will not sully himself with outright lies and we did nothing which can cast aspersions upon my character. He has no recourse.”
“Truly, you have no fear?”
“No Jean. I have no fear, for I care not what Neville Collington thinks of me. In fact, if he dislikes me it will encourage him to keep distance.”
“Your mother would not approve of this action.”
“No. Mother would not approve,” Charity agreed. “Yet the gentleman is such a rake I cannot stand to be near him and pretend as if I must allow his fawning for no reason other than that he is a man.”
Charity paused thinking of how Lord Wentwell complemented her. He seemed sincere, but a man such as he, could not be.
“He did not seem the fawning type,” Jean observed.
“Well, perhaps not.” Charity paused thinking of the commanding way he had directed her as they walked, and his hand on her own gloved one. She shook her head abruptly. “But still he is not for me.” Charity waxed long about how a lady would be run from town if she behaved half as badly as Lord Wentwell. To be sure, her reputation would be little better than a hoyden if she flirted with as many gentlemen as he might ladies. The thought brought color to her cheeks.
“He is a cad and cur. I do not have anything further to say about him.”
“You do seem to have exhausted the topic,” Jean said.
“I have not. He is quite despicable.”
“Indeed. You have done him a service, I think.” Jean added after Charity had calmed down.
“Yes. Now, let us wash our hands of him,” Charity said.
“I think you are right. It will not do to dwell on one so base as Lord Wentwell,” Jean added.
“Certainly not.” Charity agreed and vowed to set the gentleman from her mind. Such a vow was much more easily made than accomplished.
~.~
~ Part 2 ~
Disgrace
Chapter Nine
It was the evening of the opening ball in Bath. Charity still had not spoken to Julia, but some of her other friends had arrived for the ball. She was excited to meet them all again and exchange stories from when they last were together. Lady Shalace entered the dressing chamber, to make her approval or disapproval of her daughter’s appearance for the evening, but Charity was nearly finished with her toilette. Jean had curled her hair into a mass of golden ringlets atop her head, with pink roses and the string of pearls she had bought in town last week.
Charity had already donned the lovely Parisian dress her mother had purchased for the event. The flounce around the neckline was truly exquisite and unique. The silk of the flounce was actually pink, not ivory, but so pale that it blended well with the ivory of the gown, and tiny pink roses, each made with intricate care sewn onto it. It felt heavenly against her skin. Charity felt beautiful.
She also felt blessed that her mother had made no attempt to accentuate her daughter’s features on this eve. Perhaps her mother thought that the rouge may mark the silk now that the garment was on her person, or perhaps the Countess was distracted with some rumor or other that her friends had been whispering about all day. Charity did not hear much else than that some lady of moderate means had been ruined. She did not care to hear the gossip that pervaded the streets of Bath. She tried her best to ignore it. She remembered how often gossip was untrue or certainly an exaggeration. One would think her mother, of all people would know that, but Mrs. Thompson, Mother’s dear friend was a forever spouting fount of gossip, and Mrs. Sullivan was hardly better.
“Do be careful, dear,” her mother said. “It will be more difficult for me to keep a watch on you, with the crush of people arriving for the summer season.”
“Don’t worry, Mother. Every summer someone or other is ruined or has some severe misfortune to overcome. It shan’t be me enmeshed in such rumor.” Charity found that keeping one’s sights on a happier note was much more pleasant than dwelling on others’ misfortunes. Charity was neither surprised nor intrigued by her mother’s information, but in a few moments, the topic turned to Charity herself and she was forced to listen.
“Charity, You were out in the sun for far too long this week. Really, when will you listen to me? Your cheeks h
ave too much of a hint of color to be called rosy, and Miss Davies mentioned you spent an entire morning walking with Lady Beresford. Did you even take your parasol?”
“I had a bonnet, Mother.”
Lady Shalace huffed.
“I promise I will be more careful in the future.”
“Lud! What if you should develop freckles, like Lady Beresford? Can you imagine a more debilitating fate?”
“I shan’t get freckles,” Charity said. “I doubt they are catching, Mother.” Though her cheeks did have more color than usual, Charity thought that the effect made her look bright and exciting. She allowed her mother to call for the application of a soft powder to return her skin to its porcelain hue, but when she began adjusting her daughter’s bodice, Charity rebelled.
“Mother,” she huffed. “We must be off. We are late as it is.”
“Fashionably late,” her mother said.
Charity sighed. “In any case, I am sure, there is little else that can be done to repair my features.”
Charity had meant the words as a witticism, but her mother had only nodded as if resigned to the fate of her daughter’s inadequacy. Charity refused to let her Mother bother her tonight. She was strangely filled with elation. It was going to be a wonderful evening. She just knew it. It was the opening ball! Everyone would be there. Charity could hardly contain her excitement, and even her mother’s diatribe could not dispel her happy mood.
Charity expressed an interest in speaking with her father before they went out for the evening, but her mother informed her that he had been abed for several hours.
“Oh, no! But he so loves when I show him my dress before we depart, and this one is so very beautiful.” She twirled around to show it off.
“I know, but your father has not been feeling well,” Mother said. “I am afraid the miracle of the waters has not set in yet.”
“Oh but it will,” Charity said. “I know it shall.”
Lady Shalace nodded. “I do hope so.”
Charity was sad to leave without her father’s words. It was not often that she ventured to an event without his approval and advice. Today, more than any other, she had wished to speak with him. Still it could not be helped and at least her father might have his rest.
Charity descended the stairs and found Mr. James Poppy waiting in the parlor. Charity had known him for ever so long, as had her family.
They had played together and called one another cousin from the time they were children, but she hadn’t seen him, or any of the Poppy family since last summer.
“James,” she said, hurrying to greet him. “I haven’t seen you in an age. How are you?”
“Very well, cousin. I have come to escort you and The Countess to the ball. I must say you look particularly lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, James.” Charity said and she asked after his family and sisters.
“They will be at the ball, I assure you,” he said. “Francesca was fair bursting with excitement. It is her first time at an evening event.”
Charity laughed thinking that it was hard to believe young Francesca was of an age to come to an event like the opening ball in Bath. “And is your father escorting your mother and sisters?”
“Yes,” he replied, “Along with my brother.”
“Your brother? Michael is in Bath?” She laughed. “Has there been a fire in London that I have not heard tell of? Has his townhouse burned to the ground?” Charity enjoyed teasing the Poppy brothers about their peculiar ways. “I thought he must love the smell of London in the summer.”
James laughed. “He has indeed joined us here in Bath for the summer. Father insists he take a bride. He is not pleased.”
“Why ever not? A man of quality must ever be searching for a wife.”
James just shook his head. “My brother is a strange and moody man,” James said. “He abhors fun.”
“Perhaps we might change that,” Charity suggested.
James Poppy raised a dubious eyebrow.
Michael Poppy was a resolute bachelor who preferred to be left to himself. In fact, Charity very much doubted that he took any enjoyment in social engagements. It was his serious nature that led him so. Every action or reaction must have a purpose and, unless with good cause, frivolous socializing was beyond his ability to justify. Charity had always thought this strange because his younger brother and sisters were all very open and friendly. Though the Poppy ladies preferred their quaint life on the country estate, they were always thrilled to mingle with the crowds of London or Bath when given the opportunity.
“And what of you, cousin? Are you searching for a wife?” Charity asked.
“I may have my eye on a certain lady,” he said enigmatically.
Charity smiled. She had never truly considered the Poppy brothers as potential suitors. Mother would not approve for they were neither titled nor in possession of enough wealth to suit her fancy. However, Charity could not deny that their character was pleasing and even their features were the sort that were pleasant to look at.
She accepted the offer of Mr. James Poppy’s arm and wondered whether she might become a permanent fixture there at some point.
More than anything, Charity was attached to James’ sisters. Alfreda, Roberta, and Francesca had long passed letters back and forth between their country home and Charity’s London townhome or her father’s country seat, depending upon where she and her parents were in residence. It was not until the summer of her tenth year that she spent with the ladies that she truly began to improve as a horsewoman. Truth be told, there were few that could match the Poppys in that skill, and it was their eldest sister, Constance who had taught Charity to sit a horse. Charity had learned enough to make her claim to competence, and although she did not enjoy the hunt. She did love a leisurely ride through the pastures or park alongside one of the sisters.
Her knowledge of the Poppy brothers was less extensive. Often they had been away on some business or other on behalf of their father’s estate. They were both educated and successful in the management of their house, though their prospects for improvement seemed to have reached its zenith.
Charity wondered aloud if she might again visit their estate. Lady Shalace, who had joined the young pair as they climbed into the carriage, harrumphed and made a disparaging comment about the dust and wind that whipped through every inch of the countryside. Charity did not mind, for in her opinion, the beauty of the land more than compensated for the dirt.
James assured her that his sisters would be more than willing to host Lady Charity for a month or so and Charity made a note to speak with Francesca on the topic. Besides, Charity thought, it was always a relief to have some time away from the watchful eye of her mother. The Lady Shalace would find some excuse or other to avoid the trip. Jean should accompany Charity as long as she was not yet wed. Charity felt a pang of distress at the thought. After she was wed, she would only visit at her husband’s whim. Of course, she might visit with her husband. Or, perhaps, he might chose that they would not visit at all.
Charity closed her fan and held it in both hands, twisting it nervously between her fingers.
Lady Shalace’s hand snaked out as she rapped her daughter sharply on the wrist. Startled more than hurt, Charity looked up, abashed, for she had not even realized that she had given in to her nervous habit of twisting her fan. She had cracked several of the delicate fans in her first season, but she thought that she had broken the habit. She wondered what worry had reared its ugly head to bring it back. The thought of worry brought a to Charity’s mind picture of Lord Wentwell’s face, though his feature were far from ugly. She sighed wondering if the Earl would be in attendance tonight. It was most likely; no one in Bath would choose to miss the opening ball.
A sharp glare from her mother was all the chastisement that was necessary. The Countess had timed her correction for the moment when Mr. Poppy had been gazing out of the window, and the entire exchange went unnoticed for his part.
~.~
As Charity and Lady Shalace, with James Poppy as their escort, descended from their carriage after the short ride, a slight breeze carried the blissful scent of flowers to them. The Assembly Room was where the ball that generally opened the Bath summer season was held. Still the name was a misnomer, because unless it rained, the ball was rarely contained within the room itself, but instead spilled out on to the beautiful grounds and gardens. Charity had been here before, but the venue could not help but amaze. The place was awe inspiring in both beauty and size. Outside in the courtyard were gardens and palisades and arches all reminiscent of the Romans who built much of the city. Pools and fountains and flowers adorned every inch of the place. Balconies lined the outer edge on a second and third floor, where mosaics depicted ancient stories.
Although the smells in Bath were mostly pleasant, Charity touched a perfumed handkerchief to her lips. She was warm and felt she would have a slight pink glow by the time they reached the Grand Pump Room Hotel; no rouge needed, but sweat collecting on her upper lip would be gauche. As she used her own handkerchief to pat the sweat from her lip, she thought of the handkerchief that Lord Wentwell had shared with her at the shops. She found herself glancing around to see if he was in attendance, and then she stopped her wandering eye. She did not care. It could make absolutely no difference at all to her if he was in attendance or not. James escorted her forward and she commented that the refreshment served at the ball would be pleasant. She was parched. There was also a fountain inside where one could drink the medicinal waters, but she found the taste off-putting.
The Deceptive Earl: Lady Charity Abernathy: A Regency Romance Novel Page 8