"Little Molly? Why, she must be coming up on two," the footman speculated, more cheerful now that they had moved to a safer topic. "She's quite the little hellion. I don't doubt she causes her mama all sorts of trouble."
"I don't doubt it either," Hugh replied heavily.
They had reached the end of Barbour Street, and Thomas was now free to leave. After cautioning the footman not to breathe a word of their exchange to anyone—least of all Miss Drew—Hugh turned in the direction of St James' Square.
His step was heavy as he traversed the footpaths which led home, and his heart even more so. Poor Charlotte, Hugh thought, as light drops of rain began to fall from the sky above. What a heavy burden to carry alone, and what a big secret to have kept hidden for so long.
There was no doubt in Hugh's mind that little Molly was the fruit of a union between Charlotte Drew and Charles Deveraux. The timing was too perfect; just over two years ago, Charlotte had been discarded by Deveraux—no doubt after the cur had seduced her for sport and had left her to fend for her growing belly alone.
Her family would not have made a fuss, Hugh thought sagely; they would have sent Charlotte away until the babe was born. How it had come to live on Barbour Street, with one of Deveraux's maids was another matter, but Hugh did not doubt that there was an explanation for it. Perhaps she had been supplied by Deveraux, for honour demanded that a gentleman provide for all of his children, even the baseborn ones.
Hugh's gut clenched in anger as he thought on Deveraux and he fervently wished that he had called him out the night of Lord Jacob's ball. How could a man simply use a young lady and discard her and his child so easily?
No doubt Charlotte lived in a world of agony, separated from her daughter by the rules of society, which would never allow them reunite.
But they could reunite, Hugh thought with a start. He could claim Molly as his own, could take her to live with them on one of his estates. His title was enough to protect the girl, he could give her the life she deserved.
That he was willing to take on another man's daughter, was something of a revelation to Hugh. He preferred things to be orderly, desired everything to be exact and perfect, but when it came to Charlotte all his preconceived ideals flew out the window.
He wanted her as his wife, virgin or not. And he wanted her to be happy, which would only happen if Molly was taken under the protection of his name.
With a far lighter step, Hugh hurried home, hoping that he might outrun the impending downpour. Penrith House stood imposing itself over the square, same as ever, but Hugh paid no mind as he raced up the steps.
The door was opened by his butler, who did not bat an eyelid at finding his master rain-soaked and on foot.
"Harlow," Hugh ordered, as the man helped him out of his coat, "Take note. I wish to hold a ball as soon as it is possible to arrange."
"Yes, your Grace," Harlow answered, folding Hugh's coat over his arm.
"I want the whole of London in attendance," Hugh continued, running an agitated hand through his thick hair to disperse the raindrops which dampened it. "Blast it. Actually, I don't care for all of London, just make certain that Miss Drew is there."
"Yes, your Grace," Harlow repeated, nonplussed by Hugh's demands, "Er. There is someone here to see you, your Grace."
"A visitor? Dash it, Harlow, I don't have time for visitors."
"Well, he has made a rather long journey."
"Just a thousand miles and seven years," another voice added dryly, "But if his Grace is too busy, I might call back."
Hugh stilled at the familiar, deep voice, which was so like his own. He turned on the heel of his Hessian and found Leo—tall, tanned, and healthier than he had ever looked—standing in the open doorway of the drawing room.
"I see you haven't changed," Leo said with a tight smile, nodding at poor Harlow, who was awaiting a reprimand from the duke.
"I think you'll find you're wrong," Hugh replied, as he traversed the distance between them in two long strides and pulled his brother into a bone-crunching hug. "I think you'll find me very much changed, dear brother."
Chapter Thirteen
It had been nearly a week since Charlotte had last seen Penrith. She had received a note, dashed off in a messy scrawl, explaining that he would be away for a few days with his brother, viewing the ducal estates.
A part of Charlotte had mourned the loss of the duke's company, but she had also celebrated, for surely it meant that the two Abermale brothers were now reunited.
You had some small part to play in that, a voice whispered proudly in her ear. Charlotte was not a boastful young woman, but she did allow herself to feel briefly satisfied at the idea that she had helped Penrith to mend ties with his sibling.
Then, just yesterday, an invitation had arrived at Ashfield House, addressed to Charlotte.
Hugh Landon Charles Abermale, Sixth Duke of Penrith, respectfully requests the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening, for a ball at Penrith House.
Charlotte had read and re-read the invitation umpteen times, before traipsing downstairs to find her father.
"Penrith is holding a ball," Brandon Drew had called, waving an invitation of his own, as Charlotte entered the library.
"Yes, I had gathered," Charlotte held up her own identical page for him to see.
The pair's exchange was cut short, however, when Lady Everleigh—brandishing an invitation of her own— had barged into the room.
"Charlotte," she had cried, as she spotted her granddaughter, "You've done it!"
"Done what?"
Accustomed to accusations of misbehaviour, Charlotte had been rather defensive in her reply.
"You have captured a duke," Lady Everleigh's triumph was almost palpable, "Penrith never hosts balls—it can mean only one thing."
"And what is that?"
"That he intends to ask you to marry him."
A kerfuffle had broken out, as Brandon Drew had leapt from his chair and danced a jig—an actual jig—around the floor.
"My daughter, a duchess," he had said, once his dancing had stopped, with wonder in his eyes.
"Well, she might not be," Lady Everleigh had cast a disproving glance over Charlotte's figure, "If she arrives at Penrith House looking like that. Come, Charlotte, let us find Helga and have her beautify you."
And so, Charlotte had spent a torturous evening being attended to by Helga. The industrious Swede had bathed her in scented water, slathered Olympia Dew on her every nook and cranny, and had sent her to bed with a greasy pomade coating her tresses.
The next morning, Charlotte had been awoken at dawn, to endure even more torture from Helga. She had been bathed again, slathered in even more creams and potions, and had her hair brushed one-hundred times, before the lady's maid attacked it with a curling iron.
The preparations for the ball had taken most of the day, but once she was dressed and ready, Charlotte had to admit that the effort was worth it.
"I don't look like me," Charlotte whispered, as Helga finally allowed her view herself in the looking-glass.
"I know," came Helga's tearful reply. For all of her tenure, Helga had longed for Charlotte to not be Charlotte, and tonight she had finally gotten her wish.
Charlotte eyed herself warily, afraid that she might undo Helga's work simply by blinking. Her red curls had been beaten into submission and were arranged in an artful up-style, which Helga proudly told her was a la Medusa. Her face had been lightly powdered, the slightest hint of rouge applied to her cheeks, and—despite Charlotte's protests—Helga had applied a mixture of black soot from the oil lamp mixed with aromatic camphor and oil to her lashes to darken them. Her dress was new, made of dark green velvet, which hugged her curves, while the skirts whispered as she walked.
She looked, Charlotte thought, most glamorous, most seductive, and not at all like herself.
"Now you wait," Helga commanded, propelling Charlotte toward the ottoman at the end of her bed and ordering her to sit.
C
harlotte duly complied, petrified that she might wrinkle her skirts and exact Helga's ire. After nearly a half hour of tedious waiting, a knock came upon the door, and a pale-faced Bianca entered.
"Cat," she exclaimed, as she caught sight of her sister, "You look like a living fashion-plate."
"I'm afraid I won't be living very long, if I stand too close to any fires," Charlotte replied, with an unladylike snort. The lotions and potions that Helga had coated her skin in had a definite whiff of alcohol to them and Charlotte was beginning to suspect that she might go up in smoke if she neared a naked flame.
"Well don't stand next to any," Bianca sagely advised, "For it would be shame if you were to combust before anyone witnessed how lovely you look."
"Would that be the only shame?" Charlotte replied dryly.
"Well, I suppose I would miss you," Bianca replied, with a twinkle in her eye, "And it would be rather galling for you not to witness my come-out, after all your efforts."
"You mean?"
Charlotte forgot all about her dress and her hair, as she leapt from her perch with excitement. Bianca's eyes glistened happily and she nodded her head, all the confirmation Charlotte needed before pulling her sister into a warm embrace.
"Papa told me just now," Bianca continued, as the two girls broke apart, "I sent word to Mr Dubarry and then I came to tell you. Oh, Charlotte, thank you so much for all that you've done."
"It was no trouble at all," Charlotte assured her sister, but Bianca bit her lip doubtfully in response.
"Are you certain?" she ventured, her head cocked to one side like an inquisitive bird, "For I should hate to think that you have suffered these past few weeks. Grandmama seems to think that Penrith will propose this evening, but I beg you Cat, please do not accept for my sake."
"If he does propose and I accept, I can assure you Bianca, that it will be for my sake," Charlotte said, before clearing her throat nervously, "I love him, you see."
Silence filled the room as Bianca opened and closed her mouth in a manner that put Charlotte to mind of a fish out of water. Her surprise was to be expected, Charlotte supposed. After all, poor Bianca had been listening to Charlotte parrot on about wishing to be a spinster for years.
The girls were prevented from discussing matters any further by the arrival of Helga, who pronounced that the carriage was waiting.
The journey to St James' Square seemed to Charlotte to be interminable. Finally, after nearly an hour negotiating the mass of carriages which thronged the road, Charlotte, her papa and Lady Everleigh arrived at Penrith House.
"Quite the turn-out for such a last-minute invitation," Brandon sniffed.
"It's an invitation from Penrith," Lady Everleigh whispered in return, "People would skip their own mother's funeral to be present. Lud knows, I would skip yours."
Charlotte ignored the bickering between the pair, instead focusing on the back of the person before her as the queue of people entering the house snaked up the front steps.
What if Grandmama had been mistaken? What if Penrith did not intend to propose? What if he had invited her, simply to tell her that he had no more wish to see her?
All of Charlotte's worries and fears quickly disappeared as, at last, she was presented to the duke.
"Miss Drew," Penrith bowed, his face an unreadable mask, "Might I claim the first dance, before anyone else has a chance?"
"Yes, your Grace," Charlotte whispered, fumbling in her reticule to find her dance-card. The people waiting in the queue craned their necks to try and see what the hold up was, while a red-faced Charlotte poked about in her bag. Her fingers finally grasped the card, but the instant that she took it out, it was plucked from her grip by the duke.
"Actually," Penrith said, in a voice loud enough for all to hear, "I should like to claim every one of your dances, Miss Drew."
Penrith winked—actually winked—as he tucked her dance card safely into his breast pocket and turned to greet the next of his guests. Charlotte, who was feeling rather stupefied by such a public declaration of interest, had to be prodded in the back by her grandmother to remind her to move on.
Once inside the ballroom—which was lit by a half dozen glittering chandeliers—Charlotte became separated from her family by the crush. She moved dazedly through the crowd, seeking somewhere quiet to hide, but before she had a chance to find a retreat, a hand reached out and cupped her elbow.
"I believe this first dance is mine."
"Your guests," Charlotte stammered, as she turned to find Penrith watching her.
"My guests are being greeted by my brother," Penrith gave a careless shrug, "Besides, there is no one else I wish to speak to, now that you are here."
Charlotte did not know how to respond to such a bold declaration, but luckily Penrith did not seem keen on idle chat. With a strong, steady hand at the base of her back, the duke guided Charlotte toward the dancefloor, where the orchestra was tuning up for the first dance of the night.
True to his word, Penrith did not seek to dance with anyone else bar Charlotte. In fact, he seemed disinclined to even speak with anyone, though many tried to ingratiate themselves.
"People will talk," Charlotte cautioned, as yet another guest was politely dismissed in favour of Charlotte's company.
"Let them," the duke shrugged, "In fact, let us give them something proper to gossip about."
Penrith took the glass of ratafia that Charlotte was holding and placed it on a passing footman's tray, before leading her once more to dance.
The next dance was, Charlotte realised with a gulp, a waltz. She had never danced one with anyone—barring her dancing-master—and she worried that she might trip up.
"Do not look so frightened," Penrith whispered, as he took Charlotte's right hand in his, "Dancing is supposed to be enjoyable."
"That's easy to say, when you dance so well," she countered, though she forced a smile and placed her free hand on Penrith's broad shoulder.
"Just let me lead," he replied, his eyes all burning intensity and promise.
Charlotte flushed; was he speaking of the dance or of life in general? She was unable to decipher the meaning behind his words, however, for the orchestra began to play, and Penrith drew her towards him.
Dancing a waltz with the duke was nothing like dancing with her old dancing-master. For one, Penrith held her so scandalously close that Charlotte was certain people would be whispering about her for weeks. But it was also different because it was so enjoyable; she had never truly understood how dancing could make one feel as though their body was merged completely with their partner. The waltz, when performed correctly, was a union of body and soul, and it left Charlotte utterly breathless.
"Well," she said, as the music came to an end, and Penrith relinquished his hold on her, "That was...enjoyable."
"I am dedicated wholly to your pleasure, Miss Drew," he replied, his lips quirking as Charlotte flushed crimson at his words. There was no mistaking his innuendo this time.
"You look warm," he said, once again taking her by the elbow, "Come, let us take some air on the veranda."
And, despite being aware that nearly every eye in the room was following them, Charlotte allowed the duke to lead her from the dancefloor toward the French doors which opened out onto the gardens.
There were other couples here, walking arm in arm under the light of the stars and the full moon. Penrith ignored them, guiding Charlotte toward a set of steps, which led to a sunken garden, hedged by rosebushes and honeysuckles, and with a fountain at its centre.
"Charlotte, I have something to say to you," Penrith said, as they took a seat upon a low, stone bench.
The sound of the fountain's gentle splashing filled the silence which followed his words, for Charlotte found that she was unable to speak. Her heart thudded so loudly within her chest that she was certain Penrith might hear it—and how could he fail to notice the sharp rise and fall of her chest as she struggled for breath?
Was this it? Was he about to propose?
>
"I know about your daughter," Penrith finally said, when it became clear that Charlotte was unable to reply. His words had come out in a rush, hastily offered and almost apologetic.
Silence reigned, as Charlotte tried to digest his offering.
"My, my—what?" Charlotte questioned, feeling a wave of hysterical laughter bubble up in her throat. This was not a proposal of marriage, far from it! This was the wittering of a man fit for Bedlam.
"I know it must be a surprise," Penrith continued, very seriously, "Lud knows, it was a surprise for me. But I know now, Charlotte. I know all about Molly and what a fiend Deveraux was to you. How you shouldered such a burden alone, I will never understand, but you are not alone any longer. Once we are married, I will bring Molly under my protection and we can live together as a family."
Knock me down with a feather, Charlotte thought, half torn between laughter and tears. Penrith had got all muddled up with the sorry tale, but his willingness to take on little Molly as his own could not be ignored.
"Oh," Charlotte clasped his hand, "You are the sweetest man to offer to take Molly, but I'm afraid that her mother might not let you. She's rather attached to her, you see."
It was Penrith's turn to look perplexed, and despite her best efforts, Charlotte could not help but laugh at his expression.
"I am not Molly's mother," Charlotte continued, "Agnes Thatchery is."
"Deveraux's maid?" Penrith grunted with surprise, "I thought that he had employed her to mind the wee thing."
"No, unfortunately Mr Deveraux did not feel any need to provide for the child he had sired..."
Charlotte hesitated, wondering momentarily if she should explain the situation fully to Penrith, but she could not hold back, not now that he was so involved.
In a halting voice, she quietly explained how Charles Deveraux had ardently pursued her during her first season out.
"He was so charming, so fashionable," she said, her eyes focused ahead on a moth, which was dancing around a nearby rose-bush, as she recalled the past. "He sent lavish bouquets of hot-house flowers, sweetmeats from Gunter's, and recited sonnets which he composed himself."
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 14