Realizing they should be close to Havenhurst by now, Charlotte was about to wake her mother when the carriage began to slow. However, she had not felt the gentle left turn that she had been told would mark the entrance to the estate’s imposing drive. Parting the curtains, she could see a single rider on a midnight black stallion pulling up alongside the Waverly carriage, having already ordered it to slow.
She knew that horse. Had known it for years. And she wasn’t quite certain how she felt about its – or its rider’s – appearance just now.
When the carriage finally rolled to a stop, Charlotte waited for her tiger to lower the steps and help her down. With feet planted firmly on the ground, she looked up and directly into a pair of silvery gray eyes that were as familiar to her as her own, mostly because she had seen those same eyes looking back at her from her beloved brothers’ faces every night while growing up.
“Uncle Cris. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Without hesitation, she reached up and enveloped the older Spaniard in a tight hug. “Surely you are not attending Lord Fullbridge’s house party as well?”
The older man shook his head in disgust. “No. I am far too old for such nonsense. I came because I heard about your mother. Mi corazon, she suffers much this time, I think?”
My heart.
From the time she was a young child, Charlotte had learned the meaning behind those two Spanish words as well as she knew English. For Lord Cristobal Marino, the Spanish count who had once served his country’s king as a representative in England had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember.
Charlotte’s earliest memories of the man were at her family’s dinner table where she had always referred to him simply as “Count” which seemed to be appropriate. After all, as far as she knew, the man was a great friend to her parents so why would he not participate in family dinners on occasion? Other close friends did so all the time. It wasn’t until she was older that Charlotte came to understand the complex relationship between this man and her mother.
Count Marino had been Agnes Cleary’s first – and most likely only – love. She had fallen in love with the dashing young Spaniard when they had both attended the same royal ball to celebrate some treaty or other. The attraction was mutual and soon, the young lovers had been spending as much time together as possible. However, their love affair was not to be, for Agnes had been promised to another – Charlotte’s father, Lord James Cleary.
After all, the daughters of wealthy and important English earls did not wed Spanish counts, no matter how wealthy said counts were. It simply wasn’t done, at least not if the woman’s family wanted to keep their social standing. And if nothing else, Agnes’ family had been extremely conscious of their position in the world and in Society.
However, even after Charlotte’s parents’ wedding had taken place, the count and Agnes had not broken off their affair. Then again, her father hadn’t given up his mistresses either, so that seemed fair, at least in Charlotte’s estimation. If anything, the bond had grown stronger. There were times when “Uncle Cris,” as Charlotte had taken to calling the count, and her mother were not as close, for the count had a duty to his country and his title as well. He had eventually taken a beautiful Spanish wife of Castilian descent and sired the requisite number of children by her. But he didn’t love her.
For though he had never said so, Charlotte had come to understand long ago that the only woman Cris Marino truly loved was Agnes Cleary – a woman he could not truly have for his own.
That was why it was little surprise to anyone that both Duncan and Martin had dark hair, slightly tanned skin and the silvery-gray eyes that were a trait of the Marino family. No one said anything, of course, least of all Charlotte’s father who didn’t seem to be capable of fathering anything but female children. However he had come by them, Lord Waverly had his male heirs and he was happy.
However he was not happy enough to let his wife go, which was what everyone – including Agnes and Cris – had expected. He would not divorce her, certainly, but he could allow her to lead her own life and carry on a discreet affair. He hadn’t. If anything, he had become more and more overbearing until Charlotte’s mother had buried herself in affairs, drink and laudanum until she was rarely sober enough to think straight.
When the situation looked dire, that was when Uncle Cris usually appeared and swept Agnes away so that she could recover in private. Usually at Bramblewood. Which explained why he was here now – mostly anyway.
“How did you know?” Charlotte asked as she finally pulled away from him and planted her slippered feet more firmly on the ground. “I didn’t realize how awful the situation had become until yesterday.” She sighed. “I don’t know the reason she is medicating herself again, but I suppose it has something to do with my father. It usually does.”
The Spaniard shrugged as he often did. “I have my ways. I know many things that others believe I do not or could not.”
Which likely meant someone on his payroll inside the dower house or on her father’s staff. Not that Charlotte minded. Not in the least. As long as someone cared enough about her mother to watch out for her welfare, that was truly all that mattered.
“I also take it you don’t think it’s a good idea for her to attend Lord Fullbridge’s house party?” Neither did Charlotte, really, but she was hardly in a position to say that.
“No.” That single word held so much meaning. “I do not.”
Charlotte nodded in agreement. “Then where will you take her? For you know I can’t return her to Bramblewood, at least not now. My father will discover the truth eventually. Not all of the servants there are loyal to her.” And they would all pay for that defiance if her father learned the truth, of course. That went without saying.
Marino shrugged again, obviously unconcerned. “There is a place nearby. It is safe. She can rest there. Recover as she likes.” He peered into the coach and frowned when he saw her mother sprawled over the seat in a rather inelegant heap. “Again with the laudanum?”
Charlotte nodded. She would not have admitted that to anyone other than Uncle Cris. “I have no idea how much she took before I arrived. A great deal I would guess. At least one full bottle a day. Perhaps more.”
Marino swore softly under his breath. “Disculpa,” he quickly apologized in his native tongue. “I should not use such language around a young lady. You are not at fault.”
“It would not be the first time I’ve heard such words,” Charlotte chuckled, feeling lighter than she had in some time. At moments like this, she wished he were her father and not James Cleary. She had a feeling this man would have approved of her marriage to Francis long ago. He knew what it meant to be in love.
“Si. This I know. But I still should not be so careless.” Then the older man sighed and gestured to a small coach she had not noticed before waiting a short distance away. “With your permission, I will take your mother now. You know she will be well cared for, even if I only have her under my roof for a few days.”
Gently, Charlotte laid her hand on the count’s arm. “I know, Uncle Cris. I trust you. You would never hurt her.”
“Your faith means much to me, my dear,” the older man admitted. “I am humbled.”
Charlotte shook her head. “It is I who am humbled that you care so much.” She nodded at the waiting coach. “Go on. Take her. The sooner she is with you, the sooner she can start to recover.”
As she watched, the count directed his coachman to assist him in removing Agnes from the Waverly coach before placing her gently in his own. It was not lost on Charlotte how her mother’s arms instinctively wrapped around Marino’s neck as she was moved, burrowing into his shoulder as if seeking safety.
Was what she felt for Francis even half that powerful? Right now, Charlotte couldn’t say for certain.
When her mother was safely tucked inside the smaller coach, the count turned back to Charlotte. “I will be in touch, my dear. Rest assured, we will not be far.” Then he reached out
and cupped her cheek in a far more fatherly fashion than her own father ever had. “Mi querido. My lovely Charlotte. I know you are not of my blood, but...”
“In some ways, it feels as if I am,” she finished for him. “I know, Uncle Cris. I feel the same. Would that things were different.”
“I do not know all of your misery, my darling, but I know enough.” He smiled at her. “If you wish for a new path, simply say the word. I shall provide one.”
Leaning in, Charlotte gave the man a quick kiss on the cheek. “I know. And thank you. For now, I am content.” Then she sobered for she wanted the Spaniard to understand that she took his meaning – and understood his offer of protection. “However, if things change, I shall let you know immediately. I would never hesitate.”
“Take care, my Charlotte,” the count said as he kissed her cheek in return. Just then, her heart overflowed with love for this kind, gentle, and generous man. “You only need send a messenger into the nearby village if you desire my assistance. Tell the man to find me and he will. Do not doubt that he can for I am known far more than you might believe. I will come at once.”
“I will,” she reassured him again. “I promise.”
“I shall hold you to that,” the man vowed as he climbed into the coach, handing his stallion off to another outrider she hadn’t noticed before. Then her Uncle Cris was gone, his outriders and coach taking off in the opposite direction of the sweeping drive that would lead to Havenhurst.
What would it be like to have a man who loved her that much, Charlotte wondered as she watched them depart. Loved her so much that he would spend a lifetime stealing what moments he could with her and cherishing them as much as the count obviously did his time with her mother.
Would any man ever love her the way the count loved Agnes?
More to the point, did Francis love Charlotte that much? Did she love him in the same way?
In the end, did it matter? Or was a grand and passionate love affair something for others and not for women like Charlotte who were uncertain and desperate for escape as much as she was desperate for love? Had she found that love in Francis and then lost it for reasons she still did not know or understand? Then again, hadn’t her mother been in a similar situation when she had been young?
When she had set out for this house party, Charlotte had been certain of what she both thought and felt where Francis was concerned. She had forgiven him. But had she really? Was she content with the sort of bland romance he now seemed to offer her?
Or did she secretly crave the sort of love and passion her mother had with Uncle Cris? Charlotte hadn’t considered that before but now, seeing them together and watching the Spaniard sweep in to save her mother, she wondered if she had been wrong. What if she really did desire that sort of grand passion? And what if she didn’t find it with Francis? Should she deny herself the chance to find out, to see if she could discover that same sort of fiery love elsewhere and with another man?
Perhaps it was because of her father’s ultimatum or perhaps it was because she was still a bit conflicted about her feelings for Francis and his for her, but whatever the reason, it occurred to Charlotte that she owed it to herself to truly sort out her feelings before she returned to London – and to Francis.
Was Francis her grand and passionate love? She had once believed that he was. So much so that she had passed up an opportunity to have a pleasant – if not grandly passionate – union with Lord Daniel Weston, the so-called “American Marquess.” Now she was no longer as certain as she had been then. At the very least, something had changed between her and Francis, and she was no longer as certain of his feelings – or hers – as she had been in the past.
Before their argument in the garden, Charlotte had been certain about what she desired. She wished to be Francis’ wife and bear him the nursery full of children they had both spoken about so frequently over the last year. Now? She wasn’t quite so sure. Perhaps now she wanted something different. She also felt that she owed it to herself to find out what that something was – or if she even wanted it at all.
This party would allow her that freedom, a freedom she knew well that few other women in her position were ever granted. For a few days, she could laugh and flirt, and dance and yes, see if another man captured both her imagination and her passions the way Francis once had.
She could also do her duty by informing Lord Snowly that he needed to beware of her father’s machinations. If the earl was attractive and wished to flirt with her? Then so much the better. It would provide her with an opportunity to test her theory that perhaps she and Francis were simply drifting apart, though neither of them wished to admit to such a thing. That they were together out of habit more than anything and that was the reason behind his hesitation to wed her.
For Francis was different now, different than he had been when he had first arrived in London. That man, the man she had fallen for, had been brash and certain, even though he could not remember a bit of his past. He had been sensual and demanding, hard and yet somehow soft at the same time. There had been sparks between them. Until one day? There weren’t any longer.
And both she and Francis were pale shadows of the people they had once been.
What had changed? For her part, Charlotte didn’t know. What she did know was that the more her father forbade her to wed Francis, the more something inside of her had died. She had dealt well with his refusal – for a time. Until one day? She had come to realize that it might be pointless to argue the matter any longer, that her father would never change his mind. And that was when something between her and Francis had changed too. The sparks, so hot and passionate at first, had begun to cool. Now she wasn’t even certain there were sparks any longer.
However, if Charlotte felt a spark with this unseen earl, or even another man at the house party? Then perhaps her devotion to Francis was more out of duty, honor, and yes, habit than anything. Perhaps she didn’t care for him nearly as much as she thought she did. Maybe he wasn’t the man she wanted as her husband at all. Perhaps the passion between them truly had died.
So as she allowed her coachman to assist her back inside the waiting carriage, Charlotte vowed to use these next few days as an opportunity to sort out her heart and her mind. It was a luxury few young women in her position were ever granted, and she intended to make the most of it.
Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Charlotte accepted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman more to have something to do with her hands than out of a desire for drink. She had assumed that appearing at Lord Fullbridge’s house party without her mother as chaperone would not cause much of a stir, for she did still have her lady’s maid. She had assumed wrong. As usual.
From the moment her coach had rolled up to Havenhurst’s grand front entrance, with its sprawling portico and ornately carved double doors, Charlotte had been looked at peculiarly as if something was amiss. Oh, the stares and whispers that followed her were nothing overt, for obviously as the Marquess of Waverly’s daughter, it would not do to give her the cut direct. She also did still have a chaperone in the form of her maid. It wasn’t as if she had turned up completely alone.
Instead, Charlotte noticed it in the little things. A sharp look from Lady Priscilla Trew, the duke’s spinster sister, when the other woman thought Charlotte wasn’t looking. A quizzical stare, as if Charlotte was some sort of uninvited invader, from Lady Theodosia Maxwell, the Duchess of Averill, who was attending with her terrified-of-everything-male daughter, Tabitha. A whisper from behind the fan of Miss Horatia Bristow, a wealthy merchant’s daughter who clearly believed that Charlotte was here to abscond with every available man at the party for her own nefarious purposes.
That last one was laughable, really, even though Charlotte had heard Miss Bristow whispering just that absurdity to Lady Margaretta Kerns, the daughter of a local baron who had an unfortunate lisp and middling looks to match a rather dour personality. Even now as the time pressed toward midni
ght, just remembering the scene from that afternoon brought a smile to Charlotte’s lips, which she tried in vain to hide behind her champagne glass.
After all that had been whispered and gossiped about her, it would not do for anyone to see her laughing.
“Does this party amuse you, my lady?”
Surprised, Charlotte looked up into the most stunning pair of eyes she had seen since she had first looked into Francis’ beautiful turquoise gaze the year before. She must have had an expression of some shock on her face because just then, the gentleman smiled at her. And oh, what a smile that was.
Unlike most men whose smiles were merely polite, this man’s smile lit up his entire face, transforming him from merely handsome to heartbreakingly so. His full lips parted to reveal perfectly straight white teeth – a rarity even in her social circles – and his eyes twinkled with what she could only describe as mischief. As if he knew that he was breaking just about every social rule regarding proper introductions and not giving a bloody damn.
At that moment, Charlotte’s heart flipped in her chest, and she was suddenly more confused than she had been moments ago. She hadn’t thought that possible. Apparently, it was.
“Please forgive my abominable manners,” the man said softly, accompanied by a short bow, so as not to draw attention to the fact that they had not yet been properly introduced. “I am Lord Noah Acton, the Earl of Snowly.” He grinned again, and Charlotte found herself licking her lips in anticipation of his next words. “And you might be?”
A Lady to Desire Page 6