Chetney hurried in, a glass in one hand and what looked to be brandy in the other. The two men exchanged looks.
“I don’t know where you got it, but it’s not a bad idea. See if you can locate a biscuit or two also, would you?” David took the glass from Chetney and offered it to the viscountess. The brandy should get her blood flowing and warm her up. “Drink a little of this. It should make you feel a bit stronger.”
She took the glass, obligingly swallowed a sip, and blinked. “I’m sorry to cause such bother.”
Her eyes lifted, and the compassion he saw in their purple depths almost knocked him over. Anger gripped him, and David rolled his chair back, putting a couple of feet between them. The first woman who’d breached his defenses, and she pitied him? How dare she?
She took another drink—a larger one this time—and coughed.
“What are you doing here?”
“If you’re Mr. Scott, then I’m to work for you.” She took another drink of the brandy. “You’ve a letter from Sidney Herbert.”
David nearly cursed but managed to hold it in. Hadn’t he already borne enough disappointment and hardship? His legs had been crushed. He’d be damned if he was going to work with this woman who passed out at the sight of him. He felt a hard laugh fighting to escape. At the ball she’d made him forget he was different from other men. That made the hurt so much greater now.
“That’s impossible,” he remarked. “It’s obvious we don’t suit.”
In the subsequent silence, Chetney returned with a biscuit that he turned over to the viscountess.
“Do you know anything about a letter from Herbert?” David asked.
His secretary bent, retrieved the envelope he’d dropped and offered it. David opened it and unfolded the letter inside. He read it while the viscountess nibbled on her biscuit. The letter confirmed that Herbert had indeed placed Lady Haliday on the Executive Committee.
Frustration rose in a wave. Herbert had assured David that, as chairman, he would have control over the workings of the committee. Yet Herbert had given the viscountess a position without checking with him. This wasn’t a society lady’s charade, either. Herbert expected the viscountess to be a working member of the group!
With a wave David directed Chetney to leave the room and close the door. Having a committee member dropped in his lap without having any say should have been his primary concern, but the words that spilled from his mouth were about another issue entirely. “You know, I don’t appreciate being used as a pawn in whatever game you’re playing with Lady Garret.”
The viscountess flushed but held his gaze, which David appreciated with a grudging respect for her mettle.
“This is so awkward,” the woman muttered. Her eyes implored him to understand as she straightened.
“I apologize for my actions. I was desperate to get rid of her, and I acted impulsively. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’ve never done such a thing before.” Lady Haliday stopped talking, picked up the glove he’d removed from her hand, and began wringing it. The way she was going at it, the poor glove would probably be ruined. “In future, I’ll behave with nothing but the most proper conduct.”
David couldn’t keep the surprise and disapproval from his voice. “Are you saying you still intend to work for me?”
She seemed startled. “Why, yes,” she said, her face turning even pinker.
David sighed. Lady Haliday seemed to bring his every buried doubt surging to the surface. In addition, she distracted him in a most unwelcome way.
Alarm flashed across her face. “Please, can’t you forget what happened? I want to do this.” She paused, and he imagined he saw desperation in her eyes. “I need to do this.”
Damn it, but she made him feel the sorriest blighter, and even though he didn’t want her there, he sensed that turning her away would be an act of cruelty. He felt compelled to agree to her request, even knowing her presence would make him uncomfortable.
“All right,” he said, and immediately her stiff posture eased. “For today I think you’d best go home and rest—and eat.” Not only had she fainted, but she’d drunk a fair amount of brandy. “Is your carriage out front?”
“I took a Hansom. I don’t maintain a stable.”
“I’ll take you then.” The words were out of his mouth before he could pull them back. He knew he should just let Chetney accompany her, but he wanted to make sure she got home safely. He also needed to give her an eyeful. The surest way to destroy all his ridiculous desire for her was to make sure she saw him as the cripple he was.
Chetney collected Boone from the back room, and after a small wait David was being wheeled to his waiting coach down the ramp that covered one side of the front steps and gave him access in and out of the building. Lady Haliday trailed behind.
Boone positioned David’s chair beside the coach door, and David busied himself with sliding the transfer sling under his buttocks. The apparatus was of his own design, and it enabled him, by pulling on a rope, to hoist himself out of the wheeled chair and into the vehicle. He thought he’d grown accustomed to being stared at, but Lady Haliday’s gaze made him as self-conscious as that first ogling pair of eyes had. He became warm, and sweat broke across his forehead.
Keyes, his coachman, handed him the hook and rope, and David slid the sling’s two large end rings over the hook. The rope fed through a pulley attached to the inside top of his carriage. Hand over hand, David raised himself. Boone had only to guide his legs as David swung himself inside the vehicle. He realized he’d been less than a gentleman when he decided to let Lady Haliday wait outside the coach until after he transferred himself, but he also knew it afforded her the best view of his broken, useless legs. Once inside, David would loop the rope in a figure eight around a metal hitch and use his arms to boost himself onto the seat. He’d then release the sling’s end rings and use his arms to pull in and position his legs.
The day the idea first burst upon him he’d been ecstatic, and the first time he’d maneuvered himself from chair to coach unassisted he’d felt a flash of pride the likes of which he hadn’t known for over a year. The reverse transfer, coach to chair, was accomplished in the same way, only with David letting out the rope while Boone guided David’s legs. The arrangement was reasonably efficient and gave him the mobility he needed to be independent. He’d been able to obtain meaningful work and an income after that, which ensured he’d not have need of his brother’s coin.
Today, the pleasure of his design didn’t register. Instead of making short work of the task, as he usually did, David ignored Boone’s surprised regard and took his time. He planned to watch the viscountess’s face. Whatever expression she either showed or tried to hide would likely butcher the burgeoning attraction he felt.
One quick glance had him struggling to swallow against the lump in his throat and gazing everywhere except at Lady Haliday. Charlotte. Herbert’s letter had given David her full name. He’d become familiar with all kinds of looks—pity, horror, morbid fascination—but the viscountess’s face bore none of those. Pain glinted in the depths of those purple eyes.
That one glance was all he could bear. Not because of the hurt he saw, but because of everything else: the surprise, admiration and curiosity. He steeled his own face, made it expressionless, while inside confusion and hope warred with anger and despair. Why in bloody hell must she look at him like that?
Huffing a bit, he swung himself into the coach and turned to getting himself settled. Charlotte Haliday made him feel things he’d thought locked up and buried deep, made him forget he was different from other men. And there, he knew, lay danger.
A minute later she joined him, dark skirts rustling as she sat across from him, the coach filled with her rose and jasmine scent. She appeared to have recovered from her swoon.
With a jangle of the harness and a slight lurch, they began to move. Her hand darted up to grip the handhold.
“Are you all right?” David asked, in spite of his reluctance to
engage her in conversation.
#
Charlotte nodded, although she was pretty sure she was not all right. A dull ache throbbed in her head, and she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from David Scott.
Deep inside, she trembled. What kind of man was this? Her heart had nearly stopped as he pulled himself into the coach, the look on his face so full of pride and defiance it made her ache. The courage he must have, to face the world day after day. She knew what it took to do that. She’d been hiding for the past year, while David Scott had been carving out a life for himself.
He relied on other men to push his chair and lift his legs; the impressive physical strength he’d displayed didn’t relieve him of that necessity. The patience the man must have… Charlotte couldn’t imagine. She’d always been sorely lacking in that virtue, as evidenced by her appearance here less than twenty-four hours after her conversation with Herbert.
He’d accepted her apology for the kiss, but what must he think of her? In spite of everything, he’d been altogether considerate.
“You’re very kind,” she declared.
“I wanted to make sure you got home all right. I wouldn’t have been easy not knowing.”
She’d meant the way he overlooked her behavior and agreed to let her work for him, but she didn’t correct his faulty assumption. She couldn’t have borne going back to Sidney Herbert as a failure, begging for a different position, and to not go back, and to give up…? What would have become of her then? Scott had saved her from that.
“So I may start tomorrow?”
“Just be sure and eat first.”
His tone was friendly enough, but he sounded weary, the words forced from his mouth. The blue of his eyes darkened, and she knew he didn’t want her working for him. She thought of their kiss, the moment he’d pulled her closer and she’d lost awareness of everything but him. Could she really see him every day with that between them? She looked down at her hands. The glove she’d mangled was no longer fit to be worn.
A glance at Scott’s face found all trace of hardness gone and a new, intense look in its place, as if he contemplated a puzzle. Street noise filled the silence, and neither of them disturbed the truce. Charlotte kept her gaze on the passing scenery, and gradually the tension in her shoulders eased. She didn’t look at Scott again until they reached her townhouse.
“Good day, Lady Haliday. Please take care.”
Such a serious man. Did he ever smile? How would he look with the corners of those well-shaped lips curved upward and his eyes warm as a summer sky?
The sudden jolt of desire had Charlotte nearly scrambling down from the coach. But the relief her escape afforded lasted only until she crossed her townhouse threshold. Her father, the very last person she wanted to see, waited in the drawing room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The slightest inflection of her father’s deep, smooth voice had always had the power to lift or twist her. Today, it seemed, he intended to chastise.
“Charlotte.”
Tall, broad-shouldered and straight-backed, he stood at the window overlooking the street. The plate of sandwich remains resting on the serving cart nearby nearly stopped Charlotte short. He’d been there a while, and he didn’t have the time or disposition to wait for her.
“Hello, Father. What a surprise. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived.” She covered her unease by removing her hat and handing it to her butler, followed by her gloves. “We’ll have tea, Walters, and more sandwiches, please.” Scott had been right about her needing to eat, and she certainly didn’t want to faint again while her father watched.
She headed into the sitting room.
“Whose coach was that?”
“Mr. David Scott. Are you familiar with him?”
“Of course I am.”
His answer was a surprise. “You are?”
Her father shot her a puzzled look. “I read everything The Times prints.”
“What was in The Times?” Charlotte asked, feeling ridiculous.
“He’s to receive the new Victoria Cross from the hand of the Queen.”
“Oh?” Suddenly woozy, Charlotte sat down on her green brocade chair.
“How on earth could he escort you home and you not know that?”
She’d never understand how her father could become so suddenly impatient and perturbed. Even though she was now grown, a widow and a viscountess, even knowing how unfair he was and had always been, he still had the power to sweep away her confidence.
“I’m to work for the Patriotic Fund under him.”
Her father’s lips tightened. “So, the rumor is true. Charlotte, what are you thinking? Have you lost your mind?”
His dark blue eyes glinted with sharp accusation. She wished he’d sit down. With her sitting and him standing he seemed even more intimidating than usual.
The tea arrived. Thank God, Charlotte thought. At her inquiring glance, her father shook his head impatiently, so she poured tea and selected sandwiches for herself then waited to answer until she’d taken a sip. She’d become good at pretending unconcern, although doing it with Father was always the most difficult. Carefully she balanced her cup, keeping liquid from spilling over the rim.
“I’m breaking free of society’s cage. I’m going to keep busy and do something worthwhile.”
He snorted—a harsh, deprecatory sound he saved for ideas or people for whom he felt true disgust. Charlotte lifted her cup, blew gently across its contents and pressed the fine china rim to her lips.
“You’re actually planning on working? Good God, girl. You’re a viscountess.” Her father jammed his fists into his jacket pockets and rocked forward. “Do you have any idea how hard I labored, how much money I spent, to achieve that end?”
Charlotte struggled to keep her back straight, but inside she cringed. She knew some of it, but she didn’t know just to what lengths her father had gone in order to build his fortune. He’d amassed so much money he’d gained access to the highest levels of society. She suspected there were times he’d bought up debt in order to gain control of a particular titled debtor, but gentlemen wanted to borrow from him and invest with him nonetheless. Many of them depended on Matthew Shelby for their lucrative incomes—like her husband, which was why he’d married Charlotte.
Her father clasped his hands behind his back. He stood flush-faced, straight-browed and tight-mouthed—all signs of high temper. “Well, my girl, you’re not going to sabotage everything I’ve worked for with your foolishness. I won’t have it.”
His domineering pronouncement set her own temper erupting with the force of Vesuvius. Anger burnt away all prudence. “You’ve already lost. I may be a viscountess, but I’m a childless widow. You’ll never realize your dream: your grandson an aristocrat. On top of that, your daughter’s considered scandalous. Father, nothing I do now matters. Don’t you realize that? Why would you want to stop me from finding some happiness?”
“Happiness? Please, Charlotte, don’t be a ninny. You’re meant to be the wife of an illustrious man, and I intend to make sure that’s what you become again.”
He’d stunned her into silence.
“Society’s memory is short. You were always smarter than the rest of those haughty misses you were educated with, and you are my daughter after all. You’re as fine as any of them and your manner is more regal. By marriage you are one of them. You’ve only to wait to be accepted back into the fold. Working for this blasted charity won’t achieve that end and won’t make you happy.”
He had the certainty of a man who’d gained his fortune through shrewd intelligence and fierce determination. She’d always known she was but one more chess piece on his board—the queen perhaps, but still something to be used to his advantage. On the surface, their relationship wasn’t that different from those of her titled classmates and their parents. Those girls were also expected to make advantageous matches. Charlotte’s father just lacked titled ancestors.
“You can’t make them accept me, Father,
and they never will. I’m not spending the rest of my life begging their favor.” She’d had enough society-dictated emptiness, but a wrenching sadness squeezed her chest. No matter her feelings, her father would stand adamant. He always believed himself right.
“If you actually work with those widows and orphans, you’ll make yourself a laughingstock.”
“It couldn’t be any worse than what I’ve already been through,” she pointed out. And while she truly hoped to be of use to the needy women and children, she cast about for a way to appease him. “I promise to restrain conversing about my work. And I’ll still be able to accept evening invitations.”
His straight brows bunched together, and her father peered down his hawkish nose. “I hope you’ve managed your money wisely, because as long as you pursue this ridiculous notion I don’t intend to support you.”
Charlotte clamped her teeth together. She knew this was no more than a reasonable consequence to him, but he’d couched it as a threat. As if she’d ever asked for money! Haliday had left her a small income in his will. Other than gifting her the townhouse, her husband’s successor hadn’t provided anything additional—even though it was thanks to her there’d been a fortune for him to inherit.
She couldn’t make free with expenditures, but she had enough to survive.
“I believe my dowry was the last time your finances were used on my behalf,” Charlotte pointed out, her words sharp.
“And I’m quite happy to do so again. You’re still young enough to bear children, and there are lords needing both money and heirs.”
“Blast it, Father.” Charlotte put down her tea, stood and faced him, arms crossed. “Why don’t you just auction me off in The Times?”
The infuriating man grinned, softening his granite-hard visage. “I’ve made no secret of my designs. And I’ve never forced a thing on you. You couldn’t wait to wed Haliday.”
That was only too true. She’d been completely infatuated, a besotted fool. “Well, I have no intention of marrying again.”
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