Charity Falls for the Rejected Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “It is a lovely morning indeed,” he agreed.

  If he had met any other young lady of his acquaintance in this way, then perhaps they would have hastened — hastened to greet each other and then hastened to leave, knowing that it would not do to linger too long without a chaperone present.

  But something about the present situation made Adam feel that they might both linger just a little longer without incurring any censure. And he felt so irresistibly the desire to be close to her, to breathe in a little more of whatever air it was that had so bewitched him the previous day.

  “I walk here most mornings,” Miss Miller said. “Or rather, I should say, not just here, but in all these woods surrounding the village.”

  “I should not say there were any finer woods in all of England,” Adam observed in response. It was the sort of utterance that he associated with small talk and he rebuked himself for making it. Miss Miller did not seem much concerned.

  “I would not know,” she replied, turning her eyes to Adam with a frankness that he found very engaging — a long way from the coyness of the ladies with whom he was used to associating. “I have scarcely left these parts all my life, and I have very little to compare them to.”

  “You will have to take my word for it, then,” Adam replied, and the two of them shared a small smile. Seeing Miss Miller’s features rearrange themselves like this immediately caused Adam to recall the times when they had played together as children. Miss Miller’s smile, so playful then, had matured and yet still had the same essence, lighting up her beautiful features with an irresistible animation and life.

  He recalled how once when they were very young, they had agreed that they would marry when they were grown and exchanged flowers in one of the groves of his father’s estate.

  It had been an innocent, childish game, played long before either of them had understood that marriage was less a matter of love and more a question of money and social alliance. Nonetheless, Adam found himself blushing at the memory and wondered whether she remembered it too.

  Of course, we are not strangers, but old acquaintances, Adam thought. I scarcely believe that I did not recognize her when first we met yesterday morning.

  “I do take your word,” Miss Miller replied. The way she said it, with a mixture of conviction and sorrow, made Adam realize at once that she was no longer referring to the landscape. “I would have you know that despite what others in these parts may believe of you, Mr. Harding, I do not entertain idle gossip.”

  So she knows what they are saying of me. Adam’s initial response was one of wretchedness. Seeing Miss Miller, speaking to her, had been a contrast of sunlight to the dark shadow over his return here. Initially, he felt distressed at the idea that she knew of his disgrace and it would color her perception of him.

  “I am very grateful for your confidence in me, though I do not know what I had done to earn it,” he said. “I only wish that those who knew me better shared your belief in my innocence.”

  “Do you not know what you have done to earn it?” Miss Miller replied, the sun dappling her face as it filtered through the trees. “Do you not recall how, when we played together as children, you were always honest and kind?”

  So she does remember me…

  “I do not suppose that one remembers much of oneself when one was a child,” Adam replied, struck into contemplation by her words. “But I am very glad to hear that that was your impression of me when we were younger, and I shall do my best to be equal to it now.”

  “I do not know what happened that day, save that two souls were lost before their time,” Miss Miller said soberly. “I was not there and can only believe secondhand accounts of what took place. But I do not believe that you were responsible and nor does Mrs. Warwick. Indeed, I believe that you have been wrongly treated, and the thought hurts my heart.”

  At the mention of the old woman’s name, Adam’s heart leapt. He knew that, in the scheme of all the anger and mistrust that circulated this matter both in the village and in his father’s heart, Mrs. Warwick’s opinion would not do much to influence the matter. She was too old, too poor, too strange in her bearing, to be taken seriously by most of the people in their community.

  However, if what Miss Miller was saying was true — if the old woman did not believe Adam to have been responsible for her only relatives deaths — then that was of immense comfort to Adam.

  I believe that you have been wrongly treated, and the thought hurts my heart. His own heart leapt at the words. Partly it was from the fierce joy that he felt at being seen for who he truly was, that this young woman judged him as she saw him rather than falling prey to secondhand gossip.

  It was partly the look in her dark eyes when she spoke. That bewitching quality that had struck him so forcefully in both of their previous encounters and was working potent magic again on him now.

  Miss Miller seemed to have somehow discerned what he was thinking -— or some of it, at least — and gave him a small smile.

  “It is a great pity,” she observed, “that those who believe in your innocence — myself and Mrs. Warwick — are not persons of greater consequence. We can do little to influence your… your situation.”

  At these words, she seemed to stumble a little, suddenly unsure of herself. Adam was surprised momentarily and then realized how unusual their conversation was.

  If life had been playing out the way that it was supposed to, then the son of a Duke would never have any cause to speak to the daughter of a clergyman, much less to discuss his deepest fears and concerns with her. Perhaps Miss Miller had suddenly remembered herself, or remembered Adam’s position — so far above her own -— by invoking the comparison of her own relative lowliness.

  “Perhaps not of consequence in terms of social rank,” he said slowly, contemplating how he might best express his appreciation without appearing to pay an empty compliment, “but certainly of consequence in terms of my own appreciation. Your profession of faith in me, Miss Miller, means more to me than I could possibly express.”

  At that, Miss Miller smiled.

  “How strange it is that now I am Miss Miller and you are Mr. Harding,” she said. “When we were children we were only Charity and Adam.”

  Adam could not resist a smile at this. “How much simpler life was then,” he remarked.

  “My life is rather simple even now,” Charity replied. “So simple, indeed, that I should better describe it as ‘dull’.”

  Adam laughed. “I would exchange a few of my adventures for a little of your ‘dullness’, as you call it, Miss Miller.”

  Miss Miller laughed. She looked as if she wished to say something further, but just as her lips parted the church bell chimed, striking the ninth hour.

  “It is later than I had thought,” she said. She threw a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of the vicarage. “I must go or I shall be missed at breakfast.”

  Adam reached up to touch his hat — the first little concession to social etiquette that he had made over the course of their strange, disarming conversation.

  “Perhaps,” Miss Miller continued, dropping into a little curtsey, as if she too had been abruptly reminded of what was expected of her when she met a gentleman, “we shall have opportunity in the future to exchange your adventures for my dullness in the form of stories.”

  “I hope so,” Adam agreed.

  Miss Miller did not say anymore — not even ‘good day’. Instead, she turned and walked away down the hill toward the village, pausing only to throw a final smile over her shoulder. It was a shy smile, flush-cheeked and sparkling-eyed. It was a smile that seemed to bypass Adam’s eyes and straight into his heart, where it lodged like an arrow that had found its home.

  Chapter 9

  As Charity walked away, she almost wanted to laugh at her boldness in suggesting that she and Mr. Harding might take the opportunity to share their stories in the future.

  She had never said anything like that to a man before, not least b
ecause no man had ever interested her the way that Mr. Harding had before.

  And then, there was the strangeness of that setting in the grove. There, it seemed as though all the usual expectations and conventions dissolved away, and they could speak to one another on equal terms, rather than doing the strange verbal dance that would usually be expected between a man and a woman of such drastically different rank.

  As she walked away, she dared a glance over her shoulder and saw Mr. Harding still standing on the ridge, looking after her. At the sight of his face she could not resist breaking into a smile and not the polite smiles that she administered at the direction of her father, but her sincere smile, the smile that she so rarely had cause to use in her dull life at the vicarage.

  She could not say what it was about Mr. Harding that compelled her so much. He had always been handsome, even as a young boy. But now he was tall, broad, with fine posture and lively features; his looks had grown into maturity and might well be characterized as manliness.

  And then, there were the little touches of foreignness that she assumed he must have picked up during his time abroad. The color of his complexion which seemed to suggest a great deal of time spent under a glowing sun. The cut of his waistcoat and boots was unlike any she had ever seen before, even on fashionable people who were attired by London tailors.

  It was not the material appeal of his Florentine leather boots or Parisian waistcoat that drew Charity in, so much as what they represented. A young man who had seen something of the world and yet still seemed intrigued by what she, Charity, had to say.

  And the way that she spoke to him felt so natural, despite the fact that her demeanor when talking to him was undoubtedly influenced by the rapid beating of her heart. There was a wonderful openness to Adam Harding’s face, as though she could say anything to him and trust that it had been understood exactly as she had intended it.

  It was liberty of speech that Charity had never known before. For as long as she could remember, she had always had to check herself, to set the ‘correct’ example as the daughter of a clergyman and his firstborn at that. In this strait life, there seemed to Charity to be very little room to explore what she really thought, much less to voice those opinions aloud.

  As she strolled back down the lane toward home, she found herself imagining speaking to Adam Harding about venturing her ideas and thoughts about the world, about the things that she had read and what she still hoped to read.

  In these pleasant fantasies, Mr. Harding asked lively and intelligent questions, his responses in perfect balance between agreeing with Charity and challenging her perceptions.

  And, of course, in these daydreams Charity dwelled for a long time — far longer than she would have dared to linger — on his fine brown eyes if she had been looking at him in real life.

  You really must try not to get too carried away by all these foolish thoughts, she scolded herself, as she did so habitually. The only reason that a man like Mr. Harding would ever show any interest in a young woman like you is because he is in disgrace. Once his reputation is restored, you will be far beneath his concern.

  Charity was in the habit of rebuking herself strongly; it was a habit that was naturally cultivated by the fact that she was continually being rebuked aloud by her father.

  But on this matter, she decided, she would not allow herself to be silenced. The stakes were far too high and she knew, although there was evidently no hope of anything more than a friendship between herself and Mr. Harding, she was still prepared to risk her father’s displeasure, if it would help.

  * * *

  “Come in, my child,” the Reverend Miller said when she knocked on the door to his study.

  Such words, Charity thought, might be spoken by other fathers with a great deal of warmth and affection. Although he greets me as ‘my child’, not a single ounce of tenderness is betrayed by the way in which he speaks and looks.

  As far as Charity could perceive, the Reverend Miller had always regretted that Charity had not been a son. Although Mrs. Miller had born him other sons subsequently, before going to her grave, he never seemed to have quite recovered from the disappointment of his firstborn.

  Perhaps that was why he was fond of Mr. Harding as a boy, Charity wondered to herself. Perhaps he was able to pretend that this clever, quick-witted young lad was his own son.

  Charity was independent, curious and quick - traits that he would have valued in a boy, but saw as encumbrances in a girl. She always had a faint sense that she was displeasing her father whenever she was in his presence, and so she avoided being in his presence too extensively.

  But now she had a matter on which she needed to petition him, and she was determined that no sense of discomfort or shame around her father would put her off her task.

  Charity sat down on one of the small couches near her father’s desk. She had always found all the furniture in her father’s study remarkably uncomfortable and wondered whether her father had deliberately chosen it that way so that he would not be bothered by parishioners overstaying their welcome.

  She was not quite sure how she might best broach the subject, but decided that the only possible course of action was to tackle the matter head-on, or at least, as head-on as she was able.

  “Father,” she said steadily, keeping her eyes lowered to the ground so that she would not have to meet her father’s impassive gaze, “I hope that I am not a burden upon you and do my best to do my duty by you in every way that I possibly can.”

  The Reverend Miller took in a great breath, as if he wished to say something, but paused, apparently unsure of how to say it.

  “I cannot fault your sense of duty, my child,” he said at last. “Sometimes I might wish that you would discharge your duties more humbly and willingly. Your attitude could certainly be improved upon, but I can find no fault in your actions.”

  The words stung. So, although I have done nothing wrong, you find fault with the fact that I do not embrace my duller duties more willingly, that I do not smile at the idea of a life lived without purpose or passion?

  But she did not express any of these feelings aloud. Instead, she bit her tongue and continued with careful tact.

  “I am sorry for my faults, and I work always to improve upon them. However, what I have come to ask you is a request that I make because I believe that I am a dutiful daughter and that as a dutiful daughter I do not entreat you for favors on my own behalf. It is for someone else that I seek your help."

  “One of my flock, is it?” the Reverend Miller asked. “How peculiar that they should come to you instead of approaching me directly.”

  “This person has already come to you for help,” Charity replied. “But I do not think that he secured the assurance that he had hoped for.”

  “He, eh?” The Reverend Miller seized on her words in a way that made Charity regret she had not been more ambiguous in her expression. “With whom have you been speaking, daughter?”

  Charity hesitated. She knew that she could deny or obfuscate, but in the long-term that would not serve Mr. Harding’s interest.

  “I ran into Mr. Harding when he left the vicarage yesterday,” she said plainly. She did not mention either of their accidental meetings in the grove, because there seemed to be no need, and it would only exacerbate her father’s reaction. “I know now why his father sent him away and I understand that you may have a role to play in helping to restore him to his father’s good graces.”

  “Mr. Harding?” The Reverend appeared angry, yet unsure of where he might best direct his anger. “What business would you have speaking to Mr. Harding or he to you?”

  “What business would I have in ignoring a gentleman who greets me outside my very home?” Charity asked, then regretted the sharp response. She knew she needed to keep her composure as best she could if her father was to be prevailed upon.

  To her surprise, however, her father nodded.

  “You are right,” he said. He sighed and leaned back in his chair,
and in those moments, he seemed to grow a good deal older and more tired. “I cannot scold you for conducting yourself in a mannerly and gracious fashion. I would only wish that your favors were bestowed upon a more deserving subject than Adam Harding.”

  At this utterance, Charity frowned. “What can you mean, Father?”

  “You know, then, why Adam Harding was sent away by his father,” the Reverend Miller said, leaning back in his armchair, being the only comfortable piece of furniture in the room, Charity thought, and gazing out of the window through narrowed eyes. “That his father believes him to be guilty of a terrible crime.”

  “If his father believes this to be true,” Charity said, “then why should he stop at sending his son away? If Mr. Harding is accused of a crime then why should he not be charged and allowed to defend himself?”