Ten Guineas on Love

by Claire Thornton

  “I am grateful to you, Charity; your good opinion means a great deal to me. But I would hate to think I’d been the cause of a breach between old friends. Please don’t make things more difficult for yourself on my account.”

  “No, don’t worry,” said Charity, looking up at him once more.

  He had used her name, but she had hardly noticed, she was so intensely aware of his unwavering gaze and of the depth of feeling in his voice. She wanted to look away—but somehow she couldn’t. Without knowing what she did she began to lean slightly towards him, and for a moment Jack was lost in the dark, luminous eyes. He lifted his hand to draw her closer to him—and suddenly remembered they were standing in a crowded room.

  The realisation jolted him badly. Never before had he so nearly lost all sense of his surroundings. He stepped back abruptly, struggling to master his frustration at the self-imposed interruption, and searching for some way to steer the conversation back into safer channels.

  For Charity there was a sense of confusion—and of something lost, or not quite found. One minute Jack was so close that he seemed to fill all her senses—the next he had moved away and was asking her politely whether she and her mother had made a final decision about where they were going to move to.

  The change was so sudden that for a moment she felt quite bewildered, unable to comprehend what he had said, or frame a coherent reply. But then, once more, she could hear the voices and laughter of the other guests, and remembered where she was.

  “Mama suggested that perhaps we ought to move to London,” she said at last.

  “London!” Jack exclaimed. “I’d thought you were planning to take lodgings in Horsham.”

  “We were,” Charity agreed, beginning to feel more like herself again. “But I think perhaps Mama is right. There’s nothing really to keep us in Sussex any more—and I believe that she might be happier in London. She likes to be surrounded by people and bustle. She hates it in the winter in Hazelhurst when the weather is bad and she doesn’t see anyone.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Jack. “And will you also be happier in London?”

  “I…” Charity glanced up at him briefly and, as she saw the expression in his eyes, she began to feel her pulse quicken once more “…I hope so. Mama thinks…Mama suggests that I ask your advice. On where to live, I mean. It’s so long since she was…and I only had one Season…” Her voice trailed away as she seemed to lose the sense of her explanation.

  “I would be delighted to advise you,” Jack replied in a hearty tone which was at a complete variance with the way he normally spoke—and with the way he felt.

  He knew that he couldn’t allow the refined torture of this very public conversation to continue much longer. He could sense the awakening responsiveness in Charity, and he knew that his own sudden retreat had confused her, but there was nothing he could do or say when at any moment he expected them to be interrupted by Owen, or Mrs Carmichael, or one of the other guests.

  “May I fetch you some lemonade?” he asked abruptly; he didn’t want to leave her but for her sake it would be better if they had some time apart to regain their composure.

  “Lemonade?” Charity echoed, bewildered by the sudden change. “Oh, I…Yes, I am a trifle warm. Thank you.” She started to fan herself again, watching as Jack threaded his way across the room.

  Something had happened, something was different, but she wasn’t quite sure…

  “Charity, Charity!” The persistent repetition of her name recalled her attention and she turned reluctantly to find Owen standing beside her.

  “I wanted to speak to you,” he said, his manner a curious mixture of belligerence and sheepishness.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Oh.” Charity looked at Owen blankly. For a moment she had almost forgotten their quarrel. Then she remembered, and instantly decided that he must have sought her out to continue it—or to demand an apology. The idea of any prolonged conversation with him at that moment was so dreadful that she immediately decided her best course of action was to apologise straight away—anything to get rid of him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, holding out her hand in a very fair imitation of her usual friendly manner. “It was unforgivable of me to make such a scene at your mother’s party.”

  “No, no, it was all my fault,” said Owen, taking her hand. He didn’t think it had been, but Charity’s ready apology disarmed him, and gave him a welcome opportunity to be magnanimous.

  “I should have been more considerate,” he said. “I know you’re having a very difficult time at the moment. It’s not surprising if you’re feeling overwrought. I dare say there is so much on your mind that half the time you hardly know what you’re saying. I should have made allowances. You look tired; come and sit down.”

  He drew her hand possessively through his arm as he spoke and led her to a sofa which had been pushed back against a wall. By now the party had turned into an impromptu dance, and the room seemed noisier and more crowded than ever. Charity felt quite dizzy as she watched the swirling dresses.

  She wanted to send Owen away, but for some reason her wits seemed to have deserted her and she couldn’t think how to do it. He was sitting beside her, but his voice sounded like a distant echo and she seemed unable to concentrate on what he was saying. On the other side of the room she could see that Jack had been waylaid by Lady Leydon and her daughter.

  “Do you think it will be convenient for me to call on Mrs Mayfield tomorrow?” Owen asked earnestly.

  “What? Oh, I dare say,” Charity replied, leaning sideways slightly to get a better view and only half attending. Jack was laughing; what could Lydia be saying that was so amusing?

  “Good. In the circumstances it seems best. Of course, if you had any close male relatives it would be different. Do you think Mrs Mayfield will be pleased to receive me?” Owen was looking flushed, and his earlier self-assurance seemed to have left him. He tugged at his neckcloth as he spoke.

  “We’re always pleased to see you,” Charity said with automatic and uncomprehending politeness—she still wasn’t listening properly. “And it’s very kind of you to want to help, but I wouldn’t like you to miss out on your hunting.”

  “Hunting!” He stared at her in disbelief. “Oh, I see. It’s very kind of you to be so thoughtful, but in the circumstances I don’t object.”

  “Oh, good,” she said vaguely, starting to get up. “I think I’ll just go…”

  “Damn it all, Charity!” Owen seized her arm and wouldn’t let her rise. “Don’t you want to marry me?”

  “What?” For a moment she gazed at his flushed face in disbelief, then it suddenly dawned on her what he must have been saying. “Oh, Owen, I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

  “No,” said Owen, breathing heavily. “You’ve had a very trying time recently. I dare say it’s all been too much for you. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a good night’s sleep. I’ll escort you home.”

  “Yes…No! Wait a minute!” Charity exclaimed with an unexpected return to something like her normal manner. “Half an hour ago I didn’t think we were on speaking terms; what on earth made you decide to ask me to marry you now?”

  “I was very angry,” Owen admitted, torn between gratification at this opportunity to explain his actions and exasperation at her lack of proper decorum. “But I shouldn’t have been. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve realised that after the sheltered life you’ve led it’s not reasonable to expect you to fully understand the ways of the world. I should have made allowances, but I’ll be more tolerant in future, I promise.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. He seemed to have regained his confidence.

  “Thank you,” said Charity, gazing at him rather helplessly. She had suddenly realised that she didn’t know what to do. For days she had been manoeuvring to bring this moment about, but now it had arrived all she felt was a sense of anticlimax and an overwhelming desire to laugh. Marriage to Owen!

  Then she remembered Hazelhurst, the Burdens and everyon
e else who depended on her. She couldn’t let them down.

  “You’ve made me very happy,” she said resolutely, holding out her hand to Owen. “Mama will be delighted to receive you tomorrow. Do come as early as you can.”

  It had suddenly occurred to her that in order to get Owen’s ring on her finger before the end of the month she was going to have to work very fast indeed.

  “Yes, well, I think I’d better take you back to your mother now,” he said; he still didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the way things were turning out. “It’s getting late—no doubt you’ll be wanting to go home soon.”

  “Yes, I expect we will,” Charity agreed, and allowed Owen to pull her to her feet.

  Although she didn’t realise it, he found her apparent docility very soothing, and his half-acknowledged doubts began to fade. He had had a very difficult few hours trying to reconcile his earlier decision to marry her with their sudden, disturbing quarrel. But in the end he had been able to resolve his inner conflict by concluding that Charity’s actions had been prompted by an uncharacteristic nervous agitation.

  It had been a great relief to him when he had realised that Charity’s waywardness was caused partly by her upbringing, and partly by the lack of adequate male guidance in her life, because it was therefore curable.

  As he shepherded her back to Mrs Mayfield he was even thinking complacently of what an excellent wife she would make—with a little gentle instruction from him.

  “That reminds me,” he said abruptly. “I know that your principles are too firm for you to be led easily astray, but I think, in future, it would be a good idea if you didn’t have any more to do with Lord Riversleigh. I wasn’t at all pleased to see you speaking to him just now, but I suppose if he accosted you you might find it difficult to excuse yourself.”

  “How d—?” Charity cut short her angry response just in time. An argument with Owen now would be fatal, but at the same time she realised she wasn’t prepared to let him think he’d have the ruling of her in this marriage. Compromise was one thing, but her opinions and wishes were important and he must understand that.

  “No, Owen,” she said, making an effort to speak in a reasonable voice. “I know you only have my best interests at heart, but I am not a fool and I cannot allow you to dictate who I speak to—or what I think. I’m sorry.”

  “But when we are married you will naturally be guided by me.” Owen frowned. “It would be improper for you to flout my authority.” He was thinking of his mother, who, to his certain knowledge, had never once disagreed with his father on any matter of significance.

  “Of course I will be guided by you,” said Charity. “But I could never let you form my opinions for me.”

  Owen looked at her, a hint of irritation in his expression. Then he remembered that she was over-tired and agitated, and decided to make allowances for her.

  “You’re very tired,” he said. “I’ll have your carriage called for.”

  Charity looked at him in exasperation. It seemed that Owen being tolerant could be even more annoying than Owen being dictatorial, but just now she didn’t have the energy to argue.

  From the other side of the room Jack watched them join Mrs Mayfield. He had finally extricated himself from Lady Leydon and Lydia and he had been about to return to Charity, but he had no wish to provoke another scene, and after a moment’s indecision he decided to wait and continue their interrupted conversation in less public surroundings.

  * * *

  “Your luck seems to be quite out tonight, Travers,” Sir Humphrey commented genially as he collected up the cards. “Shall we play another hand?”

  “By all means,” Lord Travers agreed shortly. “I’m out of practice, but I shan’t be beaten again, I assure you.” A faint crease in his forehead indicated that he was most unhappy at losing so heavily to a provincial squire, and he had every intention of drubbing Sir Humphrey soundly in the next game.

  Sir Humphrey looked thoughtful as he shuffled the cards before dealing them again. He had been the perfect host all evening and now he was indulging himself with the pastime that, next to hunting, he enjoyed most. But he was becoming aware that, despite his surface urbanity, Lord Travers deeply resented losing. Most men hated being beaten, but Sir Humphrey thought there was something decidedly unsporting in Lord Travers’s manner, and he was beginning to revise his opinion of his guest.

  That didn’t necessarily mean, however, that he was also revising his opinion of Jack Riversleigh. Sir Humphrey was still inclined to think that there could be no smoke without fire, and if Jack took after his paternal grandfather, the late Lord Riversleigh, then Lord Travers’s innuendoes were more than justified.

  Lord Travers picked up his cards and sorted them with brisk, irritable movements. He was annoyed to find that he had a very poor hand, and his annoyance showed in his face as he looked up at the man who had come to stand beside him at the card table.

  Jack acknowledged Sir Humphrey courteously, but he spoke to Lord Travers.

  “My lord.” He nodded briefly in greeting. “It was an unexpected pleasure to see you here tonight. After our last meeting I was under the impression that you would be spending some time in Buckinghamshire. I trust you’re in your customary good health.”

  His voice was cool and unemotional and there was no warmth in his grey eyes as they rested on Lord Travers’s face.

  “Damn it, Riversleigh! I don’t see what concern it is of yours if I chose to come into Sussex,” Lord Travers burst out.

  Sir Humphrey frowned; he was watching the encounter closely and there seemed to him to be something rather off-key about Lord Travers’s response.

  “No concern of mine at all,” Jack agreed. He rested his hand lightly on the green baize surface of the card table and looked down at Lord Travers. “But—I think you will agree—the same cannot be said for all your…activities.” He smiled as he spoke, but the expression in his eyes was singularly cold.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lord Travers blustered.

  He was at a decided disadvantage. He had to crane his head back to meet Jack’s gaze, and he could neither stand up nor push his chair back, because the card table was right in the corner of the room.

  “Then perhaps you should try searching your memory,” Jack said. He was speaking very quietly, yet his words had the sting and impact of a whiplash.

  The colour drained out of Lord Travers’s face. He looked afraid—and, indeed, he was afraid.

  He was remembering—too late—a half-forgotten incident which had occurred nearly three years ago when a young, arrogant nobleman had set out to demonstrate his superiority over the goldsmith-banker’s grandson. Lord Penwood had forced a quarrel on Jack Riversleigh, confident of his ability to defeat him with any weapon Jack chose. But it had been young Lord Penwood who had been wounded—even though he was generally considered to be a very fine swordsman—and he had later admitted, with commendable honesty, that it was only because of Jack’s forbearance that he was alive at all.

  Since then the two men had become friends, but, as Lord Travers stared into Jack’s eyes, he knew that there was no possibility of such an outcome of the present occasion.

  His eyes were locked with Jack’s, he seemed unable to look away, and when he opened his mouth to speak he found he couldn’t.

  He ran his tongue nervously over his dry lips.

  “I am speaking of certain business matters, my lord,” Jack said at last. “I think—I really think—it is time we arranged a meeting. Shall we say tomorrow morning? Nine o’clock at Riversleigh?”

  It took a moment for Lord Travers to comprehend what Jack had said. When he did his first reaction was one of overwhelming relief, which left him feeling weak and stupid. Then he remembered how much money he owed, and how far behind he was with the repayments, and he was filled with cold, dark foreboding.

  Jack hadn’t moved; he was still standing before Lord Travers, one eyebrow lifted, clearly waiting for a reply.


  Lord Travers tried to speak, found that he couldn’t and cleared his throat; then he tried again.

  “Nine o’clock, at Riversleigh, I think you said,” he croaked. He tired to smile, to put on a bold face, but he failed miserably. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.”

  Jack smiled sardonically; he was clearly not convinced. “I hope so,” he said, and turned to take his leave of the dumbfounded Sir Humphrey.

  Mrs Mayfield and Charity were taking their leave of Lady Leydon when Jack strolled up to join them, and as soon as he realised they were leaving he offered to escort them home—Hazelhurst lay almost directly between Leydon House and Riversleigh. Mrs Mayfield, still nursing her own matchmaking schemes for Charity, had no hesitation in warmly accepting his offer.

  Charity herself had mixed feelings. When she had glanced up and seen Jack approaching she had experienced an instant upswell of happiness. But now, instead of looking forward to telling him that she had all but won their wager, she found herself strangely reluctant to mention the matter to him at all. In fact, for some inexplicable reason she felt more like bursting into tears than celebrating her forthcoming victory. She suddenly felt very tired and she longed for the peace and quiet of Hazelhurst.

  Both Jack and Mrs Mayfield were aware of her mood, though neither of them fully understood the cause of it, and they both did their best to expedite their departure. Then they struck a hitch.

  Owen hadn’t been present when Jack had offered to escort the Mayfield ladies home, and when he found out he looked patently horrified, staring at Lord Riversleigh with such a mixture of hostility and suspicion before offering his services as escort that Mrs Mayfield began to feel uncharacteristically annoyed.

  “It’s very thoughtful of you, Owen,” she said tartly, “but there is really no need for you to put yourself to so much trouble. As Lord Riversleigh has said, he must pass by Hazelhurst on his way home anyway, and I’m sure he doesn’t mind accompanying us—not that I think we really need an escort for such a short journey.”