by Jane Charles
Three years after that horrid night at Wintermore, not a day had passed when Charlotte didn't regret her decision to climb her way into Jane's bedchamber to ask a question that was so inconsequential Charlotte couldn't even remember now. And tonight as she sat in her brother-in-law's opera box, her feelings of regret were more than they'd ever been before.
Fortunately, her sisters and Michael had always made sure she was invited whenever they went anywhere in Town—something her own husband hadn't seen fit to do. A dull ache settled in her chest and she blinked away tears.
Gareth had paid a handsome fee to have the Worthe opera box reconstructed to allow room for Jane's invalid's chair to be able to fit between two of the permanent chairs so she shouldn't be made to sit on an end and be isolated. Charlotte blinked back more tears. Gareth truly loved Jane, and Charlotte couldn't be happier to know that. While Charlotte and Jane sat next to each other with Gareth on the other side of Jane, on the other side of Charlotte, where her own husband should be seated, was her sister-in-law Jemma.
Charlotte had never bothered to solicit details from Jemma or Michael, but the two had been married shortly after she'd married Lord Wynn. The difference was, those two seemed to enjoy each other's company.
Charlotte flashed them each a grateful smile. Catching sight of Michael and his working Adam's apple, she tore her eyes away from him. Not only had that night left her chained to a man who despised her, she'd somehow lost the one gentleman she'd always run to for help. Their conversations since then had been sparse and infrequent to say the least.
On stage, the performers found their positions and the opera started. While her eyes focused on the stage, a small portion of her mind couldn't seem to forget that on the other side of Michael sat an empty chair, the perfect symbol of her empty marriage.
“I do believe that was the best opera I've ever been made to sit through,” Michael declared when the curtain fell for the final time.
Jemma pursed her lips and playfully wagged a finger at him. “Don't undo your good deed of coming tonight by being loose with your lips, my lord.”
Michael reached forward and took her hand in his. He bent his head and lowered his lashes, then bringing her hand to his lips and brushing a kiss across her knuckles he said, “It'll be my pleasure to pay penitence for my misdeed, my lady.”
Jemma blushed.
Jane sighed at the romantic gesture.
Charlotte's lips curled in disgust.
“Are you ready, my love,” Gareth asked Jane.
“No,” Jane said, her brows knitting in confusion. “Don't we need to wait for it to clear out a little more so we can use the—”
“Danby,” Gareth choked, cutting her off.
Chills ran up Charlotte's spine. By some miracle she'd always been able to avoid her matchmaking relation. Her sister, Daphne, however… Charlotte bit her lip, an idea forming.
“He's not that bad,” Jane whispered in Charlotte's ear.
Charlotte blinked at her sister. “Pardon?”
“Your face looks like you've just discovered you were left alone in a lion's cage,” her sister explained.
Charlotte licked her lips and forced a laugh. “I was just thinking about the letter Daphne sent me last Michaelmas from Yorkshire”
Jane sighed. “Don't believe everything you read. Daphne was leaping heart-first into a romance with Mr. Lentz before Danby—” she swung her gaze to her husband “—and Gareth, got involved.”
A small dose of disappointment flooded Charlotte. For the best, she supposed. Danby, or the Duke of Meddlesome as Daphne had referred to him, might have helped her sister find her happily-ever-after, but Charlotte wasn't in a position to have such. And no matter how tempting it might be, she could never bring herself to ask her great-uncle to help her find a lover!
Flames licked her face and she tried as quickly as she could to dispel such an unsettling thought.
“Smile,” Jemma prompted Charlotte in her usual chaperone's tone.
Charlotte pasted a smile on her face that rivaled the other four in the box. The only genuine one belonged to the Duke of Meddlesome himself.
“How are my three favorite nieces and nephews?” the aging man asked jovially.
“Now, how would the scores of other nieces and nephews feel if they knew you—”
Danby ended Michael's question with a scoff punctuated with a thump of his cane. “Stuff it, boy. My favorites are who I say they are.”
“I'm sure his favorites are always determined by who he's in the room with,” Jemma suggested then flashed the older man a wide smile. “But we all know, I'm his real favorite.”
“Shhh,” Danby said, pressing a single finger against his lips, his eyes wide.
Jemma, Jane, and despite her earlier sadness, Charlotte laughed at his antics. Truth to tell, Danby had so many relations it was a wonder an octogenarian such as himself could even remember their names, let alone recognize them out around Town.
“Has Wynn gone to fetch the carriage?” Danby wondered aloud. “I was hoping to speak to him tonight…”
“He was unable to make it,” Charlotte said airily.
The duke frowned. “The man is harder to track than a fox.”
“If you need to see him, I can let him know.” Charlotte prayed he wouldn't ask that of her.
“No, no, my dear. I'll just schedule an appointment with his secretary.” The sour twist of his lips told them all just what he thought about having to do that.
Around her, Jane, Gareth, Jemma, and Michael engaged in a light chitchat with the duke. Charlotte smiled and nodded every so often. It was the best a young lady with a bleak future and an aching heart could do.
As had become his custom since he and Charlotte had settled into his London townhouse, James had waited in his study until his wife had left for the evening with her small army of relations, then he went to White's.
“Win a king's ransom tonight, Wynn?” Nathaniel, Lord Markham asked, falling into the empty chair opposite the table from him.
“Not tonight,” James said with a slight shake of his head.
“Pity. I was hoping to steal it from you.”
James lifted an eyebrow. “Steal, eh?”
“That's how it feels when we play cards,” Nathaniel said. He drained the last of his whiskey. “You're so awful at it, and all.”
Shrugging, James said, “Well, not everyone can make his fortune by being a cardsharp.”
Nathaniel laughed. “You always were a sore loser.”
“That's not all he is.” Ravenscar's voice behind James made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
James didn't hide his scowl as Ravenscar dragged a chair up to the table. All three had attended Eton together, not that having such a history together had made the trio the best of friends. Quite the opposite. James and Nathaniel had always been arm's-length acquaintances who verbally sparred, but meant no harm. Ravenscar…he was out for blood. Unfortunately, James hadn't recognized the man's true character until it was too late.
“…I think you'd better stop,” Nathaniel said, pulling James from his fog.
“It's no secret the man's wife detests him,” Ravenscar said.
“That might be,” Nathaniel agreed. He poked his lower lip out and nodded his head toward James. “And for good reason, I suspect. But must you voice it?”
“Yes,” James answered for the irritating man, sneering.
“You could have stepped aside and let me have her,” Ravenscar said.
“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you offer for her.”
“That's because you insisted I leave the room.” He smiled in a way that made James uneasy. “I'd have offered for her had I been allowed to stay.”
“Nothing honorable, I have no doubt,” James retorted.
“No.” Ravenscar snorted. “Why should I have? She'd already shown off her wares to everyone in the room. She's built to be a mistress, not a wife.” His smile grew. “And that's exactly what I'd have made
her.”
James' blood thundered in his veins but he schooled his features to remain impassive. “If you ever speak of her again, Ravenscar, we'll be meeting at dawn.”
At that, Ravenscar laughed. “I doubt someone as proper as you would do something that your father might have done and sully your name.” He pushed to his feet and grabbed his felt hat. “I have a certain countess to go meet. So if you chaps will excuse me…”
“How do you do it?” Nathaniel asked as soon as Ravenscar had departed company.
“Do what? Make my wife hate me so?” James asked mockingly.
“No. I already have a theory about that,” Nathaniel said, flicking his wrist. “I meant how do you stay stoic when Ravenscar talks so…er…disparagingly about your wife.”
“He wants a reaction.” James idly ran his thumb along the edge of the table. Did Nathaniel think James enjoyed the man saying disparaging things about his wife? “If I were to give him one, he'd only continue.”
Nathaniel cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps you should think about that a little more, then you'll have the answer to your other question.”
Then, without another word of explanation, Nathaniel left the table.
Chapter 3
April 22, 1817
“Are you breeding?”
Charlotte inwardly cringed. Most ladies in polite society greeted their daughter-in-law's with a “hullo” or a “how are you today, dear?” Not Lady Wynn. No, this dowager had only one thing on her mind: an heir.
Charlotte forced a smile. “Not yet, I'm afraid.”
Lady Wynn twisted her lips in disapproval. “Perhaps you need some herbs. Then you'd be able to conceive.”
Or mayhap, it would help if your son would visit my bedchamber. “Perhaps,” she agreed. “I'll have Rummy take me to the apothecary this very afternoon and buy every herb he has.” She'd do it, too, then grin behind her teacup when Wynn received the bill.
She'd chastise herself for being so unkind, but… Well, three years of neglect hardens even the softest of hearts.
“That's a start, I suppose,” Lady Wynn said on a sigh. “You do hold your legs up like I told you, don't you?”
Heat flooded Charlotte's face. “Of course,” she assured the older woman. She'd tell her just about anything to settle the matter. If another year went by and Charlotte still hadn't presented Wynn with an heir, his mother might try to insist on coming into her bedchamber to make sure they were doing things right. Charlotte chuckled to herself. If it did come to that, at least then the woman could be assured it wasn't Charlotte's fault three years of marriage hadn't produced an heir.
“Try the herbs,” Lady Wynn repeated. Her face softened and she patted the red fabric of the settee. “How are you otherwise?”
Charlotte joined her on the settee and answered Lady Wynn's usual battery of questions. She was doing well. She enjoyed the opera. Of course she'd be at the Townson ball next week. She wasn't sure if Wynn would be in attendance, but she'd try to encourage it.
She knew he wouldn't come and Charlotte was sure that deep down in her heart his mother knew he wouldn't be there, either.
“If you don't mind my saying, Charlotte—” the older woman licked her lips “—you and Wynn have a peculiar marriage.”
Charlotte folded her hands in her lap. “I don't think it's so different than anyone else's in the Ton.”
“But your sister Jane and—”
“Have a love match,” Charlotte reminded her. “Wynn and I have an arrangement.”
“An arrangement is a good way to describe it,” the dowager said beneath her breath. “But even the others who don't have love matches attend the opera together.”
“Wynn has no interest in the opera,” Charlotte defended. She didn't know why she bothered to defend him. Her mother-in-law was right, even couples who openly disliked each other still attended balls and soirees and operas together.
“Dear, you must understand. People are starting to talk.”
“Starting,” Charlotte repeated, trying to hold her composure. She and Wynn had been feeding the rumor mill since they'd married.
“This isn't humorous, Charlotte.” Lady Wynn's voice held an edge Charlotte had never heard before. Was it irritation or desperation? Or both? “People are starting to speculate about you and my son and I won't have his good name bandied about.”
“Perhaps if you'd been more worried about the Wynn name being bandied about, you should have had this conversation with your husband so mine didn't have to act like a prig in order to make it respectable.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. It wasn't Lady Wynn's fault James was such a prig. Nor was it fair to blame her mother-in-law for her husband's transgressions. Shame flooded Charlotte, but before she could think of the right words to say, her mother-in-law was on her way out.
Charlotte weakly called after her, but Lady Wynn didn't stop and Charlotte didn't blame her.
“A note for you, my lady,” Dulcey intoned a while later, presenting her a silver slaver with a folded piece of vellum squarely in the center.
“Thank you, Dulcey,” she murmured, reaching forward for the note—her husband's preferred way of communication. She frowned. Her name was written on the outside of the vellum. Wynn never wrote more words than necessary, which included her name. There wasn't any other person in the house he'd be writing to, he'd said by way of explanation when she'd questioned him about it. “Do you know who sent this?”
“No, my lady. It arrived just fifteen minutes ago.”
Charlotte nodded and ran the tip of her index finger along her name. She didn't recognize the writing. Likely, it is a note from Lady Wynn, she thought as she flipped it over, tamping down her remorse.
Preparing for the worst, she broke the seal, flipped the vellum over, and began to read.
My Dear Lady Wynn,
Charlotte knit her brows. Who would style a letter to her that way?
'Twas a lovely opera last night, no? I must confess I didn't see much of the actors, as my attention was fastened on something else, or should I say someone else: you.
Charlotte's heart slammed in her chest. Hard. Should she be flattered…or terrified?
Sapphire silk, though beautiful beyond measure, is no comparison to the sapphires in your eyes, my dear. But then, that is my downfall, for to my eyes, you are stunning in everything you wear.
Gripping the paper as tightly as she could, Charlotte tried to keep her eyes from bulging right from their sockets. Was someone funning her or just being downright indecent? She tapped the end of her gloved index finger against the edge of the paper. Had she a husband who gave two bits bout her, she'd bring this to his attention at once. Or Michael. She grimaced. Michael might insist she marry this wretch, too. If having two husbands were legal, that is.
Gareth. It might take him a few days to find the identity of her secret author, but he'd at least have a heart and would offer her protection from…
I do hope to claim a dance—or to my good fortune two—with you next week at the Townsons’ ball.
Had she danced with him already? He wrote to her as if he were familiar with her. She racked her brain to bring to mind all of the dance partners she'd had over the past three Seasons. That was foolish. There were far too many for her to recall, but no one stood out to her as being so forward or interested.
Until then, I shall dream of having you in my arms again.
Again? So they had met. Hmmm. She didn't remember meeting anyone who seemed unsavory. Still, what is the meaning of this? She wasn't afforded long to puzzle it out when she heard the one voice that could ruin even the most joyous of moments: Wynn.
“Lady Wynn.” Her husband pulled to an abrupt halt just inside the drawing room. Pure, unadulterated shock was stamped on his face. “I wasn't expecting to see you,” he explained, recovering his features.
“Am I no longer permitted to sit in the drawing room?”
He frowned. “No, you are
.” He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair the way he did every time he spoke to her. “I just assumed you were out with your sister.”
“I planned to visit her after luncheon.” She'd bring her missive with her to show to Gareth then. Instinctively, her fingers dug into the thick vellum and she pulled it closer to her.
Her husband stared curiously at what was in her hand, but Charlotte offered no explanation. His nostrils flared, a sign he actually wished to speak to her.
When they'd first married, she'd held hopes he'd soften his resolve toward her during one of these conversations. It didn't take long to realize that wasn't ever to be a possibility.
“I need to speak to you.”
“I was afraid of that.”
His frown deepened. “Must you always drip sarcasm?”
Charlotte lifted her chin. “Is it not better for us blasted females to drip sarcasm than tears?”
Wynn sat down in the wing-backed chair nearest to him and stared at her. “Sometimes I have the oddest feeling you enjoy our lifelong torture.”
“I hope that you beat yourself senseless whenever such a notion enters your mind.” She swallowed past her unease at being so forward with him. “I'd wager I'm more unhappy than you are.”
“I doubt that,” he murmured, then waved a hand through the air. “It's of no account. I don't think it's a contest anyone would be proud to claim the victor of anyway.”
Finally, something she could agree with him about. “What did you say you needed to talk to me about?” she prompted.
“I didn't.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I didn't expect to actually find you in here and I intended to leave you a message,” he said, tapping a folded piece of unmarked paper against his knee.
Charlotte stood and swallowed convulsively, praying her voice wouldn't waver with the tears that were on the verge of bursting forth. “Please accept my apologies for ruining another of your days.” She walked over to his rigid form and took the paper he held from his surprisingly loose grasp. “I'll try to remember not to leave my room when you're still home.”