by Georgie Lee
“Charlotte, no man has ever taken advantage of you,” Aunt Mary tut-tutted.
Charlotte’s pride bristled. “This is a serious matter.”
“Of course, my dear.” Aunt Mary nodded solemnly then patted the bench beside her. “Come, sit by me.”
Charlotte reluctantly joined her aunt who took her hands in her own small ones.
“You’re like a daughter to me and we’ve always been good companions but there will come a day when your uncle and I will no longer be here for you. You’ll have your freedom and your fortune but who will you have to care for you?”
“I have friends,” she weakly protested, scooping Minnie up out of the basket and clutching her against her chest.
“And they’ll be a great comfort to you but no friend can offer you the love of a husband, or a child. I’ve enjoyed the love of a husband and with you my dear, the comfort of a child. I only want the same for you.”Aunt Mary took Charlotte’s face in her hands. “My dear, you keep your own counsel so I can’t begin to guess the truth of the situation.”
Aunt Mary paused, waiting for Charlotte to tell her but Charlotte couldn’t, not when she wasn’t even sure.
“If you don’t have feelings for Lord Woodcliff,” her aunt continued, “then follow your heart, but don’t allow whatever reservations you have about marriage to close you off entirely from love.”
Aunt Mary kissed her on the forehead then slipped out of the room.
Charlotte stroked Minnie’s soft fur as the tears slid down her cheeks to wet the back of her hand. Fear was keeping her from love, and there seemed nothing she could do to overcome it. She detested this weakness as much as the lonely future Aunt Mary had laid out for her. She could change it all if she wanted to, but she didn’t know how. Even if she found a way to quiet her worries, after tonight, Lord Woodcliff wasn’t likely to want her or give her a second chance. He’d laid out his feelings to her and she’d stomped on them. She didn’t deserve his regard.
Chapter Eight
Charlotte followed Aunt Mary into Lady Redding’s drawing room, still debating her decision to attend the salon tonight. Although she adored these evenings, Lord Woodcliff had been invited and she wasn’t sure what would happen when they met again. He might cut her as one of her other spurned suitors had done in the past. If he did acknowledge her, she wondered if they’d fall into insults or merely exchange pleasantries then retreat to opposite sides of the room. She hoped they could converse so she might discover if there was still a chance with him, or if she even wanted one. It’d been a full day since Rotten Row, but time hadn’t made things clearer for her, and as the hour for departure had approached, she’d grown so anxious and confused she’d barely been able to settle on what to wear. At last she’d chosen the red dress from Almack’s instead of her blue one, hoping the red gown reminded him of their pleasant time together.
She eagerly scanned the room for him, only slightly relieved when she failed to find him among Lady Redding’s guests. If he wasn’t here it was because of her, but she put the thought aside. It was better not to see him, to let the vision of his blue eyes, the soft feel of his hands in hers fade quickly than to draw out their parting through the balls and soirées of London.
Charlotte attempted to distract herself by taking in the large drawing room. She’d always admired Lady Redding’s taste for neoclassical decoration, though the full length portrait of her on the far wall was a bit ostentatious. The portrait had been painted by Mr. Gainsborough in Lady Redding’s youth and Charlotte could hardly fault the grand lady for displaying it so prominently.
On the opposite side of the room, Elizabeth played the pianoforte. The ring on her left hand glistened in the candlelight as her delicate fingers moved over the keys. Lord Ashford stood beside her turning the pages of her music. In between stanzas, they exchanged a sweet smile of affection which made Charlotte’s chest twinge with the same envy she’d experienced early in the evening at Almack’s. She could’ve enjoyed a similar closeness with Lord Woodcliff, if she hadn’t ruined it.
“See my dear, love can be wonderful,” Aunt Mary whispered then slipped off to join Lady Redding.
Perhaps, but so far it’d only proved terrifying and awkward.
Charlotte approached Elizabeth, listening as the younger woman finished her piece.
“Charlotte, have you heard the happy news?” Elizabeth rose from the instrument, and held out her hand to display her brilliant diamond ring.
Charlotte admired the ring then hugged her friend. “I’m so happy for you, Elizabeth, and for you, Lord Ashford.”
“We wish the same for you,” Lord Ashford replied and Elizabeth laughed merrily.
“Charlotte has pledged never to marry.”
“Perhaps all she needs is a gentleman to catch her fancy. Here comes one now.”
Charlotte turned to see Lord Woodcliff and his father enter the room and suddenly, she wished she’d worn the blue dress. Her pounding heart must be visible through the low-cut bodice of her red one.
“I think you’re very mistaken, Lord Ashford.” She fanned herself in an effort to cool her flushed face and cover her chest.
“No, I don’t think so. Edward, come here,” he called across the room and Charlotte fought the urge to smack him with her fan.
She still had no idea how Lord Woodcliff might react to her and she didn’t wish to engage in any sort of heated discussion with the gentlemen in Lady Redding’s salon. She examined the clasp of her bracelet as Lord Woodcliff strode toward them, then chided herself for losing her nerve. She raised her head, deciding to meet his look boldly, no matter what it might be. She was surprised to find him smiling at her, as handsome tonight beneath the wavering candlelight as he’d been in the long shadows of Hyde Park.
Regret piled on top of the mountain of emotions already crushing her. She shouldn’t have pushed him away, or given up before she’d even had the chance to know his heart, or her own.
“Miss Stuart, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He bowed, his pleasant greeting stunning Charlotte silent. He turned his attention to the happy couple. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
“You have a date at the church as well, Edward,” Lord Ashford reminded him.
Panic rushed through Charlotte. Perhaps Lord Woodcliff’s good humor was due to his having forgotten all about Rotten Row and her. During the Season it wasn’t unusual for a gentleman to quickly transfer his affections elsewhere when his first suit was disappointed. She probably wasn’t the only woman he’d courted, perhaps just the richest. Her embarrassment turned to indignity followed by a whole parcel of quick remarks she bit back. She didn’t want to intrude on Elizabeth’s and Lord Ashford’s happiness with her own ill mood.
“What can you mean, Henry?” Lord Woodcliff seemed as puzzled as Charlotte and just as eager for Lord Ashford’s response.
“You’re to be my best man, of course.”
Charlotte lit up with a hope tempered by the sting to her already bruised pride. She’d always possessed a firm grasp on her emotions, now they were bucking about like some untrained horse. It was utterly exhausting. For all her satisfaction in not being a silly goose, she was certainly behaving like one tonight.
“Miss Stuart, would you care to view Lady Redding’s portrait with me?” Lord Woodcliff asked.
No. Yes. Heavens, this is ridiculous. He was a Viscount not a highwayman and there was no reason to be uneasy in his presence. In fact, his willingness to be with her should be considered a success. She’d ended his infatuation and they could still be on easy terms with one another, though friendship seemed a poor substitute for the deeper relationship he’d offered her in Hyde Park.
“I’d be delighted,” she answered, grateful her steady voice didn’t betray her scattered thoughts. “Elizabeth, Lord Ashford, would you care to come with us?”
A modicum of protection against being alone with him wouldn’t hurt either.
“No!” They both answered at once, exchanging st
artled looks.
“What I mean is--” Lord Ashford stuttered before Elizabeth stepped in.
“We said we’d speak with Lady Treadwell about something--” her voice trailed off before Lord Ashford jumped in.
“Yes, something important. Please excuse us.”
They hurried away as though Charlotte was on fire and they were afraid of being burned.
“What’s wrong with them?” she wondered. “I’ve never seen either of them act so peculiar.”
“Like most lovebirds, they probably want to be alone,” Lord Woodcliff surmised, decidedly less irked by their sudden departure than Charlotte. “Shall we view the portrait?”
“At once.”
They were not two steps across the room when Lord Hatteston approached from the refreshment table, his plate piled high with the usual delicacies provided by Lady Redding’s French cook.
“Edward, introduce me to the young lady,” he demanded.
“Miss Stuart, my father, Lord Hatteston.”
Charlotte curtsied to the older lord who smiled approvingly at her.
“It’s a pleasure Miss Stuart. Edward tells me you had to outrun Napoleon himself to escape France?”
“We did, but a quick carriage ride was better than living for who knows how long under Napoleon’s tyranny.”
“I’m glad. It shows spirit. I like a girl with spirit and opinions. Such a woman does a man well.” He clapped his son on the back before leaving to rejoin his party.
Lord Woodcliff turned to Charlotte with a smile similar to his father’s but much more sheepish. “You must excuse him, he’s spent a great deal of time in the country among hunters.”
“There’s nothing to forgive. I like an Earl with spirit and opinions.”
Lord Woodcliff threw back his head and laughed, drawing the attention of the room and surprising Charlotte. She’d never seen him so animated and, even with the regret of having rebuked him scratching at her, his good mood lifted hers.
“You do have spirit,” he said at last. It wasn’t the amusing compliment of his father, but one as fine as the diamond pin in the center of his cravat. She studied his eyes and in their blue depths was the same affection she’d caught in Rotten Row. At once she understood Elizabeth’s eagerness to be alone with Lord Ashford. If she could have Lord Woodcliff to herself she’d gladly take the opportunity, perhaps even enjoy the kiss she’d been denied yesterday.
I’m glad I wore the red dress. No, it didn’t matter what she wore or how he regarded her. She didn’t want to kiss him, or did she? Of course not, it was only the heat of the room and Lord Woodcliff’s flattery playing on her.
“Now let’s see the painting, I’d like your thoughts on the artist.” He offered her his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her across the room.
Every brush of her dress against his leg and each shift of his muscles beneath her hand made her keenly aware of him beside her. She pressed her lips together, wondering what it would’ve been like in Hyde Park to have settled her cheek against the palm of his hand and inhaled the very maleness of him as he covered her lips with his. She gripped him tighter, steadying herself against the shock of her thoughts and the impression of his sturdy shoulders above hers. Try as she might to convince herself she possessed no real interest in him, her fluttering heart and tingling fingertips told her otherwise. It didn’t bother her as much now as it had in the middle of last night. If he wanted to be alone with her, it meant she hadn’t put him off her entirely.
At last they reached the portrait and Charlotte let go of him, grateful for something to concentrate on other than his body beside hers.
“It’s an excellent work,” he remarked, tilting his head up and to one side to take in the impressive painting. “It must have been painted during Mr. Gainsborough’s Van Dyke phase.”
Charlotte studied the portrait, determined to regain her usual level-headed attitude and stop fawning over the man like some befogged chit. “I don’t think so. The colors are too bright. This was most definitely done during his Rubens phase.”
“You’re certain?”
“Of course. Van Dyke is much too muted to inspire colors like these.”
He examined the painting again and she waited for him to agree but instead he shook his head. “No, I still say Van Dyke.”
“But look at the trees in the background, they’re too small to be attributed to Van Dyke’s influence.”
“You’re so sure?”
“Of course.” She checked her insistence, determined to remain pleasant with him. ”I’ve seen enough of Van Dyke’s work to know.”
“Would you be willing to wager on it?”
“Wager?”
“Yes. Wager.”
“You have a strange sense of humor,” she dismissed his suggestion, noticing Lady Treadwell watching them from where she sat with Mr. Taylor on the settee.
“I’m very serious.”
The amused but pointed look in his eyes told her he was and she hardly knew how to respond. It would be madness to accept such a suggestion yet the temptation of this little adventure proved appealing. It was certainly a better way to settle the matter than arguing.
“What would you wager?” she hazarded in hushed tones, looking past him to where Aunt Mary sat chatting with Mrs. Knight, glad Aunt Mary was unaware of the conversation taking place beneath the Gainsborough.
“Mr. Taylor will settle the matter for us. If I’m right, I’ll no longer trouble you with my sentiments and attention.”
The heat of the room rose twenty degrees and every rational thought she’d commanded during their discussion fled, except one. She should walk away, refuse to keep entertaining this ridiculous proposal.
“And if you’re correct?” She could scarcely imagine what it might mean.
“You’ll accept my hand in marriage.”
He does still care for me! Enough to risk his future on a wager.
The dread she’d experienced the morning she’d waited for the Comte filled her. Lord Woodcliff wanted her very public declaration and if he turned out to be no better than the Comte, all society would witness her disgrace. She drew in a long breath, forcing it past the tightness of her chest before she let it out. He wasn’t like the Comte, and this wasn’t a game to him. It was obvious in the subtle shift of his weight from one leg to the other and the stiffness marked by worry which crept in beneath his boldness. He was serious about his feelings for her and their future. If only she could be as certain.
She flicked a glance at the portrait and the regal composure of Lady Redding’s attire and expression. The wager rested on a simple fact and she knew enough to judge the influence of one painter’s style upon another. She could accept the wager and when he lost, not hold him to his promise to leave her be. Then, there’d be ample time to properly decide the matter of their futures. But what if she was wrong about the Gainsborough like she’d been at Mr. Taylor’s?
“No thank you, Lord Woodcliff. I leave wagers to the gentlemen,” Charlotte answered as politely as possible, not wanting to offend him.
“A young lady brave enough to stand against the opinion of society and remain unmarried must relish the challenge of a friendly wager, Miss Out and Outer,” he smirked.
She balled her hands at her sides. “What did you just call me?”
“Miss Out and Outer,” he taunted without shame.
Her bracelet grew snug on her wrist as her hands tightened even more. She could end this now with a laugh but she’d never been one to back down from a challenge. “If you desire a wager, then let’s have one and our answer.”
She couldn’t wait to see his conceit wither when he learned she was right.
Lord Woodcliff flashed a wicked smile then turned to Mr. Taylor. “Sir, are you familiar with this portrait?”
Charlotte stiffened, aware of people stopping their conversations to listen. She hadn’t expected Lord Woodcliff to make the matter this public. It risked someone discovering the wager and causing a scan
dal.
“I am,” Mr. Taylor replied. “I’m the one who arranged the sitting with Mr. Gainsborough.”
“What need do you have for Mr. Taylor’s expertise?” Lady Redding called, her interest piqued.
“It’s nothing, just a small debate between the two of us,” Charlotte hurried in an effort to remove the lady’s attention from the conversation. It was a fruitless attempt for Lord Woodcliff would not be deterred.
“Miss Stuart believes the portrait was painted during Mr. Gainsborough’s Rubens phase. I say it was during his Van Dyke phase. We’re both very certain of our opinion so only Mr. Taylor’s expertise can settle the matter.”
They looked to Mr. Taylor who rose slowly and deliberately, all too happy to command the attention of the room as everyone listened, waiting for his answer. Charlotte wasn’t so excited, especially with Aunt Mary fluttering her fan nervously in front of her face and making her curls bob. Charlotte silently cursed her stubborn pride. Once again it was causing her a world of trouble.
“Miss Stuart,” Mr. Taylor began and she laced her hands in front of her and settled her shoulders, convinced victory was only a moment away, “I’m afraid the gentleman is right. The portrait was painted under the influence of Van Dyke.”
She was wrong. How could she have been wrong? Surely the wager was fixed. If she were a gentleman, she’d call Lord Woodcliff out but as a lady, she could only stand still against the desire to run from the room, out of London and all the way back to Paris. Surely the quagmire of living beneath Napoleon was preferable to the one she’d just tripped into.
“I’ll speak with your uncle about settling the debt tomorrow,” he whispered, his low voice as unnerving as the situation she now found herself in.
“Yes, please, for I’m sure he’ll have much to say on the matter.”
With any luck he’d object to the strange proposal. He had to, didn’t he?
“Let us have a quadrille,” Lady Redding announced. A slender woman took a seat at the piano and started to play as the younger guests begin to form up the dance. “Miss Stuart, will you and Lord Woodcliff lead?”