Charity

by Deneane Clark

  Lady Eloise Kimball, Dowager Marchioness of Asheburton, raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows in an expression of bored disdain. “Already? The Season isn’t even half over yet.” She looked toward the window, although it didn’t afford her a view of the road that led to the keep. Silence fell. The footman bowed and backed out of the solar when it became apparent she would require nothing further of him.

  Her eldest son’s quick return from London meant that he’d likely decided against finding a wife in the glittering pool of Season debutantes, which was good news. It also meant he’d be back in residence, undermining her authority in the running of the household. She loathed the frugality with which he managed the estate, even though she recognized that it was the very quality which had afforded them the means to live so comfortably. She dropped a hand to the head of Belle, one of her beloved pet wolfhounds. The other canine, Boris, who was curled up near her feet, lifted his head and growled low in his throat. The two dogs were in constant competition for her affection, something Eloise fostered and encouraged.

  Lewiston Kimball watched his mother for a moment. When she made no move to get up, he stood and walked over to the window and looked down just in time to see the coach cross the drawbridge and disappear from view. A few seconds later it emerged into the courtyard, pulled around the short, half-circle drive and rolled to a smooth stop before the shallow steps that led up to the enormous front doors. He watched a footman lower the steps and open the door. A moment later his brother stepped out, then turned and reached back into the vehicle.

  Lewiston’s eyes widened. Stepping out of the coach and into his brother’s arms was a petite young woman, her strawberry blonde hair glinting in the late morning sunlight. Bemused, he turned back toward his mother.

  “Shall we go down and greet Lachlan?”

  Eloise waved a dismissive hand. “No, indeed. He can come up here if he wishes to see me. You go.”

  Lewiston chanced another glance outside. The young lady was just reaching back into the coach for something. He couldn’t quite make it out, though it appeared to be a small black bundle. He grinned widely. “Suit yourself, Mother.” He walked over to her chair, bent, and pressed a kiss to the cheek she raised toward him. “I’ll pass along a greeting to them from you.”

  Eloise watched him leave the room. He looked so much like his father, though he wasn’t increasing in the midsection the way Andrew Kimball had in his later years. Still, she thought, it was unfortunate neither of her sons had inherited her blonde good looks. She would have to make sure Lewiston married a pretty girl so that there was a decent chance of attractive grandchildren. And a girl with an outgoing disposition to overcome his occasional reclusiveness.

  She frowned, bothered by something she’d missed, and thought back over the last few moments. Grandchildren. Lewiston. Lachlan . . . Them? Her eyes narrowed. Lewiston had said he would pass along a greeting from her to them. She sucked in her breath in sudden understanding.

  In a single motion she threw off her lap robe and stood, gathered her skirts in one hand, and left the room. Belle and Boris trotted along after her, curious about where she was going in such a furious rush. She swept down the stairs and through the great hall.

  “Lewis!”

  He stopped midstride and turned back, an amused look on his face.

  “You said ‘them.’ ” Eloise’s voice was modulated, but her son could sense the rage, simmering just below the surface, that frequently kept the household on edge. The only person who seemed immune to it was Lachlan, which always served to enrage his mother even more.

  “Why, yes. I did,” he replied.

  Eloise caught up to him. “He’s brought a . . . friend?” She placed an emphasis on the last word, hoping against hope that whoever accompanied her eldest child was not a woman.

  Lewiston hesitated and then nodded, deciding not to tell her exactly what he’d seen. She’d learn for herself soon enough. Sure enough, voices drifted down the corridor from the entryway. One was distinctly female.

  He gave his mother a steady look and held out an arm. “Shall we?”

  Eloise scowled but placed a hand on the offered arm and lifted her head, her expression turning icy, regal and distant. They walked out to the entryway together with Belle and Boris following, the dogs’ nails clicking on the cold gray stone floor.

  The newly arrived couple stood near the open doors. Lachlan was in the act of introducing the young lady to Phillips, their butler, a proud, possessive smile lighting his face. He looked over when he heard his family approach, and his smile faded. He waited for Charity to finish speaking to Phillips and then placed a hand at the small of her back.

  She smiled up at him, noted his expression, and followed the direction of his gaze. Her heart gave a nervous little lurch and began pounding nervously, but she pasted on an open, engaging smile and stepped toward her new in-laws, the hand not cuddling Minerva to her chest extended in friendly greeting.

  The dogs and the kitten became aware of each other at precisely the same moment, and instant pandemonium erupted. Minerva hissed low in her throat, her ears flattening. Before Charity could stop her, the small bundle of fur wriggled and jumped from the protection of her arms to land softly on the stone floor. She arched her back and bared her tiny, sharp teeth in the direction of the advancing, barking dogs.

  “Minerva . . . no!” Charity bent to try and scoop up her pet before the dogs got to her, but the kitten skittered out of reach, right toward the snapping jaws of Boris. Charity raised her eyes to Eloise in mute appeal but was met with a distant, glacial glare.

  Lewiston reacted instead, stepping forward and grasping Belle’s collar. He hauled her back and away but couldn’t get to Boris before the dog reached Minerva. The group watched in horror as the huge wolfhound snarled and tensed, preparing to attack the small intruder to his home. Charity gaped in horrified fear, squeezed her eyes closed, and then turned and pressed her face into her husband’s chest.

  It was over in a matter of seconds. Boris jumped forward, barking loudly, then yelped in sudden, unexpected pain and backed away, whining piteously. Cautious, Charity peeled an eyelid open and chanced a look. The wolfhound had retreated to a safe distance. A long scratch on his muzzle was oozing a small amount of blood. He eyed Minerva, who was crouched and alert, ready to spring into an attack if necessary. The cat inched forward, hissing, her little tail puffed to an astonishing thickness, and then stopped when Boris whimpered and hid his face beneath one of his massive paws. She tilted her head to the side inquisitively.

  Belle barked and lunged, pulling against Lewiston’s hold on her collar, but Minerva paid no attention to her. The kitten instead watched as Boris extended his tongue out of his mouth and swiped it across the scratch. He whined again and settled down, resting his head on his paws in a pose that was unmistakably submissive.

  At that, Minerva completely relaxed. With a sweet little mew, she walked up to Boris, rubbed the side of her face on one of his paws and began licking at the cut on his nose, as if offering an apology. Belle seemed calmed by this, sat down next to Lewiston and watched, her tail thumping on the floor. It was the strangest thing any of them had seen in some time.

  “Well, would you look at that?” remarked Lewiston, a slow grin dawning on his face. Cautiously, he let go of Belle’s collar. The dog didn’t move.

  Eloise looked far less pleased. “Why is this creature in my home?”

  Lachlan raised a brow. “It is our home, Mother, and ‘that creature’ belongs to my wife.” He watched Eloise’s face pale, and felt an unexpected surge of satisfaction sweep through him. He placed his hands lightly on Charity’s shoulders, and his bride looked up from watching the animals to offer a slightly more tentative smile of greeting than her first.

  “Mother . . . Lewiston . . .” Lachlan said. “Please meet the new Marchioness of Asheburton, Charity Ackerly Kimball.”

  Anthony Iverson looked up from the dance card upon which he’d just scrawled his name and sa
w the Duke of Blackthorne heading purposefully in his direction. “Perhaps another time,” he murmured to the seemingly disappointed young lady. He glanced toward the doors that led to the terrace, decided he’d be better off inside the crowded ballroom, and turned to flee the approaching nobleman. He drew up short when he saw Gareth and Jonathon Lloyd coming toward him from that quarter. Turning in a third direction, he immediately bumped into Trevor Caldwell.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  “Going somewhere, Iverson?” Trevor pulled a watch out of his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. “It’s early yet.”

  Anthony looked distinctly uncomfortable as the other men converged around him. His colorful garb stood out, a garish splash of satin in the knot of dark-coated gentlemen. He looked from one to the other, and wisely held his tongue.

  “Do you enjoy gambling, Iverson?” Gareth Lloyd’s tone was pleasant, which drew a startled look from the cornered young rake. “You must, although I can’t imagine you’re very good at it. You had to have known that showing up at any social event for the remainder of the Season was a poor bet.”

  Anthony finally found his voice and played the only card he thought he held. “If you intend to make a scene, you’ll do as much damage to Charity’s reputation as she might have done herself.”

  Gareth turned to his brother, nodding and holding a hand out in Iverson’s direction. “Did you hear that, Jon? This just proves he is a very poor gambler.” He turned back to Anthony. “If you’re going to bluff, you should first ensure your opponents don’t know you hold nothing in your hand. In this case, we all know that that is precisely what you have. Nothing.”

  “People saw Miss Ackerly leave the ball with me,” the young man protested.

  “And that’s where you’re wrong.” Gareth slung an arm casually across Anthony’s shoulders and began strolling toward the door with him, the other men following. The pleasant look faded from Gareth’s face and his eyes turned from chocolate to glittering obsidian. “People saw my sister, the new Marchioness of Asheburton, leave with you.”

  “My sister,” added Trevor.

  “And mine,” put in Jon. They all looked at him. “Well. Quite nearly.”

  Anthony’s eyes widened in sudden understanding as they reached the foot of the stairs. Sebastian stepped forward. “And now that she has married my cousin, she is a member of my family as well.” His golden gaze caught and held Iverson’s until the young man looked away. “Lord Asheburton sends his regrets,” continued the duke. “He wanted to handle this in person.” He looked pointedly up the stairs. “Leave. Leave now.”

  “Th-the ball?” Anthony looked around the room, noting for the first time that the environs had become noticeably quieter as the people nearest his group had stopped to watch the developing drama.

  “Leave London.” Jon’s voice was clipped.

  “You might consider leaving England,” Trevor added in a helpful tone. “I understand the Colonies afford exciting new opportunities to start again.”

  “Opportunities,” echoed Anthony weakly.

  “The opportunity, at the very least, to remain alive,” whispered Gareth.

  “Intact,” added Sebastian, to clarify. “I’m sure we understand one another.”

  Iverson processed the angry faces of the men who represented some of the most powerful families in England, nodded tightly, and started up the stairs. Halfway up, however, he looked out over the sea of guests and then back at the men who stood in a row at the foot of the staircase.

  “This isn’t over,” he warned. “Someday, you’ll all pay for this. Especially that damned Scot.” Before they could respond or come after him, he turned, swiftly completed his ascent, and left the ball.

  Twenty-four

  Eloise paced the upstairs solar like a caged lion, waiting for Lewiston to conclude his conversation with Lachlan and his new bride, irritated by the fact that he was taking so long. He knew she was waiting.

  She stopped in midstride, listened for a moment, and then walked to the window where she stood, staring out over the beautiful rolling hills into which the village of her childhood was tucked, her face pensive. Lachlan had married far too quickly for it to have been anything other than a union of convenience. There hadn’t even been enough time for the girl to be pregnant, forcing his hand by that method. More than likely she had simply maneuvered him into a compromising situation, and her family, jumping on the chance to claim a connection to a peer of the realm, had insisted he do right by her.

  Eloise eyed a ribbon of smoke rising from a building in the distance, recognized that it came from the blacksmith’s shop, and smiled a slow, calculating smile. Beth Gilweather, she thought to herself. Lachlan had not so long ago fancied himself in love with the pretty little blonde. The girl was far too beneath the lofty Kimball family to be at all considered as a marital prospect, and because of that Eloise had ruthlessly destroyed the relationship by convincing Beth that Lachlan planned to abdicate to Lewiston—a dream that had actually come true when Lachlan learned the truth of his parentage. Lewiston had been too weak to take him up on it, however.

  Now, however, the blacksmith’s girl might be actually useful. It was too late to keep Lachlan’s marriage from happening, but not too late to undermine it. Eloise had no choice. The only way she would ever see Lewiston become the Marquess of Asheburton—as was his right—was to pray Lachlan did not produce an heir. That way, if Lachlan suddenly died, Lewiston would be forced to take his birthright. She’d have to explain why her prediction of her elder son’s abdication hadn’t come to pass, but then she could convince Beth that the old flame could yet be salvaged. She could depend on the girl’s self-serving instincts.

  Eloise heard her younger son’s footsteps on the stairs to the solar and turned away from the window, for the moment putting Lachlan’s first love out of her mind. The instant Lewiston entered the room she began peppering him with questions: “Tell me about the girl. How did she manage to trap Lachlan? Does she even have a clue what it means to be a marchioness? Tell me she at least has some ability to converse properly. Lord above, with hair that color one really must wonder if she’s just some doxy from the streets of London.”

  Well used to her typical overreactions, Lewiston waited patiently for his mother to reach the end of her tirade. When it appeared she was finished, he spoke. “You can set your mind at ease regarding her background. Her father is a scholar as well as a large landholder in a village called Pelthamshire a few hours out of London.”

  “But he is not nobility.” Eloise looked smug.

  “Neither were you, Mother,” Lewiston pointed out in a reasonable voice. “However, Charity does have very close connections to some of the most important families in England. One sister is married to the Earl of Huntwick, another has married the Marquess of Roth, and her aunt is the Dowager Countess of Egerton.” He paused a moment, anticipating her reaction to his next words. “And they are all very close friends of the current Duke of Blackthorne.”

  Eloise pressed her lips together, fighting the tide of resentment that rose within her. Blackthorne. No matter how she tried to ignore them, her ties to the Tremaine family always managed to chafe. “Where is the happy couple now?” she asked.

  “Lachlan’s giving Charity a tour of the keep and introducing her to the staff.” Lewiston gave his mother a stern look. “Give the girl a chance, Mother. She’s really quite a lovely little thing, and Lachlan seems terribly fond of her.”

  Eloise turned back to the window, effectively dismissing her younger son. “Lachlan is a fool and has surely been taken in by this young woman. Don’t make the mistake of falling into the same trap.”

  “And this”—Lachlan opened a set of double doors on the right side of a long, lushly carpeted corridor with a flourish, bowed from the waist, and indicated she should precede him—“is your chamber, my lady.”

  Charity smiled at his dramatic gesture and slipped past, laying a hand briefly on his cheek as she did. He reached
up, caught it in his larger hand, and entered the room beside her so that he could fully enjoy his bride’s gasp of awed surprise. She did not disappoint.

  “Oh, my lord,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful!”

  And it truly was. Decorated in shades of rose and plum, the room exuded a sense of warmth and comfort that engulfed Charity like a warm fleece on a cold day. The tour of the rest of the castle had taken all afternoon, and she had found the ancient structure, at times, rather cold and unwelcoming. Her husband’s love for his home, however, was obvious, so she kept her reactions to herself except when they were positive.

  By contrast, this room was completely modern, inviting, and comfortable. The bed, across from and to the right of the entrance, was its focal point, set into a corner framed by tall windows affording a beautiful view of the hills on both sides. It was covered in a sumptuous rose silk with matching curtains caught up and tied to the posts with ropes of burgundy satin. Yards and yards of soft Aubusson carpet in a muted mauve covered the floor, and the mahogany furniture glowed with attention and coats of painstakingly applied wax.

  Lachlan brought the hand he held to his lips, softly kissed the backs of her fingers, and then pointed at the doors to their left. “Through there is a bathing chamber, completely modernized, a dressing room, and connecting doors to my bedchamber. I’d like, if it is something with which you are comfortable, to leave both sets of doors either unlocked or open.”

  Charity bit her lip and dipped her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had wondered what the sleeping arrangements would be, now that they were married, and found she was suddenly shy about asking the question that was foremost in her mind. Both of her elder sisters slept in the same bedchamber as their husbands, and while she knew that was not the normal practice for married couples of their class, she hoped her husband would be open to such an option. There was, she had discovered, something amazingly comforting about sleeping with someone so much larger, someone who held her through the night. She’d felt safe, and warm, and coveted. She sighed happily. Really, she just wanted to be near him.