The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four

by Maggi Andersen

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because he loves you, of course.”

  “Nonsense.”

  A half-mile on, Charity threaded the gig through the gates of Aunt Christabel’s property. and they continued up the drive to the stables.

  “It is not nonsense.” When the gig stopped, Mercy took the groom’s hand to climb down.

  Charity joined Mercy. She linked arms with her and walked to the house. “I believe Robin has his future duchess in mind.”

  “Really?” Mercy shook her pale curls. “I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  They walked into the entry hall. “You confuse friendship with love, Mercy.”

  “Perhaps you are the one who does,” Mercy replied ambiguously then disappeared down the hall after a cat.

  Charity walked slowly after her. Why did Mercy think Robin loved her? She’d never seen any sign that his affections ran deeper. Apart from the proposal, which seemed more a statement of his intention than a sign he desired her, he had not said he loved her. They shared a meeting of the minds. Their mutual interests were the reason he’d wanted her for his wife. She frowned. Everything had changed of late. He had changed too. She’d felt an undercurrent today, which she couldn’t precisely identify. It was as if he’d straightened his spine to take on the duty and responsibilities forced upon him. Consequently, she was more physically aware of him, his manliness and masculine smell, the warm touch of his long-fingered hands as he’d guided her through his beautiful rooms.

  Why did she think of his hands? This appalling daydreaming did her no good and served no purpose. Here at Aunt Christabel’s, she had too little to occupy her mind. She thought of her half-finished work at home. Exasperated, she went in search of her mother. At breakfast, Father had insisted he was much better, and after Mama had his promise to convalesce sensibly, she made plans to leave the next morning.

  Charity stood with her father to wave goodbye to her mother and Mercy as their carriage took them away on their journey south. “I’m to view Robin’s portrait gallery after luncheon,” she said. “Will you be all right alone, Father?”

  He scowled as if she’d insulted him. “Dash it all, of course I will. I declare you fuss as much as your mother does. I intend to read another of those excellent books that Harwood brought me. Thank heavens for them. I couldn’t find a thing to read in my sister’s bookroom. Never saw such a load of rubbish.”

  “When you are in need of more, Robin has invited you to visit his library.” Charity smiled at him as they walked to the house. “Are you happy to remain here at Aunt Christabel’s?”

  “It’s comfortable enough for a big, old creaky house. I can only say I’m grateful Highland Manor was rebuilt in the last century.” They climbed the steps. “It’s an isolated spot too. I don’t know how my sister can bear it. At the time, I did question why our father had to drag her away from London after that unfortunate business during her first Season.”

  “What business was that, Father?”

  “I suppose that after Christabel’s marriage to Huddlestone ended, he wished to avoid any gossip. Then our father promptly turned up his toes and left her here.”

  He made it sound as if grandfather had been careless to depart this earth at such a time. She’d never realized how difficult life must have been for Aunt Christabel. How curious. “Huddlestone never came here to fetch her?”

  “It was an elopement. Huddlestone died in a carriage accident when they were returning from the registry before the marriage was consummated. The Huddlestones behaved outrageously, threatened to create a scandal.”

  Neither she nor her sisters had ever considered their aunt’s past. It was all so long ago. Did Aunt Christabel dress so soberly in black or deep violet because she still loved Huddlestone after all this time? An elopement! Suddenly, her aunt appeared far more interesting. Charity couldn’t wait to write to her sisters.

  They paused on the top step to look down through the gardens to the green dale and the purple hills in the distance. “I have to admit it’s a pleasant enough part of the world,” her father said.

  “Yes. The rhododendrons covering the hill below will be glorious in flower.”

  “I can’t say gardens interest me a great deal.” He walked inside. “A man prefers to be active, riding about his estate, dealing with whatever is necessary.”

  She followed him. “You will be very soon.”

  Father gave an impatient grunt and left her. He was a very bad patient; he’d refused to be bled when he had one of his bouts of sickness. Considered doctors to be the devil in disguise.

  After luncheon, Charity studied her limited wardrobe and teamed her French beige kerseymere with the cream velvet spencer. She added a pale fur tippet at the neck and her brown fur-felt hat. It was a chilly day to drive in the gig, so she donned her warm, fur-lined cape and French suede gloves, even though they might not fare so well handling the reins. Her determination to look her best at all cost unsettled her.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to worry about her gloves, as her father insisted she be driven and collected again at four o’clock.

  “Just because you consider yourself an old maid doesn’t mean you are one,” he insisted.

  After a few anxious moments, Charity avoided having her aunt’s unpleasant maid accompany her. When Aunt Christabel decided she had need of air, she saved Charity from a very dull afternoon.

  The castle greeted her in the cool sunshine, the lawns freshly scythed, and the contrast between the greyed stone and the fiery autumn foliage made the scene even more breathtaking.

  “I’m pleased you’ve come.” As his butler took her cape, Robin’s appreciative grey gaze took her in from her head to her feet. “And looking very fetching.”

  Robin led her through a dozen rooms where liveried footmen stood ready to open each door. They entered a long, narrow room. The gallery adjoined two grand reception rooms at either end, with a row of silk-draped windows overlooking the gardens. Beneath crystal chandeliers, Charity walked along the wide stretch of carpet woven with the ducal crest to view the gilt-framed portraits hung on maroon silk walls while Robin explained that his ancestors stretched back in an unbroken line from the fourteenth century. A barony had been awarded by the king for some act of valor during war and subsequent lands and titles gifted down the years. She was fascinated by his imposing ancestors and paused at a painting of a dark-haired, bearded duke with an enormous, intricate white lace collar who wore pearl-studded smallclothes. She imagined she saw something of Robin in his eyes. “Who is this?”

  “I have to confess I’ve been reading up on each of them since I came here. That’s the first duke, Gerald. I found a book of his in the library.”

  “On what subject?”

  “His botanical drawings. They are quite exceptional. I plan to show them to you, later.”

  “Oh please do. I’d love to see them.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You approve of my ancestors?”

  She smiled. “I approve of him, but some of them look rather frightening,” she said, eyeing a haughty man in a white wig and black patches.

  “I’m sure they could be on occasion.” He grinned. “There are some admirable fellows amongst them, however, whom I doubt I could live up to.”

  She stood before a lady in a tightly laced, peach-colored gown with ruffled petticoats, her hair piled high on her head. Fat grey pearls decorated her décolletage. “Who is this lovely lady?”

  “Caroline. The first Marchioness of Alstone.” He turned to gaze at her appreciatively. “One thing my ancestors had in common. At a time when marriages were arranged for lineage and wealth, they appeared to have wed beautiful women.”

  Charity was so distracted by his look she realized belatedly that they’d come to the end of the gallery. “Thank you for allowing me to view your ancestors,” she said in an awkwardly formal tone. “The portraits are most impressive.”

  “I had an ulterior motive,” he said, taking her arm and
halting her exit from the room.

  “I fear your ulterior motives.” Her wobbly smile made a poor show of hiding her nervousness.

  He gave a bark of laughter. “No need to look like I’m going to lock you in the dungeon. I merely want you to paint my portrait.”

  Charity sucked in a breath. “Oh, Robin, no.” She took a step back. “You can’t mean it. I am not in that league yet and will most likely never be.”

  “You’ve painted a marquess and his wife and now a baron.”

  “The marquess is family and the baron, well, he’s a very unusual man.”

  “Unusual is he?” He raised an eyebrow. “Come and have afternoon tea, and then we’ll walk over to the lake.”

  “That appeals to me far more.” She laughed. He couldn’t be serious.

  Chapter Eleven

  Charity walked with Robin along a path between clipped yew hedges, the whippet, Henry, scurrying about to sniff here and there. “Have you become more at ease here?”

  “Gradually. Things keep cropping up to test my mettle.” He frowned. “The king plans a reception for me at Carlton House in November.”

  “Is that so very bad?”

  “I don’t care for King George or his set.”

  “You’re not alone there,” she said. “How many members of staff do you have here?”

  He laughed. “I am told forty servants live in the house. Then there’s the estate manager, the gardeners, some fifty of them, grooms, my coachman, and the gamekeeper, who has his own cottage on the estate. Not to mention the daily staff: a team of carpenters, upholsterers, scrubbing women, a laundry porter, a coal man—the house is impossible to heat—not to mention the amount of windows to be cleaned.”

  He shifted to look at her. “When I marry, my duchess shall have a lady’s maid, two sewing women, and a secretary of her own.”

  She looked down at her hands. “We employ far fewer at Highland Manor.”

  “I’ve inherited a steel factory, a glass works, and an estate in Italy. I shall have to visit them all before long.”

  “Hardly a chore to visit Italy.” She bit her lip on a bout of yearning. Through the trees, the lake came into view with a tang of mold and mud in the fresh breeze. “This quite takes my breath away.”

  Robin’s grey eyes warmed. “It’s a tranquil place to come and just sit and think.”

  Or paint, she thought. At the shore, they stopped to admire the wide stretch of ruffled, blue-grey water, alive with noisy water birds, ducks, and swans.

  “Will you consider painting my portrait, Charity?” he asked, his gaze on the ornate temple at the far side of the lake. “Am I not a good subject?”

  She almost smiled but refused to pander to his ego. “It would depend on the composition.” She rubbed her brow. “We would need many sittings. The distance between my home and yours makes that difficult.”

  His gaze came to rest on her. “Gunn lives in Scotland.”

  “Yes, but he spent a good deal of time in London. He was most obliging. He sat for me there and came to Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Obliging, was he?” Robin sounded annoyed. He took her hands and shook them gently. “You are searching for an excuse.”

  Charity drew away with an embarrassed laugh. His warm hands grasping hers scattered her thoughts. “I’m trying to be practical. It just seems such an insurmountable task, which I doubt I’m ready for.”

  “You won’t know that until you try, will you? I’ll be in London next month. If we begin immediately, we could follow up with more sittings then.”

  “It hardly gives me enough time to—”

  “What if I allow you the final say as to whether we display the painting? If you don’t care for it, I can have it hidden away in the attics.”

  She huffed as her pride took over. “I am sure whatever I paint will be worthy of being hung somewhere!”

  “Aha,” he said softly, raising an eyebrow.

  He was being altogether too clever. She smiled up at him. “You are teasing me.”

  “Au contraire. I am resisting the urge to influence you. You must make up your own mind.” His smiled faded. “I have faith in you, Charity.”

  She turned away from the bank. “Let me think about it.”

  He tucked her arm in his. “I’ll give you until tomorrow to decide.”

  She widened her eyes as they strolled back to the house. “One day? What if I decide against it? Which artist would you choose?”

  “I am not prepared to consider your refusal. We can begin while you’re here. What else do you have to entertain you?”

  She could hardly deny that. She sorely missed painting and was at a worse loose end than Mercy had been. “Tonight, I’ll discuss it with Father.”

  “Good.” He glanced at the sky where dark clouds gathered. “It looks like rain. Best we hurry back.” He whistled to Henry, and the dog emerged from a clump of bushes, tail wagging.

  ****

  Two days later, Robin sat on a wing chair opposite Charity while she arranged her sketchpad and pencils on the table.

  “First, I need to absorb more about my subject.” She studied him with what he imagined was a critical eye. “I like to sketch freely until I feel I know how I shall go on.”

  They were in the small salon where the light was good, a tray of tea things on the table in front of them.

  Robin crossed his legs. “How should you like me to pose?”

  “Would you prefer to stand? Or shall I paint you seated in your robes?”

  “Good God no.”

  “What about on horseback?”

  “Like Goya’s painting of Wellington? I shouldn’t enjoy the comparison.”

  She laughed.

  “I could stand near a gnarled old oak tree with Henry at my feet.”

  “With your hunting rifle?”

  He sighed. “I don’t like any of those ideas. What about sitting in the library at that big desk with some books on it?”

  “A portrait is meant to display your wealth and circumstances for posterity,” she said thoughtfully as she poured them both a cup of tea. “But as you’ll have further portraits painted with your duchess and children, I don’t see why not.”

  “I daresay,” he agreed, taking the cup and saucer from her. “I don’t expect you to paint that one.” He planned to have her in it. His chest tightened with frustration. How could he best appeal to her? What if he were to leap up and kiss her senseless?

  “No, of course not.” She looked at him and widened her eyes, and he almost feared he’d spoken aloud.

  She put down her cup. “Let’s begin.” She began to make sure strokes over the page as he watched with interest. “I learn more about a person’s character this way.”

  “I would have thought you’d be familiar with my face by now, like this slight bump on the side of my nose.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I fell out of a tree when I was seven.”

  “Why do small boys wish to climb trees when it so often ends in tears?”

  “To see the world from a different perspective, perhaps.” He grinned at her. “I’ve given the practice away.”

  She penciled in a few deft lines. “I like to capture an expression, something that reveals the essence of the person I’m painting.”

  “What…essence, did you capture of the Marquess of Brandreth?”

  “One would expect such a man to be self-assured, almost pompous, but…”

  “But what?” He put down his cup and saucer wondering what he was about to reveal to Charity of himself that he preferred to keep hidden at this moment.

  “He wasn’t. Entirely. It was as if he’d been tested and found himself wanting.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I believe I’ve developed some ability to read character as I paint faces, but I could be entirely wrong.”

  “And the marchioness?” he prompted as she measured him with her eyes and turned back to the page.

  “Disappointment.”

  He raise
d his brows. “You revealed that in the painting?”

  “I found a hint of sadness in her eyes, but my interpretation was subtle. Most who viewed the portrait would admire her beauty.”

  “She is a strikingly beautiful woman.” Robin disliked sitting still for long. He shifted in his seat. “And Gunn?”

  “Colorful. Outrageous. Warm-hearted. Stubborn, perhaps.”

  “You saw all that in him in the brief time you had together?” He grappled with another bout of jealousy.

  “Please don’t do that with your lips, Robin.” Frowning slightly, she reached for her rubber.

  “Who do you plan to paint next?” He tapped a finger on the arm of the chair, his frustration increasing.

  “I’ve been offered another commission but have yet to accept it.”

  He frowned. “Who is it?”

  “Lord Kirkbride.”

  He scowled. “Kirkbride? He has an even worse reputation than Gunn.”

  “Does he? Well, Gunn has always been gentlemanly in my presence, so I don’t see why Lord Kirkbride won’t be also.”

  He quirked a brow. “You are not invulnerable, you know.”

  “No. But neither am I stupid. I shall always be careful.”

  “Why haven’t you accepted him then?”

  “I’ve been too busy,” she said vaguely.

  “Has painting portraits begun to pall?” he prodded, testing her resolve.

  She looked up and narrowed her eyes. “Of course not. It’s my vocation.”

  “So you have taken on no new work?”

  “Only a neighbor’s child.”

  “Waiting for another offer to go and paint some fellow in his far-flung castle?” he said, annoyed at himself for his possessiveness.

  She glared at him. “I have no idea where my art might take me. I still have much to learn. I’m considering joining the artists at the Royal Academy in the Strand.”

  He drew in a breath. “What? I doubt your father will be pleased with that idea.”

  “Possibly not, which is why I haven’t yet decided to do it. I’m not even sure I will accept your commission.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” he asked, his temper getting the better of him.