Lord Carnall and Miss Innocent (The Friendhip Series Book 7)

by Julia Donner

  When Charlotte nodded in weary compliance, Ana continued, “We must advance to considering another cause for your despair, since we have agreed that whatever has put you so out of countenance has nothing to do with missing your brother’s visit. He is a fine gentleman, but I vow not worthy of that sort of regret.’

  Charlotte smiled again, the lovely one she and her sister shared, head tipped shyly to one side, a gentle curve on pink lips. “He is a splendid brother, but no, not the cause for my excess. I have an unfortunate tendency to overreact. Dom…Carnall finds it most unsettling. But he never chastises me,” she hurried to add.

  Ana waved that away. “Fie, what use are we as females if we don’t take every opportunity to puff up masculine sentiment and their need to view us as fragile as spun sugar? How can they be tremendously heroic if we are not wilting and weeping for their feats of manly wonder?”

  Charlotte snorted an adorable little laugh that would have sounded vulgar in anyone else. She shook her head. “No, ma’am, we shouldn’t want that! In truth, it doesn’t precisely have anything to do with my brother.” After a pause where Ana forced herself to silence, Charlotte’s shoulders relaxed. “A problem has arisen, a very serious impediment, if you will, to my staying here at the school. I know my brother wants this for Mary Kate and I, but I’m not sure I’m up to the masquerade.”

  “Masquerade?”

  Charlotte slowly nodded. “You see, today I learned that Caroline Luttrel is the sister of Lord Wrexall.”

  “Indeed. And that constitutes an insurmountable difficulty?”

  Charlotte looked up, her gaze wounded. “Very much so. Quite insupportable, because last year,” she inhaled a shuddery breath, “last year, Wrexall waylaid me on my way home. He…forced himself upon me in the most horrible way unmentionable.” Her eyes filled with fresh tears. “Dominic knows about it, but if he discovers the man’s identity…that the man was Wrexall—”

  “Am I to assume that the perpetrator was never brought to justice?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “If Dominic finds out, he’ll kill him!”

  Ana reached out to grip Charlotte’s shaking shoulder and the girl flung her arms around Ana’s neck for a fresh bout of tears. “Cry it out, Charlotte. I’m here.”

  It wasn’t a simple chore to silence the outrage shrieking inside and remain tender on the outside for Charlotte’s sake. The girl’s fears were not unfounded. There existed little possibility of Lord Wrexall being brought to justice. Even if he were convicted, Charlotte would become a social pariah. If her brother shot down the loathsome dog that defiled his sister, Carnall would have to leave the country and wouldn’t be able to return to his homeland. He would find no safety in Ireland.

  “Charlotte, I am beginning to envision the satisfying task of putting Wrexall out of our misery. Your brother might be too late. Nevertheless, he may content himself with a place in the queue behind me.”

  “Oh, ma’am, you mustn’t joke about such things.”

  “What else is there to do but imagine it? I recently cleaned my uncle’s ten bore shotgun. Perfect timing. That will do nicely.

  Charlotte muttered, “I’m so dreadfully sorry to have burdened you with this.”

  Ana cuddled Charlotte closer. “There now, leave this to me and stop worrying about your brother. We needn’t tell him.”

  Inhaling an uneven breath, Charlotte withdrew from the embrace. Her gaze level with resolution, she said in a congested voice, “He must never know. He’s only just recovered from the last wound.”

  “Why? What happened to him?”

  “No one knows about it here. In England, I mean. A duel is one of the reasons he brought us over. He needed to leave Ireland. He k-killed a man. Shot him down. A matter of honor, you see. Someone made disparaging remarks.”

  “About you?”

  “No. It had to do with a horse race. Imagine what he would do if he learned Wrexall’s identity. His temper, when loosed, gets away from him. He’s never been anything but gentle and considerate with us, but he would hold nothing back if Wrexall was the object.”

  Ana turned her head to gaze out the window. “He wouldn’t bother to wait for seconds to arrange a match. He’d shoot the fellow down at first sight.”

  “That’s exactly what I fear will happen if he discovers who...did that to me.”

  “And Carnall was grievously wounded?”

  “His side. The bullet slashed along his flank. The wound became inflamed. A sliver of some foreign material, the physician said. Cloth or dirt impressed into the wound when Dominic fell.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth for a moment. “The physician bled him, shaved his hair and put leaches on his head. It was ghastly! I still have horrid dreams about it.”

  Ana winced. “Leaches. Disgusting. And he bled poor Carnall also? It’s a wonder your brother lived through the treatment when the bullet failed to kill him.” She frowned at a leaf-denuded tree. The oak’s naked, sinewy arms stretched out over a flowerbed meant for sun-shy plants. “And that’s why he keeps his hair cut shorter than fashion?”

  “It’s growing back. He had such lovely hair. Black and straight like yours. He kept it longish and clubbed. When he was a lad, girls in the village sighed when he walked by. Very romantic looking.”

  Charlotte’s whimsical expression sank back into sadness. “But ma’am, how can I ever contract a good marriage and maintain my brother’s pride if I am already ruined? He’s so very strict about such things.”

  In her haughtiest tone, Ana inquired, “And why do you think you are you ruined?”

  “After…you know, Wrexall, he said that it was my fault. That I lured him to put his…he—”

  Bleak despair froze her features and choked off the confession. Ana gripped Charlotte by the shoulders. “No person can ruin you, Charlotte! You are kind and beautiful. God made you lovely and pure. Nothing has changed that. Least of all a swine and a bully.”

  “But, ma’am, my husband will know, won’t he? I’ve heard the others whisper about that.”

  “If he is a gentleman at heart, he will understand.”

  Charlotte paused to consider. “Perhaps I should marry a priest then, a man of the cloth?”

  Ana clucked, skeptical. “A surplice is not an indicator of compassion. Many don the collar and priestly robes for reasons of livelihood, not vocation. However, that is an unexceptionable plan, and a start at healing your wounds. You are looking at your future with a positive point of view. I’m glad that you are putting this into perspective. It doesn’t minimize the beastliness of the experience, but it might provide you with a measure of control over the effects of its aftermath. Meanwhile, we shall do our best to keep your brother from another engagement on the dueling field.”

  “Then, ma’am, when you look on me, you don’t see me as defective, unworthy for not being chaste?”

  “Pah! That’s the masculine point of view. I think we should stick to the woman’s. So much more sensible, don’t you think?”

  Charlotte’s smile was a bit unsteady, but it was a true smile. She stood and curtsied. “My thanks for your patience. You have given me much to think about.”

  Ana watched the girl’s retreating figure. The chat with Charlotte and its unexpected content had brought her present torment into perspective. It was one thing to wish to shoot Wrexall down like the vicious cur he was, but there was a wide gap of probability when it came to the actual performing of the deed. Shooting game to supplement the school’s meals was difficult enough. But there was always the horsewhip.

  The more salient point she’d gleaned from this encounter with Charlotte was that she now understood why Lord Carnall hovered over his sisters. He’d somehow discovered what had happened to Charlotte. He hurt for her and had alluded that he nurtured a terrible guilt for not protecting them.

  From all Charlotte had said, her brother did not know the identity of Charlotte’s attacker, an odd blessing, that. Given that he visited so frequently, the chances were more tha
n good that he might encounter Wrexall. The fortunate thing was that Wrexall rarely showed any interest in his own sister and perhaps would never make a return visit. Confrontation might be avoided if they met, as long as Carnall remained unaware of Wrexall’s identity, and if she somehow managed to keep the school open and functioning.

  Weariness washed through her, bringing with it the weight of what she’d allowed herself to experience this day. Some would argue that it was a gentleman’s place to have halted before they’d gone past the point of no return. She rejected that line of thought, refusing to avoid her duplicity. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her. How could she forget his strength, the validation of being so wildly desired? He’d brought a deeply buried part of her nature to life with a ferocity she never knew she possessed.

  From now on, the difficulty would be living with the memory—never enough to satisfy but better than nothing—and how to restrain the yearning to have him again, a compulsion that refused to relent.

  Chapter 8

  Carnall rose from the bath and shrugged into the robe held up for his convenience. He lifted one side open and turned to the mirror to inspect the scar on his flank—still ruddy in color but no longer a lurid red. He tied the robe shut over the unpleasant sight.

  He swept his hands over his scalp to smooth hair not yet the length he preferred. He’d refused to feel any embarrassment that his head had been shorn down to the skin like a convict’s. Due to delirium, he’d not been in any state to stop the process. His upper lip twitched into a curl of revulsion from the memory of the leaches. Never again. His poor sisters had broken down from the sight. He remembered that part quite clearly.

  After dressing and a shave, he dismissed the valet and went to the mirror to brush back his hair. It wouldn’t take long, perhaps a few more weeks, and he could tie it back. His hair never held a curl and therefore was not made for the windswept styles in mode.

  He stopped brushing and lowered his arm to hang limply at his side. He stared blankly at the mirror, not seeing his reflection. Ana had straight hair. His palm itched from the memory of that single, thick plait in his hand, its texture and scent. If she cut her hair, there would be waves and curls, once free of the weight, but he liked it longish, a better match for her stern demeanor.

  She hadn’t looked stern yesterday, head thrown back, soaking up ecstasy like a starving wanton. Magnificent. The instant she allowed her bottled up passion to the surface, she’d made him her slave. Tatiana Worth was fashioned for him. After hearing the gossip discovered from his groom, he became more determined to have her. She incited emotions and passion unlike anything he’d ever experienced with other women. There hadn’t been many, since he despised adultery and hadn’t met a female he felt pushed to wed. Unlike his peers, prostitution left him feeling sad and soiled. Widows were the only option. There were many after the war and a few had brought him along in the way a man should go in the boudoir.

  He set the brush on the bureau. Sex could be amusing at times, and always a decided physical relief, but none of his encounters had evoked the visceral effect Ana had on him. He’d almost ejaculated in his trousers like a schoolboy. It would have been comical if not for the embarrassment. The fascination and joy of watching the strict and constrained headmistress come apart in his hands had shattered his discipline. No other woman had done that. No other woman had muddled him so much that he couldn’t think clearly. No one, no thing had altered his thinking to the point where he’d abandoned his good sense, his personal code, his honor. His determination to have Ana Worth had made him question his values, perspective and restraint. Then had come the information from the groom he’d left behind at the academy stable.

  Servants constantly gossiped. A good servant kept the family business in the family. A trip to Lord and Lady Asterly’s house in London had enlightened him to the use and function of gossip. Asterly’s butler, Crimm, was a master collector of information, for himself and previously for Lady Asterly before she married the baron. Asterly’s servants understood that they received exorbitant wages because they knew enough to never divulge the slightest bit of household information. It was their duty to report anyone attempting to extract information. On the other hand, if they learned anything and brought it to Crimm’s attention, they were handsomely rewarded. With the Asterly household example in mind, he realized that he couldn’t directly ask information about the absent Mr. Worth, but a servant could.

  Yesterday morning, before he drove to the academy, he precisely outlined what he needed his groom to discover, mainly anything connected to Mrs. Worth’s husband. The answer was that there was no husband, had never been one. Ergo, the smudges of blood he’d seen on her petticoat had not been the start of her monthly courses. He’d lain with an innocent. But why did she persist with the misrepresentation?

  He went to the window to look out at the weather. A milky sun glowed through dawn’s fog. There was time before his coach was brought around. Disliking the idea of making more than one stop, he’d sent down orders for the coachman and grooms to eat before they set out for Berkshire.

  After propping a shoulder on the wall, he gazed out at the morning, allowing his thoughts to film over with the recall of Ana in the throes of ecstasy. The memory rendered his good sense as inaccessible as the haze that bathed the new day in a blur of white. Yesterday had not been muted in any way. Driven to see her, stand in her company, perhaps get close enough to garner a hint of her scent, he drove to the academy. A demon seed of recklessness pushed him to entrap a lady of character in an inappropriate assignation. It had merely started out as a simple drive to acquaint himself with the lay of the land. That was what he’d convinced himself at the time. Liar.

  Yesterday, along with the discovery of her fierce passion, he uncovered another facet to her personality. She revealed an unexpected fragility. Her uncertainty was overwhelmed by passion long denied. Her eager acceptance of sexual pleasure had been his undoing. Driven for more, he’d taken that mouth, a substitute for a more satisfying connection, but everything came undone, propelling them into the inevitable.

  Ana had a habit of pursing her lips as she considered all angles before voicing a reply. He doubted she realized this. It wrecked his concentration every time she did it. All he could think about was kissing the severity from her lips, using his own on her to send her into wailing bliss. Thoughts of how to please her and himself filled his days, had him pushing aside documents to be read, papers to sign, reports to study. How could anything compare to coercing Ana to revel in her repressed passion? Her body had thrummed and quivered, unconsciously rising to meet his when he pressed his palm to her firm, small breast. The center of his hand tingled from the memory of the erect nipple against his palm, the way she’d moved like a pleased cat with every touch. She’d flung her head back. A satisfied moan sighed from parted lips. He’d filled his hands with her round bottom, showed her another way to find pleasure. He doubted she realized that she’d wrapped her leg sheathed in wet skirts around his and aided in the surprise of her sudden climax. Her groan had conquered his heart and will, eroded all restraint.

  A woman like Tatiana needed guarding from all comers. Men at the Goring party had admired and watched her from afar, hesitant to approach the bristly attitude she used as a shield. He knew one of the reasons why now, after seeing the passions she kept in check. Soon he would know her more intimately, every curve and crevice of that slim, athletic figure. He smiled at the image of her with bow and arrow, his Amazon and siren. He’d found her weakness, unfulfilled passion, and a raw yearning for affection. Girded with this knowledge, he would employ everything he’d learned from previous lovers to win his stubborn empress.

  But first, there was the matter of revenge. The groom he’d left behind while taking Ana for a drive had cleared up another question. Wrexall, the man he planned to destroy, did indeed have a sister as a student at Worth’s Academy.

  Chapter 9

  Carnall finished the claret in his glass. The d
usty office at Ravenswold Stud felt congested with the silent thoughts of the three other men waiting for the countess to arrive. Carnall forgave her tardiness and set his glass on the sturdy desk. He patiently passed the time, turning the crackling pages of the stud ledger. He was in complete agreement with Lady Ravenswold’s priority and content to wait for her. Horses came first, and as Shakespeare had written, revenge was a dish best served cold. His heart was growing chillier and harder as each minute passed.

  Geoffrey, Lord Bainbridge, braced his back against the oak-paneled wall and swirled the remaining brandy in his glass. His dark auburn hair glowed with gold glints in the lamplight. His marriage to Letty, his beloved childhood sweetheart, had imbued the earl with a relaxation he’d never shown before. She also insisted he dressed as his position required. Today he wore a bottle green jacket over a shawl-collared double-breasted waistcoat of cream jaconet, mid-calf pantaloons and perfectly shined Wellington boots. He looked nothing like the wrinkled, ripped and negligently buttoned brute, who rarely wore a neckcloth and never tied it properly when he did remember neckwear. Fight-loving Bainbridge wouldn’t hesitate to remove an arm or leg if he thought it would make his Letty happy. Carnall felt a half-smile form as he looked away from the amazing transformation.

  Lord Ravenswold sat in a chair and stared at the painting of the famous stud, Fleetwood’s Marvel, his only rival to his wife’s affections. Even though seated, Ravenswold’s great height and bulk minimized the room. People often mistook the earl for a slow-top, since he appeared placid, moved and talked slowly, and avoided society unless forced to attend functions, such as Parliamentary sessions. Intimates never provoked him after seeing a rare display of his temperament when roused. They also were privy to his ability to speak five languages fluently and had been known for his brilliance at university. His languid personality hid a latent deviousness. No one ruled him, but Cassandra, his headstrong wife, came close.