“I said, ‘Yes, your grace.’”
“Excellent.” The duchess turned toward the door. “I’ll tell your uncle you’re returning soon. I—” She paused. “Lord MacDermott is a widower, isn’t he? I hadn’t thought of him as a suitor for Lady Charlotte, but he might be just the thing. I shall look into it at once.”
Angus had to choke back a protest. As much as he respected his uncle, Angus couldn’t imagine the older, earthy, food-obsessed MacDermott with a whimsical creature like Charlotte. “My uncle is not likely to marry so soon after his wife’s passing.”
“It’s been some years, surely.”
“Many, but it affected him quite strongly and he’ll have naught to do with another. Besides, he’s far too old for Lady Charlotte.”
“How would you know?” The duchess sounded surprised. “Have you met Lady Charlotte?”
“I assumed she was younger than my uncle as you are trying to find her a husband. Am I wrong?”
“She’s not a young lady, no. But she’s not a matron, either. But she needs an older man, someone with a firm hand. She’s had her independence far too long and she’s quite stubborn and—“ The duchess frowned. “None of this is your concern and I’m sure you don’t wish to hear it. I must return to the ballroom, but if you see her, pray send her to me.”
“Yes, your grace.” Angus expected Lady Charlotte to fume over the duchess’s plotting, but no sound came from the shrubbery. Too angry to talk, I daresay. I don’t blame her. “If I see her, I will send her to you.”
“Very good. Thank you, MacThune.” With that, the duchess swept inside, the door closing loudly behind her.
Angus waited for a moment to make certain the duchess wasn’t returning and then he turned to where Charlotte was hidden. “So, you are hiding from matchmakers, too, are you?”
No sound filled the garden other than the musical fall of the fountain.
“Charlotte?” He stepped into the narrow space between the shrubberies where she’d been . . . but all he found was the faintest whiff of her perfume.
Without a word of goodbye, Lady Charlotte had made good her escape and had left Angus alone in the garden.
Charlotte buttered her toast, stealing a glance from under her lashes at her companion.
Margaret, the Duchess of Roxburghe, sat across the table, her lips pursed in displeasure. She wore an impressive red wig, which complimented her fashionable blue morning gown, a modern confection of lace-trimmed muslin. To her left, sleeping near the fire, six fat pugs snoozed in snoring piles of varying colors and sizes.
Charlotte’s nerves eased as she looked at the pugs. They were such dear creatures: Feenie, Meenie, Weenie, Beenie, Teenie, and Randolph. As if sensing her distress after the ball, sweet little Beenie had followed Charlotte to her bedchamber and kept her company as she struggled with her unpleasant thoughts. Charlotte wondered if she should knit the pugs new coats with bows at the neck. It would be difficult to do, as none of them were of the same size, but—
“You are thinking about the dogs again.”
“How did you know?”
“You are staring at them with an odd smile on your face. You always think about the dogs whenever there is something you don’t wish to think about.” Margaret’s concerned gaze narrowed. “Is something wrong, Charlotte? You look unhappy this morning.”
“You seem upset.”
“I have a reason; I threw a ball so you could find a suitor, and you left in the middle of it and were not seen again.”
“Oh that.” Charlotte bent her head and applied an extra swipe of butter to her toast, her lace cap sliding perilously over one of her ears.
Margaret’s bright blue gaze locked on Charlotte’s cap. “I thought we’d agreed you’d stop wearing those. You’re not in your doddering old age, you know. There’s no reason to dress like it.”
“I like my caps.”
“I don’t,” Margaret said firmly. “Dowagers wear lace caps. Unfashionable dowagers.”
“I’m old enough to be a dowager.”
“Nonsense! I’m older than you and I’m not old enough to be a dowager. Not that I’ll admit, anyway. Besides, you don’t look a day over twenty-two.”
Charlotte had to smile.
Margaret’s lips quirked in answer. “Fine. Thirty years old, then.”
Charlotte waited.
“Pah! Stop that. You don’t look a day like your forty-two years, and I refuse to admit else.”
“I am the age I am and I don’t wish to change it.”
“Neither do I, but that silly cap is more appropriate for a sixty year old widow than a fresh-faced, kind-hearted lady in the prime of her life. Pray remove it. My fingers itch to snatch it from your head.”
Charlotte sighed and unpinned the cap from her brown curls, folded it neatly, and tucked it into her pocket. That done, she reached for the marmalade.
Margaret watched.
Charlotte paused, her hand on the spoon. “Would you like some?”
“No.” Margaret picked up her teacup and sighed dramatically. “I’m sure I couldn’t eat a bite.”
It was an obvious invitation to ask why she was so upset, which Charlotte prudently ignored. Instead she said, “Very well,” and then slathered marmalade on her toast.
It was hard to maintain her air of calm, for she felt as if she were in a ship that was slowly sinking into a sea of unwelcome thoughts.
Ever since she’d met Angus in the garden last night, her thoughts had been in turmoil. She’d barely slept a wink, stirring restlessly in her bed until well into the wee hours of the morning. Had it not been for Beenie arriving to snuggle on her feet, Charlotte would have never gotten any sleep at all. Because of the dog, she’d had to stay very still to keep from waking it, and had fallen asleep herself in the process.
Now, all she wanted to do was climb back into bed, and pull the covers over her head. She’d never expected to see Angus Reeves again, and certainly not looking so different, so . . . powerful. He’s now the mysterious Viscount MacThune and not simple Mr. Angus Reeves; I must remember that, too.
Only she really didn’t need to remember it, for she had no intention of seeing him again. It had been twenty long and sometimes lonely years since they’d parted, but over time, she’d found her way free of the memories and was now quite happy with her life. Or she had been until Margaret had decided Charlotte needed a spouse of her own. Charlotte had been hoping against hope that her friend’s attention would wander to another soul in need of a husband or wife. Someone who might present a great, and thus more interesting, challenge. Someone who wants to find the love of their life.
She took a bite of her toast and suddenly remembered the day Angus had left those many years ago. He’d been standing on the deck of a large schooner as it had slowly rolled out of the harbor toward the open sea, the wind blowing his hair, his face pale and set. Never once had he looked back.
To this day, whenever she smelled the ocean, her throat clamped shut, and tears would well unexpectedly. Oddly enough, her throat and eyes were doing that very thing right now.
Shocked, she hurriedly put her toast back on her plate and reached for her napkin.
Aware of Margaret’s sharp gaze, Charlotte pretended to sneeze, which gave her an excuse to dab at her eyes afterward.
Margaret’s displeased expression softened. “You aren’t catching the ague, are you?”
“No, no. Just dust, I’m sure. This morning, I spent an hour selecting some books from the library.” Which was true. She’d looked for the most boring books she could find, hoping that tonight, they’d help her sleep.
“I’ll ask Mrs. Lind to have the room dusted.” Margaret poured herself some tea. “Why did you leave the ball without telling a soul? I had to make excuses to no less than eight men who wished to dance with you.”
Charlotte tucked her kerchief back into her pocket. “I didn’t leave exactly. I merely stepped out for some fresh air and I forgot to come back.”
; “Forgot?” Margaret set her cup back into the saucer with a snap. “You did not forget.”
“Yes, I think I did.”
“Charlotte, I threw that blasted ball for you, and yet you disappeared the second the music began. I spent weeks – weeks, mind you – pouring over the guest list, making sure to invite every mature eligible bachelor and widower in town!”
“That was the problem. All of those men, looking so sad and alone and – well, I can’t help them all.”
Margaret puffed out her breath in exasperation. “You aren’t supposed to help any of them. You’re supposed to pick the best of the bunch and let them court you.”
“But Margaret, I don’t wish to be courted. I’m happy as I am.”
Margaret snorted and then pulled the marmalade jar to her side of the table. “You need a husband. They don’t grow on trees, you know. Nor can you find them between the pages of those novels you like. And you certainly won’t find one while you’re tucked into a chair by the fireplace, knitting. Husbands can be found standing around at balls, riding in the park, and once in a great while, sleeping in a box at the theater. I know these things; I’ve matched many an excellent couple, and well you know it.”
Charlotte sighed. “Yes, yes. I do know, and I’ve helped you with many of those matches. I just don’t wish one for myself.”
Margaret harrumphed. One of the dogs lifted his head to look in her direction. “You do, too. You just don’t know it.”
Randolph, the oldest pug, rose and then waddled to the duchess and stood looking up at her with a wagging tail. Margaret’s stern expression softened and she bent and lifted the animal into her lap. “Randolph agrees, don’t you, little one?”
Randolph’s fat spring of a tail whirled in happiness as the duchess rubbed his ear.
“Though wise beyond his years, Randolph knows nothing about what would make me happy.” Charlotte winced as her friend’s lips thinned. “Margaret, please. I would rather you didn’t bestir yourself on my behalf.”
Margaret cast her eyes heavenward. “Why oh why do you resist my efforts? You know I must win in the end.” The duchess pinned Charlotte with a clear gaze. “Can you tell me honestly that not one man stirred your interest last night? Not even a little? Did you dance with Lord Rotherwood? He was quite taken with you and asked about you several times. What about Lord Kent? He seemed promising except for being prodigiously short and somewhat given to spitting when he talks.”
Charlotte stuffed toast into her mouth.
“That will not help. I’ll wait until you’ve swallowed and simply ask my questions again.”
She would, too. No one was as determined of spirit as Margaret. It was one of the reasons Charlotte liked the duchess; one always knew where one stood with her. But today Charlotte was finding that characteristic somewhat annoying.
Charlotte swallowed her toast and then took a sip of tea. “I’m deeply sorry I left your ball early.” Especially as her escape had failed miserably and had, in fact, thrown her into the arms of the one man she’d least wished to see. “It was overwhelming.”
Margaret pursed her lips. “Perhaps I got a little carried away and should have started with something simpler, like a dinner party.”
“That would have been easier than a ball.”
The duchess took a bite of her toast and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll host a dinner party, just a small one, you and a few couples, and several of the more promising mature men from the ball and—”
“Margaret, please! It’s very nice of you to wish to find me a husband, but you are making me miserable.”
“Pish! You’ll be very sorry if I stop.” The duchess wiped her fingers on her napkin, and then templed them before her. “Perhaps I’ve been too quick in this. We should slow down a bit, and discover what character traits you are most drawn to in a potential mate.” She looked expectantly at Charlotte.
Charlotte stifled a sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.“
“Then do so now. What things come to mind when you think of the perfect man?”
Instantly, Charlotte had an image of Angus, large and dark, with his chiseled jaw line. Her face heated as she hurried to say, “I would like a man who knows what he wants.” Which was as unlike Angus as possible. Or it had been. She supposed she didn’t know who he really was now.
“That’s a good start. What else?”
“One who doesn’t disappear when things are difficult.” She could name a few men who had that flaw right now, but she wouldn’t. “I like a man with a good sense of humor, too.”
“One of my favorite traits.”
“It’s very important.” Angus’s deep chuckle had been nice, and there was something about him when he smiled— She impatiently shook the memory away. “I also like a man who looks and smells like a man should.”
“And how is that?”
Tall, broad-shouldered, and with a cologne made of exotic— Oh dear, that’s Angus, too. Heart sinking, she realized she was gripping her knife as if she were about to stab something. She relaxed her hold and cleared her throat. “I can’t really describe it.”
“Were there no men last night who drew your attention at all? Think about it carefully, and do not think you are making a commitment by merely admitting an attraction.”
“None of them,” Charlotte said.
“Not a one? Not even—”
“None,” she repeated doggedly. Which was a blatant untruth, for one had interested her far more than she’d wished. A man with silver eyes, and with such a sensual line to his mouth that merely thinking about it made her shiver.
The years had changed him greatly. He was deeply tanned from foreign climes that he seemed a different person, and harder somehow. But the parts of his character she’d loved the most – his laugh, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he could look at you as if he never wished to look at another woman – were exactly the same.
At one time, she’d thought she and Angus were destined to be together forever. I believed it, too. I believed it with all of my heart. But fate had something different in mind. Angus had something different in mind.
It was all so confusing. Why, oh why, weren’t there patterns for love, the way there were patterns for knitting? It would make life so much easier.
Margaret rubbed Randolph’s ear, and the dog panted happily, his tongue lolling out of his gray muzzle. “We’ll definitely have a dinner party. It’s important to see potential mates as they interact with their peers.”
“Why?”
“So you could compare them. It’s rather like looking at chickens at the market. You think you have the largest one, until you see the others and realize that, no, the grocer lied to you and you have an ordinary, pale, uninteresting chicken that snores when he sleeps and has no funds whatsoever and—Charlotte? Are you even listening?”
She nodded dutifully. “Chickens. No funds.”
“Perhaps it would help if I draw a diagram. Then you could see the benefits of making comparisons and—”
A soft knock heralded the butler, MacDougal. Tall and angular, he crossed the room to the table and bowed. “Good mornin’, yer grace.” He turned to Charlotte and, beaming at her, held out a small silver salver on which rested a single card. “Me lady, a gentleman has come t’ see ye.”
Margaret brightened. “I knew someone would call after the ball! Who is it? What’s his name?”
“‘Tis a Viscount MacThune,” MacDougal said.
Charlotte started to open her mouth to make her excuses when Margaret frowned. “MacThune?” She waved her hand. “Tell him Lady Charlotte is not in.”
Charlotte closed her mouth, her back stiffening.
“Aye, yer grace.” Looking disappointed, MacDougal bowed and turned to leave.
“No! Wait!” Charlotte said.
The butler froze in place, half turned.
Charlotte turned to Margaret. “Why should we tell MacThune I’m not in?”
“It is
kinder to depress his intentions up front, my dear. He’s not the sort to make you happy.”
While Charlotte might agree with Margaret’s assessment, it seemed unfair that the duchess would make such a personal decision without so much as a by your leave. “You don’t know him.”
“I’ve only spoken to him briefly, but I know quite a bit about him. His Uncle MacDermott is a special friend of Roxburghe’s.”
“The name seems familiar. So that’s the viscount’s uncle?”
“Oh yes. When I’m at Floors Castle, MacDermott and Roxburghe often stay at White’s and work on legislation for the House of Lords. They are quite in sympathy on a number of issues.”
“What does MacDermott say about his nephew?”
“He thinks highly of the viscount, but it’s obvious MacThune’s situation is far from good. For one, he lives in India and rarely visits England. That won’t do. Plus, even when he is in town, the man is nearly a hermit and rarely goes into society. His appearance last night was very unusual, and yet what did he do but hide in the garden all by himself and smoke cheroots? You, my dear, need a much more outgoing person.”
“I do?”
“Oh yes, to balance out your lack thereof. He’s also said to be very impatient, and – while I hate to admit this aloud, I must – he’s so brown after being in the tropics.” Margaret wrinkled her nose as she poured more tea into her cup. “Most ungenteel.”
Charlotte clenched her jaw. She had no wish to have anything more to do with Angus; just seeing him in the garden had upset her peace more than was acceptable, but to hear him maligned in such a way and by someone whose opinion she held dear was almost painful.
“MacDougal, you may go.” Margaret helped herself to some bacon from a silver dish.
The butler turned toward the door again.
Charlotte stood in such a rush that her hip bumped the table and rattled the china.
The butler stared, the door partially open.
Margaret’s brows rose. “What are you doing?”
“MacDougal, inform Lord MacThune I’ll be down shortly.”
An Encounter at Hyde Park Page 30