"I do hope that you are not trifling with the girl's affections, Hugh," she said abruptly, a frown creasing her brow, "For if I recall correctly, Miss Drew has already been greatly disappointed by a young man. I should not like it if your name were to be added to the list of society's ignominious gentlemen--Gemini knows, it's long enough."
"I am not trifling with Miss Drew's affections, mother," Hugh replied, though his conscience prickled with guilt. He sighed, hoping to give the look of a man greatly troubled by false assumptions about his morals, before quickly moving on to more important matters.
"And just who was it," he queried, giving up any attempts at nonchalance and allowing himself a dark scowl, "Who disappointed Miss Drew?"
For a moment, the dowager duchess' only reply was a raised eyebrow as she looked her son up and down, from top to toe. Hugh could feel the tips of his ears burning as he realised that he had revealed more than he wished to. He was not a man given to displays of emotion--quite the opposite, in fact--but the anger which coursed through his veins at the mere idea that someone had hurt Charlotte had rendered his usual composure obsolete.
"Well," the duchess said, adjusting her skirts as a mysterious smile played at the corners of her lips, "I beg you to forgive me for insinuating that you are merely playing with Miss Drew's feelings, my dear. It is quite obvious that you hold the girl in great regard. As to the gentleman who disappointed her--if I recall correctly, it was the younger of Lord Marshdon's sons, Charles Deveraux. He has since married an American heiress."
This last piece of information was delivered with a disapproving sniff, which let Hugh know just what his mama thought of Deveraux's choice of bride.
Hugh ignored his mother's snobbery and instead cast his mind back to the day before, when Charlotte had turned as pale as a ghost upon spotting Mr Deveraux riding toward them. Even he, who was not known for picking up on the nuances of ladies' feelings, had noted her discomfort.
He had guessed that there was some sort of history between the two, but owing to Charlotte's reputation, he had wrongly assumed that the pair had crossed swords in a battle of words, not a battle of hearts.
A cascade of feelings--most quite new--washed over Hugh, threatening to drown his sense of reason. His mind reeled as he experienced anger, fury, and an overwhelmingly male urge to protect and defend Charlotte. If Mr Deveraux had been standing before him at that very moment, Hugh was certain that he would have throttled him to within an inch of his life.
For a man who prided himself on possessing a cool detachment when it came to women, this thunderstorm of feelings was rather perplexing to the Duke.
You are merely being chivalrous, a voice in Hugh's mind whispered soothingly. Was he not a gentleman? And as a gentleman, was he not obligated to defend the fairer sex?
For Hugh, accepting that his reaction was on account of his chivalrous disposition was far easier than delving into the reasoning behind the cold, hard fury which filled his heart at the thought of Deveraux.
"Deveraux is no great loss to Miss Drew," he growled in reply, still unable to master the art of nonchalance, "She can do much better than a fortune-hunting second son."
"Indeed," his mother said, barely able to conceal her delight at Hugh's obvious latent jealousy.
Hugh, who was holding onto the last of his dignity by a thread, decided that it was best to excuse himself from his mother's presence, rather than endure her matriarchal triumph.
He loved his mother dearly, but even a son's love was not enough to endure suffering the smugness of her smile.
With his sense of pride slightly ruffled, Hugh took his leave from the duchess' Mayfair abode and set out on his journey home. As the morning was exceptionally fine, Hugh decided to take a slight detour through Hyde Park, hoping that he might enjoy a canter along the Serpentine.
The park was quiet and tranquil, given the unfashionable hour. There were few riders on the Row and Hugh urged his steed into a gentle gallop along the path, relishing the feeling of freedom that it gave him. Usually he felt most comfortable in London, and adored the hustle and bustle of the capital, but of late he had felt hemmed in by the crowds, the smoke which choked the air, and the constant noise of the city. He felt a longing for something, but he could not put his finger on just what it was that he wanted.
He had just decided that a trip to his Kent estate might be in order, when the sound of laughter from nearby drew him from his thoughts.
Hugh looked up and spotted four figures standing by the banks of the river. He squinted against the spring sun, as one of the figures threw back her head and gave a familiar laugh.
It was Miss Drew, accompanied by her two fellow wallflowers and a young gentleman whom Hugh did not recognise.
"Lud, Sebastian," he heard Charlotte cry, as the young man made a poor attempt at skimming a stone on the water, "Even Fifi could do better than that! Look, watch me."
Miss Drew leaned over to pick up a stone, before launching it with an elegant side-armed throw. Even Hugh had to admire her artistry, though his stomach clenched a little as he heard the young gentleman give a whoop of appreciation for her efforts.
"Well done, Charlotte," he called, using Charlotte's given name with an easy familiarity which left Hugh envious.
A sudden awareness came over Hugh and he urged his steed onward, lest he be spotted gawking. A six-foot tall duke upon a stallion of sixteen hands could hardly be called inconspicuous, and he felt painfully vulnerable at the thought of Miss Drew catching him spying on her fun.
For a moment, Hugh had a vision of how Miss Drew viewed him; an austere duke, perched upon his metaphorical and literal high-horse, looking down on all and sundry.
Yesterday, when she had suggested that Hugh saw himself only as his title, he had proudly replied that she was right. Who would want to be a mere man, when as a duke he held a position of such power and wealth?
Today, Hugh wondered if perhaps he was mistaken in his beliefs. He had inherited his title at the tender age of twelve, and had been schooled on the importance of his title--and ergo himself--by zealous tutors employed by his uncle. In his formative years, he had come to understand how his every word, action, and even his thoughts, impacted on the line, leaving him with a sense of detachment from others.
Loneliness pierced his heart with such force that Hugh was astonished it did not knock him from his saddle. He had never before thought of himself as lonely, but he realised with a jolt that this was exactly what he was.
Lonely, isolated, and aloof.
Hugh's mind wandered from thoughts of Miss Drew, to thoughts of his brother, and as he progressed on his journey home, he became more and more irritable.
Dash the chit, he thought with a scowl, as he finally reached his palatial residence in St James' Square. Dash her for making him long for someone to laugh with on a stroll through the park. For wanting someone to see him as Hugh, and not just the Duke of Penrith.
Still, as much as he might curse Miss Drew, Hugh's treacherous mind was already making plans to call on her the next morning. And he was so absorbed by thoughts of making her laugh, in the same way that the young gentleman had earlier, that he clear forgot he was only courting her as a favour to Dubarry...
Chapter Seven
Morning calls--the making and receiving of--were always something that Charlotte had found rather tedious. Sipping tea with society mamas and their daughters, whilst trying to make pleasant--but unremarkable--conversation seemed to Charlotte to be a special kind of torture. A needless device devised by women such as her grandmama to stop ladies like Charlotte indulging in more interesting activities.
Their only saving grace, in Charlotte's eyes at least, were that they allowed her to disappear from the house for lengthy periods of time, without having to give too much of an explanation for her absence.
"I am calling on Violet," she had uttered that morning at the breakfast table, her words so usual that neither her father or her sister had deigned to reply.
&nb
sp; "And I am borrowing Ethel," she had added, for Bianca's benefit, though her sister was so absorbed with the reading of sheet music, that she had merely mumbled something unintelligible in reply.
Bianca was thoroughly distracted by thoughts of her morning lesson with Mr Dubarry and unfortunately--or fortuitously--Helga was also distracted, attempting to remove a large wine stain from a white-muslin day dress.
"I did not know that you drank wine," she had grumbled, when Charlotte had handed her the offending item.
"Well, I shan't be drinking it ever again," Charlotte had trilled in reply, as she tried to quell a blush, "Oh, I know you will be able to mend it Helga, there is no one better than you for the task."
The Swedish woman had swelled with pride at Charlotte's praise, and had bustled off to find some lye with which she might tackle the dreadful stain.
Feeling rather guilty for her deception, Charlotte had rushed to find Ethel to ready her to leave. Helga truly was the best woman for the job, so much so that Charlotte feared the lady's maid might have the stain removed before Charlotte had a chance to make her escape.
Once safely ensconced in the carriage, Charlotte let out a sigh of relief; the first part of her plan had gone smoothly, now she just needed to convince Ethel to follow along--though she did not think it would be difficult.
"Oh, dear," Charlotte thwacked a palm theatrically against her forehead, "I have just recalled that Violet is not at home this morning. Perhaps we might go shopping instead, Ethel?"
"Oh, very good," the lady's maid had replied with a smile.
That was easy, Charlotte thought, though guilt niggled her at her deception. Ethel's sweet, honest nature made her rather easy to deceive, and Charlotte hated to exploit her goodness.
It is all for a worthy cause, Charlotte assured herself, as the carriage trundled through London's streets toward The Strand. Though how worthy other people--specifically her grandmother--would think her cause was debatable.
Rundell and Bridge were one of London's most prestigious jewellers, who served as goldsmiths to the crown. Located on Ludgate Hill, the shop was a treasure trove of fine jewellery and gems, and was frequented by some of the wealthiest members of the bon ton.
Whilst firstly famous for their exquisite jewels, Rundell and Bridge were also famous for the discretion of Mr John Bridge. Members of the aristocracy who required access to funds quickly, could be assured of the goldsmith's complete silence and fair prices, should they decide to pawn some of the family heirlooms.
Charlotte, who had met with Mr Bridge numerous times over the past two years, still felt a fritter of nerves when she entered the shop.
"Good morning, Madame," a voice called in greeting, as a bell above the door tinkled, announcing Charlotte's arrival.
A young man, so well dressed that he verged on dandyism, rushed forth from behind the counter to welcome Charlotte, who tried not to grimace with dismay. Where was Mr Bridge?
"Good morning," she replied, adopting a tone of great hauteur, for the young man now wore a flirtatious smile which she found galling, "I wish to speak with Mr Bridge, is he in?"
A raised eyebrow was quickly lowered, but not so quickly that Charlotte did not catch it. His eyes quickly flicked to Charlotte's left hand, before meeting her eyes with a slight, almost indiscernible smirk. Charlotte tried not to frown in annoyance at the young man's impertinence; would he behave in the same way if she were a man?
"Of course, madame," the shop-assistant replied, in a conspiratorial whisper, "Would you care to wait inside his office? Mr Bridge is attending to another customer in the display room, he shall be along shortly. Whom shall I say is waiting?"
"Miss Drew," Charlotte replied shortly, though she accepted his offer to retreat to Mr Bridge's office. She did not wish to be spotted dawdling in the shop, lest someone sighted her and informed her grandmother where she had been.
Charlotte and Ethel followed the pompous youth into Mr Bridge's office, where they waited for a quarter of an hour, until the proprietor arrived with a flurry of apologies.
"I am sorry for keeping you waiting," Mr Bridge said, as he mopped his bald pate with a handkerchief, "I was attending to a gentleman who was most particular in his requirements."
"Please, it was no trouble," Charlotte replied, for she had spent her time perusing the books on the shelves which lined the wall, "I have something I would like to ask of you, Mr Bridge. Ethel, dear, could you go fetch my shawl from the carriage?"
Once the lady's maid had left the room, Charlotte hastily withdrew a ruby pendant from her reticule to show to Mr Bridge.
"It's a very fine piece," she stammered.
"Indeed it is. I said the same thing to your father when he bought it from me, not two months ago," came Mr Bridge's amused reply.
Charlotte flushed; she hoped that the goldsmith did not think her ungrateful to her father for his generous gifts. Though she hoped even more that he would not press her any more on the matter.
Thankfully, Mr Bridge had a reputation of great discretion to uphold, and he did not push the matter any further. Instead, he offered Charlotte a price which was far greater than she had hoped for, counted the coins into a bag, and handed them to her, all before Ethel reappeared.
"My thanks, Mr Bridge," Charlotte said effusively, as she made to take her leave.
"Take care, Miss Drew," he replied with a note of concern, a kind smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Ethel seemed fit to burst, as she escorted Charlotte from the shop. The lady's maid was near skipping with excitement as they left to make their way back to the waiting carriage.
"What is it, Ethel?" Charlotte queried, once the door had closed shut behind them.
"Oh, Miss Drew," the young woman whispered in an excited gush, "Why, you'll never guess who I bumped into when I went to fetch your shawl."
Lud. Charlotte almost swallowed her tongue with fright; who had Ethel met? If she had been sighted by the wrong person, then Charlotte could say goodbye to any hope of Bianca being allowed to make her come-out. In fact, Charlotte could say goodbye to ever being allowed to leave the house again.
"Who?" she asked, her voice sounding much like a strangled cat.
"T'was I."
Charlotte paused mid-step, as though frozen in time. She recognised the voice that had called out from behind her at once, and only had to turn her head to confirm her suspicions.
The Duke of Penrith, dressed in an austere coat of black superfine, was standing on the footpath and glowering at her. His brows were knitted together into frown of annoyance and his eyes traversed her from top to toe disapprovingly.
"Your Grace," Charlotte inclined her head regally, determined not to allow the handsome duke to intimidate her. He had no idea as to why she had visited the jewellers, and to show fear would make him suspicious.
"What," he said in a low voice, as he walked toward her, "Pray tell, were you about, pawning your jewels with Mr Bridge?"
Dash it.
Any hope that Charlotte had of talking herself out of her predicament were shot to pieces at his words. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, as Penrith reached her. He was so tall that she had to look up in order to meet his gaze, and as her green eyes locked on his blue, Charlotte found that her mouth had suddenly become very dry.
"Don't try to deny it," he continued, mistaking Charlotte's muteness for mutiny, "The young man inside loudly informed Mr Bridge that you were waiting for him and why. Do you understand how much trouble you would be in, young lady, if it were anyone else but me who had overheard? Tell me, why on earth were you pawning your jewels?"
Perhaps it was the use of the term "young lady" or the imperious, bossy tone that Penrith had used, but suddenly Charlotte was not frightened anymore--she was apoplectic with rage.
"What I do is of no concern of yours, your Grace," Charlotte replied, narrowing her own eyes in anger, "You might think yourself lord and commander of every mere commoner you meet, but you have no authority over me.
"
She made to flounce away, but a hand--encased in a buttery-soft kid-skin glove--wrapped itself firmly around her wrist.
Charlotte tugged against Penrith's grip, but the duke's strength was such that he held firm with no outward appearance of effort. He was, she realised, far too strong for her to fight, and so she gave up on her struggle, reasoning that if she could not escape him then she would not make a fool of herself.
"Do you read the papers, Miss Drew?" Penrith queried, though he did not wait for her to answer before he continued, "Our names have been linked several times in the gossip columns and there is much speculation that I am seeking you for my bride. I need not tell you the prestige associated with having the world assume you are to be the next Duchess of Penrith. As such, I will expect you to behave in a manner which behoves that position."
Penrith's self-important soliloquy was delivered from a lush, sulky mouth which--despite her anger--Charlotte could not help but feel distracted by. His lips were a strange mix of masculine hardness and soft, full promise; what a pity he felt the need to use them for speaking with, Charlotte thought with a scowl.
"Oh," she replied, in a high falsetto which dripped with sarcasm, "I do beg your forgiveness for not meeting with your exacting standards, your Grace. Might I suggest that you focus your interests on another lady--one who might act as you feel your attentions behove? Or better yet, might I suggest you take your ruddy big hoof and--"
The clatter of a carriage drawing to a halt before Rundell and Bridge brought Charlotte's planned colourful reply to an abrupt halt. She drew breath and glanced nervously at it, suddenly painfully aware that she was standing on the footpath of one of London's most bijou roads, arguing with a six-foot duke.
"You were saying?" Penrith raised an infuriating eyebrow.
"I was saying," Charlotte replied icily, still unable to rein in her temper, "That your attentions are best focused elsewhere, your Grace, if you feel that association with me might sully your good name. Now, if you will excuse me, I'd best be on my way--we wouldn't want to cause a scene now, would we?"
Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3 Page 8