The Deserted Heart: Unmarriageable Series (Unmarriagable Series Book 1)

by Mary Lancaster

  She hung back a little as they took tea and were greeted by acquaintances desperate for an introduction to the duke. Only in the chaos of setting down tea cups and returning to the seats for the second part of the recital, did she come face to face with Alvan with any degree of privacy.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Well,” she managed. “Lady… Barnaby and Lady Cecily have been most kind.” She was already moving away from him with something approaching panic, when she remembered what he needed to know, and hastily turned back. “Mr. Cornell is here.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh.” Slightly deflated, she would have retreated once more, had his gaze not clung to hers with something close to a challenge which she was at a loss to account for. “I think he does not mean you well. I’m sure he’s spending the ransom money and he suspects you and I know it.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” All but interrupting her, his words were abrupt and quiet.

  She blinked. You should never have come here! Just go! Go! “Yes,” she said quietly and walked away to her seat beside Cecily.

  *

  Alvan loved that she was so moved by music. As was he. The gifted harpist helped lift him up, banishing the last tendrils of blackness that hovered still around his mind. Just seeing her made him happy. Moreover, there was something very right in her being with Cecily. How the two had met and become friends, he had no idea. It might have been chance, although it was more likely to have been his sister’s curiosity. She would have discovered he meant to offer for Thomasina and somehow worked out that it was Charlotte who obsessed him.

  Charlotte’s distant manner did not cast him down for the tumult in her eyes when she had discovered him watching her from the wall told him all he needed to know. She did care for him, and he had hurt her, several times over. By not offering his love with his hand at Audley Park, and by his awfulness to her at the hall, assaulting her and then shouting at her to go as if it had been her fault. He did not mistake the ground he had to make up, but if she cared… he was sure she did.

  Bidden to dinner at the house his aunt had taken in Shore Street that evening, he presented himself a few minutes before seven, and instead of waiting in the drawing room where he was led by an awed servant, he wandered off to explore, in the hope of running across Charlotte on her own.

  He was rewarded as he stuck his head in the door of a pleasant dining room and discovered her walking around the table as though looking for missing cutlery or glasses, or anything not quite perfectly laid out.

  She wore the gown that had adorned Thomasina at the Laceys’ party in Sussex, presumably altered to fit her. Somewhere it angered him that she never had anything new, even when travelling with his aunt and sister who were notable figures of fashion in the ton. People would imagine she was some kind of companion. And he doubted she cared.

  “Do you organize my formidable aunt, too?” he asked lightly.

  She jumped visibly, her gaze flying to him. Color began to seep up her slender neck to her face. But still, she lifted her chin. “I help if I can. I don’t like to have nothing to do.”

  “I doubt my aunt’s servants have left you anything to do here. Why don’t you come and talk to me instead?”

  She had herself in hand now, walking briskly round the table to the door. “I’ll tell Lady… B-Barnaby you’re here.”

  He knew she was flustered, because her stammer was more noticeable. He had to be the cause of that agitation—he only hoped it was for the right reason. He didn’t stand aside, but remained where he was, blocking the doorway, forcing her to halt.

  “She already knows. I’m sure she’ll be down when she’s ready.” He searched her carefully expressionless face. A pulse beat at the base of her throat, where he longed to press his lips. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers. “Are we friends, Charlotte?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be?” she shot back.

  “Any number of reasons. I was not… myself as I prefer to be when you stayed at the hall. I’m sorry you saw me like that.”

  A flicker of something warm showed in her eyes. “There is no need to apologize for illness. Or sadness.”

  “Then why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

  Her fading blush rose once more. “I’m not.”

  “Because I kissed you?” he asked softly.

  She closed her eyes as though she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Or, perhaps, because she couldn’t think before the desire he didn’t trouble to hide. “There is no need for this discussion,” she managed, opening her eyes once more. “I understand perfectly and I am quite able and willing to regard you, as Lady Cecily’s brother, as my friend.”

  “But what is it you imagine you understand so perfectly?” he demanded, stepping closer.

  She didn’t back down, but held his gaze with a faint tilt of her chin. “That men kiss without as much reason as women and mean little by it. That honor demanded you offer for me. And that there is no need. Neither Thomasina nor I have been affected by my ill-judged ride with you that night. I imagine Lord Dunstan has held his tongue, surprisingly enough.”

  “I imagine he has. His aim was never to hurt you or your sister. Just me. But we stray from the point. Why should you imagine my kisses mean nothing?”

  At last, her eyes flashed with anger. “Because I heard your words telling me to go. Because I saw the hatred in your face as you said them. Please, let me pass.”

  “The hatred was not for you, Charlie,” he said gently. “It was for me.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms there and then. Only the knowledge that such behavior was unlikely to convince her of his respect kept him still.

  “There you are, Alvan,” came Lady Barnaby’s voice from the foot of the stairs. “Did the fools not show you to the drawing room?”

  With an effort, he dragged his gaze from Charlotte’s mouth and turned to face his aunt. “Yes, of course, but I got bored and went exploring. I found Miss Charlotte.”

  “I’m just going to fetch Cecily,” Charlotte murmured and fled with some dignity at last.

  Lady Barnaby looked after her thoughtfully and took her nephew’s arm. “Come, you may pour me a glass of sherry in the drawing room.”

  Alvan knew, when she closed the drawing room door, that he was to face an inquisition. Sighing, he strolled across to the decanter and glasses on a mahogany cabinet and poured sherry.

  “Cecily tells me you have a tendre for that girl,” Lady Barnaby began. “And don’t say what girl?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Alvan said mildly. “But I fail to see that my tendres or lack of them, are any of your business.”

  “Don’t get on your high horse with me.” Clearly unimpressed, his aunt installed herself in what looked to be the most comfortable chair. “It was a civil question, not an accusation.”

  “I didn’t even realize it was a question,” he said, deliberately provoking, as he walked across the room. He handed her one of the glasses. “Since it is, I do. What of it?”

  To his surprise, his aunt gave a quick smile. “Nothing. For what it’s worth to you—nothing, I know—I approve. Why isn’t she drooling at your feet like every other girl in the country, well-born and otherwise? Because she saw you at your worst?”

  “That,” Alvan said, not distinguishing between his various worsts, “and the fact that I first met her on the way to offer for her sister. As a result of failing to, I doubt I stand in high regard with either of them.” He raised his glass to her in a silent toast and sipped the sherry.

  “Is that why you came to Blackhaven?” his aunt asked bluntly.

  “One reason.” He hesitated, then, “Has Frank Cornell been sniffing around you?”

  His aunt curled her lip. “That is a most distasteful expression. But yes, he has. He’s been making up to Cecily, largely.”

  Alvan took another sip and regarded his aunt over the glass. “Am I right to trust Cecily’s jud
gement?”

  “I think she’s amused by his presumption, but he is not the sort of man to engage her feelings.”

  Alvan wondered if Dunstan had sunk so far that he would actually seek to hurt Cecily. On the other hand, he suspected a falling out between Dunstan and Cornell, and Cornell acting on his own was somehow more worrying.

  Cecily and Charlotte came in then, and he changed the subject.

  During dinner, Charlotte seemed to relax enough to exchange banter with his sister, with whom she seemed to have formed a genuine friendship. While glad of that, he missed that easy friendliness he had enjoyed with Charlotte in Sussex. Here, she never addressed any remarks to him throughout dinner, although she answered with perfect civility when he spoke to her.

  As was proper, the ladies left him with his port and brandy after dinner. But Alvan had done enough solitary drinking over the last six weeks to last him a lifetime, so after five minutes or so, he simply took up his brandy glass and strolled along to the drawing room to join the women.

  Cecily sat at the pianoforte, playing with the keys rather than creating any coherent music. Lady Barnaby sat by the fire, working on some embroidery, while Charlotte took up most of one sofa with a mass of silk onto which she appeared to be sewing a lace trim.

  “What are you working on?” he asked casually, resting his hip on the sofa arm.

  “I’m adding a trim to this gown so that it will do for the castle ball,” she replied.

  He frowned. “Doesn’t my aunt not have servants who could do that for you?”

  “She does,” Lady Barnaby said tartly, “only it would not be so good as Charlotte’s own work, so she prefers to do it herself. It is an excellent thing you are here, Alvan, for now you may escort us to the castle tomorrow evening.”

  “That’s clearly why he came,” Cecily teased, knowing his dislike of such events. “If you haven’t been invited yet, Alvan, you will be by the morning.”

  Alvan didn’t doubt it.

  “So you will escort us?” Cecily pursued, just a shade anxiously.

  He shrugged. “If you wish to go, of course I will.”

  Cecily laughed. “Well that was simpler than I expected. He is clearly on his best behavior before you, Charlotte.”

  “Why don’t you play something instead of torturing us with phrases that go nowhere?” Alvan suggested.

  Cecily gave a mock bow and played a pretty French song very nicely, though with more enthusiasm than technical perfection.

  “You do play delightfully,” Charlotte complimented her with genuine warmth.

  Cecily laughed. “I play lazily! It’s Alex who is the true musician in our family. But society decrees it is I who must show off my lesser accomplishment. Why don’t you play us something, Alvan, since there are only the three of us to hear you?”

  “I would rather hear Miss Charlotte play,” he said.

  Both his aunt and Cecily looked surprised. “Charlotte doesn’t play,” Cecily said, puzzled.

  Charlotte, red to the roots of her hair, glared at him.

  “She does not play in public because she puts most young ladies to shame,” Alvan said, refusing to name Charlotte’s sisters. “But since there are only the three of us to hear…”

  Cecily gave a gurgling little laugh and stood up. “Do you outshine me, Charlotte? I assure you, I do not mind. Now I insist you play!”

  There was little Charlotte could do without appearing ungracious, so she set aside her work and went to the pianoforte, where she played from memory a piece Alvan did not know. When she began, he thought she simply meant to get through it as quickly as possible, but after the first few notes, she could not help but play with all the skill and feeling he had observed in her before on the guitar.

  “There, you do outshine me,” Cecily said without malice. “Your punishment is to play again.”

  “Oh no.” Charlotte stood.

  Rising from his sofa arm, Alvan went to her. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I want my family to know you as you are.”

  A puzzled frown tugged at her brow as she met his gaze. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Truthfully? Because I like your family. Staying with you made me realize how little time I had spent with my own.”

  He could almost see the question forming in her eyes. What has that to do with me? Before she could ask it, he said lightly, “As penance, I will play—if you play with me.”

  Reluctantly, she sat back down, as though intrigued in spite of herself.

  He drew up a chair beside her stool. “You begin, whatever you might have played next.”

  She spread her long, slender fingers over the keys, and as she began, he had to forcibly banish images of them playing over his body. Instead, he concentrated on the music and began to play around her melody, harmonizing and expanding. She caught on, sometimes taking him by surprise and following his lead away from her own, as if to see what he would do. The music became like banter, drawing laughter from his aunt and sister. For the first time, her eyes smiled when they met his, and he knew with aching relief, that they could still be friends.

  But he did not stretch his luck. Although he could have sat playing with her for hours, he drew the duet to a natural close, thanked her for the fun, and let her return to her gown.

  He drank tea with them, letting himself enjoy not just Charlotte’s presence but the company of his sister and his aunt who were both witty in their own right. When had he started regarding them less as family than a vaguely pleasant but necessary duty? Perhaps the world was right, that he had grown into a cold and distant man, and not just on the surface he showed the world. If he had, then Charlotte was melting him, and while the intensity of that was almost frightening, it was also exciting and addictive and fun.

  He took his leave of them before it grew too late.

  “You should remove here, Alvan,” his aunt told him. “There is a spare bedchamber, for originally, we expected Charlotte’s sister, too.”

  “I’ll disturb you less at the hotel,” he replied. Dutifully, he kissed his aunt’s cheek and his sister’s and strolled to the sofa to offer his hand to Charlotte, who seemed to have abandoned her gown, or finished it. “Good night,” he said, adding more quietly, “Walk with me on the beach tomorrow morning.”

  Her eyes widened. She pulled her hand free and he walked away, wondering almost painfully if she would dare. If she would even want to.

  *

  Too full of energy to go tamely home to bed, Alvan walked up to the harbor to gaze out over the sea, wrestling with hope and self-doubt and an unshakeable determination to try for this happiness. If only it could also be hers.

  Calmer at last, he walked back toward the main street and the hotel. On the way, a tavern door opened almost in front of him, and a young gentleman weaved his way out of it with an amiable smile.

  “Excellent brandy,” he observed indistinctly and stumbled off into the night.

  On impulse, Alvan walked in.

  It was a sailors’ bar, rough, bare, dim, and smoky. It stank of unwashed bodies as well as stale alcohol and tobacco. Alvan’s nostrils twitched with distaste, but he knew from experience he would quickly grow used to it.

  A small group of obvious gentlemen sat at a table at the back, more or less ignored by the rest of the patrons. Cynically, Alvan hoped they kept their valuables close. He was about to turn away when he spotted a face he knew turned toward him in stunned disbelief.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Frank Cornell was indeed utterly flabbergasted to see the haughty Duke of Alvan in such a low establishment. For an instant, their eyes met and Cornell was sure Alvan would give him the cut direct. Instead, he gave the faintest inclination of his head and swung away toward the counter.

  “Good God,” said one of Cornell’s companions, an army officer named Harrington. “Is that not the Duke of Alvan?”

  “It is,” Cornell replied, trying not to sound grim. “What on earth brings him to this drinking den?”

&n
bsp; “You should ask him, since he appears to acknowledge you. But if you ask me, he won’t have the stomach to stay long.”

  Cornell couldn’t help glancing after the duke, who stood out in this company even more than usual. He didn’t bother changing his habitual manner to a more advisable one of bonhomie that would at least acknowledge to the regulars that he knew he was in their territory. Instead, he ignored the stares unless they came from someone right in front of him, when he gave a curt nod and passed on.

  Cornell didn’t know if the duke was brave or stupid. Like most young men of his class, Cornell had occasionally gone in company to other low taverns, attending events like cock fights and prize fights, and rubbing shoulders with some very scary individuals. But he would never have dreamed of coming to a place like this alone. Alvan seemed quite unaware of the danger. Or perhaps he didn’t even perceive it, being so sure of his own rank and worth.

  Alvan turned back from the counter with a glass of brandy in one hand.

  “Good God, he isn’t going to sit with the locals, is he?” Harrington exclaimed in amusement.

  But apparently, the duke had other company in mind, strolling through the cramped tables to Cornell’s.

  “May I join you, gentleman?” he asked civilly.

  “Of course,” Harrington said jovially, when Cornell’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “Safety in numbers, eh, your grace?”

  Alvan’s eyebrows flew up. “No, I just wanted a word with Cornell here.”

  “Manners, Cornell!” Harrington scolded, slapping Cornell on the back. “Introduce us to the duke!”

  Recovering from the foolish shock, Cornell duly introduced his companions. Then, prompted by the devilment in Harrington’s eyes, he said. “I’m astonished to see your grace in a place like this.”

  “I was told the brandy is excellent.” He raised his glass in a silent toast to the table and sipped. “It is.”

  “Smuggled,” Harrington said succinctly. “If it isn’t French, I’ll eat my hat.”