Her father had known she’d challenge his decision and hadn’t wanted to have to deal with it—with her. Her eyes burned. She’d never been a girl who cried easily and yet, since she’d been in England, she was constantly having to rein in stupid tears.
“He left? Already?” She wiped one arm across her eyes.
But then she froze, thinking to take flight. “Perhaps I can catch him—” But Lord Westerley caught her arm, effectively halting her escape. “He’s been on the road for over an hour by now. He excused himself from port and mentioned finding you in the drawing room to bid you farewell before leaving.”
“He what?” The air whooshed out of her. Were all of her plans to be thwarted? “I wanted… I could have…” And this time it had been her own fault.
If only she’d gone to the drawing room with the other ladies. But would her father have listened to her?
Lord Westerley relaxed his hold and stood silently. Dropping her gaze to the floor, Charley somehow had the wherewithal to be grateful that he wasn’t offering any inane platitudes. It was embarrassing enough that he’d already been witness to her father’s betrayal. If her own father didn’t take her seriously, how could she expect anyone else to?
She cleared her throat, determined to maintain a small amount of dignity. “Well then.” She forced a smile. “I’ll take you up on your bargain then. You may pretend to court me, and then go through the motions of making me an offer, which I shall, of course, refuse, in exchange for the benefit of your sisters’ and your expertise on all the things I’ll need to know to get through the Season in Mayfair.”
He squeezed her hand. “You won’t regret this.” But when he leaned his face forward, almost as though he was going to kiss—
“Goodnight, My Lord!”
Charley tore herself away from him and took off running in the direction she’d originally come from.
Chapter 11
A SPUNKY LITTLE CHIT
The next morning, Jules beat Charley to the morning room. One of the footmen had conveniently informed him that she rose early and hadn’t failed yet to finish a hearty breakfast.
All he’d had to do was wait, and sure enough, at half past eight, she strolled through the doors and headed straight for the sideboard. Throwing him a wary glance, she piled her plate high and then took her own seat a few places down from him.
Watching her dig into her eggs, Jules pinched back a grin.
She had bolted from him when he’d attempted to kiss her.
He hadn’t intended to but had acted on instinct. He couldn’t remember the last time a lady had resisted an overture from him.
In fact, hers may have been a first.
“Good morning,” she mumbled before stabbing a piece of sausage. She’d also piled on gravy and potatoes and toast with jam.
He savored a slow drink of coffee, black of course, before addressing an important aspect of their… bargain.
“Ours won’t be a pretend courtship.” She wasn’t the sort of lady who’d appreciate effusive platitudes, so he stated his position baldly.
He would not have her imagining that he didn’t intend to honor his word.
She glanced up from her food and rolled her eyes. It struck him as odd, not for the first time, that he wasn’t more aggravated at having to marry a woman he’d not chosen for himself. Was it only because he’d been having increasing misgivings about marrying Felicity?
Miss Jackson carefully set her utensils alongside her plate and then sighed. “A courtship is entered into when two people are attracted to one another,” she explained as though speaking to a child.
Although half-irritated by her persistent obstinance, he was also relieved to see that some of the spark had returned to her eyes.
Damned Jackson. He ought to have given his daughter the courtesy of speaking with her in private before leaving the manor. Jules had known her for not quite a week and even he understood how disappointed she would be at being denied the opportunity to tour the distilleries.
“Courtships are entered into for all manner of reasons.” Jules leaned back in his chair. “With the same end result in mind.” As he watched for her response, he found himself anticipating arguing with her. Would her cheeks flush? Would her eyes appear dark and mysterious or bright and flashing? Or would she procure a flask from one of the voluminous sleeves of her dress and offer him a taste of whiskey?
At the last thought, he very nearly chuckled aloud. Because it was not out of the realm of possibility.
She was interesting—more than interesting—and he hadn’t been intrigued that way for any particular lady in a very long time.
Charley faced him full on now and he was satisfied to watch that delicate pink flush working its way up from the satiny skin above her bodice to her neck and into her cheeks. He couldn’t deny that he had become attracted to her. But how? She was too bold, too abrasive, too… American? But if he was going to be strictly honest with himself, he’d wished she hadn’t run from him before he could get a taste of those full pink lips. What would it be like to kiss a woman like her?
“I don’t want to marry.” She held his gaze and the pink darkened to a soft rose.
Jules pushed his coffee away and folded his hands together on the table. “You aren’t like other ladies your age.”
Her lashes swept down and her shoulders sagged, and he realized he’d said the wrong thing before she answered.
“I know. I can’t help it.”
“Being different isn’t a bad thing.” There were two sides to her. The bold and courageous one, and this one. Likely more than one. Would he find all of them as alluring?
“Oh, but it is. And it’s not as though other American ladies are all that different than your sisters, the Blackheart twins, or even Lady Felicity. But I’m not like them. I never will be. If I could have one wish, it would be for everyone to stop trying to make me into something I am not.”
“Besides your grandparents, who else wants to change you?” And then it dawned on him. “You mentioned you were ten and eight at the time your mother died. That cannot have been very long ago.”
“It’s been six years.” So, Charley was four and twenty, two years older than Bethany. There were moments that she seemed more naïve than Tabetha but then she’d occasionally say something that made her seem closer to his own age.
“Did you get on well with her?”
A series of emotions played across her face: joy, regret, sadness. “My mother was the most beautiful woman you ever would have seen. She had golden-blond hair, the prettiest blue eyes, and she was just as a woman ought to be. Slim. Petite. Delicate. And, as I’m certain you’ve noticed, I am none of those things.”
Jules waited before disagreeing with her. Miss Jackson wasn’t slim or petite, but she was lovely in her own right. She was at least six inches shorter than him and when he touched her arm, or the small of her back, he always had a sensation that she was delicate. He couldn’t keep his gaze from traveling down her slim neck to her shoulders and what he could see of her full breasts before the rest of her was hidden by the table. She wasn’t fragile and something about her inner strength excited him.
“As I grew into the person that I am, so did her disappointment.” She lifted her fist and held it to her heart. “I felt it, right here.” She smiled ruefully. “It was easier to become my father’s shadow. He seemed content enough to have me as his helper, as his companion.”
He pictured her as a very young girl, her blazing hair and curious eyes would never allow her to be hidden in a shadow.
Jules inhaled. “May I call you Charlotte?”
“Or Charley, if you prefer.”
He couldn’t help grinning at that.
“Which would you prefer that I call you?”
She tilted her head just so and blinked. “Charley.” And then, “What should I call you?”
“Westerley, Fitzwilliam, Julian. Or Jules, if you prefer.” Now it was she who grinned.
“That’s
quite a selection to choose from… but I think I like Jules.”
“Then I shall call you Charley.”
“Should we only use our given names in private, then? Are you going to tell anyone that you are courting me? It’s perfectly fine with me if you don’t wish to. That way, when all of this is over, you can go back to being engaged to Lady Felicity without too much—"
“Charley.” He cut her off. “To answer your questions in order. Yes, we should only use given names in private. Feel free to call me Westerley otherwise. Yes, I will tell people that I am courting you… in due time. It is what I wish. And when all of this is over, you and I shall be engaged and on our way to the altar, making it unnecessary for you to concern yourself that I will ever become engaged to Lady Felicity.” As Jules spoke, he itched to move around the table and jump far ahead in his courtship of her.
Would she bolt again if he tried to kiss her?
He tamped down the thought as she tilted her head back and released a long breath.
“You really are incorrigible do you know that?”
“So, I’ve been told.” God, she was magnificent.
“Very well. I’ll pretend that you are courting me for real and you can pretend that you’re not pretending to court me. Meanwhile, I would be pleased to have you for a friend.”
Jules contemplated her gloved hand, extended across the table as though for him to shake it.
Taking his time, he extended his own. She was not a petite lady, that was true, but she was a good deal smaller than him, and her hand practically disappeared in his.
With a firm jerk, she squeezed and gave a shake before withdrawing and settling it back in her lap.
“And I am pleased to have you as a friend as well, Charley.” But he was coming to think she might be equally pleasing in his bed.
“Thank you. Jules.” She wriggled her shoulders and then eyeballed her plate. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish breaking my fast.” The spunky little chit was dismissing him, by God.
She ought not to have come down to breakfast unaccompanied, and Jules didn’t wish to leave her alone. It was his home, and he was mostly certain she would be safe here, but one could never be completely sure. Over the next few days, he’d address some of her behaviors with her. It would be tricky, though. He didn’t want her to think he was yet another person who wished to change her and yet, as his countess, it would be important for her to understand the traditions he lived by.
Which, really, if he took the right approach, oughtn’t be difficult. He would take her on a tour of his land, explain some of the more interesting tidbits in his family history. And around London…
He was coming to think there were several things he wanted to show her, and to do with her… to her. But changing her most certainly wasn’t one of them.
“As your most ardent suitor, I am happy to wait and then escort you back to your chamber.” He leaned back in his chair again and settled in. Would she really eat all of what she’d piled on her plate?
She shoveled in a bite and after swallowing, shifted her gaze up again. “It’s not necessary to pretend while we’re alone, Jules.” His sisters, he guessed, would not appreciate him watching them eat. Miss Jackson—Charley—that was, didn’t seem at all embarrassed to eat in front of him.
Jules narrowed his eyes. “You may pretend all you wish, but you’ll find yourself pretending you aren’t marrying me as you walk down the aisle of St. George’s.”
It was a little unnerving that her response to his statement was to burst into laughter.
Twenty minutes later, after delivering Charley safely to her chamber, Jules stepped into the room that never failed to provide the masculine residents of the house with a respite from feminine company.
“You didn’t show up at the stables.” Mantis glanced up from the billiard table before shoving the cue through his fingers sending the colorful wooden balls rolling in all directions on the table. “Brightley caught us just as we were heading out. Said he was looking for you.”
Felicity’s father.
Jules straightened the index finger on his left hand until his knuckle made a satisfying cracking sound. He would need to have a discussion with the man, who’d been a good friend to his father for as long as Jules could remember. Now that Charley had consented to his courtship, Jules would have to have that difficult conversation soon.
“Damnedest thing.” Chase crossed one leg languidly over the other from across the room, where he sat near the hearth. “Your betrothed having an acquaintance with the American president. And then to mention it in mixed company.”
“Is Miss Jackson your betrothed yet?” Mantis lumbered away from the felt-covered table and looked over at Jules.
“Not yet.” Jules poured himself an early morning drink. “But she will be.”
Chapter 12
CAPTURING TIME
“If this was a summer house party, all of us would travel to some ideal picturesque location on the estate and paint outdoors.” Bethany took Charley’s arm as the group of mostly young ladies strolled through the foyer. “But seeing as it’s only March, Mother has had the ballroom converted.”
“What if one doesn’t paint?” Charley remembered the few attempts she’d made under her mother’s tutelage when she’d been younger. By the sixth or seventh lesson, her mother had given up on her completely and they’d moved on to the pianoforte. Charley had envied the music her mother had been able to coax from the instrument so effortlessly.
But for Charley, the proper keys had always eluded her fingers and the notes on the page danced chaotically before her eyes. That particular exercise had proven an even less successful endeavor than the painting.
It had not been long after that that Charley had begun making excuses to visit her father in his office and at the stills. Her mother had resisted at first, but Charley knew that she’d also been secretly relieved.
“Of course you can paint!” Felicity glanced over at her. “All young ladies do.”
Not this one, Charley corrected her silently.
For today’s activity, tarps had been draped on the floor and over easels set up in a circle on the far side of the room. A wooden block was placed in the center of the circle.
“Everyone, please select your easel and prepare to create your masterpiece. Highly esteemed Monsieur Jean Luc Lemaitre will be available to offer his assistance.” Lady Westerley stood beside a small man with a beret cocked sideways on his head and wearing a paint-covered smock. “This will be an excellent opportunity for each of you to improve your skills.”
Bethany stopped at one of the easels, where she released Charley’s arm, allowing her to claim the one beside it. Felicity took the one on the opposite side. Farther around, Tabetha was giggling with Lady Lucinda, and on the other side of them, the other Blackheart twin, Lady Lydia watched in earnest.
“Here you go, Miss Jackson.” A maid appeared at her side. “To protect your gown.”
Charley inhaled nervously. She hadn’t bargained on taking art lessons today. In fact, if Bethany had not appeared at her chamber shortly after Lord Westerley left her there, Charley had planned on finding a good book and a quiet place where she could hide.
From the other guests but also from Lord Westerley.
When she’d first met him, she’d expected to find him boring, annoying. And then he had proven to be neither. What had she been thinking to consent to his pretend courtship? Surely, that would mean exposing herself to more of his charming company. Would he pretend to show her affection? Because that was what a courtship was, after all.
Only in the case of a real courtship, there was no pretending.
Ours won’t be a pretend courtship. What did that even mean?
He was just so certain of himself. Charley buttoned up the large smock and watched as two manservants rolled a table into the circle. Whatever had been stacked on it was presently concealed with another of the ubiquitous tarps.
“Madams and Mademoiselle
s.” The Frenchman cleared his throat. “May I have your attention s'il vous plaît? Maintenant we are going to journey deep into the historical importance of painting nature morte. Or as the English say, the still life.” He turned to nod at the servants who carefully folded the sheet off of the table.
They revealed a large bowl of fruit placed on a velvet-covered block so as to be visible to everyone. “What do you see here?”
“Fruit.” Charley stated the obvious and a soft murmur of laughter echoed in the room. She hadn’t meant to draw attention to herself, but the question was such an obvious one that it would have been silly not to answer.
The painting master pinned his gaze on her, a thrill of excitement in his expression. “Ah, but is it? Is it really? Come forward and look closer.”
Charley shifted a moment but then stepped around her easel to peer more closely at the bowl. What sort of a trick question was this? “An orange. A banana. Grapes. A pineapple.” She shrugged. “Apples?”
“Look closer,” he urged.
“There is light and color. The fruit is a moment in time,” Felicity provided from where she stood at her canvas and Charley sent her an appreciative glance.
“Yes!” the master announced gleefully. “Return to your station, Mademoiselle.”
Charley was grateful to be dismissed and quickly ducked back behind her easel.
“This fruit. Today, eet is beautiful. The colors, they are magnifique, are they not? But tomorrow, the banana, it will have streaks and spots of brown. The orange, it will grow green and soft, and the apple will eventually dry and shrivel. But if you can capture it, if you can paint it.” He paused as though he was going to reveal the secret to life itself. “You will capture a moment in time.”
Charley glanced at her blank canvas and then back toward the fruit in confusion. Soft gasps of awe whispered around the circle and a few of the older ladies clapped their hands together.
But to her, the bowl still contained plain, ordinary fruit. She shook her head, feeling utterly out of place.
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