Charlotte’s heavy breathing was the only sound. Everyone stood transfixed, staring.
“Lady Charlotte!” Mrs. Holmes breathed. “I did not mean…I did not intend…”
“Charlotte, marry me.” Will’s voice echoed in the silent room. He stepped close to her and whispered in her ear so no one else could hear him. “My heart cannot continue on like this. Marry me, or I will leave Bath. I am tired of you acting as a chaperone to half the women in the county when you are the most beautiful and most spirited one among them.”
Charlotte turned to look into his eyes but could not speak. Excitement was pumping through her veins, and she wanted to hurt someone, or be held by him, or run away and never see any of them ever again, and she did not know which.
“You love me. Did you not say so?”
Her cheeks colored at asking such a question before such a crowd, but before he could reply, Miss Holmes spoke into the silence.
“Your Grace, are you in love with this chaperone?” Miss Holmes looked between them in astonishment. “Is…is that allowed?”
Charlotte’s gray eyes turned to Will. He tipped back his head and laughed. He did not defend her or protect her. He stood there, chuckling in the silence, ignoring the crowd watching her as though she was the entertainment for the day.
The pain in her heart peaked. Was she a joke to him? Had he no feelings at all? The love he was about to profess could not be real. If he cared for her at all, he would never allow her to be mocked like this in public.
“What do you have to say to that?” she whispered, not taking her eyes from him.
Will stopped laughing, and his eyes flickered from Mrs. Holmes to Miss Holmes to her.
Attempting to hold back tears and knowing she could not do so for long, Charlotte laughed bitterly. “And to think that I was about to accept—this, I think, is the perfect example of why I cannot be your wife.”
“No—no Charlotte, you have misunderstood me,” Will said, but he was still smiling, and it cut into her soul.
“I do not have to listen to this,” said Charlotte, taking a step away from him toward the door, toward freedom. “I do not have to listen to you. Good day, Your Grace.”
The tears then fell, and she let them fall as she walked in silence through the staring Pump Room. They fell the entire time it took her to reach home, and they did not cease falling until many hours later.
Chapter Sixteen
The glass slammed onto the table, dregs of ale sloshing over the lip.
“…and that,” William said impressively, “is what happened.”
His words were met with silence by the other four gentlemen around the table in the York Club. John was seated beside him and was staring into his glass, as though unsure how it had emptied so fast. The other three were shaking their heads, and William felt a surge of irritation. Did they not understand? Had they not heard how ridiculous it was?
“And did you follow her?” Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire, sipped at his ale with an eyebrow raised.
William shrugged. “What was the point? Charlotte had made herself perfectly clear. She does not wish to marry me, and that’s an end to it. I leave Bath tomorrow.”
There was silence around the table, though there was raucous laughter from the rest of the room. The night was late, and the ale was flowing, feeding the merriment in the place.
But not with William and his companions. The day’s events blurred through drink and irritation, but they still stung.
Pain rocketed through his body as John punched him in the arm.
“God’s teeth, that hurt!” William rubbed at the place where his brother’s fist had fallen. “What was that for?”
“You absolute fool,” John said with no sympathy whatsoever.
William was incensed to see their three friends, Orrinshire, Lord George Northmere, and Josiah Stanhope, Earl of Chester, were nodding in agreement. “Fool? I fail to see what I could have done differently, you blaggard, and you were not even there!”
“Not laughing would have been a good place to start,” said Lord George as he drained his glass and placed it on the table beside William’s. He gestured at one of the serving girls shepherded by a footman in the Club’s livery, who nodded and disappeared to find a pitcher.
William could not help but feel a twinge of shame. “I admit, it was not one of my finest moments—but Christ, it was all so ridiculous! Mrs. Holmes standing there, all agog at being shouted at, Miss Holmes thrusting her bosom at me like a wanton, and I could not have been less interested in the poor thing.”
Chester snorted. “Not really the point, though, is it, Mercia?”
“I have never seen Charlotte as a chaperone,” William persisted, “and it makes me laugh that everyone else does. ’Tis not a crime to see the funny side!”
The serving girl approached their table with a pitcher filled to the brim with a local ale and left it on the table. Chester watched her go appreciatively, and when Lord George kicked him under the table, he raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Look,” Chester said in a tone of finality, refilling his tankard, “if you had half a brain, you would have known how Charlotte would react. How any woman would have taken it! God’s teeth man, you have a sister, you know what women are like.”
“Two sisters,” John corrected, but with no malice in his voice. He stretched and settled again on the stool, the only one of the five not in proper seats.
William glanced at him, but his brother said nothing more. Two sisters, yes, if God was good.
Lord George was nodding. “I am married, my boys, and so I can tell you for certain, Mercia. Women do not like to be laughed at. Especially not in public.”
“You learned that the hard way!” Orrinshire guffawed, and he was joined in his merriment by everyone at the table, except William.
He bit his lip. Now he looked back on it, laughter was probably not the cleverest reaction—it had all seemed like a play put on for his own amusement. That anyone would look at Charlotte, brilliant and beautiful, and see an accessory to courtship! He poured himself another drink from the rapidly emptying pitcher.
“The real question is,” John said after his laughter had died away, “is how long has she been keeping you on this leash?”
William frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when was it you first proposed?”
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, William hesitated before responding and finally said, “I am not…exactly sure.”
Lord George’s jaw dropped, and his drink slopped onto the floor.
“Damn it, man, if you are not sure, how can you expect Charlotte to know?” Chester shook his head with a sad smile.
William tried to ignore the table beside them, evidently attempting to listen to their conversation. “Do not misunderstand me,” he said hastily, “it is…well, I have mentioned marriage so often, it is hard to say exactly when the first time was, you see?”
This explanation did not remove his friends’ concerns; if anything, it increased them.
“Mentioning marriage,” said Lord George heavily, “is not the same as offering it. Blast it all, Mercia, you’re not a fledgling of eighteen!”
“It was the heat of the moment!” William protested, gulping another mouthful of ale as though that would help him defend himself. “And in that heat of the moment, ’tis a challenge to get your words straight!”
Both Orrinshire and Chester grinned, the latter raising a suggestive eyebrow.
William glared at them sternly. “It is not like that. Christ, sometimes I feel like I am a fledgling of eighteen when I am with her. I get…God’s teeth, I cannot believe I am saying this but…flustered? ’Tis the only word I can think of. My heart races, I feel hot, and my brain seems to seep out of my ears…”
His voice trailed off, and his gaze dropped to his tankard. He felt weak, out of his depth. Like he could be felled by a feather in the breeze. No man could endure it. No man should.
W
hen he finally got the courage to lift his head, he saw his friends were looking at him seriously, without mockery.
Lord George was nodded. “That is exactly how you feel when you meet her, Mercia. ’Tis how I felt when I met and married my wife. But that’s the difference, you idiot. I knew that, I told her, I proposed, and I got married.”
“You were a fool not to do it properly,” Orrinshire said quietly.
William hated that they were right. How had he managed to get into this position? Getting into her bedchamber was far easier than getting into her heart.
To give his hands something to do, he took a long draught from the tankard. It did not help. Now his head hurt, but it was nothing to the hurt residing in his chest.
How could he have laughed? He was so stupid! She had needed him, and he had been given the chance to show her how he cared for her. But he had not been able to help himself. He wished to God he had been able to. Would he be with her, seated in her home, discussing their wedding, where they were to live, how many children they would have?
His stomach tightened. Instead, he was here, in the York Club, sitting with his brother and friends, realizing what a fool he was.
“I have talked of marriage half a dozen times since we first met,” he said quietly, more to his tankard than to anyone in particular, “and each time she has declined.”
“Do you know why?”
Orrinshire’s question resounded in his mind before William answered.
“She says,” he explained heavily, “she is just a chaperone. She does not expect to get married, she does not trust my intentions, and she cannot imagine herself getting married. Each excuse is a variation on a theme. She is always the chaperone and never the bride.”
There was more silence after this pronouncement, and then John spoke with a grin.
“Well,” he said matter-of-factly, “I can understand why she thinks that. I mean, she must be what—over thirty? Five and thirty, I heard. That is old, Mercia, too old for marriage.”
William did not think. His fist moved around fast and punched John firmly in the face.
John fell backward off his stool with a cry of pain, his hands clutching his face. Blood poured through his fingers.
William had risen from his chair, which had tipped over but was prevented from advancing on his brother because Orrinshire and Lord George were holding him back. He had not even noticed them move.
The club was silent, all heads turned to the fallen man on the ground. A pair of footmen moved slowly forward to check on the fallen man, and one proffered a handkerchief. Some in the room continued to stare, but the York had seen its fair share of disagreements, and this was between brothers. The murmurings rose, and the noisy chatter returned.
Chester had rushed to John’s side. “Christ, John, are you hurt? Is it broken?”
John accepted his hand. Standing unsteadily, he stared at his brother.
William stared back. He was panting, his heart thudding against his ribcage. He had never done anything so violent away from the battlefield and hated the taste of anger on his tongue—but had been so overcome with the desire to protect Charlotte, her name, and her honor.
“Take that back.” He was amazed he was able to speak, there was so little breath in his lungs, but the words managed to make their way out.
John’s nose was bleeding badly, but he did nothing to prevent the flow, allowing it to drip down his face, onto his collar and cravat. He stared at his elder brother without saying a word.
“I apologize. Hell’s bells, William, you know I like Charlotte. I was…it was wrong. I am sorry.”
Remorse burned through William. He reached out a hand, and his brother took it. “It is nothing.”
Orrinshire picked up the fallen stool and chair, and all five sat in silence.
John pulled out a handkerchief and started dabbing at the ebbing flow of his nose. “If Charlotte is that important,” he said thickly, “why are you here talking to us, instead of out there talking to her?”
He shrugged. That was a question he could not answer.
John snorted. “It sounds like she is afraid. If the five of us have learned anything, it’s that you are most afraid when you have the most to lose.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte paused before the door and took a deep breath. No matter what, she was going to keep calm. She was not going to lose her temper again. Not like the Pump Room.
She stepped into the dimly lit breakfast room. There were two candles in the room, and Matthews was still laying the table.
“You have risen early, my…” Matthews broke off as he lifted his head.
Charlotte flushed. She had glanced quickly at her appearance in the looking glass and seen the red-ringed eyes, the disheveled hair, the hastily tied gown hanging strangely because she had not waited for Danvers to help her. She still clutched a blanket around her shoulders.
Matthews decided not to say anything and returned to his task.
Charlotte did not have the words to thank him. Instead, she sat at the table, sinking into the cushioned seat. The morning had come too quickly, and she still could not believe yesterday had even happened.
“Your Grace, are you in love with this chaperone? Is…is that allowed?”
“I hope you enjoy today’s breakfast,” Matthews said quietly, jolting Charlotte back to the present. “I have been informed that Cook has saved some delicious kippers, especially for today. The evening post was delivered late, and I have placed the letters here.”
He gestured towards the pile of letters before her plate, and Charlotte nodded.
“Tea has been poured, and as usual, ring the bell if you need anything.”
Charlotte found her voice was hoarse when she spoke. “Thank you, Matthews.”
Matthews paused by her chair, but then nodded and left the room without speaking.
Sighing, Charlotte leaned back in her chair and listened. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. For the first time since his marriage, she missed Richard. She never thought she would miss him at breakfast, of all times in the day, but no matter what wild time of night he returned from one of his parties, or balls, or card tables, he would always make the effort to drag himself up and have breakfast with her.
Now she breakfasted alone.
The clock ticked away the minutes, and Charlotte realized she had not moved. Leaning forward to help herself to tea, she raised the cup to her lips, took a refreshing sip, and looked at the letters waiting for her.
She had hoped at least one of the six letters would be from Richard or Tabitha, but as she perused them, none of the handwriting seemed familiar.
Matthews had thoughtfully left the letter opener beside her plate, and after taking a gulp of tea to soothe her throat, sore from crying, Charlotte slit open the first letter.
It was not long, and as she perused the lines, a frown appeared between her eyes. Putting it aside and taking a long deep breath, she opened another. It was almost identical to the first.
Five of the letters were opened, read carefully, and laid in a row across her plate. She drank the last of the tea in her cup and read the longest again.
Dear Lady Charlotte,
I do hope you are not alarmed by receiving a letter from me as I know we are not intimate, but I wanted to communicate my thanks to you and could think of no better way than this.
I am truly grateful that you chaperoned me with William Lennox, Duke of Mercia, especially your fortuitous seating arrangement at the opera. I am even more grateful for the park excursion for it gave John, the Marquess of Gloucester, I mean—and I the opportunity to speak openly, and my heart is more full of him than I can say.
There have been some rumors, I have just been informed, that I have been accepting the addresses of Philip Egerton, Earl of Marnmouth, which could not be further from the truth. He is a great friend of my father’s cousin, and so has called here several times to pay his respects. I have attempted to explain this to many peop
le, but no one believes me, and all I can do is think of John.
If I am honest, I believe he loves me almost as much as I adore him, but with the spring here, many people are returning to the country, and I am in need of at least one more opportunity to fix him. I am sure that, with encouragement, he will make me the happiest person on this earth and ask me to be
But no. I cannot even write it, in case all my hopes are for naught. Please, Lady Charlotte, will you do me the honor of acting as our chaperone again? It would mean the world to me and could make all the difference.
I know you are a chaperone for many ladies, but if you could find room for me, my father and I will be eternally in your debt.
I am your ever-affectionate friend,
Miss Rebecca Darby
Charlotte leaned back in her chair. Each of the letters were written in the same vein. I should not be writing to you, Lady Charlotte, but I am; I want to be married, Lady Charlotte, and to this gentleman in particular; please, Lady Charlotte, be our chaperone.
This was her life. Watching from a seat, not part of the dance itself but merely an admirer of those who took the steps. Watching everyone else find their happily ever after. She was truly the chaperone in every social occasion, never to be the bride at all.
“You have never been a chaperone to me, but a captivating lady.”
Charlotte shivered, despite the warmth of the blanket still tight around her shoulders. Will wanted to marry her. He saw past the label of chaperone and saw her. It had been difficult to believe him, and for a while, she could not have imagined herself as a lady courted by such a man. Any man.
But then that night when she had invited him to her bedchamber…
She shivered, but this time due to the remembrance of desire. She had never known a man to be so persistent. Even some of those she has chaperoned had not been this determined!
Always the Chaperone Page 15