George saw to seating Elizabeth in the chair to his right, preferring to keep her at the same end of the long table as his carver was located. “I do not believe I have ever seen Teddy so happy,” he remarked, deciding not to mention the time the bank clerk had won a hundred pounds in a game of whist.
Elizabeth beamed. “I am so glad to hear it.”
“Or so frightened.”
Elizabeth blinked. And blinked again. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Impending fatherhood has a tendency to do that to a man.” He acknowledged the footman who poured the wine and regarded the soup course with appreciation.
A smile slowly spreading across her face, Elizabeth had to wave a hand in front of her face as tears threatened. “Oh, George,” she murmured. “This is such good news. Why, our babies will be born at almost the same time.”
George allowed a shrug, not having thought of that particular detail. “You do realize this means he will have to hire a new headmistress?” he asked with an arched brow. He lifted his spoon to his lips and savored the lobster bisque before noting how Elizabeth gazed at her own bowl of soup. “Is something amiss?” he asked with a hint of alarm. “Shall I order you a different course?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. No, I’m fine.” She looked up and gave him a brilliant smile. “This babe doesn’t seem bothered by fish at all.”
He finished another spoonful of soup before asking, “Then what about the soup has your attention so completely?”
Shaking her head, Elizabeth said, “Not the soup, but rather who could take Daisy Streater’s place at Warwick’s,” she murmured.
His soup forgotten, George regarded his wife with interest. “Oh? Do tell,” he encouraged.
Taking a breath and then holding it a moment, Elizabeth gave her head a quick shake. “Why, Mrs. Witherspoon, of course,” she said with some excitement.
Not recognizing the name, George merely shrugged.
“She applied at the ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’,” she explained. “She was a field nurse, and although she was never wounded, she did run the Parker Hotel prior to her service on the Peninsula.”
George returned his attention to his soup, not exactly impressed with the connection. “If she wasn’t wounded, why did she seek assistance from your charity?”
Elizabeth allowed a shrug, absently dipping a spoon into her bisque. “She is unmarried and doesn’t wish to be a prostitute.”
Thinking of at least a half-dozen other occupations that didn’t require a woman to spread her legs—milliner, seamstress, teacher, nurse, maid, and housekeeper,—George was about to recite them when he noted the frown Elizabeth aimed in his direction. “Is she educated enough to be an accomptant?” he asked, remembering the boarding school required its headmistress to keep the books.
“She ran a hotel, George,” Elizabeth countered. “And the only reason she cannot do it now is because the hotel was sold whilst she was playing nursemaid to soldiers, and the new owner is seeing to running the hotel himself.”
George nodded his understanding. “Very well. Shall I suggest her to Teddy then?” he asked.
Taking a breath and then letting it out slowly, Elizabeth considered the query. “I will suggest her to Mrs. Streater,” she said then.
George stopped his spoon in midair. “But what about Teddy?”
Furrowing a brow, Elizabeth gave her head a shake. “He doesn’t run Warwick’s, and I am quite sure he wants to keep it that way,” she replied.
Allowing a grin, George finished his soup and nodded his agreement. “You have the right of it, my sweeting.” He gave a sigh. “As usual.”
If his wife could see to a new headmistress for Warwick’s, the least he could do was see to a new husband for Charity Seward Wadsworth.
And he was fairly sure he knew exactly the man to fill the bill.
Chapter 8
A Ball Spent with Charity
Three days later, Lord Attenborough’s ball, Mayfair
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Marcus Batey, Viscount Lancaster, commented as his gaze took in the petite, blonde, blue-eyed Miss Analise Batey. Dressed in a bright white gown of fine lawn decorated with rows of white furbelows along the hemline and satin rosettes around the neckline, Analise was the epitome of the perfect English miss, fresh out of the school room and ready for her first Little Season.
Luke Merriweather, Viscount Wessex, furrowed his brows and followed his older friend’s gaze until it settled onto a blonde of at least thirty. Her bright red satin ballgown, trimmed in black lace, was enhanced by a diamond cluster between her breasts. The gown fit to perfection and hinted at a pair of rather long legs. “Indeed,” Luke agreed, despite the fact that she was entirely too old for his tastes—he was barely five-and-twenty.
Luke would have continued staring at the woman, if only because she was rather easy on the eyes, but her line of sight was about to intersect his, so he turned his attention back to the older viscount. “I didn’t realize you were in the market for a mistress,” he said, sotto voce.
Marcus blinked and turned his attention back to where the young viscount had been staring. Instead of the young lady in white—his daughter—Marcus realized Luke had been regarding the woman wearing a red satin ballgown.
A year out of widow’s weeds and having raised both an heir and a spare for the late Earl of Wadsworth, the former Charity Seward was rarely seen at Society events. Many thought she still lived in one of the earldom’s country estates, or had taken up residence in a dowager cottage next to the sea. “I wasn’t referring to Lady Wadsworth,” Marcus said in a scolding voice. Although, now that he gave her a second glance, he wondered how he could have missed her presence in the first place. He had been hoping to find her at tonight’s entertainment. Lord Attenborough had assured him an invitation had been delivered to the widow.
A memory from a long time ago had his breath hitching and his body reacting in ways it hadn’t done in many years. Just the thought of what he had at one time imagined doing with the woman, back when he was younger, had him allowing a sigh of frustration.
Responsibility and obligation had prevented him from approaching her during his university years. Then there was the unfortunate incident involving his former best friend. Edmund Fulton, then the future Earl of Wadsworth, decided he wanted Charity for himself and claimed he had ruined her. Explaining what he had done to the girl to her father ensured he would be granted her hand—and her dowry—in marriage, which precluded Marcus from ever having a chance at courting the beautiful ingénue with the curly blonde hair.
His situation had changed, though.
And so had hers.
Charity Seward Wadsworth had buried her husband the same month his own wife had died in the childbed. His spare heir had survived the ordeal and was now ensconced in the nursery at Stanton House.
That is, if the tyke hadn’t escaped from his nurse, as he had a tendency to do now that he was a toddler of two.
The boy had mastered door handles.
Marcus’s arm no longer bore the black armband signifying he was in mourning. Now that his daughter was having her come-out—at this ball—Marcus was determined to socialize.
Luke frowned before his gaze finally settled on the young lady in white Marcus had mentioned first. “Rather young for you, isn’t she?” he asked, his brows waggling. He knew the identity of the young lady, of course, but he enjoyed teasing the older viscount.
Marcus gave a snort. “I am not in the market for a mistress, and she—” he nodded in the direction of the young lady in white—“is my daughter,” he countered before his expression changed, one that hinted of impending murder. “Have you had your sights on Analise?” he asked, his manner indignant, as if the very idea of Luke Merriweather paying his daughter any mind would result in pistols at dawn on a foggy Wimbledon Common—even if the young buck was the heir apparent to the Middleton earldom.
“I agree, she is gorgeous,” Luke replied with a nod. “But even
I know better than to believe you would ever allow the likes of me the privilege of courting her,” he added in his own defense. “If you did, you would have introduced me to her.”
Truth be told, he had been well aware of the young woman before he arrived at Lord Attenborough’s mansion for that evening’s ball. He had seen her on several occasions when he paid a call on Marcus at his house, although they had never been introduced. He had also seen her among her fellow students when she attended Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School, her happy expression and confident manner making her stand out from the young ladies who surrounded her. Like bees to honey, he thought.
Then he had paid witness to her dancing the very first cotillion earlier that evening. He had watched her dance the second set, a rousing Scottish reel, which had his usual dour expression lighting up in delight at her enthusiasm. As the crowd increased and it became harder to see all the dancers, Luke lost track of her until he had a brief flash of her performing the waltz. Poised and confident, she smiled as their eyes met.
And something twitched in his ribcage.
Now that he had a chance to really look at Analise Batey, Luke wished he hadn’t been so quick with his comment to the older viscount. “You will have to allow someone to marry her, though,” he argued, turning his attention back to Marcus. “Perhaps not this Season, of course, but next, just as Bostwick suggested that night we were at the club.”
Marcus frowned, knowing the younger man had a point. “I could put her in a nunnery,” he murmured.
“No, you cannot,” Luke countered. “I have it on good authority she will be courted by no fewer than four of my peers with whom she has danced this evening,” Luke claimed, his words a bit of a fib. He was quite sure she had danced all five sets. As for the identities of those who wished to court Miss Analise, he really had no idea. He just enjoyed watching the older viscount squirm.
“She danced?”
Luke blinked and wondered if he would lose his life if he mentioned Analise was quite stunning when dancing the first waltz of the ball. “Indeed. Whomever did you hire as her dance master? She’s quite exquisite performing the waltz.” He thought about closing his eyes, thinking the older viscount wouldn’t punch him if he couldn’t see the fist coming.
“She is?” Marcus countered.
Luke blinked again and stared at the older viscount. “She is,” he affirmed, ready to take a step back should Marcus’s arm come up with a closed fist at the end of it.
“But, I didn’t hire a dance master for her,” Marcus replied, his head shaking from side to side. “Which means... I suppose it was a good idea she attended Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School.” After a second, he added, “I hired protection for her, of course. A rather burly sort who had experience in such matters.”
One of Luke’s eyebrows arched up in an approving manner. “Ah, well, since she went to school at Warwick’s, then she had one of the Albright sisters—or both of them—as her dancing instructor,” he said with a nod. He leaned in and added, “Ariley’s daughters,” in a hoarse whisper, one eyebrow arching up, as if he was imparting something secret.
Viscount Lancaster regarded his colleague for a long time while he considered this bit of information. “The Duke of Ariley allowed his daughters to teach at a... at a finishing school?” he asked in surprise.
Luke nodded. “Independent women, both of them. But they’re married now. Surely you heard Breckinridge took one of them as his wife.”
Marcus furrowed a brow. “I heard he married an arithmetic teacher.”
“He did. Diana Albright was her name. She’s the younger daughter,” Luke explained. “The new Lady Breckinridge was also the dance instructor at Warwick’s. Probably your daughter’s dance instructor until she married,” he clarified. “Then, the older daughter, Lady Daisy, married Teddy Streater—the gentleman who joined us for drinks a few nights ago at White’s—this past June. She’s the headmistress of the school now, and while she did teach the dance class for a time, I happen to know someone else sees to that class now.”
Marcus arched a brow. “Because you are pursuing the new dance instructor as a possible viscountess?” he guessed.
Luke’s eyes widened. “Of course not! Mrs. Wheatley was my sister’s governess,” he replied, rather indignantly. “And she’s old enough to be my mother.”
Nodding his understanding, Marcus was rather glad Analise was done with finishing school. He had sent her to Warwick’s after his wife, Joan, had died, thinking that to employ a governess to live in the home he had inherited—along with the viscountcy—might lead to scandal. Meanwhile, his oldest son, Andrew, was away at Cambridge for his college education, which meant Stanton House was occupied by just Analise, his two-year-old son, John, twelve servants, and him.
Although Marcus had missed his daughter during the weeks when she boarded at the school in Glasshouse Street, he had Analise’s company on Sundays and holidays. By the time she had completed her schooling, he realized she had grown into an accomplished young woman, ready for the trials and tribulations of the ton.
Perhaps he really should see to a nunnery for her.
“You’re staring at her again,” Luke accused, glad the attention was off of him. He had been afraid his friend had paid witness to his appreciative perusal of Miss Analise.
Marcus blinked. “What?”
“Lady Wadsworth. You were staring at her. Aren’t you a bit old for her?” he teased.
“Old?” Marcus repeated, his face displaying a hint of worry. Truth be told, he hadn’t given a thought as to Charity Wadsworth’s age, probably because he had secretly pined for her since his days at Cambridge. Then, as second sons were sometimes forced to do, he had married another—Joan Harrington—because he had been expected to do so from the time he was in leading strings.
His marriage and occasional time away from London hadn’t lessened his fascination for Charity Seward, though. Instead, he imagined her just before he fell asleep from exhaustion. He woke up thinking of her, his initial thoughts in the morning comprised of how he might request an introduction. How he might come to know more about the mysterious woman who was rarely in London.
He winced at the reply she had sent him in response to his invitation to a ride in Hyde Park.
Although I am honored by your invitation, Lord Lancaster, I find I must decline as I have a previous obligation in the afternoons.
Obligation? What could be so obligating that she couldn’t join him on an innocent ride in the park?
“She is why I decided not to move to my country estate,” Marcus said with a sigh. Even if Charity wasn’t in London, she couldn’t be farther away than Suffolk. At least, that’s where her late husband’s earldom was based.
Luke eyed his friend with an expression of disbelief. “Are you speaking of Lady Wadsworth? Or your daughter?”
Marcus gave his head a shake. “My daughter, of course,” he lied. He pretended to peruse the ballroom, just to discover if Charity was still holding court with two of the patronesses of Almack’s.
She was not.
Marcus continued to scan the room, feeling a bit of panic when he couldn’t find her either dancing or in conversation with anyone else. When he made the final turn, his attention still on the others in the room, he gave a start when he discovered Charity Seward Wadsworth regarding him with an elegantly arched eyebrow.
A beautiful, blonde eyebrow indicating either scorn or censure.
Certainly not approval.
“My lady,” he said in alarm. His bow was immediate and deep. He reached for her hand, and she allowed him to brush his lips over her gloved knuckles before he straightened. “Lady Wadsworth. I haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction,” he managed to say, his eyes darting about them as if he was in search of someone to do the honors.
“You’ve been watching me,” Charity accused. The words didn’t hold any malice, nor did the hint of a question tinge them.
Marcus allowed a nod. “I admit, I h
ave,” he replied, deciding bravery was called for just then. He could have denied her claim, but she was finally speaking to him. He had her all to himself, if only for a moment or two. If she agreed to a dance, then he would have her for another half-hour. Perhaps after that, she would agree to a ride in the park.
From the way her expression faltered just then, Marcus realized she had been expecting a denial, or perhaps some excuse for why he was paying her so much attention. “I cannot help myself. I have found you to be one of the most beautiful women in all of London. Since the first time I paid witness to you when you were on a ride in Hyde Park. Back when I was... nineteen, I think it was?”
Charity blinked, her previously confident, almost haughty manner faltering. “Since I am poor at guessing men’s ages, can you apprise me of how long ago that might have been?” she asked as she angled her head. She was about to add, “During the last century?” but thought better of it. The gentleman who stood before her, with his evening clothes fitting so perfectly and his dark hair precisely combed, with little in the way of sideburns, was certainly older than thirty. Maybe older than forty.
Hopefully not too much older than forty.
“One-and-twenty years, two months, and three days ago,” Marcus replied, as if he didn’t have to do the math but knew the numbers off the top of his head.
Charity blinked. She blinked again. Although arithmetic had never been her strong suit, she knew three things all at once: He was around forty years of age, he had seen her when she was sixteen, and it had been during the last century.
Not her best year, certainly. But not her worst. The worst was the following year, when she learned she would be marrying Edmund Fulton, the future Earl of Wadsworth, because he had told her father that he had ruined her. They were to wed the following Season.
The Charity of a Viscount Page 6