The Charity of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  “Lancaster!” Mary admonished her husband. “He’ll find no such thing,” she added as she leaned over and captured the reticule in one hand. “Everything in here is from just this past year,” she claimed, her chin rising in defiance of the viscount’s words.

  “What is archaeol...” Marcus stopped, his brows furrowing in concentration.

  “Archaeology is the study of artifacts from prior civilizations,” his father explained patiently. “Involves a good deal of digging in the dirt. Or reticules, if a woman ever allowed a man such an endeavor.”

  This comment had young Marcus turning his attention back to his mother. He was never sure when he was being teased or not. “Will you show me?” he asked in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

  Mary allowed a grin to appear. “I’d be delighted,” she said, giving her husband an arched eyebrow in the process.

  Charles allowed a look of surprise. “What? Why, you would never do me the honor of revealing the contents of your reticule to me,” he complained, his voice suggesting he was rather hurt.

  His wife giggled, a sound that had Marcus widening his eyes. He had never heard such a sound come from his mother before, but the delight she displayed soon had him grinning as well.

  “You never asked, darling,” Mary replied as she moved to give her husband a kiss on his cheek.

  Darling.

  Marcus always liked it when he heard his mother call his father ‘darling.’ He knew she adored his father. She teased him, and he allowed it. He teased her, and she feigned offense. But his father would work his magic with the metals he melted in his small foundry out back and every so often present her with all manner of beautiful jewelry and interesting trinkets, including the chatelaine she had pinned to the skirt of the gown she wore.

  “I am asking now,” Charles stated. “I should like to watch while you reveal the bag’s contents to young Marcus.”

  The viscountess rolled her eyes as she moved to the card table at the back of the parlor. She spread open the gathered end of the reticule until it was as wide as it would go and proceeded to unload the myriad objects onto the table’s surface.

  A small mirror in a hinged ivory case, a pair of silk gloves, a purse heavy with coins, a pair of opera glasses in an embroidered case. The items continued to collect on the card table, looking as if they would take up far more space than the small bag could contain.

  “Good God, Mary, you’ve barely made a dent,” his father had said then, his gaze directed down onto the opening of the reticule.

  “May I see?” Marcus asked, rising up on tiptoes.

  Mary lowered the bag so he could look inside. His brows furrowed as he tried to determine what was still packed inside. “Go on. Pull out something,” she encouraged.

  Marcus reached in and snatched out a small metal case with hinges on one side. “Those are my calling cards,” she said when he placed the case on the table.

  He reached in and pulled out the edge of what appeared to be a scarf. “Oh! My shawl. I’ve been looking for that,” she said as she watched him pull on the thin fabric. Despite how far his arm stretched, the fabric continued to come out of the reticule for another entire arm’s length before it finally fluttered onto the table.

  Peeking back into the bottom, Marcus wasn’t yet sure he could see the bottom. “My ear bobs,” his mother breathed as she reached in and pulled out the garnet and gold jewelry.

  “I recognize those,” Charles said with some pride.

  “You made them for my twentieth birthday,” she murmured as she studied the stones.

  Meanwhile, Marcus had continued the expedition, pulling out a key, a thimble, a needle case, and a spool of silk thread. He couldn’t help but notice how his father watched in fascination.

  Or perhaps it was disbelief.

  “Is there more in there?” Charles asked.

  Marcus turned the bag over and held it by the bottom. A bracelet, a ring, a hair comb, and a necklace spilled out onto the table top.

  “It looks as if you undressed into your reticule,” Charles said with some humor. And then his expression darkened.

  Mary placed the ear bobs onto the table and was about to chide him for his comment. Then she realized he might think she had engaged in an affaire. The evidence was rather damning, given the jewelry and the shawl. “There was that night, after we attended the theatre,” she whispered suggestively.

  Charles blinked. “Was I there?” he asked with a hint of humor.

  Letting out a most unladylike snort, Mary’s complexion took on a reddish cast. “It better have been you in our town coach,” she countered. Her eyes widened when she saw his narrowed eyes coupled with an expression that suggested whatever she had planned for the afternoon was about to change. And then she giggled when the viscount swooped her into his arms and out of the parlor, leaving her reticule and its contents in the company of their youngest son.

  Marcus gave a shake of his head, the shelf of reticules coming into focus at the same time Charity said, “Are you well, my lord?” One of her gloved hands had come to rest on his upper arm, apparently to give it a shake.

  He blinked and turned his gaze on her, his lips quirked with the memory of his parents’ behavior that afternoon. “I am quite well,” he replied. “Apologies for having left you for a moment. Your query about my mother’s reticule had me remembering an incident from my youth.”

  “Something pleasant, it seemed,” Charity guessed. The viscount had displayed an expression that seemed to youthen him, one that suggested he preferred living in the past.

  Nodding, he said, “Indeed. And thanks to my mother, I do believe I know exactly which reticule I shall buy for Analise.”

  Charity watched in fascination as he reached for a cream-colored reticule adorned with a bit of embroidery. Embellished with a few beads, it was on the larger side compared to the others on display. Given its style, it would be appropriate for a garden party or for shopping. Even for a night at the theatre. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “You think she’ll like it?” he asked as he pulled the drawstring apart and peered inside, as if he expected to find something in there.

  “I would,” Charity replied. “If she doesn’t, I’ll take it,” she added with a grin. She sobered when she saw how he gazed at her. “What is it?”

  Marcus leaned closer, but then suddenly straightened, as if he just then realized where they were. “I had an overwhelming desire to kiss you just then,” he murmured. He winced when he saw her reaction. “Did I just say that out loud?”

  Charity blinked and gave a curt nod. “You did.” Thinking she should take a step back—they were standing rather close to one another—she found she couldn’t make her feet move. “But it’s passed now. Hasn’t it?” she added, just before she dared a glance in the direction of the shopkeeper. The older gentleman’s attention was on a news sheet, though, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Marcus shook his head. “I... I can’t imagine it ever will,” he whispered. At her slight inhalation of breath, he added, “I’ve had that overwhelming desire for twenty years.”

  Knowing there was only one way to react to such a claim so she wouldn’t have to provide an immediate reply, Charity stared at the viscount as her knees buckled beneath her. If she managed to grip his lapel, she might not crumple all the way to the floor below. Surely the viscount would understand she was fainting and see to it she was lifted into his arms and carried out to the curricle.

  At least she didn’t end up on the floor. Marcus understood her distress almost before she did, his arms wrapping around her shoulders so he could pull her against the front of his body. The reticule, still held in one hand, ended up behind one of her shoulders, and her head, adorned with a petite hat, ended up in the small of his shoulder.

  “Oh, now I’ve gone and done it,” he murmured, his other arm snaking around her waist to help hold her up. She probably hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, he thought, dismayed by how thin she was.
He thought of calling out to the shopkeeper, but he found he didn’t want to give up his hold on the countess. Her soft body, warm in his arms, seemed to fit perfectly against the front of his own body. Had he wanted to, he could easily lift her into his arms and carry her out to the curricle, but then he would have to give up his hold on her, and he didn’t want to do that.

  Not yet. Not when he could inhale the floral notes of her perfume, feel her soft breath against his shirt, angle his head and then lean down just so and kiss her.

  He thought of the time they had spent in the Attenborough gardens, remembering how she had felt in his arms when she had fainted and he held her on the stone bench.

  Except that it hadn’t really happened.

  And yet, right this moment felt exactly as it did then.

  Giving his head a shake, as if to clear it of the memory that was entirely made up in his imagination, Marcus gazed down at the woman he held and saw that her eyes were open. “You have the most beautiful eyes,” he whispered.

  Charity blinked twice, but didn’t move to straighten. She was quite comfortable right where she was, although she had managed to get her feet firmly under her. “Are you aware you said that out loud?”

  Marcus furrowed his brows. “Did you take offense?”

  “No.”

  “Then, yes. Yes, I am aware,” he murmured, emboldened. He was about to kiss her—he imagined it in vivid detail—if only because she looked as if she wanted to be kissed.

  The sound of a throat clearing had Marcus giving up his hold on Charity, as if he’d been caught with his hands in the biscuit jar. The countess immediately stepped back and stared at the shopkeeper, who regarded the two of them with the most curious expression.

  “Can’t say as I’ve ever seen the reticules inspire a marriage proposal ’afore,” he said, his hands folded together at his waist. “Will that be on your account, sir?”

  Marcus realized he still held the reticule for Analise in his hand. “I’ll pay in cash,” he said, deciding he didn’t want the shopkeeper to know his identity. He reached into a waistcoat pocket and extracted his purse, fumbling inside for coins. Handing them over, the shopkeeper studied them a moment before moving back to the counter to wrap the reticule in tissue.

  Charity watched the shopkeeper go before she finally turned her attention back to Marcus. She knew her face was flushed with embarrassment, although perhaps it wasn’t as red as the viscount’s.

  “I wasn’t going to do that until we got to the park,” he murmured. “Kiss you, I mean.”

  Charity dared a glance around the small shop, relieved to see they were the only customers. It was bad enough the shopkeeper had paid witness to their embrace. At least he didn’t seem to recognize her—it had been years since she had made a purchase at the small shop. She turned her attention back to Marcus. “You said that out loud,” she whispered, not yet sure she wanted to be kissed by the viscount.

  “I am well aware of that,” Marcus murmured. “I don’t live in my imagination all the time.”

  “But you prefer to,” she guessed.

  The viscount jerked at hearing the comment, darting a glance in her direction before hurrying up to the counter to complete his purchase of the reticule. When the shopkeeper gave him the box, he allowed a nod. “Much obliged.”

  “Did she say yes?” the older man asked in a whisper.

  Marcus blinked and then realized what the man meant. He dared a glance to where Charity stood near the door. “We were interrupted before I could ask,” he whispered, allowing his annoyance to show. “I’ll try again in the park.”

  He wouldn’t, of course. He wasn’t even sure they would make it to the park.

  Chapter 29

  A Heroic Act Costs a Viscount

  A moment later

  Depositing the box in the curricle before helping Charity up the step, Marcus watched as she settled into the squabs. She didn’t look his way but seemed lost in thought as he took the reins from the boy. The street urchin quickly scampered off to another carriage.

  When he took his seat next to Charity, Marcus couldn’t help but notice her reticule wasn’t between them, but rather on the other side of her body. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation. Perhaps she was still amenable to a ride in the park.

  “I don’t always live in my imagination,” he said, holding the reins in one hand as he turned to regard her. “Or in the past. I don’t usually prefer it to the here and now,” he continued and then added, “Except during especially boring sessions of Parliament. Or when I’ve pulled an artifact from the dirt, and I wonder to whom it might have belonged. What they might have used it for.”

  Charity nodded her understanding. “That doesn’t sound like a poor use of your imagination,” she replied, her attention suddenly on a carriage that had just passed them, headed in the direction of the park. “I believe that was the Bostwicks,” she commented, straightening on the bench. “We should be going, or we’ll be the last in line.”

  Marcus blinked, shocked to hear she still wished to accompany him. “Of course, my lady.” He took a quick glance at his chronometer, relieved to discover they still had plenty of time before the five o’clock hour.

  He had the horses pulling away from the curb and following the Bostwick carriage before he was aware of Charity’s gaze on him. “Is something the matter?”

  “You said you don’t usually prefer living in your imagination,” she replied. “But when you do—when you’re attending an especially boring session of Parliament—what is it you think about?”

  Marcus cleared his throat, sure his cravat was doing nothing to hide his reddening face. “It depends, I suppose. Sometimes I imagine my children when they were younger. Last week, my daughter was wearing one of her mother’s gowns, and I remembered the picnic when Joan first wore it.” He almost winced when he realized he had spoken of his late wife, but Charity didn’t seem to mind.

  “You didn’t make up those memories, though,” Charity reminded him. “They were about events that really happened.”

  One of his brows furrowed. “True.”

  Charity dipped her head. “The day you told me about our talk in the gardens—”

  “The talk that never happened,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “You had me a bit... frightened, if only because you were so convincing. You had me questioning my own memory,” she said as one of her hands went to her breast. “If what you described had happened, I would always wonder how it was I remembered nothing of it.”

  His expression indicating his regret, Marcus sighed. “I admit, that was entirely my imagination. But in my recalling it...it seemed so real.”

  “Does that happen often?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Marcus furrowed a brow. “No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “No,” he repeated more firmly. “In fact, I rarely make things up in my head.” He gave his head a shake. “I just relive events that have already happened. Happy events.”

  Charity pursed her lips and leaned back in the squabs. “Then why that particular scene?” she asked.

  Dipping his head, Marcus gave her a quick glance before saying, “Wishful thinking?”

  Inhaling slowly, Charity held his gaze for a moment too long, for several horses were about to collide in the intersection just ahead of them.

  “Look out!” she shouted, just as the matched pair pulling his curricle reared up and halted. The Bostwick’s carriage barely cleared the intersection before a coach-and-four bolted between them. Horses whinnied in protest, the town coach jerked forward and then halted, moved forward again as if its driver couldn’t decide if he wanted his team to go straight or to turn into Oxford Street.

  Marcus was about to call out to the driver when he saw that there wasn’t one. There was, however, a woman inside the coach, her screams and shrieks evident above the sounds of traffic. “Dear God,” he said under his breath. He handed the reins to Charity. “Hold onto these, please,” he said befo
re he jumped down to the street and rushed to the coach.

  He was about to gain a foothold on the step that would take him up to the bench, but the horses, torn between racing ahead or rearing up in protest, jerked the coach forward. Marcus was forced to run alongside the coach until it paused long enough for him to gain a foothold.

  Hoisting himself up onto the seat, Marcus discovered the ribbons had come loose from where they should have been tied around a post. He found them dangling below, barely on the footrest. He flattened himself on the bench, reached down, and managed to snag the leather reins just as the horses lurched forward again, the front pair rearing up in protest.

  Nearly losing his grip on the edge of the bench, Marcus experienced a moment of terror when he realized he could end up falling on his head to the street below. The next jerking motion worked in his favor, though, giving him the momentum he needed to get back up onto the bench. He pulled hard on the reins, his quick glance taking in the surrounding traffic. He was trying to decide if he should have the team pull over or remain where they were—just beyond the intersection but in the middle of the street.

  “Sir!”

  Glancing to his right, Marcus found a groom struggling to gain a foothold on the coach. “Where’s the driver?” he called out.

  “He’ll be along in a moment. Can’t run as fast as me,” the groom said as he got himself up and seated on the bench. “Right daring of you to rescue Lady Pettigrew,” he added with a nod. “Much obliged.”

  “Lady Pettigrew? Marcus repeated. In his haste to get to the driver’s seat, he hadn’t given a thought as to who might be in the town coach. “What happened?”

  “She was having a hissy fit about some shopkeeper and rocked the carriage somethin’ awful,” the groom said in a hoarse whisper. “Horses got spooked, and took off while the driver was shuttin’ the door behind her.”

  Marcus was about to ask why the groom wasn’t the one shutting the door, but thought better of it. If Lady Pettigrew was angry when she took her leave of a store, then it stood to reason the driver might have attempted to console her while the groom stayed on the back of the town coach. “The reins weren’t tied to the post,” Marcus said as he gladly handed them to the groom.