“I’m afraid I have a bit of a bruised heart at present, and try as I might to ignore it, it causes pangs at the most inconvenient times. Sometimes, I wish I had no heart to speak of.”
His expression flickered with surprise again, but then, against all expectation, he smiled slightly. It was a nicely symmetrical curving of his lips, reminiscent of a Renaissance portrait. And the pain returned as her thoughts went to Lionel painting somewhere on the Continent.
“Don’t say that,” Lord Jeffcoat ordered. “I’ve seen your warm heart in action, and it was splendid.”
Charlotte gasped softly. “What do you mean?” She had a terrible vision of him having seen her kissing Lionel in the dark hallway of the academy’s upper floor.
“Before Easter,” Lord Jeffcoat explained, “the way you defended Edward to that female customer, it was truly heartwarming, and here he is, working for you.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm.
“I’m sorry about your bruised heart,” he continued, sounding sincere. Then, rather abruptly, the viscount added, “Perchance, would it feel better after a night on the town?”
Lord Jeffcoat was full of surprises. If anyone had told her he would ever ask her out for the evening, she would have said they were a lunatic. Ever since she’d first met him at the duke’s home, he’d been polite but distant, during each of their previous encounters. Staring at him, she recalled the moment when he’d held the door for her and she’d caught a whiff of his appealing scent. It had given her pause, and she’d flirted with the notion of being attracted to him, but only because she thought Lionel was waiting at class. She’d been giddy with anticipation.
When everything seemed possible, before she’d found out Lionel had left.
His lordship’s cheeks grew a little red, too, as the long moments of silence stretched on.
“That was presumptuous of me,” he muttered. “I had best leave you to your work.”
Drat it all! She had embarrassed him. As the counter clerk for Rare Confectionery, she’d helped hundreds of customers over the years and tried to do so with graciousness taught by her mother, something that had entirely eluded Beatrice. Now, Charlotte could sympathize with her sister’s short-tempered disgruntlement. Being pleasant and cheerful lately seemed a tremendous chore for her. She’d failed at both all day, and now she’d offended the duke’s good friend.
He certainly didn’t deserve it after demonstrating such kindness.
“My lord, I would very much enjoy a night on the town, as you call it. It sounds most inviting. I was simply shocked into silence.”
His slight smile returned. “Shocked into silence? I didn’t realize my asking you out would be so outrageous. After your Season, with all the young bucks who were buzzing around you, I thought I would be standing in line for the chance.”
And now he was bolstering her spirits and her confidence. He was being a prince.
Regaining a little spirit, Charlotte asked, “Except for the Marlborough House ball, you and I weren’t at any of the same events last Season. How would you know about bucks, young or otherwise, doing any buzzing?”
“You have got me to rights, Miss Rare-Foure, but I can imagine them. Am I right?”
Her cheeks grew even warmer. She was probably blushing profusely.
“I suppose I had my share of dance partners,” she admitted.
“Ah-ha.” He raised a finger as if he’d proved a point.
That did make her smile. “Where shall we go?”
“What do you like?” he asked. “The ballet, a concert, a play?”
No one had ever asked her before. What could she say? She had been to each of those things with her family, and perfectly content to do so, but never with a man.
“What would you prefer?” she asked, wanting to be amiable.
“I would prefer your honest answer as to what you wish to do.”
Gracious! They could go on being polite forever and never get anywhere.
“A play, then,” she decided. “I like seeing the actors recite their lines, pretending to be other people so convincingly that I just about believe it. My sister, Beatrice, is very gifted at recitation. It takes an astonishing memory to do so.”
“Agreed. Then we shall see a play. Naturally, we shall need a chaperone.”
“Naturally,” she said. In truth, she hadn’t thought about that for a second. Having served as the chaperone to Beatrice and Mr. Carson before their marriage, it seemed strange that she would need one herself. Nevertheless, he was right.
“Would our maid, Delia, do?”
“Fine by me but entirely up to you,” he said. “Shall we say tomorrow night?”
Truly? She’d barely had a chance to get used to the idea. “Very well. I look forward to it.” And strangely enough, she was.
HER PARENTS SEEMED as surprised as she’d been when Charlotte told them about the arrangement to go out with the Viscount Jeffcoat.
“That’s a peach stone in the plum jam,” Felicity said. “Most unexpected. I thought that dashing Lord Waverly might come to show an interest in either you or Beatrice, but then the American snapped up your sister so quickly, and now the more serious Lord Jeffcoat has come calling.”
“In any case,” her father added, “our girls attract them like bees to flowers. And rightly so.”
Normally, that would make Charlotte chuckle, but it seemed an effort to laugh when somewhere in the middle of her chest, she felt a tightness all the time.
“I didn’t know you were thinking of either of these men,” she said, “for me or for Bea.”
For her own part, Charlotte regretted how much time she’d wasted thinking of one man. And she was fair sick of her own sadness, which lingered despite each passing day since Lionel had left. Moreover, having given up her twice weekly art class, unable to bear the reminder of having spent hours merely watching the way his long fingers held a paintbrush, she had little to occupy her evenings.
Losing the class didn’t bother her as she’d never had a passion for painting, but she’d also lost the excitement in her life. She’d even lost the remaining tattered friendship she’d shared with Viola. They had exchanged a few missives since Lionel’s departure, and even met for tea and scones, but Charlotte had found it too distressing. Viola’s incessant talk about the pain of losing her brother, not knowing about Charlotte’s own heartache, left her feeling ragged.
And then Viola had begun to receive letters. While at first, with almost morbid fascination Charlotte had wanted to hear them, after a few weeks, the narration of his new life abroad, so happy and carefree, so mindless of any responsibilities to his parents and what he’d left behind — including her — had become too painful. Even after she’d learned he and the artist’s model had parted company somewhere in Rome.
Besides, he had never once asked after Charlotte. And while her first feelings were those of betrayal and having been duped, eventually, she was glad he didn’t mention her. Her humiliation if Viola had known she’d let him kiss her would have been unbearable.
While Charlotte didn’t expect her heartache to heal overnight, she did hope to enjoy an evening at the theatre and was looking forward to Lord Jeffcoat’s distraction.
Thus, she and her parents were in the parlor, her parents seated while Charlotte stood by the fireplace, dressed in one of her favorite gowns from the prior Season, keeping it from getting creased.
While awaiting Lord Jeffcoat’s arrival, she felt strangely calm, an entirely different sensation than the unsettling anticipation she used to feel before each art class.
“You look very pretty tonight, dear daughter,” her father said. Then finished with the conversation, Armand picked up the book he’d been reading on sugar manufacturing in the West Indies and buried his nose in it.
Charlotte smiled at her father’s words and smoothed her gown yet again — a pale-green color with black lace trim. She had dressed with care, hoping Lord Jeffcoat thought her pretty, too, for she thought him a decidedly
attractive man, in or out of his Robin Hood hose. Not in a dazzlingly swank way, like the famed Beau Brummel, or even like Lionel, with his overly long hair and tendency to flamboyant clothing. No, the viscount was more the dark, brooding, but elegant type. She felt her cheeks warm, thinking of him.
“He has been in the back room!” her mother suddenly declared, echoing the question she’d asked her days earlier.
With astonishment that somehow her mother knew — and the realization that Lord Jeffcoat had, in fact, been in the back — Charlotte burst out laughing. It felt good to do so, despite knowing her mother thought there was some connection between men going into the back room and marrying her daughters.
Armand Foure snapped his book closed and leaned back with his pipe in his hand.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in a long time, my girl, so I suppose he must be the right one.”
“Father, it’s our first time going out together.” Her parents weren’t going to become assertive, were they?
“He’s lightened your mood, at any rate,” her father insisted. “And that makes him a good chap.”
“Oh, I know he is a good man,” Felicity agreed. “Recall when he helped Edward on his first day.”
Charlotte nodded. “He’s working out well.”
“Lord Jeffcoat!” her father exclaimed.
“Father, I meant Edward Percy.”
“No, I mean, here is Lord Jeffcoat.” And her father stood to greet him.
Charlotte turned, and sure enough, there was her escort for the evening, standing in the open doorway.
“It seems Mr. Finley has gone missing again,” her mother said, standing to welcome their guest. “I don’t know why we even pay him.”
Her father laughed, never bothered by their butler’s periods of absence or inattention to detail.
“Good evening, young man,” Armand Foure said, not even addressing him correctly.
Charlotte rolled her eyes, but she knew Lord Jeffcoat wasn’t the type to take offense.
His lordship shook her father’s hand first, then bowed over her mother’s before turning to her. He was impeccably dressed in black with a white vest, shirt, and ascot. His dark brown hair was brushed back, although a few tendrils were springing forth over his forehead, belying her earlier thoughts that he was too elegant to ever have a hair out of place. In fact, he looked a little rakish.
“Good evening, Miss Rare-Foure. Are you ready to go to the theatre?” His blue eyes flickered in the firelight.
“I am.” A little drop of joy tried to trickle through her — and succeeded. “Mother, have you seen Delia? I asked her to accompany us tonight.”
As if on cue, their middle-aged maid-of-all-work appeared in the doorway. “I’m ready miss, and I have your cloak. It’s a little chilly tonight.”
“Never fear,” the viscount said. “My carriage has warming bricks and is quite comfortable.”
“Then off you go,” Felicity said. “I wonder if you will see either of your sisters there.”
She had no idea what Bea and her husband did in the evenings, but Charlotte knew what her eldest sister would be doing.
“Amity is determined to stay home every evening with her feet up until she’s delivered of her baby.”
Charlotte steered them quickly out the door before her parents decided to join them, and before her mother could tell Lord Jeffcoat her theory of men in the back room marrying her daughters. Felicity would scare him off, and all Charlotte wanted was a diverting evening. She couldn’t possibly see a future with the viscount, simply because he was not Lionel. Having nursed that fantasy so long, all other outcomes seemed inferior.
WHEN THEY GOT INTO his carriage, and the close, warm air encircled them, Charles could smell Miss Rare-Foure’s delightful perfume — lemon and lime, yet soft, not tangy, with a floral aspect that made the scent seem creamy, too. He was mesmerized. He wanted to ask her about it, but he always found chaperones impeded personal discussion until one reached the safety of the private theatre box. Then, he could seat the maid behind them and be at liberty to lean in close and ask her questions.
“What are we going to see?” Miss Rare-Foure asked, smoothing the skirts of her green gown, which he could see where her cloak fell open. As he’d noticed in the parlor, it had a fashionably low-cut décolletage and small cap sleeves. The bodice and sleeves were trim with black lace drawing his eyes where they shouldn’t go, at least not while he was still with her parents.
On the other hand, if a woman had such a pretty physique, small-waisted and big busted, as Miss Rare-Foure, and if she wore such a gown, then obviously, she expected to be observed and admired. Again, both would be easier to do once they were at the theatre sans cloak — and, he hoped, sans maid.
“In keeping with the spirit of lightening your heart, we are going to the Haymarket to see a comedy.”
“In truth, my lord, I’m relieved it’s not the Lyceum Theatre. While I admire greatly Mr. Irving and Miss Terry, they are often at their best with a Shakespearian tragedy.”
“Agreed. Tonight, there shall be no tragedy, I assure you. A rather farcical comedy called Engaged.”
“Oh yes, by Mr. Gilbert.” She looked like she was about to clap her hands. “His Sorcerer and H.M.S. Pinafore were so witty. I am looking forward to the evening’s entertainment.”
He was glad her spirits had perked up. By the time they’d passed through the impressive columns at the entrance to the newly renovated Royal Haymarket Theatre, he hoped she might warm to him as well. He very much wanted to be the cause of her next beautiful smile.
The theatre’s gaudy pink marble had been removed and a magnificent proscenium arch framed in gold surrounded the stage. He knew there’d been somewhat of an uproar over the installation of stalls and the removal of the pit, but it didn’t affect him or his guest in the box directly overlooking the stage on the right-hand side.
With her maid seated a polite distance behind, they had a few minutes to settle in and observe those below them and to their left where the theatre stretched back and up into the circle seats. Uninterested in anyone but her, Charles leaned in close to sniff Charlotte’s intoxicating fragrance, opening his mouth to ask her about it. She chose that precise moment to lean forward and push aside the red-and-gold drapery that framed each box, so she could see more of the audience.
“I think I see my sister and Mr. Carson. Do you see? They’re in the front of the balcony.”
He peered around, but in all the people milling about and getting seated, he couldn’t make out the snapdragon and her American husband.
Charlotte waved, stood up, and leaned out.
“Careful, Miss Rare-Foure. You don’t want to take a tumble and become part of the evening’s performance.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said, not looking at him, although he had a glorious view of her midsection, the way her waist nipped in and then blossomed out above with her generous curves.
He sighed. Was he a superficial man? He didn’t believe so. After all, he wasn’t with her for her looks, or at least, not her looks alone — albeit they were certainly pleasing. He’d become interested in her for her personality and good humor. When he’d realized what he’d first thought of as her childishness was actually joie de vivre, then —
A piercing whistle split the bustling sound of the noisy auditorium, and he knew at once who’d caused it. Dear God!
He felt as though every eye in the Haymarket turned in their direction, to their box by the stage. Behind him, the Rare-Foure’s maid muttered to herself, “Oh, no, oh no, what is she doing?”
In front of him was only shocked silence, and then, against all odds, Miss Rare-Foure waved grandly before taking her seat.
“Beatrice saw me,” she said with satisfaction. Then she blinked into the drawn-out silence, looking out over the theatre as people started to whisper. In the next instant, the theatre-goers began to speak more loudly, returning to normal until the gas lamps dimmed.
“Is something wrong?” she asked when he didn’t speak.
He groaned. In a flash, he imagined her as his wife, performing her duties as his viscountess and playing hostess to some ministers of Parliament or a group of stodgy judges. And Charlotte in the middle of it—whistling to announce dinner or appearing in her garish Turkish silks. That would never work. She simply wouldn’t do!
What on earth was he doing with her?
“Nothing,” he said tightly. “Nothing is wrong.” There was no point in telling her she’d behaved outrageously. Moreover, the last thing he wanted was her sister gawking across the theatre at them or the American making his jokes as Pelham said the man was wont to do.
And then, while Charles was starting to regret the whole evening, at last, Charlotte turned to him and smiled. It was perfectly exquisite, transforming her face to radiant.
“Now, Beatrice will find us at the intermission. Have you met her husband? He is an amusing man, worthy of my sister’s intelligence and interesting mind. I hope you like them. My family, all of them, are so different, but they somehow are also the same. All perfectly delightful, the kindest, most generous people you will ever know. Except for Beatrice sometimes. I know she can be crabby, everyone has seen it, but lately, I’ve understood her impatience with people a little better.”
She paused, then added, “One never knows, does one?”
He had no idea what she meant, but he did know she loved her family tremendously, and he thought that made her a special woman, indeed. While he was fond of his father, he hadn’t seen his mother in a decade and a half, nor cared if he ever saw her again. And he had no siblings, although Waverly and Pelham felt as close to brothers as he could imagine.
Still, he was a little awed by the depth of her feelings.
The lights flickered and dimmed again, and they settled down for the first of three acts, opening in a Scottish cottage, near Gretna. To his pleasure, Charlotte was laughing almost at once.
After the second act, there was an intermission, and she jumped up, a smile on her face. “May we go find my sister? Won’t they think it’s funny? I remember Lord Pelham telling Mr. Carson not to mention Scotland to young ladies at the balls last year in case they thought he was inferring a trip to Gretna Green and a hasty marriage.”
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 6