Charlie’s nose wrinkled. “I pray that you are right, Max. Even if I continue to be the subject of speculative whispers, I would like the overt slander to die down. For my family’s sake more than anything else.”
“I’m sure it will,” said Max. “And I’m sure excursions like this will help too. Between now and the house party, I’ll endeavor to take you promenading again. The more you and I are seen together, the better.”
“I shall look forward to it,” replied Charlie softly. “And I promise to behave. You were right to refuse my presumptuous proposal earlier. If we kissed in the middle of Hyde Park on Easter Sunday, I’m sure I’d be lambasted in the papers again for unbecoming conduct, which would defeat the purpose of our engagement-of-convenience. And I don’t want to do that. Not after all the trouble you’ve gone to, and are going to, for me.”
“You know I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to, Charlie. And as I said before, you don’t need to pretend to be more ladylike or decorous or duchess-like. I like you just the way you are.”
It wasn’t a lie. In fact, he liked Charlie far too much. But regrettably, not in a way that was remotely gentlemanly or appropriate, given the way his gaze kept wandering to her delectable mouth…and lower to the swell of her generous bosom beneath the soft brown velvet of her spencer.
Hell and damnation. Eyes up, man. He was almost as bad as bloody Mowbray. Flicking the reins, Max urged his horses onto the path. He’d take Charlie on another circuit of the park, then he’d head back to Hastings House before he did take her up on her offer and kiss her.
Now more than ever, he was certain that the brief kiss they’d shared beneath the kissing bough would plague him for days. And nights. Thank God no one was privy to his innermost thoughts, the ones in which he had Charlie all to himself and he laid bare her luscious body. When they both had all the time in the world to explore all kinds of bed sport. How he’d love to learn all the ways to bring her pleasure and hear her scream his name…
And there was the rub. Charlie shouldn’t be the object of his libidinous fantasies. She deserved so much more.
If only his heart was capable of more. Because if he could give Lady Charlotte Hastings his love, he would. While he would undoubtedly miss her company if she did take up her aunt’s offer and go abroad at the end of Season, in the long run, it was probably for the best.
For both of them.
Chapter 13
What if you were to learn that a certain bluestocking society with headquarters at a prestigious Mayfair address was not only fomenting seeds of political dissent among its female membership, but also promoting unseemly, perhaps even dangerous activities?
Curricle driving? Fencing? Pistol shooting? What is the world coming to?
Is this the fall of “Polite Society” as we know it?
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Hastings House, Berkeley Square
April 14, 1819
The morning room of Hastings House was quiet save for the crackle of the fire, the tick of the Boulle mantel clock, and the mad drumming of Charlie’s fingers upon the mahogany tabletop.
Grrrr. Charlie threw the Beau Monde Mirror down beside her half-eaten crumpet with a huff of disgust. If Max’s mother, sister-in-law, or someone else within the environs of Devereux House—a traitorous servant perhaps—wasn’t responsible for this blatantly derogatory story, she’d eat her Easter bonnet, flowers and all.
Now she was in a bad mood, and according to the mantel clock, it was only a few hours until Cressida sent her carriage round to Hastings House to pick her up and ferry her to Heathcote Hall at Hampstead Heath. The house party wasn’t due to begin until the morrow, but the dowager duchess wanted to arrive the day before to make sure all of the preparations were well underway, and everything was in order. And apparently, she wanted Charlie to help oversee things too. Of course, Charlie had been pleased to be included, but now…
She scowled at the paper over the rim of her teacup. Now she’d be out of sorts and wondering who was spying on her and leaking intelligence to London’s worst scandalmongering rag the whole time she was at Heathcote Hall. Rather than enjoying the affair, she’d have to mind her Ps and Qs and take care never to put a foot wrong the entire time. For four whole days. Ugh!
So much for being myself…
But then again, she’d have Max and other close allies by her side. Nate and Sophie were staying for three days, and all going well, Arabella and Gabriel would be back in London in time for the betrothal ball too. Charlie had received a letter from Arabella two days before and she couldn’t wait to see her friend and swap news.
However, all that aside, what worried and hurt Charlie the most was the idea that her initial impression of Diana Devereux might have been incorrect. It would be both sobering and hurtful indeed if it turned out that the young duchess was really that duplicitous. There’d only been a handful of people in the drawing room of Devereux House that day she’d taken afternoon tea—Diana, Cressida, two chambermaids, and a pair of footmen—and it could have been any one of them who’d tattled on her.
As much as Charlie hated to broach such an uncomfortable subject with Max—that someone within his mother’s household must have betrayed her—she supposed she ought to. Perhaps he could have a word to Cressida about the possible breach of confidence. And really, wouldn’t Cressida want to know if someone on her staff was selling gossip to the papers?
But what if it’s actually Cressida?
A shiver of apprehension slithered down Charlie’s spine, and she pushed her lukewarm tea and crumpet aside. Her appetite had suddenly disappeared. She knew the dowager duchess disliked her, but would the woman actively try to undermine her son’s fiancée? Surely such underhanded tactics were beneath a woman of her social standing.
At least the Beau Monde Mirror hadn’t explicitly mentioned the disreputable Lady C. on this occasion. But still, Charlie hated to think that her private disclosure had discredited the Mayfair Bluestocking Society. Especially when its dedicated members put so much effort into supporting worthwhile charities.
With a sigh, Charlie wrapped her cashmere shawl about her shoulders and got to her feet. Sitting about fretting and brooding wouldn’t help matters. She had things to do. First, she had to change into her new carriage gown of claret-red velvet and squeeze in a visit to Madame de Beauvoir’s studio. The artist wanted her opinion on her half-completed portrait, and Charlie was most excited to see it. Thank goodness Cressida didn’t know about that.
On her return to Hastings House, she would then need to check that Molly had her valise and traveling trunk in order. While Heathcote Hall was only five miles away, she didn’t want to have her maid, or Edwards, the footman, running back and forth between Berkeley Square and Hampstead Heath because she’d forgotten something.
She’d already bid her father farewell. Busy as always, he’d been exiting the breakfast room as she’d arrived. But it wouldn’t be long until she saw him again. He had promised to attend the betrothal ball along with Lady Tilbury in two days’ time. Charlie smiled to herself as she climbed the stairs to her room. Lady Tilbury was delightful, and Charlie swore she’d caught a glimpse of her father and the attractive widow beneath the spring kissing bough in the library right before dinner on Easter Sunday.
Perhaps there might be another engagement in the family before too long.
But at this rate, there would only be one wedding by Season’s end.
Charlie frowned at her reflection in the mirror as Molly attempted to tame her unruly hair into some semblance of order with a red velvet ribbon and a battalion of hairpins. After their promenade in Hyde Park on Easter Sunday, Max had adroitly evaded her strategically placed spring kissing boughs as though they’d been strung with stinging nettles and deadly nightshade. Throughout dinner and the rest of that evening, he seemed steadfastly and infuriatingly determined to play the part of the perfect gentleman yet again. No doubt Nate’s presence, and her father’s, had quel
led his ardor to some extent.
But then, Charlie had also sensed a shift in his regard. An increased intensity in his gaze which seemed to alight upon her more often during dinner and afterward, when they’d all gathered in the drawing room and she and Lady Tilbury had taken turns entertaining them with tunes on the pianoforte. Charlie swore there was a simmering heat, a hum of awareness that hadn’t been there before whenever Max looked her way.
Yet still he avoided any and all of her kissing boughs, even going so far as to depart with Nate and Sophie so they wouldn’t be alone in the entry hall of Hastings House.
Curse him and his innate sense of chivalry.
Two hours later when Charlie received word that the Dowager Duchess of Exmoor’s carriage had arrived, she reminded herself that at least she would be spending several days and nights in Max’s company during the course of the house party. While she wouldn’t throw herself at him again, she also hoped there would be further opportunities to be alone with her determined-to-keep-his-hands-to-himself fiancé. Somehow, she had to subtly convince him that giving into his lustful urges wouldn’t be a bad thing. She wasn’t a naive girl. She knew there were precautions they could take to avoid the situation Max had alluded to—one in which they had to get married if they went too far. It was a risk she was more than willing to take, because in her mind, how could their friendship blossom and grow into something more if Max kept her firmly in the do-not-ever-touch-my-friend’s-sister category?
Well, the Duke of Exmoor might be obstinate, but she was obstinate too. Charlie pulled on her fawn kid gloves with a determined tug.
After the one kiss they’d shared, as far as she was concerned, this battle of hearts and wills was only just beginning.
Heathcote Hall, Hampstead Heath
Heathcote Hall, a three-story whitewashed mansion set against a backdrop of verdant parkland, was absolutely beautiful…and absolutely enormous. Charlie quickly discovered this fact when Cressida assigned her the task of making sure that the state of all thirty-two guest bedrooms was up to scratch.
Charlie had barely settled into her own chamber—a small but prettily furnished apartment on the third floor—when Heathcote’s dour-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Entwhistle, came to knock on her door with “Her Grace’s request.” A young, fair-haired chambermaid hovered behind the middle-aged woman with an expression that suggested she’d rather be someplace else.
“Oh really?” said Charlie after she’d listened to Mrs. Entwhistle’s relayed message. “She wants me to do this right now?” The dowager duchess had not mentioned anything of the sort in the carriage ride to Hampstead Heath. In fact, Cressida had been talking to Diana about having a spot of luncheon on the terrace as they’d drawn up before Heathcote Hall’s grand, marble-pillared portico.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Entwhistle through lips so pursed, Charlie wondered if the woman had been tasting lemons. “She does. She was very clear. You are to accompany me on my final inspection of each room, and I will make a note if anything is amiss. Her Grace has very exacting standards. Everything must be spick-and-span.” Her small, bird-like eyes ran over Charlie, and Charlie had the distinct feeling she’d somehow failed the housekeeper’s very own spick-and-span test. “And she’d like a full accounting sooner rather than later.” For added emphasis, she waved a large leather-bound notebook in the air.
Charlie barely suppressed a disgruntled sigh. So much for joining Cressida and Diana for luncheon. But what else could she do but comply with her hostess’s request? Putting aside the fact that Charlie was, for all intents and purposes, a guest as well, it would be discourteous of her not to. Besides, she was curious about the room Lady Penelope had been allocated. Ever since their encounter in Hyde Park on Easter Sunday, she’d been wondering about Cressida’s motives for inviting the Duke of Stafford’s daughter to the house party. The young woman clearly had designs on Max. At least he’d been indifferent to her obvious attempts at flirting.
By the time Charlie had reached the second floor and had entered the second to last bedchamber over an hour later, her feet were sore—her new leather half-boots were pinching her toes—and she was dying for a cup of tea. So far, everything had been perfectly in order, and Charlie had begun to suspect that Cressida was trying to send her a message—you are in my house and you will do as I say. And you clearly don’t need luncheon.
“And who will be staying in this room?” Charlie asked as she looked about the chamber with its own dressing room and sitting room. It was spacious and furnished with elegant satinwood pieces, including a wide tester bed with curtains of sage-green damask. Plump pillows in shades of pale rose and ivory adorned the head of the bed, and a thick Aubusson rug in matching tones carpeted the gleaming wooden floor. The arched windows overlooked a wide swathe of manicured lawn with a glimpse of lake and woodland beyond. Indeed, it was grand enough for a duchess.
Mrs. Entwhistle consulted her list while the chambermaid quite unnecessarily rearranged the pink roses within a vase upon a gilt-legged table. “Lady Penelope Purcell, I believe, my lady.”
“Oh, I see…” Charlie frowned. “But a moment ago, didn’t you inform me that the duke’s suite of rooms is next door?”
Mrs. Entwhistle met her gaze unflinchingly. “Yes, my lady.”
“So, let me see if my understanding of the situation is correct… I’m the Duke of Exmoor’s fiancée, yet I’ve been allocated a bedchamber on the floor above at the far end of this wing. And Lady Penelope, a single young woman with no close ties at all to His Grace, is occupying the bedroom adjacent to his?”
The housekeeper’s mouth flattened. “It would seem so, my lady.”
Cressida. Cressida had to be behind this.
Tamping down a surge of temper, Charlie aimed for an aloof arching of one eyebrow instead. “Tell me, Mrs. Entwhistle, is there a jib door connecting this room and the duke’s suite?”
The housekeeper blushed beet red. “I…I wouldn’t know, my lady.”
“You wouldn’t know,” Charlie repeated flatly. She ran her gaze over the patterns of peonies and butterflies on the silk wallpapered panels beside the bed but could see no obvious signs of a hidden door. “Now, why do I find that difficult to believe?”
She started forward, and the housekeeper followed. “Yes. There is a jib door,” the woman said with a mulish glint in her eye. “But it’s locked, and only the dowager duchess, the duke, and I have a key. So, if you are suggesting even for one minute that Lady Penelope would do anything untoward to try to enter His Grace’s—”
Charlie held up a hand. “Excuse me, Mrs. Entwhistle, but are you questioning my right to question the highly irregular nature of this arrangement? And who made you the authority on what His Grace or Lady Penelope may or may not do in any given situation?”
The woman’s mouth opened and shut like a landed trout. “Well…I…I would never…”
Charlie took a step closer and held out a hand. “May I see your list, Mrs. Entwhistle?”
The woman swallowed and passed the notebook to Charlie. “Of course, my lady.”
“And may I have your pencil?”
The housekeeper handed that over too.
“Right.” Charlie glanced over the list of entries, and sure enough, it looked as though Lady Penelope had been allocated the Rose and Peony Room, right next to the Duke of Exmoor’s apartments. She marched over to a nearby dressing table and crossed the young woman’s name out, replacing it with her own. Then she found her own name, drew a line through it, and wrote Lady Penelope’s in its place.
“Here you are, Mrs. Entwhistle.” She handed back the notebook. “Something was amiss, but now the problem has been rectified. Lady Penelope will now be sleeping in the Lilac Room on the third floor.” Turning to the chambermaid who was openly gaping at her, Charlie said, “Hannah, isn’t it?”
The young maid bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, my lady.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, would you be so kind as to run upstairs and inform my lady�
��s maid, Molly, that she will need to repack my things as her mistress is relocating to the Rose and Peony Room.”
“But…but you can’t do that,” began the housekeeper, her expression aghast. “Her Grace will not stand—”
“Mrs. Entwhistle,” said Charlie firmly. “May I remind you that very soon, I will be the Duke of Exmoor’s wife, and thus, your new mistress. But rest assured, I will inform Her Grace of the new sleeping arrangements myself, and furthermore, that you have had nothing to do with the change of plan. Besides, given the fact that Lady Penelope’s brother, Lord Mowbray, and the Duke and Duchess of Stafford are also staying on the third floor, I think it’s a far more appropriate arrangement, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” The housekeeper dipped into a reluctant curtsy, then barked at the chambermaid who still lingered by the roses. “Hannah, hop to it, girl. You heard Lady Charlotte. Go and speak with her maid. And offer her a helping hand to repack her ladyship’s things. I’ll summon two of the footmen to ferry everything downstairs.”
“Wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Entwhistle,” said Charlie with an incline of her head. “Now, where might I find the dowager duchess? Last I heard, she was taking luncheon on the terrace with her daughter-in-law.”
As it was, Charlie didn’t end up joining the irksome, meddlesome dowager duchess for luncheon. Upon quitting the Rose and Peony Room, Charlie noticed one of the doors to Max’s suite of rooms was ajar, and the soft sound of a muffled sob then a sniffle floated out into the hallway.
What on earth?
Mrs. Entwhistle frowned and approached the doorway but then retreated. “I shall see how Hannah is getting on, Lady Charlotte,” she said. “And then I’ll organize the removal of your things down here. If that is all right with you, of course?”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 17