It was therefore equally well-known why all Lady Charlotte’s suitors had been sent away abruptly with a flea in their ear. They were not in the least important enough to be the Earl’s son-in-law.
No one, the Marquis knew only too well, could say that about him.
He was quite certain that the Earl would insist on an extremely grand Wedding. The Prince Regent would be present and at least half the Peerage.
It was not a long way to drive to the Earl’s house.
Large and very imposing it had been rebuilt in the reign of Queen Anne and it stood in a thousand acres of fine agricultural land.
The Marquis was aware that the pheasant shooting in the autumn was reported to be good. But it would not rival what he could provide at Darincourt for his friends.
The Marquis turned in at two large iron gates.
He felt as he did so that the drive itself was very picturesque and the house at the end of it was outstanding. However, it did not eclipse or even equal Darincourt.
It was recognised as one of the most famous and beautiful ancestral homes in the whole country.
He was expected, so he drew up his horses outside the front door and two grooms were waiting to take charge of his horses.
The Marquis, unlike most of his friends, preferred driving alone. He found it rather tiresome always to have a groom with him. Of course one was essential on his long journeys or if he had to stop at a Posting inn.
Now, as the two grooms ran to his horses’ heads, he stepped down from the phaeton having secured his reins.
He walked up to the steps to the front door which had been already opened by a footman.
An aging butler bowed politely.
“Good afternoon, my Lord. Her Ladyship’s waiting for you in the drawing room.”
The Marquis handed his tall hat and driving gloves to another footman.
Then, smoothing is hair into place, he followed the butler who was going ahead.
The Marquis had visited Langwarde Hall before.
He was aware that the drawing room was unique because every piece of furniture was correct to the period of when the house had been built.
As well it was, with its soft pink curtains, a perfect background for the lovely Charlotte. It framed her fair hair and exquisitely chiselled features.
The butler then announced,
“The Marquis of Darincourt, my Lady.”
The Marquis was not surprised that Charlotte was obviously waiting for him.
She turned round from the window where she was standing to hurry towards him.
She held out her hand and he kissed it gracefully before he began,
“You look very beautiful, Charlotte, and I think that you know why I have come here to see you this afternoon.”
He felt that he was being slightly precipitate.
At the same time it seemed unnecessary to utter a number of unimportant words before coming to the point.
To his surprise Charlotte took her hand from his.
She turned away to walk towards the mantelpiece.
As she did so, the Marquis could see the perfection of her figure and the graceful way she moved.
He followed behind her slowly and, on reaching the fireplace, Charlotte turned round to face him.
The Marquis realised that she was behaving a little strangely and he asked her,
“What is troubling you? You don’t seem as pleased to see me as I had hoped.”
“I have something to tell you.”
He thought that her voice seemed a little uneasy.
“What is it?” he enquired.
For a moment she was silent and then she replied,
“I am afraid it may upset you, but I have promised to marry the Duke of Nottingham.”
The Marquis stared at her as if he could not believe his ears.
“The Duke of Nottingham?” he repeated.
He knew that the Duke, who had come into the title last year, was not yet twenty-one.
He had met him a few times in White’s Club since he returned to London and he had thought him a rather dull and unpolished young man who would doubtless improve with age.
He had not for one moment thought that there was any competition from him where Charlotte was concerned.
He had actually, now he thought about it, seen her dance once with the Duke.
He remembered he had sat beside her at a luncheon party her father had given for her last week at his house in London.
But that Lady Charlotte should marry the Duke, or anyone except himself, left him speechless for the moment.
It was as if he had been struck by a cannonball.
“I am sorry, Clive, if this hurts you,” Charlotte was saying, “and perhaps I should have stopped you coming here today, but I wanted to tell you the news myself.”
The Marquis’s lips tightened for a moment and then he asked,
“When did you decide to marry Nottingham rather than me?”
The question seemed to ring out between them and it was almost as if he was insisting on her answering him.
Charlotte replied faintly,
“He proposed to me – two days ago.”
“And you decided, or rather your father decided for you, that it was more prestigious for you to be a Duchess than a Marchioness.”
Now the words came from the Marquis’s lips like the crack of a whip.
Charlotte turned her head away from him.
“There is no point in us discussing it,” she said. “I intend to marry Derek and I am sorry if you are upset.”
The Marquis thought that it would be undignified for him to say anything more.
Most certainly not what he was thinking.
He turned round sharply and walked to the door.
When he reached it and stopped, he said,
“My good wishes, Charlotte, and, of course, I hope you will be happy.”
The way he spoke made it very clear that he was speaking sarcastically. There was a note of anger behind his words.
Then he walked into the hall.
He took his hat and his gloves from a footman and, running quickly down the steps, climbed into his phaeton.
He threw a guinea tip to the grooms who had held the horses for him. Then, turning them round, he started back down the drive.
He was so angry that he could not for the moment express his feelings even to himself.
It was not that emotionally he minded losing Lady Charlotte.
That he himself had been deceived, very skilfully, into thinking that she was in love with him was intolerable.
She had always spoken to him with a throb in her voice that told him she found him exciting.
She was so thrilled when he kissed her hand and he had known when he kissed her lips that she responded to him in a way he had not expected from anyone so young.
She had invited him a dozen times to her father’s house in Park Lane and when he appeared she ran towards him with an eagerness she made no attempt to disguise.
From long experience the Marquis thought he knew every flicker of an eyelid from a woman who was in love with him.
He would have staked everything he possessed that Charlotte loved him. As much as she was ever capable of loving, knowing, as he believed, very little about it.
When it came down to brass tacks, she had pursued him even more ardently than he had pursued her.
He was sure that, if he had asked her to marry him the second or third time they met, the answer would have been ‘yes.’
Now, at the very last moment, when he had made up his mind, when he had been completely certain of the answer, she had accepted the Duke of Nottingham.
‘She has made a complete fool of me,’ the Marquis told himself and felt his anger rising within him.
It was then, just before he reached the lodge gates, that he was aware that there was someone on the drive.
In front of him, waving her hands in the air, was a woman.
The horses had been gatherin
g speed and so it was with difficulty that the Marquis pulled them to a standstill.
He could now see that the woman in the drive was a young girl.
As soon as the horses stopped, she ran over to the phaeton.
To the Marquis’s surprise she climbed up into it.
She put down a bundle that she was carrying and said in a small frightened voice,
“Drive on! Please – drive on!”
The Marquis looked at her and recognised who was speaking.
It was Charlotte’s cousin.
He had met her or rather had had a brief glimpse of her several times at Langwarde Hall and in London.
He could not recall actually speaking to her nor had he any idea of her name. He was just aware that she was one of the family.
She had been at one or two of the smaller and more intimate parties he had been invited to recently.
Which was when he finally realised that the Earl was pursuing him as well as his daughter.
As the girl sounded so agitated, the Marquis did as she asked and then drove his horses through the gates.
There were some cottages outside and a Church and he passed them before he asked,
“Now, what is all this about and why do you want me to take you away?”
“I must get – to London,” the girl answered in a low and frightened voice, “and it’s very important – that no one should see me leave.”
“Are you telling me that no one in the house knows that you have left?” the Marquis enquired.
She did not answer and after a moment he went on,
“I think perhaps I should start by asking your name. I must have heard it, but you must forgive me if I have forgotten what it is.”
“I am Serla Ashton,” she said. “Charlotte’s cousin.”
“I knew that you were one of the family. But why are you leaving the house in this strange manner?”
“I have to get away! I want to go to London!” she replied. “So please – please take me back with you.”
“So you knew I was coming today,” the Marquis said. “And you thought I would be leaving soon after I arrived and it would be a good way of securing a lift.”
“That is what – I thought,” Serla replied in a rather frightened voice. “And thank you, my Lord, very much for letting me travel with you.”
“If you are running away without anyone knowing it, what do you intend to do when you arrive there?”
There was a pause and then Serla stammered,
“I-I am going to be – a Cyprian.”
The Marquis started and then turned to look at her incredulously.
“What did you say?”
“I am going to be a – Cyprian,” Serla repeated.
“Why do you say that?” the Marquis questioned.
“Gerald says that they make – a lot of money, are amusing and dance very well. And the one thing I can do is – dance.”
He felt that Gerald, who was Charlotte’s brother, should keep his mouth shut.
The Cyprians did a great deal more than dance.
He was aware, of course, that this girl, who seemed little more than a child, had no idea what she was saying.
“I am afraid,” he said after a long pause, “that it is absolutely impossible for you to be a Cyprian.”
“Why?” Serla asked.
“Because you are a lady.”
He knew without looking at her that she was now wrinkling her forehead.
“So why is it impossible,” she asked after she had thought for some time, “for a lady to be a Cyprian?”
“Because they live in different worlds. Your uncle would be shocked and horrified at you having such an idea, and I am sure so would your parents if they knew about it.”
“My parents are dead,” Serla replied.
“Then I suppose, since you are an orphan, that your uncle is looking after you,” the Marquis quizzed her.
“Reluctantly, and I am sure if I disappear and never come back, he will be relieved rather than upset.”
The Marquis, again surprised, turned to study her.
She was wearing a bonnet and he had not looked at her face when she had climbed into the phaeton.
He could not recall noticing her particularly when he had seen her in the past.
Now he thought she was in fact very young and had what he might call a baby face. At the same time she was very pretty.
She was quite small, much smaller than Charlotte, and she had a little round face with large eyes that seemed to dominate it.
She was certainly not beautiful in the same way as her cousin. But she was indeed exceedingly pretty.
So pretty that the Marquis felt that she typified the small child who usually appeared on the front page of a Fairytale book.
“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
“I shall be eighteen in a month’s time,”
“So you must be one of the Season’s debutantes. Surely your uncle is having you presented at Court and arranging for you to attend the balls that all the Society debutantes are invited to?”
Serla laughed and it was rather a pretty sound.
“I will not be allowed to do any of those things. You don’t understand. I am the black sheep of the family or rather the blot on the Family Tree they want to forget.”
The Marquis could not help smiling at the way she described herself.
“Tell me about it,” he urged her.
For the very first time since he had left Charlotte his voice was not angry or cynical.
“It is rather a long story,” she replied. “And please, if I tell you why I am running away, will you promise, on your honour, not to take me back?”
“I suppose to take you back is something I really ought to do,” the Marquis said.
As a matter of fact he had not thought about it. He had been so intent on his own problem.
It had not occurred to him that he should take this wayward child straight back to the house. She would most certainly get into trouble if allowed to wander about alone.
He was aware that Serla was now looking up at him anxiously.
“Do you promise on everything you hold sacred?” she asked.
The Marquis prevaricated.
“Shall I say that I promise to help you if I can, but I cannot allow you to run into danger.”
“I am sure that I shall be all right when I get to London,” Serla said, “and then they cannot find me.”
The Marquis thought it was not only improbable but ridiculous.
However it would be kind to listen to her whole story before he made a decision.
“Start from the beginning,” he suggested, “and tell me why you are blot on the Family Tree of the important Langwardes.”
He could not help his voice sounding sarcastic as he spoke and Serla gave him a quick glance before she said,
“I was afraid that you would be very upset when Charlotte told you that she was going to marry the Duke.”
“It was something I did not expect,” he replied.
“But she is so anxious to be a Duchess and I really don’t think that you would have been happy with her.”
The Marquis was surprised.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
Serla did not answer and so he suggested,
“Well, tell me first about yourself. We have plenty of time and while we are travelling at this speed no one can interrupt us.”
Serla laughed.
“That is true, my Lord. Your horses are magnificent and I would love to ride one of them.”
“I am sure you have been riding the Earl’s horses.”
“It is only occasionally that I had the chance,” Serla replied, “when everyone was out or when there was not a lot for me to do, which is not often.”
She gave a deep sigh and the Marquis proposed,
“Now start your story from the beginning. Why to begin with are you living at Langwarde Hall if you are not happy there?”
“I thou
ght,” Serla answered, “as you were going to marry Cousin Charlotte that you would have heard about the family and the terrible scandal my mother caused.”
“As I have been abroad for so long at the War,” the Marquis said, “I missed the gossip of the Beau Monde and I would have been at school when the scandal happened.”
Serla gave a little sigh and then began,
“Mama was the only daughter of the last Earl, who, of course, was my grandfather.”
She glanced at the Marquis before she went on,
“He was like Uncle Edward in that he thought that the most important thing in life was that the Langwarde Family Tree should be filled with blue-bloods from top to bottom.”
The Marquis laughed and thought that described the present Earl exactly.
“Because my Mama was his only daughter,” Serla continued, “he was so determined that she should make a brilliant marriage and arranged as soon as she was eighteen that she should marry one of the Princes of Denmark.”
The Marquis was listening to her and was interested enough to have for the moment forgotten his own problem.
“The Prince was rather older than Mama and she had only seen him once or twice before he finally arrived for the Wedding. My grandfather organised everything.”
Serla paused for breath and continued,
“It was a huge Wedding at Langwarde with more festivities after the bride and bridegroom had gone away for the employees and tenants.”
The Marquis knew that this was traditional.
“A number of distinguished guests,” Serla went on, “were either to stay in the house or to come from London.”
She stopped and the Marquis asked,
“What happened?”
“The night before the Wedding when everything was ready including her gown, the bridesmaids and a pile of expensive presents, Mama ran away.”
“Alone, like you now?” the Marquis asked.
Serla shook her head.
“No. She ran away with Papa who was secretary to my grandfather.”
Hastily, before he could say a word, Serla said,
“Papa was a gentleman, there was no doubt about that. But he did not have a title and, as you can imagine, my grandfather was so furious he almost had a stroke.”
“I can well understand him being rather upset,” the Marquis said. “What happened then?”
A Battle for Love Page 2