Lords to Be Enamored With: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Bridget Barton

  Charlotte smiled. “It does not matter.” She raised her chin. “I shall not pursue that course. But I have decided to have a newfound philosophy on my days, nonetheless. If my days are numbered … then I must live every one of them as if it were my last.”

  Diana’s eyes lightened. “Sister …”

  Charlotte stood up. “It starts now, Diana. I have already interrupted your playing. But would you mind terribly if I took over? My fingers are simply itching to play that sonata.”

  Diana nodded. Charlotte took a deep breath and sat down carefully, spreading her dress around her. The music sheets were already on the stand. She just had to read them and start playing.

  Her heart was hammering as she spread her fingers over the keys. Was that a slight tremor? Determinedly she ignored it. She started playing. The notes were a little discordant – she was out of practise. But soon she was as swept up in the music as she had been when she had listened to Diana playing.

  She closed her eyes. How could she have ever stopped doing this? It was a part of her. She loved music passionately. And nothing was going to stop her doing what she loved. She might end up bedridden, or slowly die, but until then … she had to live.

  ***

  The countess glared at Charlotte over the grand dining table, stabbing at her food with a fork. “It is simply intolerable, Charlotte. To scurry out of the room like that, without requesting permission. Dr. Gibson was flabbergasted, to say the least.”

  Charlotte raised her chin. “I am sure that you handled it with your usual aplomb, Mama.”

  George stifled a laugh. “You seem brighter, sister. I saw you painting this afternoon. It warmed my heart. It has been so long since you have done it, and you have such talent.”

  Charlotte smiled at him. “I don’t know if I am particularly talented, George, but I do enjoy it.” She took a deep breath, staring around at her family. “I am going to do everything that I have always loved from now on. I am simply determined.”

  Her mother gaped at her. Her father choked a little on his wine. Diana let out a small squeal of joy, sounding much like a mouse.

  “Bravo!” said George, his eyes gleaming at her. “I am planning an excursion to Bond Street tomorrow, sister. A spot of shopping. I think that with your newfound attitude, you should definitely come. I think that London deserves to see the new and improved Lady Charlotte Lumley.”

  Chapter 3

  Charlotte stepped down from the carriage onto the pavement, gazing around her. She had been to London many times, of course, but not since the accident. And she had never been here. Bond Street. The most fashionable of streets, where the beau monde came to see and be seen. All under the guise of shopping.

  George held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  Charlotte smiled, trying to dispel her nervousness. It was so busy. Fashionable gentlemen and ladies, resplendent in morning dress, sashayed along the pavements, stopping to chat or peer into shop windows. They were coming and going out of haberdasheries, jewellers, tailors and dressmakers. Carts and carriages rumbled back and forth along the street, sometimes throwing mud up onto the pavements, making the young ladies frown and pick up the hems of their gowns to avoid it.

  Bond Street was a far cry from the endless green hills of her home. It was a little overwhelming.

  “You’ll be fine,” whispered George, smiling indulgently. “We shan’t stay long if you find it too much.”

  Charlotte took a deep breath, taking his arm. “Lead on, George.”

  “That’s the spirit,” her brother laughed.

  They ambled slowly up the street. “I didn’t ask last night,” George said, staring down at her. “I was too busy watching the old folks spluttering into their soup at your words. What has brought on this new lease of life?”

  Charlotte smiled slowly. “Another brush with a quack, George. He told me that I will probably end up bedridden or die before my time.” Her smile widened at the alarmed look that crossed his face. “Do not worry. Even if his theory is true, it changed something for me. I am determined that I must not dwell on it and should live my life exactly the way that I want to.”

  “Good for you.” George smiled at her tenderly. “It is only what Diana and I have been telling you for the past four years, but better late than never. You always were a slow learner.” His smile turned impish.

  Charlotte’s eyes gleamed. “And you were always impudent, brother of mine. Spoiling the milk and making the governess cry in the nursery with your antics. You have always led us all on a merry dance. Particularly Mama and Papa.”

  “I am a reformed man,” he said, glancing up at the lodgings above the shops. “I have not frequented one house of ill-repute since we have arrived in London. I am determined not to gamble my inheritance away.”

  Charlotte smiled. George was incorrigible, but lately he seemed to have matured, spending less time with his rowdy London friends and more time at Cranwick Manor, attending the estate alongside their father. He was the Viscount Castlereagh – the eldest son of the Earl of Montgomery always took the title – but he was also their father’s heir. One day he would be the earl, with all its attendant duties and responsibilities.

  “I don’t think there was ever any danger of that,” Charlotte remarked, gazing at him fondly. “You have always had a fondness for the cards, but you are not stupid, George. You know when to throw them on the table.”

  “Your faith in me is gratifying,” he laughed. They lingered for a moment outside a milliner’s shop window. “To repay your kind words I think you need a new bonnet, sister. Or maybe two. Shall we?”

  Charlotte laughed and they entered the shop, the bell tinkling above them. Her heart was filled with gladness as she stared around the tiny shop. With such wonderful siblings by her side, she felt as though she could take on anything. She could take on the whole world. Or the London beau monde, at least.

  ***

  They were still laughing when they left the shop. George had insisted on buying her three bonnets, even though she had demurred, telling him she had no need for them.

  “I do not go anywhere to wear them,” she had laughed. “They shall rot away in the back of my wardrobe.”

  George stared at her, pretending to be shocked. “For shame! I declare that is the old Lady Charlotte Lumley speaking. The new Lady Charlotte Lumley shall be the talk of the town, and the sprightliest social butterfly London has ever seen!”

  She clutched the newly purchased bonnets, neatly wrapped in brown paper, tightly to her chest as they strolled down the street. George spied a boxing academy above a shop and launched into a tale about a match he had once seen. As much as Charlotte loved her brother, she did not share his enthusiasm for sport. Bored, she answered perfunctorily, not really listening.

  It was then she saw the turtle doves, flying high above the street. She had always loved turtle doves. They were numerous around Cranwick Manor and when she was a little girl she loved to climb trees to discover their nests. Her nursemaid always scolded her, of course, claiming it was not an activity for a young lady. But she never listened. At the very next opportunity she would be climbing again, as high as she could, gazing down at the world below.

  Charlotte smiled, her eyes glazing as she followed the flight of the doves. She had forgotten that feeling of freedom, when she used to climb. The wind on her face. The same feeling she had when she had been riding Prancer, or one of the other horses in her father’s stables. The doves dipped and soared in the sky. What must it be like, being able to fly like that? To be a part of the sky and the wind and not have these silly human problems anymore.

  She was so deep in her reverie, watching the flight of the birds, that she didn’t even realise that she was still walking slowly up the street. Suddenly, she collided sharply with a man coming from the opposite direction. Charlotte’s brown paper package containing her newly purchased bonnets fell to the ground. She gasped, stunned. The man she had run into cursed softly under his breath as his own parcels tumb
led to the ground.

  They bent to retrieve them at the same time, only succeeding in bumping heads. Charlotte reeled back, blushing. The man gazed at her. Her mouth gaped.

  He was young, probably only a few years older than she was, and he was handsome. Dark complexioned, with chiselled cheekbones and a strong, aquiline nose. But as she stooped, gazing at him like a stunned deer, it was his eyes that held her attention. They were a peculiar shade of green, almost exactly the colour of the moss that grew near the pond at Cranwick Manor, and they were fringed by long, dark lashes.

  The man seemed as dumbfounded by the situation as she was. He gazed back at her, a dazed expression on his face, as if he had never encountered another human being in his life.

  Charlotte felt her heart start to beat faster. The situation was absurd. She should get to her feet immediately, apologise, and they could be on their way. And yet she was transfixed, as though she wasn’t able to move at all. All she could do was gaze into the face of the handsome stranger, just as he was gazing at her.

  Suddenly her wits returned. George was already on the ground with them and helping her to her feet. She picked up her parcel. The stranger did the same, gathering his parcels and standing. He was tall. So tall that she had to raise her head to see his face. And he was dressed in very fashionable clothing: a white muslin shirt, crisp blue tailcoat with gold buttons, and blue breeches. He held his hat, which had toppled from his head when they had collided, in his hands. As soon as her eyes alighted on it, he placed it on his head again, concealing his closely cropped black hair.

  A very well-to-do gentleman, thought Charlotte, taking in the quality of his dress. Was he a dandy? George had told her about them: fashionable young men who liked to swan up and down Bond Street, dressed to perfection, inciting admiration in the hearts of all the young ladies. They were hardly commonplace in the lanes around her country home.

  “Madam,” he bowed slightly. “I do apologise for my inattention.”

  George rushed in. “By Jove, is it you, my lord?” He looked starstruck. “I do apologise for my sister. She is a clumsy thing.” Charlotte glared at him, but he ignored her. “I hope you didn’t sustain an injury?”

  The man smiled. “No damage done. It’s Castlereagh, isn’t it? We have met before in London. A few seasons ago, at Lord Louie Minthrop’s townhouse.” His smile broadened. “I seem to recall we shared a tumbler or two of his finest brandy.”

  George beamed. “That was quite a night.”

  Lord Sebastian inclined his head, staring pointedly at Charlotte.

  George started. “Oh, do forgive me. This is my sister, Lady Charlotte Lumley.” He turned to her. “May I introduce Lord Sebastian Wharton, the Marquis of Wharton.”

  Charlotte curtseyed low, staring at the ground. A marquis? No wonder he looked so well turned out. And he had an air of natural authority. Already she could see that the young ladies strolling up and down the street were watching them, curious.

  Lord Sebastian bowed. “Lady Charlotte. I do hope that your head is not suffering a lump?”

  Charlotte smiled. “My head is made of sterner stuff, my lord.”

  He gazed at her, his green eyes narrowed. “It is not filled with the stuff and nonsense of most of the young ladies swanning up and down this street, then? You fill it with poetry and music, rather than Gothic novels and thoughts of the latest gown?” A smile played around his lips. “I feel only then can you confidently say it is strong enough to endure such a blow.”

  Charlotte gaped at him. Was he teasing her? But judging by the glint in his green eyes, it rather seemed that he was.

  “I think poetry and music would not be sufficient,” she replied gravely. “Perhaps an operetta? I have often found that those who fill their heads with quotations from the Bible can sustain any blow that life throws at them. But alas, my bible is at home and can bring me little relief.”

  George stared at her as though she had taken leave of her senses entirely. But Lord Sebastian smiled down at her. He seemed pleased. As if she had just passed a test she didn’t even realise she was taking. The silence stretched between them, as they studied each other, for so long that George coughed uncomfortably.

  “Are you in London for the entire season, Lady Charlotte?” he asked abruptly.

  She inclined her head. “I am, my lord.” She paused. “We have only recently arrived and still getting the lay of the land.”

  “Hence your clumsiness.” He smiled again. “I have not seen you about town any other year. Why so?”

  Charlotte balked a little. He was very direct and she wasn’t used to answering such bald questions. And she certainly wasn’t going to talk about her malady and how it had affected her life. She didn’t talk about it with anyone except her immediate family, and her parents were determined to keep it a secret. As she hesitated, George jumped in, as protective as always.

  “My sister prefers the country life, my lord.” He laughed. “We have not been able to drag her away from our estate these past years. But she will be making up for lost time this season.”

  Lord Sebastian nodded. “I do hope so. It promises to be entertaining, indeed.” He hesitated. “I must dash. A friend is expecting me, and I am already late.” He bowed to them. “My apologies again, Lady Charlotte. It was good to see you, Castlereagh.”

  Charlotte curtseyed, and then he was gone, striding down the road. She gazed after him. Had he even been here, talking to them, at all? It was like the man had been an apparition. As if he had stepped out of one of her dreams and taken flesh and blood form.

  “A strange fellow,” said George, following her gaze. “I have met him only once, but even then I thought him a bit odd.”

  Charlotte nodded. “He lives in London?”

  George shook his head. “He is here for the season, the same as us. He is the son of the Duke of Richley, Lottie! They have a massive manor on Piccadilly, at the opposite end to us. I think their country estate is in Sussex.”

  “A duke’s son?” She blinked rapidly.

  “The eldest son, Charlotte. The son and heir. One day Wharton will be the duke himself.” He smiled. “Why do you think I made such a song and dance of apologising for you? He is top brass, even if he is eccentric.”

  Charlotte felt herself colour. It wasn’t every day that she ran into the son of a duke, and in such an embarrassing manner. But then she raised her chin. She was the daughter of an earl. The forgotten daughter of an earl, but still.

  “Come on,” George raised his arm to her again. “There is a tailor I want to get to before it closes for luncheon. And then we must get you home. Mornings are for the ladies on Bond Street.” He smiled enigmatically. “But in the afternoon, it belongs to the gentlemen.”

  ***

  Charlotte sighed, placing her gilt-edged hand-mirror back on her dressing table. What was she hoping to see in there? It was the same face that always stared back at her, and yet she felt different. Perhaps she was hoping to see what his lordship had seen when he had gazed at her so enigmatically.

  “And how did you enjoy Bond Street, my lady?” Dulcie asked now, tugging at her hair with the brush so hard that Charlotte winced. “I hope the viscount didn’t keep you there past four o’clock.”

  “Why ever so, Dulcie?” she asked, her mind still on Lord Sebastian.

  Dulcie stared at her as if she had suddenly sprouted gibberish. “Things happen there after the ladies leave.” She lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t speak of it with you …”

  Charlotte smiled indulgently. “Go on. I know you are just itching to tell me.”

  Dulcie leaned in closer, the bosom beneath her maid’s black uniform heaving slightly. “There are houses of ill-repute located there, my lady. As well as gambling dens.” Her voice lowered again. “The ladies leave, and the tarts come out, dressed to the nines, with enough war paint on to battle the Emperor of France himself, I shouldn’t wonder.”