by Erica Vetsch
“Yes, ma’am.” The redhead bounded up and swooped Cian into her arms. Deftly she propped him on her hip, and Diana placed William into the curve of the girl’s other arm. “Come along, loves. You’re both in need of naps, though you”—she looked at Cian—“won’t think so, will you, young Master Cian?”
Charlotte wondered at the casual way the help spoke around the lady of the house. They all seemed easy in their mistress’s presence. Mrs. Bradford put down her shears and picked up a comb, sticking several hairpins into her mouth to have them handy, and in moments she had Charlotte’s hair put up into a curling mass at the back of her head. Several tendrils hung loose, bouncing off her cheeks, and for the first time in her life, Charlotte had bangs that clustered softly over her forehead.
“You won’t have to spend ages styling your hair either, like so many girls.” Mrs. Bradford poked and tucked a few places, standing back to admire her work. “I know several ladies who would love to have your hair. It has so much natural curl, you don’t need to heat an iron.”
What would her parents say to the change? Plain and simple had been their rules her entire life. Nothing superfluous or ostentatious. They were almost Puritan in their outlook and demands. Any pleasure in or attention paid to one’s looks was considered hedonistic. Charlotte could never reconcile the thought that a God who created such beauty and color would refuse to allow His children to appreciate it in their attire. As long as a garment was modest, who cared what color it was?
As she turned her head and studied her reflection, she found she didn’t care much what her father thought of her new clothes and new hairstyle. In less than a month, she would be out of his house and out from under his control. She felt like a butterfly struggling to escape the imprisonment of a chrysalis, ready to spread her wings and be free of all that controlled and confined her in the past.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bradford. I love it.”
A soft tap and clearing of a throat drew their attention. “My lady, the butler sent me up to tell you a caller has arrived.” The young maid held out a silver tray with a card atop it. “He wishes to know if you are receiving.”
Diana glanced at the card and smiled. “Of course. We’ll be right down.”
The maid disappeared with the message, and Diana motioned for Charlotte to stand. “Let me look you over one more time, and then we’ll go down.”
Amused, Charlotte rose to her feet, and Mrs. Bradford took a clothes brush and whisked it down the long panels of her skirt, searching for any stray hairs.
“Who’s here? The way you’re fussing, you’d think the Prince Regent himself had called.” Charlotte pushed their hands away.
Diana shrugged. “It has been known for him to drop by. He has taken a personal interest in Evan ever since he bestowed the earldom on him. But this caller is much more important than the prince. Marcus is waiting downstairs.”
Immediately, her stomach took to tossing like the Channel in a storm. Would Marcus like the changes? Would he think her looks improved, or … would he notice at all? Her father never complimented his wife or daughter on their looks, only giving criticism when he thought it warranted. Diana said Evan complimented her often.
What would Marcus do?
All too soon they were downstairs, and Diana gave Charlotte a little push into the drawing room and closed the door, not coming in herself.
Marcus stood with his back to the room, looking out the window, but at the sound of the door he turned.
Charlotte waited an eternity for his reaction.
What had she done with herself?
Surely this wasn’t plain Lady Charlotte Tiptree, spinster and outspoken bluestocking?
He rubbed his hand over his mouth.
She was … stunning. Gone was the drab, concealing garb to which he’d become accustomed, and in its place, a gown of red-gold that shimmered even though she was standing still. And … her figure … The dress touched her in all the right places, every curve womanly and lovely.
She’d done something to her hair …
Her lower lip disappeared behind her teeth, and she twisted her fingers at her waist, not looking at him but staring somewhere off to his right. Was it possible she was insecure and anxious? Had she not looked in a mirror?
Marcus had thought her beautiful the first time he had laid eyes on her in the rookery, but it had been more her courage and unconventionality than her looks that had attracted him. His interest had been fueled playing cards with her at a party and when they had sparred gently in a bookstore. But this, this was different. What he had admired of her personality and intellect was now mirrored in her outward transformation.
He finally found his voice. “I see the morning was well spent. Am I quite impoverished? If so”—he grinned—“I don’t mind in the least.” Perhaps if he could jest, he could get a bit of space from his astonishment and find his nonchalance.
She exhaled, her lips trembling. “I don’t quite feel myself … or rather, I don’t know how I should feel. Diana was most helpful. Do you like it?” She touched the russet skirts, then raised her hand to the locket at her throat.
He couldn’t tell her what he really thought. She wouldn’t possibly understand. He’d chosen her as his bride because she wouldn’t be a distraction to his work. A rather plain, bookish, socially awkward woman wouldn’t want the social whirlwind of London.
But this raving beauty would provide distraction aplenty if he let her.
Which he wouldn’t. He could keep her in one world and his work in another. He had no choice if he wanted to be successful in either endeavor.
“I shall be the envy of every man in town. I believe you look beautiful enough to kiss.” He crossed the room slowly, unable to take his eyes off her, to assimilate the change in her appearance. “May I?”
Her eyes were round as shillings and as green as new spring leaves. She nodded, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips, making his heart thud. Her pulse jumped along her jawline, and her breath hitched.
She was as wary as a deer stepping into a glade, and he knew he should go carefully. As cloistered as she had been, she would be a complete novice at kissing. Now was not the time to awaken her from her chaste slumber. Time enough for that when they were wed.
But she looked so different, so beautiful, he couldn’t resist the privilege of a fiancé. A first kiss, her first kiss, was a precious thing, and he felt both honored and eager.
Lifting her chin with his forefinger, he smiled into those amazing eyes and gently, giving her ample time to turn away or step back, he lowered his head. His hands moved to lightly bracket her slender neck, and he brushed the softness of her mouth with his.
She stood perfectly still, and he inhaled the light scent of flowers and warm skin. Her lips were incredibly soft but immobile under his, as if she didn’t know what to do.
Slowly he withdrew, staring into her eyes. How many days until they were married? The end of the month seemed a long time off of a sudden. How could someone so untouched and virginal stir his pulses so?
He let his hands drop and stepped back, steadying his heartbeat. She reached up and touched her lips, and with gratification he noticed that her hand trembled.
Clearing his throat, he sought not to let on how the kiss had affected him too. He was supposed to be sophisticated and mature, but he felt like a schoolboy at his first country dance. It was time to get things back to a lighter tone.
“When I called at your parents’ home, they said you might be here. I came to see if you would like to go on a small excursion with me.”
“An excursion?” Her voice sounded husky, and she swallowed.
“There’s something I would like to show you. Something I think might interest you. Are you brave enough to put yourself into my care for the afternoon?” He kept his tone easy and friendly.
Within minutes he was handing her up into his carriage. Diana, when consulted, had come up trumps with a fur-lined cloak, a fashionable bonnet, and a pair of warm glo
ves.
He sat across from Charlotte, still marveling at the changes in her appearance. Fine feathers make fine birds? Or was it that the bird had always been fine and now she had a chance to spread her wings a bit?
“Tell me about your morning,” he said, for something to say. “Did you enjoy the shopping?”
“It was most illuminating. I’ve never chosen my own clothes before. I’m so glad Diana was there to help guide me. And the modiste …” Charlotte laughed. “She was as plainspoken as could be and very efficient. There were such lovely fabrics and so many choices to make.” Her fingers brushed the russet satin of her gown where her cloak parted across her knees, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was wearing something so silky and fine. “Such amazing things don’t happen to someone like me. It’s like a dream, almost as if I’m watching things unfold for someone else, as if I’m standing in for someone who will return soon and step into the role I’m playing. I never thought I would be a duchess someday.”
“I can well identify with that. I feel like I’m playing a role most of the time too, for I never thought to be a duke.” The moment the words were out, he wished them back, for he could hear both the frustration and the sorrow in his tone. It was too raw, too revealing. And unlike him to share that much of his inner thoughts. “You’ll soon grow accustomed to your new freedoms and responsibilities, I’ve no doubt. How are you coming with the Greek history?” A safer subject and one in keeping with their outing.
She lowered her face for a moment, studying her hands, straightening the seams on her gloves. “It’s going slowly.” She seemed to be struggling with whether to say something or not.
“Are you not enjoying it?” A little stab of disappointment jabbed him that she might not have found his gift as pleasant as he had hoped.
“Oh, no, I love it. I wish I could spend hours and hours reading it.” She moistened her lips. “But my father doesn’t think girls should ‘ruin their minds’ with reading things they ‘can’t possibly understand.’ I don’t even know why he sent me to Miss Hitchin’s School for Young Ladies, other than that it wasn’t expensive and it got me out of his house for most of the year. If he knew how little time we spent on deportment and how much we spent on philosophy, history, and mathematics, he would be appalled. As for your wonderful gift, I have to read it in snatches late at night. If he knew I had it, he might take it from me. Just like he did the rest of my books.” A pained expression crossed her features, and she blinked quickly.
“He took your books?” Was that why she had been looking for replacement volumes at Hatchards?
She nodded. “I made him very angry one evening, and as punishment he took my small library and had one of the footmen burn every volume.”
“I see.” Marcus hadn’t heard anything yet to recommend the Earl of Tiptree to him. No wonder Charlotte was so subdued in his presence. “When you move into my home, you may read as much as you like.” It would help her pass the time while he was working. “The library at the estate is even larger than the one here in town. It would take you the rest of your life to read all the books.”
The carriage pulled to a stop along the north side of Piccadilly.
“Where are we?”
“Burlington House. I’ve arranged for you to see—”
“The Elgin marbles?” Her green eyes widened. “Truly? I’ve wanted to see them for such a long time, but my father said they were idolatrous images too scandalous for a woman to view.” She bit her lip, her shoulders hunching a trifle, anticipation glowing on her face.
Marcus shouldn’t feel so satisfied, but he couldn’t deny how her pleasure gratified him. Perhaps it was because his mother was so rarely pleased with anything he did that finding a woman he could make happy with so little effort surprised him. Perhaps her father’s sheltering—incarcerating—had kept her unspoiled in comparison to other society women her age, who were drilled never to show eagerness or interest.
“When I ran into Lord Devonshire this morning at Whitehall, he extended the invitation. He’s storing the marbles for Lord Elgin for the time being. I understand Elgin and the government are trying to come to agreeable terms for the transfer of ownership.” Marcus stepped down and reached to help her descend to the sidewalk.
They were met at the front door by Devonshire’s secretary. “His Grace told me to expect you. I’d be most happy to guide you through the gallery where the marbles are. I will attempt to answer any questions you may have.” The secretary was a graying man of slight stature, who though polite, appeared a bit put out. “The house is open three mornings a week for viewings.” He seemed to be asking why they needed a private showing when there was ample time to see the exhibit during public hours.
Being a duke and friends with Lord Devonshire had its perquisites.
A maid took their wraps, and they followed the secretary to the back of the house. “The exhibits take up several rooms, but the friezes are housed here in the portrait gallery.” He handed them each a printed leaflet. “This explains what you will be seeing.”
Marcus glanced at the first page and tucked the paper into his pocket.
Charlotte didn’t even look at the leaflet. She had eyes only for the carved marble before her.
Beautiful eyes.
She scarcely seemed to breathe. Her hand came up and hovered inches away from the form of a horse rearing before she tucked both hands behind her back.
“You may touch it. Plenty of people have,” the secretary said. “It’s just stone. You can’t hurt it.” He shrugged.
Uncertainty lit her eyes. “Yet even a stone can be changed by repeated handling. These have survived for more than two millennia, mostly because they were out of reach of groping hands high above the temple floor. If you allow every person to touch them, soon they’ll be worn and dirty and perhaps broken.”
The secretary’s lips twitched, and he shrugged again.
Marcus took her elbow and turned her to walk down the long line of friezes. He’d seen them before, when Elgin had first brought them back to England, though they had been housed in much more pedestrian surroundings in a shed built in the backyard of a Park Lane rental property at the time.
“This frieze,” she indicated the long sections of carved marble, “used to decorate the interior architrave of the Parthenon. I love Doric architecture, don’t you?”
Marcus nodded, not so much because he had an opinion on the matter but because he wanted her to continue.
“Imagine these as they were when they were first created, more than four hundred years before Christ. No broken or missing pieces.” She indicated several of the figures without limbs or even heads in some cases. “How many hours must Phidias and his workmen have spent to create such movement and life out of cold marble?”
She knew the name of the carver? Most women of his acquaintance couldn’t have told what country these came from, much less the building, the century, or the maker.
“Are you sure you haven’t been to view these before?” he teased.
She shook her head, taking him seriously. “I have studied sketches, and I’ve read of the debate about whether Lord Elgin should’ve taken these things from Greece or left them there.”
“And what is your opinion on the matter?” He’d heard several long-winded orations on the topic in the clubs, but he was curious as to her thoughts.
Her uncertain glance and the way she gnawed at her lower lip piqued his interest as well.
“Do you have an opinion about it?”
A small laugh erupted from her throat, and her features eased. “Oh my. I do. I tend to have lots of opinions, but no one ever asks for them. I wasn’t certain if you were in earnest or if you wanted me to follow my mother’s dictates and pretend I didn’t so you could give me your opinion and I could agree with you.”
He chuckled, but he shook his head too. “From this moment, Lady Charlotte, when I ask for your opinion, I want you to tell me what you think, not what you think I want to hear. Understoo
d?”
She eyed him skeptically. “You may live to regret that liberality. As I said, I am never short of an opinion or thought.”
Taking her hand and threading it through his elbow, he waved toward the procession of marble carvings that spanned the length of the gallery. “So what is your opinion on the removal of artifacts from their homeland?”
“I believe it is both more complicated and simpler than those making the decisions would like. With the Ottomans warring against the Greeks, the acropolis and the ancient sites were at risk of being demolished entirely, so there is some merit to Elgin’s claim that he removed the artifacts for the sake of preservation. And one cannot discount the educational aspect as well. There are many who will never be able to travel to Greece or Rome or Egypt or Persia, and bringing historical objects to the great population centers such as London or Paris allows more people to see and learn of these great civilizations than ever would otherwise.”
The secretary nodded his approval.
“However,” she continued, “the removal of these items should never be made without the consent of the people to whom they belong. Lord Elgin claims that the Ottomans, who occupied Athens at the time, gave permission, but the Parthenon morally belongs to the Greek people, not their invaders. Our British colonialism assumes that we are better caretakers of a nation’s treasures than their owners. But is that true? How would we feel if, say, the Americans invaded Britain and removed her statues, paintings, and historical treasures because they felt they would care for them better? Would we not resist them and rightly so?
“Then there is the scope of the removals. Did Lord Elgin need more than two hundred feet of frieze in order to educate Londoners and preserve a portion of the Parthenon? Could not casts have been taken and replicas made for most of these? He took the majority of the remaining metopes and triglyphs, where one or two would have sufficed for educational purposes. One can learn nearly as much about the mythical battle of the centaurs and the Lapiths from one panel as from fifteen.”
Marcus squeezed her hand into his side. She’d stated her views eloquently, admitting that there were many sides to the issue, and echoing many of his own sentiments. And she knew what a Lapith was?
