by Allegra Gray
Charity hesitated. “Even if I was, I doubt it is cause for worry. I suspect very few guests will retain more than a hazy memory of the night’s events.”
There was not much more to be said about that.
“Very well. We shall all stay true to that story, should the topic come up,” their mother decided. “Next. The Stowells’ picnic is tomorrow. It is critical you attend, looking for all the world as though you are the most innocent creature ever to have lived.”
Charity’s mother’s tone bespoke her doubt that her daughter could actually pull off such a feat. “You must stay right by my side, dutiful and doting. Wear something pale, with ribbons.”
“And you’ll be by my side, as well,” Elizabeth put in. “I wish I could offer up Alex’s side, but he plans to leave on the morrow for business on the coast.” She sighed. “Maybe I could talk him into postponing the trip. With his backing, no one would dare to give you the cut direct.”
Charity shook her head slowly. “He has already done more than his share in supporting this family.” It was true. He’d stood by Elizabeth when society had scorned her, declaring her not only acceptable, but desirable. So much so that he’d offered up what he’d never offered up before—his hand in marriage. Then he’d subsidized their mother, paying for the town house where she and Charity now lived. And finally there was the matter of Charity’s own dowry, provided by the duke. The money might mean little to him, but Charity didn’t want to be any further in his debt.
“Besides, it’s awfully early in the Season for an outdoor picnic. Perhaps it would be best if I went nowhere for a while. Laid low.”
“That would only confirm your guilt in the eyes of society,” Lady Medford told her. “Never fear. The weather would not dare to insult Lady Stowell by failing to cooperate on the day of her event. She insists on holding it earlier and earlier each year, so that no one else dares attempt to supplant her picnic as the first of the Season.”
Charity swallowed, knowing it was true—hiding away would not solve things. There really was no easy way out of this.
“Besides,” her mother continued, “I have it on good authority that a certain Scottish nobleman has also been invited to the picnic.” She arched her brows meaningfully. “I realize he has not formally declared his intentions, but it would be in your best interests, Charity, to convince him—subtly, of course—to do so very soon.”
“You want me to marry Lord Maxwell?”
“Is there a reason he would not make a good match?”
“Nooo…” Charity said slowly. The Scot had been most chivalrous—except, perhaps, those brief moments during the shadow play at the masquerade. In those moments she’d been no better, welcoming his touch, sinking into it, hungering for more. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
“Charity?”
A smile played at her lips as she shook off the sensual haze that seemed to come over her at the mere thought of Lord Maxwell. “No, there is no reason to think Lord Maxwell would not make a fine match.”
Except for her fears about marriage. How could she share a man’s bed, night after night? Unless she discovered a means to keep the terrors subdued, he secret was sure to slip out. She prayed Lord Maxwell would engage her in a leisurely courtship. It would save her reputation, and give her time to come up with a plan.
“We are in agreement, then.” Lady Medford sounded satisfied, but stern. “Charity, I do not mean to sound dire, but you must know—Lord Maxwell may be your last, best chance.”
Charity was spared the indignity of having to reply to that remark when a tap at the door interrupted their conversation. The butler cracked the door. “Lady Medford, you have a caller.” His usually expressionless face bore only the faintest trace of disapproval that someone would dare to call at such an early hour.
Lady Medford rose, he mouth pressing into an unflatteringly tight line before she threw her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and schooled her features into an expression of cultured pleasantry and marched toward the front room.
Charity met her sister’s eye, her heart hammering against her breast bone. There could be no question as to the purpose of this call. The moment of truth had arrived. She prayed their story would hold up.
Charity was not enjoying herself, in spite of the balmy spring afternoon that lent itself perfectly to picnicking. It seemed her mother had been correct—even the weather bowed in obedience to Lady Stowell’s determination to host the first picnic of the Season.
She glanced around at the other guests, most of whom would not deign to speak with her, and stifled a sigh. Somewhere along the perimeter of the property, her guards stood watch. Ostensibly, they were discreet enough not to interfere with her life. But she hadn’t missed the plain black carriage, now so very familiar, that followed them here. Nor could she shake the feeling of being watched.
In fact, there was no question she was being watched. Nearly every guest at the picnic was watching her. Waiting for the moment she slipped up, Charity supposed, though what awful deed they expected of her, she couldn’t guess. The only difference between them and the watchers she feared most was their intent. The picnic guests would destroy her reputation. The others would destroy her life.
In this part of London, that amounted to practically the same thing.
She’d stood dutifully by her mother through two glasses of tepid lemonade, but her mother kept getting pulled aside by other mothers, who then “whispered” in voices Charity had to pretend not to hear.
“Even if I believe your explanation, the fact remains,” Lady Carroll was saying now, “your daughter was seen at an event that is no place for an innocent, seen by heaven knows whom, doing heaven knows what, and seen leaving said event, no less, by climbing into the carriage of a man. Unchaperoned.”
Charity swallowed, hard. She felt dizzy. But she couldn’t seem to look away.
Her mother arched a brow, seemingly unflappable in spite of the onslaught. How did she manage it? “Seen? By whom, exactly? You seem to know an awful lot about it, Lady Carroll, for someone who claims she was not there.”
Lady Carroll all but snarled. “And you were?”
“Pfft. Think what you like. I am a dull old widow and all of London knows it. I do enjoy a challenge at cards, however, and most of my acquaintances know that, too. What you may not know is that the young baron has an uncle whose skill at the game is legendary. The opportunity to observe his play is rare for one such as myself.”
Charity was reluctantly impressed by her mother’s show of solidarity—and her newfound skill at inventing plausible falsehoods. Indeed, the sniping Lady Carroll had no retort. One or two of the others nodded as though they actually found her mother’s reasons acceptable. Still, no one made an effort to welcome Charity back into their circle. She drifted away as their hostess, anxious to diffuse the tension, guided the conversation to a new topic.
Tired of trailing after her mother, tired of the scornful looks, Charity wandered toward the edge of the garden, where a handful of children played. Two governesses watched over them, though the young women appeared more caught up in their own conversation than in that of the children. Charity stood for a moment, content to watch the innocent play. Curiosity and joy lit the features on their young faces. She couldn’t help but smile, even as a sharp pinch of longing struck her as she tried to remember what it had been like when she, too, had been so carefree.
She knew that for her, those days were gone. There was no getting them back. But if she were ever so lucky to have children of her own—a possibility that seemed far-fetched, considering her fear of marriage—she’d go to the ends of the earth to protect them from making her same mistakes.
Graeme Ramsey Maxwell choked back a swallow of lemonade that was too warm in temperature and too light on alcoholic enhancement. This picnic was a disappointment. He’d hoped to find Charity Medford in attendance, but so far, he’d spotted only her mother and sister. He’d barely even been able to greet them, let alone seek out his
true target, for it seemed word of his arrival in London had spread. He could practically see the matrons ticking off a list of his attributes to their daughters. Eligible? Check. Wealth? Check. His estates were in good shape—had they not been, he imagined the London gossips would have known that, too. Title? Check.
“Of course, it’s a Scottish title,” he imagined them saying, “but you can overlook that, dear. ‘Tis a title nonetheless. An earl, even.”
There was no other way to explain the swarm of mothers and daughters who surrounded him now, feigning interest in sheep and whatever crops they imagined his lands produced. Graeme forced a smile, reminding himself this was, in fact, why he had come to London. There might be a perfectly acceptable young lady amongst this group of hopefuls.
He was about to answer a question about mining when—finally—he spotted her. “Excuse me.” He interrupted a woman whose name he’d already forgotten, and strode off. Rude, they would say. He couldn’t have cared less.
The rest of the picnickers fell away as his focus narrowed in on the blond beauty lingering at the fringes of the party, attending without really being present. Odd. He’d pegged her as a social butterfly.
Though the scene before him wasn’t what he’d expected, he quite liked what he saw.
Charity knelt on the ground, pale pink skirts spread about her, while a little boy gazed at her with something like adoration. Graeme could see why. She didn’t notice him watching, so intent was she on unwinding the tangled pull-string of the boy’s toy. Her golden hair was pulled up, away from her face, but little tendrils escaped to curl prettily against the flush of her cheeks.
Finally the string came free, and Charity looked up with a triumphant smile. The boy clapped his hands, then clutched the toy gratefully as she handed it over.
She straightened, brushing off her skirts as the little boy ran off. She watched him go, her triumphant smile fading to one more…wistful? Interesting. What made her sad? Did she long for children of her own?
She turned. He knew by the sudden flare of recognition, the faltering of her smile, that she had not realized he was standing there. Then the smile reappeared, more shy now.
He gave her a warm one in return. The scene he’d just witnessed was simple, just a brief moment, yet it did a measure to ease his doubt over whether Charity Medford could be a suitable wife and mother. She was here, at a respectable ton event, indicating her eligible status. She’d shown a fondness for children, and she hadn’t seemed bothered by a bit of grass on her skirts. That was definitely good, since his home in Scotland boasted far more in the way of grass and dirt than ballrooms and salons. The ballroom, in fact, hadn’t been used in years, unless you counted the games of hide and seek with Nathan.
But while the domestic scene he’d observed answered some questions, it raised others—such as why the young beauty shunned the company of the guests closer to her own age. And yet, she seemed happy enough to see him. With that realization came relief. He hadn’t known quite how she would react. There were a good many things he didn’t know about her yet. Her face was no longer hidden by veils, but she remained a mystery.
“Tell me,” he asked as he drew close, “why the prettiest lass at the picnic is off by her lonesome?”
“I’m not alone,” she protested. “I like the children.”
“I see.” Good. He wanted her to like children. But he didn’t think she’d given him the full truth in her answer. He waited.
Finally, she tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Also, I found the picnic…stifling.”
“Aye. It must have been the conversation, unless I miss my mark, for surely you do not refer to the weather?”
She smiled. No one could deny the weather was as good as anyone in England could wish for on a spring day. “Something like that.”
“Speaking of conversations, I must assume your family filled you in on the remainder of ours? After you retired the other night?”
She flushed beautifully. Indeed, she knew what he’d said, then.
“I realize my announcement may have seemed premature.”
She flushed deeper, the color blossoming not only on her cheeks, but even on the swell above her bodice. Intriguing. How far down did it extend? And how soon would he have the opportunity to find out?
“For all its prematurity, my statement was no less sincere. I am very much interested in marrying you. That is, if you are amenable.”
“To…marriage?” she squeaked.
“That is why I’ve come to London, in truth. I wish to marry. But we can begin with courtship, if you like. Though the goal remains the same.”
“Are you always so blunt?” she asked, rather desperately. “I am not certain how to respond.”
Was he coming on too strong? “I liked the way you responded the other night just fine,” he told her, keeping his voice low and husky. The art of flirtation was coming back to him.
“My lord, I hardly think…”
“Don’t think, then.” All right. Too strong. He didn’t want to frighten her off. He just needed more time. Needed to know when he could see her next. “Just listen. A few of my acquaintances have planned an outing to Vauxhall Gardens on Friday evening. One of my acquaintances is raving about a performance he saw last week…have you heard, perhaps, of this woman, a Madam Saqui? He tells me she descends from the air while walking a tightrope, all while firecrackers are sent up around her. Perhaps you and your sister would deign to join us?”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, that sounds…” But just as suddenly, the light dimmed. She lowered her eyes, shuttered. “No, I’m afraid I cannot. Vauxhall isn’t sa—. That is…er…”
Odd. Unless he was mistaken, she’d been about to say Vauxhall wasn’t safe. He gestured, waving off her obvious inability to find the right words. “Not to the lady’s liking. No matter. The opera? Cosi fan Tutte is well-regarded.”
“Yes, I have heard of it. A French opera.” Her nose wrinkled and her lovely full lips turned down as she spoke the word “French.”
“It is. But if it will put you at ease, let me make this admission: I cannot speak a word of French.” The London ton would surely consider this a shortcoming of his education, but Graeme couldn’t quite manage to sound ashamed.
“Good.” She shuddered. “I have nightmares in French.”
“Bad instructor?” he ribbed.
She gave him a half smile, a shrug. “Something like that.”
Charity Medford was a mystery, indeed. Young ladies in London were schooled in all manner things, many of them useless. He knew French was a part of the curriculum. Charity struck him as intelligent…he couldn’t imagine her struggling in school. What about the language distressed her so? He was determined to learn the answer to all the things about her that puzzled him. But he couldn’t do that without seeing her again.
“I should hate to be the cause of your nightmares. Cosi fan Tutte is out, then. But I cannot think of any operas currently playing in English. You know,” he teased, “you are a difficult woman to court.”
“Am I?” She sounded truly surprised.
“No Vauxhall, no opera…”
She blushed. “I suppose you are right. I hadn’t realized. You say this outing to Vauxhall will be a large gathering?”
“Indeed. Perhaps you would be more comfortable if your sister were to join you?” Miss Medford’s sister seemed a good sort. If he had to choose between sister or mother acting as chaperone, he’d take the sister any day.
As though he had conjured her, the young duchess ran up to them.
“Charity! People will talk.”
“But—” Charity began.
Graeme opened his mouth to defend her. Truly, they’d done nothing wrong. Or maybe they had. London society was so strict. No wonder people felt the occasional need to don a disguise and let loose.
But Lady Bainbridge rushed on. “Or, perhaps, they won’t. Darling, you have missed the most delicious on dit of the Season.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh de
ar. Lord Maxwell, please forgive my manners.”
Graeme bowed slightly, wondering where in the world the Medford sisters had gotten their plucky spirits from. “Not at all, Your Grace. In fact, I am all ears. What is this news we have missed?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Lady Caroline Lamb’s book has just come out and—oh, I can hardly even speak of it. Charity, she tells everything. I haven’t read it myself, of course, but if it is true…”
Graeme was totally lost.
“You mean, about Lord Byron?” Charity asked.
Her sister nodded. “She gave him a different name, but that fooled no one. Lady Stowell acquired a copy, and Lady Hornflower said she had one, but her husband, upon learning of the torrid content, threw it into the fireplace. Of course, I do believe she is even now plotting extra visits to Lady Stowell so that she may finish reading behind his back.”
Graeme laughed. At the mention of Byron, he’d recalled a rumor of an ill-fated love affair. More than one, actually. Apparently one such lover had followed the folly of having the affair with daring to write about it.
The duchess looked alarmed. “Dear me. I shouldn’t say such things in front of a near-stranger. Please forget I said anything, Lord Maxwell.”
“I could not possibly, Your Grace. Any time spent with the charming Medford sisters is time to be cherished. But I swear upon my father’s grave, I would never repeat a word of it.”
She hesitated, looking torn. “Oh, do go on, E.,” Charity begged. “What has been said?”
Lady Bainbridge capitulated. “All right. She—Lady Lamb, that is—she has been cast beyond the pale. The patronesses at Almack’s have sworn to revoke her voucher. I cannot think of anywhere in all of London she shall be able to show her face.”
“Oh, my,” Charity breathed.
Graeme noted that her expression, while understandably one of interest, also held a note of sympathy.
“’Tis all anyone can talk about,” the duchess added. A look passed between the sisters that Graeme could not interpret.
