She drank in the delicate scent. “They’re beautiful.”
“Which is why they are apropos for you.”
Delight danced around her heart as the night progressed. This was excitement! This was glamour! Lord Markham was everything she’d ever dreamed: charming, romantic, exciting, and so, so handsome.
Partway through the meal, a whistle sounded.
“What is happening?”
Lord Markham leaned close, eyes glinting. “Wait a moment, dear heart.”
Her heart fluttered. Dear heart! Oh!
A second whistle sounded, then, as if in a magical dream, all the lamps adorning trees and colonnades were set aglow, hundreds of red and green and golden sparkling stars. “Oh …”
“It is breathtaking, is it not?”
Lord Markham’s voice behind her stirred her hair, sending another delightful shiver up her spine. Oh yes, her breath was well and truly taken, and not solely by the illuminations.
Not long after finishing their meal, a bell rang, and they followed the crowds to the Rotunda. The concert had concluded, and a dark curtain covered part of the structure. Around them, the cooling air and dusky shadows filled with whispers and soft laughter. Lord Markham stood nearby. Anticipation thrummed within. What other wonders could tonight possess?
The curtain lifted, revealing a miniature country tableau of waterfall, mill, and bridge. As various wagons and carriages passed across the stage, the cunning simulation of the sound of the wheels and rush of waters reinforced the appearance of veracity.
Charlotte was mesmerized. “It is all so marvelous!” She glanced over her shoulder. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?”
Lord Markham smiled. “I believe so.”
The look in his eyes sent fire rushing along her cheeks, and she quickly returned her gaze to the rural scene. Surely he must hold her in some regard to say such things, to look at her that way. Her heart thrilled. Was this feeling akin to the love Lavinia felt for the earl?
The curtain descended, and the music recommenced. Mama murmured something and exchanged positions with Lord Markham, before saying something about needing a stroll. Placing Charlotte’s arm in hers, Mama led her along a path. “I trust you are enjoying your evening?”
“Oh, it has been everything wonderful!” Not just the spectacles she had witnessed, but this delightful, fluttery feeling—no, certainty!—that tonight would lead to something yet more magnificent.
Mama’s brow puckered. “I’m glad. But I cannot help feel Lord Markham is being a trifle obvious in his attentions. Do not encourage him too much, my dear. We do not want people getting the wrong impression.”
“What people?”
Her mother refused to meet her eyes, glancing away, her smile widening as she nodded to a small party approaching them. “Oh, hello Amelia! How is Lady Anne? I trust she’s recovered from her cold? No? Such a shame it should happen during her first season. I’ve always been so fortunate to be in the pink of health myself, and as for dear sweet Charlotte here, I cannot remember the last time she was ill. Well, lovely chatting with you, as always.”
Mama’s clasp on her arm tightened, and her smile seemed brittle as they hastened decorously back to their party. Lord Markham glanced up from his conversation with Henry, offering a quick smile that she returned.
“Charlotte!” Mama whispered.
She fought a sigh, and moved to stand near where Father was speaking to the earl and Lavinia. Yes, she would heed Mama’s advice, but surely it was only polite to acknowledge a friendly gesture!
“And if you would be so good as to pass on our good wishes to Hartington when you next see him.”
Her attention snagged. The man with the black brows and darker soul?
“Of course, sir,” Lord Hawkesbury was saying. “He seems improved in spirits of late.”
“Well, of course. Without that treacherous millstone around his neck—”
“Ahem!” The earl raised his brows at Father before turning to her. “How are you, Lady Charlotte?”
Disquiet swirled within. What millstone did they refer to? Why did they hush when she drew near? What were they hiding? Oh, why did people think her such a child?
“Charlotte?” Lavinia placed a hand on her arm. “Are you quite well?”
Charlotte nodded, forcing her lips up. She would not let talk of that man spoil her evening. “Of course!”
“Then shall we see the fireworks?”
“Oh, yes!”
Within minutes they had moved to the part of the park offering the best vantage of the fireworks, so Henry assured. Here the trees were a little farther back, offering a clearer view, something the swelling crowds seemed aware of also, as they drew closer, their anticipation palpable.
Boom! Rockets soared skywards, bursting into golden stars.
She clapped her hands. “Oh, it is enchanting!”
Lord Markham, who had somehow managed to secure a position beside her, smiled down into her eyes. “I agree.”
But his eyes were not on the sky show, being fixed on her instead. She was thankful for the darkness, as another blush heated her cheeks.
She forced her attention heavenward, as the yellow and orange starbursts continued to illuminate the sky, conscious of his nearness, of his delightful sandalwood aroma, of the delicious thrill to have a man she admired admire her in return.
“I wish you great joy for your birthday,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. “And for the year ahead.”
Shivers rippled up her spine, her heart swelling with thankfulness for this most wonderful evening—this most wonderful man!—and she pleaded for God to continue to open the doors that would bless her future.
Hartwell Abbey, Northamptonshire
William studied the fields of rippling green. “The barley held up well over winter.”
“That it has, Your Grace. Not too many losses this year.” Mr. Hapgood bobbed his head.
“So you think the new seeds worked?”
“That I do, sir. That, and the addition of the fertilizer you created.”
A flicker of pride swelled in his chest. So perhaps he could get some things right.
“And the shallow drilling?”
“They be your fields, sir”—this was said with a sidelong glance at William—“but yes, best to be avoided from now on, I be thinking.”
William nodded, thankful once again that this man, estate manager extraordinaire, held the practices of his father and grandfather loosely. While some might consider that gentlemen had no right to be farmers, he’d never understood how a landlord could be satisfied with owning farms that yielded less than maximum productivity. Increasing rent was one thing, but surely knowing the people dependent on the land—his tenants, his villagers—would not go hungry was of greater importance. And if it meant people scorned his “loss of gentility,” as Pamela had so often derided his scientific and agricultural experiments, then so be it. Surely he should care more for his people’s welfare than his reputation.
Further discussion between them ceased with the arrival of a servant. “Your Grace, you are needed back at the Abbey. Lord and Lady Clarkson have arrived.”
Pamela’s parents. His heart sank. Acknowledging his obligation to Hapgood he turned and strolled back to the house. It would not do to make the viscount and his wife wait too long, but neither would he hurry back like an errant schoolboy, for what would doubtless lead to another fiery encounter.
His thoughts turned to their last meeting, the day of Pamela’s burial. Lady Clarkson’s sobs had haunted him almost as much as his memories of that terrible night. His heart had grown cold toward his wife long ago, but something in the way her mother had carried on, careless of observers, had touched his soul and made him wish he’d been a better husband, so Pamela had not felt the need to stray. But regrets were like dead seeds: useless things.
When he entered the hall, Jensen hurried forward, eyeing his mud-spattered clothes. “Your Grace, perhaps you might wish to c
hange?”
As his butler helped remove his coat, William said, “How long have they been waiting, Travers?”
“Not more than a half hour, sir.”
“Perhaps if you send in tea, I will exchange this for something more fitting to her ladyship’s taste.”
“Very good, sir.”
William hurried up the steps, and under Jensen’s ministrations he’d soon been made presentable enough to satisfy even the highest stickler of Almack’s patronesses—which should placate her ladyship. To give Pamela her due, she had ensured William’s dress was up to a Brummel-like standard, her eye for fashion something she’d inherited from her mother. And he had no intention to further antagonize his mother-in-law by meeting her in anything but what she would approve.
He descended the steps and entered the Blue Drawing Room.
Two dark heads glanced up, the viscount’s corpulent features twisting in dislike, which proved a mild expression compared to that of the viscountess, whose sneer was another, rather less beneficial quality Pamela had also inherited.
William bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord, my lady.” He refrained from adding anything of welcome or pleasure in their visit. He would not lie.
“Hartington.” There was the merest scraping of bows.
“You did not hurry to greet your guests, I see,” the viscountess said.
“I was unaware I was to expect guests today,” he offered mildly.
“Hmph!”
The viscount shifted his considerable weight. “A most disturbing report has reached our ears.”
William maintained his cool look, only permitting himself the smallest rise of a brow. He was well aware of how his mildness had always irritated Pamela, and by default her parents, and saw no reason to change. His had never been a disposition given to histrionics—yet another fault of which Pamela had been wont to accuse him.
“I see you refuse to oblige us by sharing the truth, as usual.” Lord Clarkson’s brow lowered in a ferocious scowl. “I had hoped better of you by now.”
Anger surged. How dare they accuse him of lying? He—who unlike their daughter—had never deceived a soul! “Surely your fixed belief in my supposed lack of scruples must have some bearing on your refusal to accept my veracity.” He fought the curl of his lip. “I rather think you’d say I misspoke if I said the sky was blue.”
The viscountess frowned, but then, unlike perfect dress sense, logic had never been her forte. “You … you …” Her fingers clenched like angry claws. “Is it true you engaged in a duel?”
He blinked. How had they heard? “I beg your pardon?”
“There are rumors flying all around London that the Duke of Hartington was engaged in a duel to avenge his wife’s honor!”
Dear God, he hoped not! He hoped his mother-in-law’s gift for exaggeration was in play as per usual. Aiming for nonchalance, he settled back in his seat, crossing his legs in a languid gesture. “Is that so?”
“Is that—? Is that all you will say of the matter?”
“What would you prefer me say, madam?”
She made a sound suspiciously like a snarl before gesturing for her husband to continue the inquisition.
“For goodness’ sake, Hartington, is it true?” Clarkson cried. “Did you or did you not engage in a duel against Lord Wrotham?”
He paused. Swallowed bile. “I did.”
Identical gasps were matched by two pairs of rapidly paling cheeks. The viscount swore softly. “I never would have imagined that you of all people would countenance such a thing!”
He wasn’t the only one, William thought sourly.
“I can scarcely credit it.” Lady Clarkson fanned herself. “To avenge poor Pamela’s honor?”
“To avenge mine.”
Conciliation disappeared in her twin orbs of steel. “Surely you are not suggesting our daughter was anything but virtuous?”
“Again, your refusal to believe anything but what you wish is most impressive.”
“How dare you accuse her of such things?”
“I dare, madam, because I saw Lord Wrotham exiting her bedchamber at such an early hour and in such a state of dishabille, one can only assume they had not spent their time talking.”
“No!”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“You lie!”
“And why would I make up something of such sordid nature? It gives me no pleasure, I assure you. I wish your daughter had been faithful—”
“Don’t be so ridiculous! Pamela was well aware of her obligations.”
Disgust roared through him. “Forgive me. I did not realize marriage vows were but obligations.”
She snorted. “You portray yourself as a man of sense, yet believe such things? I never took you for such a fool! Did you speak with her?”
“Of course I did, and of course she denied everything. But would you have me deny what I saw with my own eyes?” The anger surged anew. “Would you have me deny the fact she never once sought my company this past year? Instead, she had a veritable cavalcade of young men she was seen with.” Army officers, marquesses, viscounts, all more handsome, all more charming and engaging than him. “Did the gossips tell you that?”
Their faces pinked. So perhaps whispers concerning their daughter had reached their ears.
“I paid no heed at first, but after I saw Wrotham that night, I confronted your daughter. Oh, yes, I did.” Memories of that night arose. Her tearful denials, which quickly turned into violent rage, culminating in the later admission that the child she carried was not William’s after all. A savage pang crossed his heart. “Choose to disbelieve me if you will, but my wife held no compunctions about such things.”
“I refuse to believe this,” Lord Clarkson muttered.
“I am sure you do.”
Lady Clarkson continued shaking her head, as if such an action might ward off the loathsome truth. “No. No, Maria would have told us—”
“Maria?” His hands fisted. “You cannot believe anything that creature says.”
His word seemed to galvanize the viscountess, for she drew herself up, eyeing him icily. “She was always an excellent lady’s maid, with exquisite taste in clothes—”
“She is a liar.”
“No! She came to see us, to beg us to speak with you about the night Pamela died.” Her eyes filled. “I just wanted to know if your child—”
“Her child,” he corrected.
“If … it were a boy or girl?”
A broken sob roused the ashes of compassion. He cleared his throat. “Pamela wanted her child,” he finally admitted. “She just could not birth her.”
“Pamela was always such a slight thing.” She wiped her eyes, glanced up. “It was a girl?”
“Yes.”
Her face crumpled, and she heaved in a great shuddering breath before pushing to her feet, fire rekindling her eyes. “I will never forgive you, Hartington. You used my daughter ill, besmirched her name, insulted us in ways I never thought possible. We will never darken the threshold of this … this cursed mausoleum again!”
“Never,” the viscount echoed, adding an expletive. “You are a blackguard and a scoundrel! We wipe our hands of you.”
Without further ado, they exited, their mutterings and black looks giving him no chance to say anything further.
William slumped in his seat, the past few hours having left him drained. Should he have admitted the baby still lived? But what was the point? The doctor said it was unlikely she would survive, sickly as she was. William hadn’t named her, hadn’t wanted anyone becoming attached to a child sure to die. His fingers clenched. If he’d admitted she lived, would his denials of paternity have led them to demand custody? While he might wish to be rid of the reminder of Pamela’s sins, he could not, in all good conscience, leave an innocent to such care. Leave her with the people who had shaped Pamela’s morals so poorly? He’d duel Satan himself before such a thing occurred!
No. Lord Clarkson’s exiting epithets regarding W
illiam’s own paternity only reinforced his gladness at denying them the tiny bundle upstairs.
His hands burrowed through his hair. Heavenly Father, forgive me if I did wrong, but I couldn’t let them know …
A groan wrung from the depths of his being. If only he’d married someone with as much character as beauty, who valued him even a tenth as much as she valued her own interests—who had a whit of compassion, even!
An image of compassion floated before him: golden-haired, blue-eyed, a tear trickling down her cheek.
He shook his head. No. Men like him, so wretched, cursed by foolish choices, deserved no second chances. Had he not once considered Pamela the image of everything good? How could he trust his own ability to assess a woman’s character? How could he ever trust a woman?
No. This foolish fancy was precisely that: foolish. God would not want him wishing for dreams that could never come true.
CHAPTER SIX
Richmond Park, London
Late May
BLOND CURLS WHIPPED into her face as Charlotte raced along the tree-lined avenue. Exhilaration thrilled her to the tips of her gloved fingers, her heart throbbing in time to the hooves pounding the ground. Overhead branches dappled pools of shadows, a charming enough scene if she were one of those content to sketch. But she had never been drawn to such sedentary pursuits. Dancing and riding provided far more pleasure—and opportunities to showcase her skill.
“Careful, Charlotte!”
Ignoring her brother—forever jealous of her speed—she leaned closer to the flapping mane of her hired hack. “Come on, boy. Let’s show them.”
With an answering nicker the horse surged forward, they were now neck and neck, no, they were passing, passing—
With a burst of speed, she overtook the other man, flashing him a smile as they finally crested the hill. “Yes!”
He chuckled, slowing his horse as she did hers, before offering a nod of acquiescence. “I concede, Lady Charlotte.”
She laughed. “I like to ride fast.”
“You are quite the valiant.”
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 5
