“Oh, my dear, no!” Her mother’s eyes nearly fell from her face. “You cannot be serious!”
“Why not?”
“Why not? The man has nothing! His title is but the veriest wisp, he has little in the way of finances, less in the way of estates. No, no, you cannot marry him.” She frowned. “Never tell me he has made you an offer?”
Charlotte bit her lip.
“Charlotte? Good heavens, has he made you an offer? Oh!” She sagged against the settee. “The room is spinning.”
“Mama?” Concern tugged at her. Perhaps this time she really was ill …
“Tell me,” her mother continued, in a weak voice, “has he made you an offer?”
“He has not.”
Her mother pushed herself upright, with strength surprising for one ostensibly weak. “Then I forbid you to marry him, do you hear me? Forbid it! He is not the man your father and I have picked for you. I will not have my daughter throwing herself away on such a man as he.”
Heat pricked Charlotte’s eyes. She clamped her lips. Protest was useless.
“Now, such talk is injurious to my health. Go fetch my smelling salts. All this talk of scandal is making me quite light-headed.”
With a swish of skirts, Charlotte exited the room, stomping up the stairs until she found Ellen and passed along Mama’s request. She hurried to her room, locked the door, then threw herself onto her bed. Fire danced through her chest. How dare Mama make such accusations? How could she think so low of her own daughter? Was smiling at a young man such a crime?
She swiped angrily at the tears leaking onto her cheeks. Staying with Lavinia was one good thing, but she could never like the separation from Lord Markham. Never! She released a shuddery breath, her mind ticking over the other thing Mama had said. Had Mama truly picked someone for her to marry? Why, the idea was positively medieval!
And just who might that someone be that Mama had selected instead?
Hampton Hall, Gloucestershire
Early June
Late-afternoon sun baked William’s neck, the heat relieved a fraction by the light breeze eddying the scent and dust of earth. “So the addition of peat and lime should bring about decided improvement.”
Hawkesbury crossed his arms. “Is it expensive?”
“The cost is high regardless. Would you prefer the price of diminished yields over upcoming years? If you do nothing, in ten or twenty years’ time you will see the land fit for nothing but grazing.”
“But if these Corn Laws take effect as I fear they will—”
“The price will matter not if the land cannot sustain crops.”
The earl sighed. “I suppose it should not be terribly difficult to access lime, seeing as we have a lime works on the estate near Hawkesbury House.”
“Transportation might prove the bigger expense,” said the third man with them, Hawkesbury’s estate manager, whose prim appearance belied his aptitude for the sciences of the land.
William studied the far blue hills as the others continued their quiet discussion. Well he could understand the countess’s preference for this pocket of England. The advent of summer had sprinkled a gold-tinged beauty across the tranquil landscape, inducing a sense of calm he had not realized he’d needed until his arrival four days ago. Since then, his visits to the fields and farms of the Hawkesbury estate had been interspersed with convivial conversation and meals fit for a king. How long since he’d stayed with like-minded people who shared his faith along with his interest in bettering the lives of those dependent on their estates?
“I beg your pardon, Hartington. We seem to have become distracted. Shall we return? I’m sure Lavinia would have returned from her visit by now.”
“Her father must miss her lively spirits.” He’d met the reverend two days ago at services, followed by a meal, during which he’d come to appreciate where Lavinia got her intelligent humor.
“He’s getting old. I do not know how she will cope when he passes.”
“It is never easy to lose a parent.”
William thought back to when his parents had died. He’d been partway through a lecture at Cambridge when his studies were interrupted by word they had been killed in a carriage accident. The news had instantly propelled him to the dukedom, his title inevitable, but the manner in which he received it still felt a heavy price to pay. So much to remain forever unresolved.
They returned to the Hall to see a carriage unloading.
Hawkesbury muttered beside him, “I didn’t think they would come so soon.” He glanced across, offering a half smile. “Forgive me. It seems the guests we expected next week have come rather earlier.”
A footman helped a golden head alight. William’s heart tingled. He peered more closely. “That is Lavinia’s cousin?”
“Yes. And her aunt. Apparently soon was not soon enough to escape the season.” Hawkesbury drew nearer as the marchioness exited the carriage. “Ah, Lady Exeter. How wonderful to see you again.”
She permitted her cheek to be kissed, dark blue eyes flicking to William before returning to Hawkesbury. “I cannot admit the trip has been to my inclination—”
“And yet you’re here so soon,” the earl murmured.
“Nor has it been especially comfortable. I really must speak to Exeter about ordering a new conveyance. It is beyond time. Oh! Duke. What a surprise.”
William offered a small bow. “Lady Exeter.”
“You know my daughter, of course,” she waved a hand at the young lady whose mulish expression suggested the trip had definitely not been to her liking, either.
“Lady Charlotte.”
His bow was met with a small curtsy and muttered, “Duke.”
“And how is it that we might be so fortunate as to be in your company, sir?”
“How indeed?” The earl smiled, as if through gritted teeth.
“I know we are a trifle earlier than planned, Hawkesbury, but we simply could not stay in London a moment longer. So hot, you know.” She fanned herself vigorously, as if stranded in the deserts of Africa.
Her daughter’s gaze narrowed.
“While it is indeed a delight to see you again, madam, forgive my assumption it was to Hawkesbury House we were to await you,” the earl said, with a curving brow.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh. Well, you must know that for me to stay there when the dowager is at home is simply quite out of the question!” She smiled at William. “You might not be aware of a certain strain that exists between our family and that of Hawkesbury’s.”
“I prefer to avoid gossip, madam,” he said quietly.
“Lady Exeter,” the earl said, his look darkening.
She hurried on. “And Lavinia was so kind to invite us, and I just knew she would not mind us coming a few days in advance. So here we are. And how fortuitous to have the pleasure of your company, Duke!”
“Alas, my visit concludes tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“I have responsibilities in Bristol and at home.”
“Of course.” Disappointment ringed the marchioness’s eyes, though he thought he detected an air of relief around her daughter’s.
The thought that his departure might relieve the young lady brought a disconcerting twist to his heart. And fresh determination to stifle this ridiculous attraction.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHARLOTTE FORKED in another piece of delicious venison. If she ate, perhaps she wouldn’t be required to talk. And apart from Lavinia, and possibly the earl, she had no desire to talk to anyone at the table.
Mama eyed her with an upraised brow, forcing her chewing to slow and her gaze to lower. She peeked underneath her lashes across the table to where the duke sat, bemusement on his face as he endeavored to answer the questions Mama thrust at him.
Now she could see him more closely, she noticed the shadows marking his grief from two months ago had lightened. Yet his eyes remained as disconcerting as ever, especially when accompanied b
y the twist to his lips, which made his expression seem wry and self-deprecating. No, she thought, sipping her lemonade, while holding a manner somewhat sardonic, he seemed rather mild for a duke of the king’s empire, his voice and opinions everything unassuming. How absurd for anyone to believe such a meek man had engaged in a duel!
Her gaze found her mother’s, whose less-than-subtle head jerks suggested she wanted Charlotte to converse with the duke. Her fingers clenched in her lap. She might feel sorry for him, but that didn’t mean she wanted to speak with him!
Her gaze lowered to avoid any more of her mother’s mute messages. How preposterous were Mama’s machinations? Changing their plans to immediately vacate London upon receipt of Lavinia’s letter, a letter containing the news of the duke’s visit to Gloucestershire. What did Mama think would happen? That Charlotte would forget Lord Markham? That the duke would be enchanted by her less-than-sparkling conversation? She had no wish to speak with him; neither did he seem keen to speak with her. The one time he’d addressed her this evening was to say something about how well she looked after the long journey from London, which Mama had quickly responded to by commenting to the effect that Charlotte always travelled well.
The anger rose. She forced it down, along with a bite of ham. Surely Mama could see her efforts were for naught—that this ridiculous charade should stop. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Mama’s intent had remained unclear until her confession in the carriage about Lavinia’s other guest. Which could only mean Mama’s plans for Charlotte included him!
She shuddered.
“Charlotte?” came Lavinia’s anxious voice. “Are you cold?”
She met the duke’s dark eyes and hastened her gaze away. “No, Cousin.”
“I trust the turbot is to everyone’s taste.”
Charlotte joined in as a chorus of assent rang around the table, even though she hadn’t tasted it.
She glanced up, met the duke’s gaze, noticed the half smile as he glanced at the uneaten fish on her plate. Her cheeks heated.
“Charlotte, why don’t you tell everyone about how much you love to ride?”
By “everyone,” Mama apparently meant the duke, as the others already knew of her partiality for riding.
Very well. If Mama insisted on playing such a silly game …
“I love to ride,” she said in as flat a voice as she could manage.
“Why, Charlotte!” Mama said with a warning frown for her and a laugh for the others, before smiling brightly at the duke. “When Lavinia was staying with us last year, Charlotte helped her with her riding.”
“I thought Mr. Horrocks did that. Remember, Mama, my riding instructor?”
“Yes, well, ah … I understand you enjoy riding, sir?”
The duke inclined his head. “I enjoy it, yes, but I make no claims to great sportsmanship, unlike Hawkesbury here.”
No, Charlotte thought, disregarding the rest of his words. He made no claims to great anything. He was dull, so dull in fact she felt like falling asleep whenever he opened his mouth. At least Lord Markham could flutter a girl’s heart, as well as being so handsome, and able to quote poetry, and—
“Do you agree, Charlotte?”
She blinked, trying to recall what had been said. “I beg your pardon?”
“The duke was telling us how he enjoys plants, and I was saying you do, too.”
Plants? She fought the curl of her lip as she shifted her attention from her mother to the duke. “I like flowers.”
He nodded. “Any particular favorites?”
She thought back to the bouquets she’d received after her ball, bouquets filled with roses and lilies, the bouquets Lord Markham had sent. Her eyes stung. “Roses.”
Before she was forced to answer again she pushed in another mouthful and hid her gaze.
“I understand you have a lovely rose garden at Hartwell, sir,” Mama continued.
“Yes.”
Despite her loathing of both Mama’s games and the duke’s meekness, Charlotte had to admire his fortitude. He answered Mama’s questions exactly as he ought: in monosyllables.
“Your principal estate is in a lovely part of England, is it not?” Mama persisted.
“It is.”
“And do you prefer London or the countryside?”
“The country,” he said.
“Aunt Constance—” Lavinia whispered.
“Charlotte loves the countryside,” Mama said, in such a way it was obvious she would have said Charlotte preferred the city had the duke expressed such a preference. “You were saying that just today, weren’t you, Charlotte? How much you love the country?”
Charlotte noticed the sympathy lining Lavinia’s and the earl’s faces. Shame at being so exposed mingled with perverseness, making her say loudly, “I’m afraid you misunderstood, Mama. I said how much I preferred London.”
“Why Charlotte! I—”
“I have never understood the appeal of the countryside when there is so much more to do and see in town.” She stabbed at her plate. Yes, she was behaving badly, but … “I like balls, and parties, and shopping, and outings with my friends.” How could Mama make her forsake Lord Markham? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! “I’m sorry, Lavinia, but the countryside seems rather unexciting in comparison.”
Lavinia met her look of apology with a smile. “I quite understand. Especially when one has grown up in London, it must be difficult to imagine the pleasures that can be found in country living, although they can be found.”
“Especially if one truly does enjoy riding,” murmured the duke.
Her gaze met his before the amusement there forced her attention to her plate again.
Was he laughing at her? How dare he!
“I do hope you’ll enjoy your time with us, Cousin.”
Lavinia’s kind tone clogged moisture in Charlotte’s throat, and she nodded, bitterly aware of how her ungracious comments would be fussed over later by Mama, most likely with accompanying smelling salts and threats of swoons.
Coupled with this was the even more bitter confirmation from the direction of her mother’s conversation: Mama truly did intend the duke to be Charlotte’s husband.
Poor girl. William smiled to himself as the ladies departed. He had little doubt of what would constitute the ladies’ conversation in the drawing room while he and Hawkesbury drank port.
“Please excuse my wife’s aunt,” Hawkesbury said, once the servants had left. “Constance is a little eager to see Charlotte situated well.”
“Understandable.”
“She’s usually a good deal more subtle in her methods.”
“Sometimes it is best to be aware of what the attack consists, would you not agree?” William hooked an eyebrow at the former soldier.
Hawkesbury chuckled. “I don’t think she was counting on the change of tactics from her daughter.”
“No.” William studied the port swilling around in his glass.
“Poor Charlotte. I’m sure she’s being made to rue her outburst, even as we speak.”
“I much prefer honesty to dissembling.”
“Of course.”
As Hawkesbury retreated behind his glass, William’s earlier amusement faded. He didn’t mind her lack of enthusiasm toward the countryside, could only be glad she did not lie. It made him wish he’d taken time to know the character of his first wife a little more before she had proved her lack of principles so disastrously.
“Again, I feel it necessary to beg your pardon, Hartington. I assure you such events were definitely not on our agenda when we issued the invitation.”
“I understand the arrival of the marchioness was as unexpected for you as for me. I assure you, no pardon is necessary.” William sighed. “I just imagined it would be a little longer until I’d be forced to think on such things.”
“Of course.”
Silence filled the dining room, the warmth of the evening forbidding even the friendly crackle of a lit fire. How long should it be before he th
ought on such things? Polite society demanded a widow wait at least a year and a day until remarriage, but for a widower, especially one known to have endured a loveless marriage, there was no such compunction.
Next time, he would marry to please himself. He was no longer the young man seeking to carry out the plans of his father. And truth be told, he needed an heir. The only way that could happen was if he wed again. But who would have him? Despite his amusement, something hollow had clanged in his soul about the way the young lady seated opposite had eyed him so dismissively. As if she thought him old and boring. He swallowed the rest of his port, hiding his wince. To a girl ten years his junior, perhaps he was old and dull. It was just a shame he thought of her in quite the opposite way.
Stifling another sigh, he glanced around. The room held a warm and cheery feel, one he’d be hard-pressed to emulate at the Abbey, due to the larger scale of the rooms. But perhaps this feeling was not related strictly to the enjoyable satiation after a good meal, but was more to do with a sense of camaraderie. How long had it been since he’d had someone to stand as friend? For despite the unease wrought by today’s arrivals, he felt like he’d finally gained such a thing in both Hawkesbury and his wife. A prayer of thanks bubbled from his heart.
“Hartington? Do you wish to join the ladies?”
He smiled. “I confess to lacking as much courage as you.”
Hawkesbury laughed. “I’m content to stay longer, if you are, too.” He drained his glass. “So, any further thoughts on our position here in Gloucestershire?”
Their conversation veered from field management to fertilizers to the benefits of sheep versus cattle, when Hawkesbury’s laughing reference to the Farmer Duke gave him pause.
Was that truly how others saw him? No wonder young ladies held him in aversion, even if such nomenclature did not dissuade their parents.
Later that night, after eventually joining the ladies and enduring more of the marchioness’s attack—thus deciding him on an even earlier departure the next day—William tossed and turned in his hitherto comfortable bed.
Marriage? Again?
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 7
