Something whispered that Princess Charlotte’s situation was not dissimilar to her own. That while she might live with her parents, their machinations meant happiness might forever elude her, too. She stifled the thought, lifting her chin, to see the duke’s dark eyes on her again.
She shivered.
“Charlotte, are you finished?”
“Almost, Mama.” Her mouth felt dry, like she needed something sweet, yet not the sickly flavor of the lemonade.
“Permit me.”
Before she knew it, the duke had placed a perfectly peeled peach on her plate. Her mouth watered. She swallowed. Found a smile. “Thank you. It’s just what I wanted.”
He inclined his head, but not before she saw a trace of pleasure cross his features.
Her cheeks heated. Had he truly paid attention to her earlier words? Why?
She focused on the globe of delicate sweetness, enjoying its perfect ripeness, firm, yet oh so tasty. She licked her lips. “It tastes like golden sunshine. The perfect way to finish a meal.” She smiled fully this time at the duke. “Thank you.”
He drew back a little and nodded. “I’m glad.” And the most charming smile filled his face, transforming his features from darkness to light.
Her heart caught. Oh …
“Quick! I can hear cheering,” Henry called.
Charlotte dragged her gaze away, wishing for water to cool her cheeks, for something to slow her rapid pulse. She glanced at her brother, precariously perched halfway out the window. “Be careful, Henry.”
“Come on, Lottie!” He gestured her nearer. “I can see the head of the procession!”
She watched the parade, thankful for the distraction. The first to pass were the Light Dragoons, followed by the Eleventh Regiment. The uniforms of blue and buff looked most striking.
“I wonder if Hawkesbury’s watching this somewhere,” Henry mused. “He’d know most of them, wouldn’t he?”
“He was in the Twelfth,” the duke said from behind them.
Charlotte stole another glance at him. What was it about him? He stood behind the others, never jostling for position, or demanding that which his rank should afford. In his quiet, unobtrusive way, he seemed to notice quite a great deal, offering answers to Mama’s questions as to which officers and generals rode in each carriage.
She returned her attention to the passing carriages: officers of the Regent’s household followed by the foreign generals, state carriages bearing the royal dukes, the speaker’s coach, the carriages bearing the members of cabinet. On and on it went. A troop of the Royal Horse Guards, the Regent’s officers of state, the Regent’s state carriage pulled by eight cream horses, then the czar.
Mama sniffed. “I cannot believe those persons dare hiss the Prince Regent when the king of Prussia passes by! Most uncouth. Well”—she settled back into her seat, fanning herself—“all this excitement finds me quite thirsty.”
Lord Fanshawe drew near. “Shall I procure you a drink, Lady Exeter? And something for you also, Lady Charlotte?”
“Thank you.”
A snap of fingers brought a footman, hurried orders, and soon, two glasses of champagne.
Charlotte tasted hers and grimaced. Champagne had never been to her liking, hence the ubiquitous lemonade at family meals, even despite Henry’s teasing. She placed the glass down, swallowed a sigh.
“Here.” The low, quiet voice accompanied another glass: lemonade.
“Oh!” She glanced up at her benefactor. “Thank you.”
The duke bowed, and she sipped, enjoying the tang and sweetness, pretending to watch the conclusion of the parade as her thoughts chased each other.
Why did the duke notice such things? Surely he did not care for her? Had she been too kind, offering false hope? She had better take heed, lest her behavior gave rise to expectations she had no desire to fulfill. What could she do to make him understand?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hartwell Abbey
Two days later
HE SHOULD NEVER have agreed.
William shut his eyes firmly, as if he could block the images tumbling through his head. Spending the day with the marquess and family had proved every bit as torturous as he’d imagined. As if it wasn’t enough for him to be forced to politely fence with the marchioness over all manner of things, he’d also been forced to watch Fanshawe fawning over her daughter.
The very daughter who now haunted his dreams.
One smile was all it had taken. The first real smile she’d shown him, over a matter so ridiculously simple as a peach, had been enough to make him wish for his hothouses so he could feed her peaches every day.
Charlotte wore her beauty loosely, as if unaware. Her complexion was such that she would not need the pots and powders with which Pamela had crowded her dressing table. Instead, Charlotte glowed with natural vibrancy, her fairness and blushes a mirror to her emotions. Her lips—oh, her lips!—were berry red, her hair like tendrils of curly sunshine. And when her face lit, as it had with that smile, it seemed all the cold spaces of his heart thawed.
He’d tried to be more interesting, to not play the mute as was his wont. He believed he’d covered his amusement when he’d pointed out—kindly, he thought—the spot of cream beside her mouth. A spot of cream that, were he a romantic man, he would beg to kiss away.
His eyes flew open. “Heavenly Father, please take these desires away.”
He shouldn’t desire her; heaven knew she’d made it plain she did not desire him. But her vitality called to him, her lack of artifice as appealing as the kindness she’d shown in caring for Hawkesbury’s wife as the earl had mentioned recently. He couldn’t help longing for someone whose spirits boosted his, whose passions were harnessed by politeness, not harbored by lies …
His stomach tensed. Perhaps it would be best to escape and head farther north, to the border, like that Markham fellow had been rumored to have done. He would leave, except his presence was needed, poor Barrack finally having been seen by Dr. Blakeney, whose diagnosis and treatment concurred with William’s own: rest.
“Removing him to a disease-riddled hospice will only exacerbate his condition and might, in fact, kill him,” the doctor had affirmed.
And he could not permit the last member of a family who had served his for countless generations to be forced to suffer such an indignity. Following Blakeney’s advice, he had instead sent Barrack to be looked after by a couple in Caister-on-Sea, whose coastal locale had helped many an injured man’s recovery.
So William remained at Hartwell, wishing he could be back in London, wishing he could see her even as duty demanded his attention here.
Evening heat made him tug off the bedcovers. He stared at the shadows slowly marching across the walls. What was she doing? Who was she with? At whom did she smile?
Apprehension slithered through him. He guessed young Fanshawe would be her preference, with his elegant manners and ease of address. But he suspected the young viscount would not meet with the approval William’s own suit would. Yet he had no wish to pursue the unwinnable. If her heart was given elsewhere, what was the point? His heart panged. If only she had not smiled at him and given wings to a hope that scarcely dared to breathe.
He rolled to his side. What was the point in even thinking such things? Until matters were resolved here, he should not indulge his dreams. His arrival back from London had been greeted with the news that a mysterious disease had claimed the seedlings he’d nurtured on the Home Farm for nearly two years. Hapgood insisted it was due to some kind of poison—which meant the soil would take even longer to recover. His estate manager had instigated a search in the nearby villages for any stranger, to no avail. Another pang of annoyance rose. Who would want to do such a thing? First Barrack, then the poison. It was almost enough to make him believe the old wives’ tales about the mysterious cursed happenings at the Abbey.
A thin wail carried on the air.
On this hot night the windows of the baby’s rooms must be open,
too. The wail came again, longer this time. After a few long seconds he heard the window screech shut.
He closed his eyes, but like before, the crying started again, muffled but still audible. Every so often it would cease, and his body would relax, then the wails would resume. Poor mite. To be so warm without means to cool oneself must be a trial.
The wailing picked up again, louder and longer. Even longer. It was as if the child had found some new source of energy and was determined to keep crying until the matter was finally resolved. Previously dulled senses sharpened to a needlepoint, and he sighed. There’d be no returning to sleep now.
He got up, yawning as he moved to the window. From this position the Abbey’s grounds extended as far as the horizon. Moonlight bathed trees in an unnatural glow, shadows stretching long into the night. A pretty, some would say haunting, setting. He rubbed a hand over his face, through his hair. Studied the serene scene, ripe for painting. It was beautiful. He was blessed. The myriad of responsibilities his title carried didn’t make him feel terribly blessed at times, though. Perhaps he needed to focus more on the good things, like he’d read about in Philippians that morning—
He blinked. Was that a shadow moving? He peered again. Nothing. Was he going mad?
The wailing ceased. For a precious few seconds it seemed he might be able to resume his bed, but then it began again. Annoyance flickered, subsided. The nursemaids were doing their best. He didn’t envy them their charge.
He groaned, and pulled on a heavily brocaded robe.
“Sir?” Jensen appeared, bleary-eyed. “I thought I heard something.”
William pointed above. “I know I heard something.”
His valet’s grin flickered. “Would you like me to see if I can quiet—?”
“No, I’ll go.”
Doubtless the child had awoken the entire household, and whilst his staff might show his valet a level of respect, it would not silence the grumbles like his presence would.
He trudged up the steps, the noise growing louder, found the old nursery that used to be his world, and entered.
“Your Grace!” Martha’s red face almost rivaled that of the screaming infant. “We did not mean to wake you!” she almost yelled to be heard above the sobbing girl.
“I’m sure you did not.” He nodded to Meg, a maid, whose presence was no doubt requested by the older lady, before turning his attention to the child. “Come now, that’s enough.”
The little girl started, and ceased crying, as if the sound of his deeper voice was something new and peculiar and warranted attention.
“It is the height of bad manners to behave so.”
She stared at him a moment, then the little face screwed up again and the high-pitched wail continued.
“She’s been like this for weeks now.”
“I know,” he said grimly. “Give her to me.”
“Oh, but sir—”
“Now, if you please.”
The jiggling efforts stopped, and Martha handed him the pink-swathed bundle, in which instant he realized he’d never held an infant before.
“How do—?”
“Like this, sir.” She guided his arms until he was supporting the head with the crook of his elbow, leaving him one hand free to tug at the blankets tucked up to her chin, the move instantly causing the crying to cease, to be replaced by a series of hiccups. He laid two fingers on her forehead. Frowned.
“No wonder she’s crying. She’s too warm.”
“My mother said it was bad for children to get cold. Weakens their lungs, she said.”
“I think we’d all agree this one’s lungs are not suffering,” he said wryly.
He examined the infant, the thatch of dark hair so like her mother’s. Dark eyes studied him, even as the tiny pink lips puckered, unsure whether to cry or no.
“Come now—” Shock lined his heart. He glanced at Martha. “We have not named her?”
“No, sir.”
“How appalling of me.”
“You’ve been a little distracted, if I may say so.”
He nodded, but there was only so much his busyness could pardon. How could this be only the second time he’d entered the nursery? He knew Martha was doing her best, but good God! He spent more time with his horses than he ever had with his wife’s child.
And it wasn’t the little mite’s fault.
He studied the tiny face. Impossible to tell whom she resembled. The old hurt spurted. How could Pamela have betrayed him? Yet her features did not resemble Wrotham. A niggle of doubt stole inside. Wrotham had always protested his innocence …
He exhaled, refusing to entertain any possible injustice, murmuring instead to the tiny girl, “You have not had an easy time of it, have you?”
“No, sir.”
As Martha expounded on the various trials her young charge had put her through, he bit back a smile. While he possessed some measure of sympathy for the nursemaid, she was paid exceedingly well for her job. No, his compassion was for the tiny girl he held. “Heavenly Father,” he whispered, “bless this one.”
The little lips puckered as if she would cry again.
“Please don’t.”
She gave a shuddery sigh, her eyes fixed on his.
“She knows your voice, sir.”
He doubted it, but he allowed the nursemaid her delusion.
“I hope you will learn to mind your manners now, young lady.”
The little girl blinked, and resumed her relentless dark stare.
He smiled, amazed at how long the infant could gaze without blinking. The act seemed to settle the child even more, her lips twitching as if to copy him.
Heart melting, he gently stroked her face. Such petallike softness, such pink sweetness.
“I trust you will sleep well now—” He paused.
What to name her? What she should have been named long ago.
“Rose.”
HALF AN HOUR later, having ensured Rose was thoroughly asleep, William stumbled downstairs. His limbs felt like they’d been poured with lead. He reached his bedchamber to find Jensen still awake, trimming a candlestick.
“You seem to have the knack of things, sir.”
“Perhaps.” William yawned, casting off his dressing gown. “I just hope Rose manages to sleep the rest of the night.”
“Rose, is it, sir?”
He eyed his valet. “Yes. The Lady Rose Pamela Hartwell.”
“Very good, sir,” Jensen said with a pleased smile.
William sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. “Shut the window, would you, Jensen? I’m afraid if Lady Rose wakes again I do not want to hear her.”
“Of course, sir.”
He heard Jensen’s footsteps move to the window, heard a sharp gasp. “Sir!”
His eyelids flicked open. “Yes?”
“The carriage house! It’s on fire.”
“What? How—?” William hastened to the window. His heart lurched. “Quick! Ring the bells!”
Jensen ran off, calling loudly to awaken the other servants. William struggled to button his dressing gown as he followed the thumping footsteps to the ground floor. Fear pummeled his insides. While the carriage house should lie far enough from the Abbey to preclude danger here, it stood too close to the stables. Even now he could hear panicked whinnying.
He rushed outside and stopped. Fire flickered through the carriage house windows, streams of smoke poured through the roof. A lost cause; it would only be a matter of time before the structure caved in. Thank God Barrack was safely away and nobody slept in the carriage house anymore.
Already the grooms and stable boys were leading horses away, but unless something was done, the structure would soon catch alight.
A well stood idle. He raced toward it. “Jensen! Buckets.”
He started pumping furiously, up, down, water sloshing into the wooden pails with every squeaking thrust. A footman soon joined Jensen, and replaced the first container with another, while Jensen threw the contents of
the first on the fire.
More pumping. More crackle of flames. The air was hot, weighty with smoke and cinders. He glanced at the Abbey. So far no embers had traveled there. Dear God!
“Rose! Where is Rose? Make sure she’s safe!”
“They’re over there!” Jensen shouted over the roaring flames.
He glanced across to where a few of the female staff clustered, watching anxiously. At the sight of a larger figure holding an unmistakable pink bundle, sweet relief filled him. Thank God.
William glanced back at his valet. “How are we—?”
“Horses all out,” Jensen grunted, snatching away the next bucket.
He dragged in another breath. Regretted it, as he started coughing. A creaking sound preceded the splintering of the carriage house roof and then it finally collapsed.
Yells rent the air, but they could not stop. Another bucket filled, used to dampen blankets to beat down the flames.
William’s arms were screaming by the time the eighth bucket filled.
“Sir! Allow me!”
Jensen almost shoved him from position, and he stumbled back, eyeing the scene desperately, as he fumbled prayers beneath his breath. God, protect—God, help …
The loss of the carriages he could bear.
The loss of something irreplaceable, like a life, he could not.
He jogged to the stables where smoke-grimed servants continued their desperate labors. He picked up a singed blanket and joined the frantic efforts.
Finally, finally, it seemed they were winning, as the flames shrank and sputtered, until at long last the remaining few embers were doused with water.
A tired cheer filled the night air, as his bedraggled staff collapsed around the terrace, gasping, ash-smudged, grateful for the cooling drinks being passed around.
Fighting exhaustion himself, William moved to the stairs leading to the side entrance. He pulled himself up on the plinth and clapped his hands.
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 11
