The Captivating Lady Charlotte

by Carolyn Miller

  Unease slowly stirred within. Did someone have evil designs toward him? The fire, the paint, even the rock thrown at Barrack, could be counted as accidents or tomfoolery, but the deliberateness of rearranging a road to disguise a ditch spoke of something far more nefarious.

  But who would wish to hurt him?

  He pressed closer to the glass but could see no one. Perhaps if he hurried outside—

  Walking as quickly as he could, he made his way to the tree. Nothing. No one. His hands clenched in annoyance. Of course. He should’ve known this was a fool’s game. Unless …

  Was Pamela right? Was he going mad after all?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Hawkesbury House

  AUNT PATIENCE’S ARRIVAL was a godsend, her zest-filled presence adding color to Lavinia’s cheeks, while providing Charlotte and the earl fresh diversion from their grief, particularly in her manner of dealing with the dowager countess. The dowager had only to open her mouth for Aunt Patience to object. So strident was their opposition, Charlotte was sure that if the dowager were to say the grass was green, Aunt Patience would say it was more yellow. Fortunately, their arguments never crossed into Lavinia’s bedchamber. The earl had banned his mother from entering, which was just as well. After her challenging conversation with Charlotte, Lavinia’s health had declined, and she remained too weak for anything but the most benign of conversation.

  The doctor visited again, his words leaving Lord Hawkesbury even paler than previously. Upon his return to the drawing room, when questioned by Aunt Patience, he simply said, “Lavinia could have died.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Son.”

  He cast his mother a weary glance before fixing his attention on Charlotte and her aunt. “The doctor said it was like the baby was poisoning her system. It is a miracle the child died when it did, as it could have been so much worse.”

  “How could it be any worse? She lost the heir to the Hawkesbury name.”

  He closed his eyes, as Aunt Patience snapped at the dowager.

  Charlotte’s heart wrenched. Poor man. Would this mean Lavinia might never be able to bear a child? She swallowed the rush of emotion, clearing her throat. “Thank God Lavinia lives.”

  The earl heaved in a breath, opening his eyes to give her a half smile. “Thank God.”

  A knock came at the door before admitting the butler, who bowed, then turned to the dowager. “The rooms are ready, my lady.”

  “What rooms?” the earl said, frowning.

  His mother dismissed the servant, refusing to meet her son’s gaze.

  “What rooms, Mother?”

  She sighed. “The rooms for our guests.”

  “Guests?” He looked thunderous. “Now is not the time for visitors.”

  “I am sorry that it does not convenience you, but this was decided long ago. Besides, how was I to know your wife would prove so sickly?”

  Charlotte’s breath caught.

  “Who are these guests?” Aunt Patience asked.

  “My oldest friend and her daughter.” The dowager glanced at Charlotte. “It might do you some good to have someone more your own age to talk with.”

  Somehow Charlotte felt sure the earl would place as little credit to his mother’s sudden magnanimity as she did.

  “Who are these friends?” he said, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “They’re travelling north, visiting some friends in Yorkshire, I believe—”

  “Who are these friends, Mother?”

  Finally the countess looked at her son, snapping, “Lady Winpoole and Clara.”

  Charlotte gasped.

  “How can you ask them to stay here at such a time?” Aunt Patience snapped. “Have you no consideration?”

  The countess shrugged. “These are my friends, and this is my house—”

  “It is my house,” the earl said stiffly, before turning to Charlotte and her aunt, a tight smile on his lips. “I’m terribly sorry, but I must request another private word with my mother.”

  Charlotte and her aunt escaped to the library, shutting the door against the sounds of disharmony, which included the phrase dower house.

  Charlotte shivered. Poor Lavinia. How could love win against the dowager’s selfishness? “How could she do this?”

  “Margaret is a very sad woman. I’ve no doubt she wants Hawkesbury to come to regret the choice he has made.”

  “But for what purpose? He will not divorce Lavinia. He loves her, and she loves him. What can she possibly hope to achieve?”

  “It is a form of control. If one does not obey, one must be punished.” Aunt Patience looked old. “You cannot pretend not to have noticed your grandmother employs the same tactics?”

  Grandmama. The Dowager Duchess of Salisbury who had cast off two daughters for the one she could control: Mama. She winced. “Do you think he will permit them to stay?”

  Aunt Patience sighed heavily. “I don’t see that he has much choice. They have been invited and would be travelling already. The best we can hope for is that they will display some sensitivity and depart as soon as possible.”

  “If they are heading north, they should only stay a night or two anyway, shouldn’t they?”

  “That is if they are heading north.”

  Charlotte stared. “You mean—?”

  “I mean I would not put it past the dowager to claim untruths for her own purposes. Did you see the look on Nicholas’s face?”

  “Poor Lavinia. She will not be pleased when she learns of the unexpected company.”

  “No.” Aunt Patience looked grim. “Such news should be kept from her as long as possible.”

  “I somehow doubt that is the dowager’s concern.”

  Her aunt chuckled. “Why Charlotte, what a cynic you have become.”

  “A cynic, or merely a realist?”

  “Is this the influence of the Duke of Hartington I hear so much about?”

  Heat filled her cheeks. “What have you heard?”

  “Only that the good duke seems most enamored of my niece.” She gave her a piercing look. “I hope he is worthy of you?”

  He was worthy, most definitely. But was she worthy of him?

  “The Farmer Duke, they call him,” her aunt continued. “Well, a farmer’s wife is certainly not what I expected of you, my dear. But he is a duke, and I suppose your Mama would countenance nothing less.”

  Fortunately she was prevented from answering by the earl’s entrance. “Forgive me. I wish you did not have to witness such things.”

  Well did Charlotte know the strain of heated emotions. “Perhaps a ride might prove of benefit.”

  “Away from the hot air?” A smile ghosted his face.

  Aunt Patience nodded. “Excellent idea. I will sit with Lavinia. Take a groom with you. I’m sure you will both appreciate the chance to escape.”

  Nearly two hours later, after a ride that blew away most of her internal cobwebs, the earl paused his black stallion atop a hillock overlooking the estate, turning to her with an expression that held none of the previous strain.

  “Thank you, Charlotte. I did not realize I needed this.” His hazel eyes glinted. “Such thoughtfulness means your husband will be a fortunate man.”

  She tried to smile, but it felt strained.

  What would it be like to marry into a family who could not respect her? Cressinda certainly didn’t. If Charlotte agreed to marry the duke, would she have to put up with her slurs and aspersions every time they met? Would the duke be forced to protect her, as the earl did Lavinia? She frowned. Or would he give up, as he’d given up on his first wife?

  Hartwell Abbey

  “Excuse me, Your Grace, but you have visitors.”

  William placed down the beaker gingerly. “I do not recall issuing any further invitations.” The only guest he wanted was at Hawkesbury House, and as much as he might wish for her return, his wishes ran a very distant second to someone else’s needs. “Who is it?”

  The footman cleared his throat. “Lor
d and Lady Clarkson.”

  He stilled. There could only be one reason for their return. “Tell them I’ll be there directly.”

  As the footman hurried away, William replaced the glass stoppers firmly, being careful not to inhale deeply. One didn’t want poisonous vapors, even with such vile visitors awaiting him now.

  His return to the Abbey was greeted by the sounds of raised voices in the drawing room. Cressinda, making her views heard again. Fighting a scowl, he entered the room. “Lord and Lady Clarkson”—he bowed—“what a surprise.”

  “Where is she?”

  Confirmation. He turned to his sister. “Cressinda, would you please excuse us?”

  For a moment, she did not move, until he raised a brow, which brought a flush to her cheeks, and an eventual flouncing from the room.

  He turned back to his former in-laws. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

  “Would’ve been if we hadn’t had to come down the servant’s drive,” the viscount muttered.

  “Ah, yes. A thousand pities. The other road is being repaired—”

  “Hartington!”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  “Where is my granddaughter?”

  He bit down the bile, hoping for a neutral expression. “I presume she is in Bournemouth with your son and daughter-in-law.”

  “Not that one! Pamela’s child. Where is she?”

  “I imagine she is asleep upstairs. I cannot hear anything to suggest otherwise.”

  “You—! You let us believe she had died!”

  “Yet here you are. After promising never to darken my doorstep again.” He sighed. “If only people would keep their word.”

  “You blackguard! You villain!”

  “Come, come. You said as much last time. Surely you’ve had time to develop your range of invective—”

  “I wish Pamela had never met you!”

  “For once, madam, we agree.”

  But it was not strictly true. For all the pain he’d gone through in the past few years, if he had not met Pamela, the little girl upstairs—fast twining tenderness around his heart—would not be here. Would not be his.

  He eyed them. “What do you want?”

  “Give us our grandchild,” Lord Clarkson said.

  Disbelief escaped in a laugh. “No.”

  “But you have said she’s not your child.”

  “That may be so, but she is definitely not yours.”

  “But she was Pamela’s.”

  “And Pamela bore my name, and bore a child with that same name. If the child had been birthed elsewhere, perhaps you might have grounds for argument, but she was born in my house, not a dozen rooms from me.” Resentment hardened within. “You will not take her away.”

  “But you do not love her!”

  “Do not dare presume to tell me whom I love, sir.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Hartington,” Lady Clarkson begged. “Please let me see her?”

  William studied the woman’s face, her eyes glimmering with tears. His annoyance subsided. A twist of compassion urged grace. He jerked a nod, pushed to his feet.

  Ten minutes later he returned, the pink-swaddled child asleep in his arms. The older woman’s face lit. “Oh, she is beautiful. Just like Pamela as a child.” She glanced up. “What is her name?”

  “Rose. Rose Pamela Hartwell.”

  She wiped her cheeks. “You named her after—?”

  “Naturally.”

  She hiccuped out a breath. “We thought, I thought, she had died. At least that’s what—” she stopped, giving him a scared glance.

  “That’s what Maria thought.” At her nod he continued. “The doctor had said the baby could not live, but then …” He gently touched the rounded cheek. “She is a miracle.”

  “A miracle.” She touched the tiny finger curled over the pink blanket. “Yes.”

  Compassion warred with the fast-draining dregs of bitterness. Should he? Heavenly Father, what would—? Oh, he didn’t need to finish that prayer. “Would you like to hold her?”

  His heart warmed as the little girl’s grandmother cooed over the precious bundle for a few minutes. By the time she’d finished murmuring her thanks, he’d resolved on another act of grace. “I will not oppose another visit in the future, provided you write and request a time convenient for all. I—” His neck heated. “I suppose it only fair for you to know I intend the Marquess of Exeter’s daughter to be my bride.”

  “So soon?”

  “Pamela’s love for me died long before mine did for her. Do not begrudge me happiness, and I will not refuse your visits to my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?”

  William studied the downy head as a wave of tender affection rushed through him. Did it truly matter how little Rose came to be? Surely love was greater than any society gossip.

  He lifted his gaze, met the faded blue eyes, and said firmly, “Yes. My daughter.”

  A sense of rightness, of gladness, overwhelmed him. And he smiled.

  Hawkesbury House

  Charlotte hurried down the steps, glad to finally escape the house. Relinquishing the bedside vigil to her aunt was no hardship; Lavinia had slept the entire time, her cheeks as pale as the pillow. Charlotte had returned the journal, but Grace’s words haunted her still. Words about sacrificial love. Being patient, being kind. Loving the unlovely. It was easy to love people like Lavinia, so sweet and good-natured, but someone like the dowager countess—ugh!

  Her skin prickled. She glanced over her shoulder, as if the flint-eyed woman saw her now. Perhaps it was easier to love from afar. No wonder Lavinia and Nicholas preferred the quiet elegance of Hampton Hall to the majestic pretensions of Hawkesbury House.

  She stretched her fingers, caressing the velvety apricot roses that lined the steps down into a garden where a gaudy Italian marble fountain played softly in the midday sun. Her nose crinkled. Such a hideous monstrosity, fat cherubs gushing water with giant eel-like fish writhing around their legs. Somehow she did not think the earl or Lavinia responsible for such ugliness.

  Turning away, she looked toward the east and drew in a deep breath. The scent of roses drifted on a warm breeze that seemed to hold the vaguest hint of sea salt. She smiled at herself. Probably mere ridiculousness—they were still many miles inland—and she pined for Devon. Would her family visit their estate this year?

  A carriage pulled into view along the drive and then passed by on its way to the front of the house, a carriage with a familiar crest. Her heart sank. A few minutes later she was found by a footman requesting her attendance inside. Anxiety tinged her return. How would the earl regard this unexpected guest?

  She found her mother in the drawing room with the dowager and Aunt Patience. Mama glanced at Charlotte and broke off mid conversation to accept a kiss on the cheek before continuing. “I see Hartington’s flowers have arrived. I would recognize them anywhere. Such elegance, such uniqueness.” She slid Charlotte a sly look. “Just like the man himself.”

  “Did he think we have no flowers here?” the dowager snapped.

  Mama drew herself up. “I’m sure he was thinking more of what might please poor Lavinia than of what might displease you.”

  The countess hissed, turning on her heel and exiting the room.

  “That woman has always given herself airs. When one thinks she was but a baronet’s daughter, it’s enough to make one long to smack her.”

  “Mama!”

  Her mother shrugged. “Her vulgarity is something which we’ve always despaired.”

  “I don’t understand why she does not remove to the Dower House.”

  “That woman? Remove to anywhere less than what she thinks her due?” Mama said, stripping off her gloves. “Come, Charlotte. Don’t be naive.”

  “Naive?” Aunt Patience said. “You cannot be talking of your daughter here. I believe she has improved considerably in the past few months.”

  Why did that not sound terribly complimentary?

 
“Now, Constance, tell me more about this man who would take Charlotte as his wife.”

  As Mama swapped gossip with her sister, Charlotte roamed the room. After the Abbey’s muted splendor, everything felt a little too heavy, a little too pompous, a little … ostentatious.

  “And Charlotte, you do not mind such a match?”

  “How could she?” Mama cried.

  “I did not ask you, Constance, but your daughter.”

  Twin piercing stares demanded answer. “The duke is … quite amiable.”

  “Amiable? He is utterly charming!”

  “Thank you, Constance. I believe we’re all aware you would marry him if you could. Charlotte?”

  “He is clever,” she managed.

  “One does not want a stupid husband,” Aunt Patience said, with a sideways look at Mama. “And the previous wife, the one that ran off, that does not alarm you?”

  “I … I don’t believe she ran off. She died at Hartwell House in London.”

  “Hmm. There was always such a lot of silly speculation about that family.”

  Like the duel, Charlotte thought. One day she’d have to ask him about the duel.

  “Wasn’t there a child? How would you feel about becoming a stepmother?”

  Charlotte’s smile grew sincere. “Little Rose is the sweetest thing.”

  Aunt Patience eyed her, and then nodded, as if satisfied. The conversation changed to other things, such as Aunt Patience’s time in Durham, before turning to the dowager once again. “Did you hear she has invited that poisonous DeLancey chit and her mother here?”

  “What? Now?” Mama looked aghast.

  “Poor girl.” For a moment the two sisters seemed to droop, as if remembering why they were here in the first place. “However will Lavinia cope?”

  NONE OF THEM could have anticipated just how Lavinia would deal with their unwanted guests when they finally arrived the next day. Charlotte, her mother, and her aunt were pretending not to notice how the dowager’s conversation with Lady Winpoole and Clara excluded them, when the door opened. There was a collective gasp.