“Indeed.” He turned his attention to her daughter. “Lady Charlotte, I’m pleased to see you look well.”
She murmured something noncommittal, any answer drowned out by her mother’s voluble response. “Of course she looks well. Dear Charlotte has scarcely had a day’s illness in her life.”
It seemed the smile of “Dear Charlotte” grew strained.
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
Her gaze touched his. “I apologize, sir, for leaving so abruptly before.”
“I’m sure your poor cousin was grateful for your help. Tell me, how fares Hawkesbury and the countess?”
Her eyes filled with tears, telling him far more than her mother’s convoluted chatter about the DeLancey chit, Patience, and the dowager countess.
He studied Charlotte, sorrow weaving between feelings of gladness at her return. Since the news, he’d barely stopped praying for his friends to find healing and comfort during this difficult time. But he could not help but be glad to have witnessed Charlotte’s kind actions, which reflected a generous nature not evident in her parent.
The longer the marchioness chattered, the more edgy and restless he felt, the social niceties constraining him like a vise around his neck. Much as he longed to speak with Charlotte, he did not want to sit here parrying inanities from her mother while so much remained unknown. If they truly planned to stay here a few days as the marchioness’s letter had proposed, was that wise? Would Charlotte be safe here? Was he safe here? Heaven forbid danger stray into her path.
“Duke?”
“I beg your pardon, madam. I was woolgathering.”
“No doubt transfixed by the beauty of my dear daughter here.”
He glanced at her dear daughter and smiled. “Charlotte is very beautiful,” he said truthfully, his heart warming as the delicate blush filled those cheeks again.
He forced his hands to unclench, forced his whirling thoughts to focus. Here. Now. This was what was needed. To be still. To know. To hear God’s voice.
What should he do?
“How is little Rose?” Charlotte asked.
He blinked. He’d scarcely thought about the child today. “She is well.” He hoped.
“May I see her?”
“Of course.” His spirits rose as Charlotte smiled her sweet smile at him. “Would you like to come see her with me now?”
“Yes, please.” She glanced at her mother.
“Go, go. I declare all this travelling has made me quite long for a quiet rest.”
As if she hadn’t complained about enforced boredom only minutes ago. He swallowed a smile. Met an answering gleam in Charlotte’s eyes.
“Then we shan’t disturb you any longer.” He turned to the younger lady, offering his arm. “My lady?”
The words seemed to echo around the room, resounding deep in his heart. How he longed for her to be his lady. How he wished she longed for that also.
She placed a hand on his arm, sending sweet fire through him. Good heavens, had it been so long? If such an innocent touch could affect him in such a way, what would Charlotte’s kiss do to him?
As if sensing his thoughts, her pace quickened, and she hurried from the room, dropping his arm as they climbed the stairs. He tried to not let disappointment show. Forced his attention to the little girl above stairs. Why did Rose fascinate Charlotte so?
His companion stopped on the landing. “Sir?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her smile was small. “You wanted to know why I care for little Rose?”
He’d said that aloud? His cheeks burned. What else had he unwittingly said?
She still studied him curiously, so he gathered he hadn’t admitted anything about how tantalizing her touch was to him. Good thing, else she’d be running back to London with a scandalized Mama in tow. He forced himself to nod.
“I think she is sweet, so beautifully doll-like. And terribly sad that one so young should be forced to grow up motherless. And after seeing poor Lavinia …” She bit her lip.
Fresh guilt twisted his insides. Here he was neglecting a daughter when the Hawkesburys were mourning their childless state. How selfish, how unfeeling was he?
She stepped back. “Sir, I did not mean to upset you. I know you do not like references to your wife.”
He frowned. “Who said so?”
“Your sister.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should return downstairs. We should not have returned, but Mama—” She twisted as if to leave.
“Please don’t go.” He stayed her with a hand.
She stilled.
In that moment, it felt as though the entire Abbey hushed, waiting with bated breath for his next words. He swallowed, feeling the moment to portend so much more. “I want you to stay.”
Blue eyes met his, uncertainly.
“Please?”
How could one girl bring him to pleading? How could one young lady bring him, so powerful a personage that men of parliament and commerce sought his opinion on everything from Corn Laws to road development, nearly to his knees?
His heart thumped. He desired her. Wanted her to be his. But despite her mother’s confidence, Charlotte was still too hesitant for words to be rashly spoken. He needed to guide her into trusting him, show her by his actions that he would be a faithful husband, cleaving only to her, should she do him the great honor and consent to be his wife.
She finally nodded.
His heart lifted, as once more the small hand rested on his forearm. Protectiveness surged. He would be hanged to see her hurt in any way. As they walked up the great stairs, he noted how she studied his painted ancestors, studied the frescoed ceilings. He longed to say, “All this can be yours, if you say the word.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he comforted himself with the knowledge that she fitted beside him wonderfully well, so much better than the taller Pamela, whose height seemed to have led her to look down on him in more ways than one. He led the way to the nursery and opened the door.
“Why, Lady Charlotte!” Martha said. “Oh, and Your Grace!”
He held a finger to his lips, hoping the nurse would not mention his sparse visits.
She nodded, clucking as Charlotte moved to the cradle to see the tiny girl.
“Hello, my sweet. How I have missed you.”
And the tears on her cheeks turned his heart to slush, her soft compassion confirming what he had suspected long ago in London. Regardless of his sister’s qualms, regardless of the assailant’s threats, Lady Charlotte Featherington was indeed the only choice he could make.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE NEXT MORNING, accompanied by nine chimes from the Great Hall’s tall case clock, Charlotte hurried downstairs to the breakfast room. Sweet Rose wasn’t the only part of the Abbey’s heritage she had missed. But before gaining a chance to further examine the Canalettos, the duke entered. “Oh!”
“Good morning, Lady Charlotte. I trust you slept well.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Should she enquire about his sleep? Or was that too forward? Oh, that she could be natural with him, without all this awkwardness!
“I can recommend the ham.”
She murmured thanks, moving to the sideboard laden with breakfast delicacies, conscious of his movements beside her.
“I thought Mama would be here.”
The butler, up until now quiet in the corner, cleared his throat. “I believe Lady Exeter requested breakfast in her room.”
“And my sister and Lord Ware are none too fond of early mornings.”
“Early mornings?”
“Anything before noon.”
She swallowed a smile, slipping into a seat not quite opposite the duke, so she need not face him and feel it necessary to hide from his too-discerning eyes.
Yesterday afternoon had been hard enough. She had detected a new warmth, a new tenderness, which only made her skittish, like a cat. What would she say when he made his offer? Though not quite three months, the time was draw
ing near, and still her heart remained unresolved. At times, like yesterday, when he seemed to have understood her eye roll at Mama’s nonsense, she almost felt he was not all serious endeavor, was indeed someone she could learn to laugh with. Then there was that moment on the landing, when he’d looked at her with such tenderness, she had nearly expected him to suggest marriage then and there.
He filled her with confusion, not certainty, regardless of what Mama intended.
If she said yes, what would her life be like? Riding and admiring gardens were all very well, but could she really be happy being stuck in the country, as he seemed to prefer? What about her town friends, her visits to London’s shops and amusements? But how could she ask about such things? She could not ask Mama; her answer was certain. And asking the duke would only reveal just how gauche she really was.
Charlotte swallowed. If she said no, what would happen then?
She peeked up and across at her dining companion. He seemed intently focused on his eggs. Morning light danced across his brows, revealing a strong nose and line of jaw similar to those exhibited in the paintings lining the halls. He would never be overly handsome, but his face held character.
She blinked. Perhaps the character he possessed was more important than his looks. Character, like his patience with Mama, his generous thoughtfulness to her. He might not have been a soldier, but she sensed he’d prove to be just as protective of her as Hawkesbury was of Lavinia.
Forcing her thoughts away from such disquieting ideas, she continued her surreptitious study. The morning sun burnished his hair with the slightest tinge of red, whilst revealing the shadows and lines of weariness marking his eyes. At once she knew that had she asked if he slept well, he would have replied in the affirmative, but been lying, not wishing to alarm her.
Her attention returned to her own plate. What had him so concerned? Was he worried about her, what she might say? She scolded herself. How self-centered was she to think his thoughts dwelled chiefly on her?
At the duke’s clearing his throat she glanced up and met the warmth in his eyes, which brought heat to her cheeks. He smiled. “You seemed lost in thought.”
“Oh! Ah …”
“Mrs. Bramford has a way with eggs, doesn’t she?”
“I gathered from your earlier perusal of your plate that you appreciate her cooking as much as I.”
“Touché.”
His laughter, heard so rarely, sounded like warm honey, squeezing her heart with unmitigated sweetness.
“You wear that contemplative look once more, Lady Charlotte. Dare I wonder if it is smoked trout that has you so entranced?”
“Smoked—? Oh, no. I, er, was wondering about what to do today.” She smiled hopefully. “I rather hope Bella wishes for a little jaunt?”
The light in his face fled as his brows knit. “You wish to take her riding?”
Why did he look concerned? “Well, I certainly wasn’t planning on inviting her in for tea.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.” His lips curled to one side.
“But not pleased for me to ride her?”
“It’s just …” He shook his head impatiently. “You may ride her, of course. She is yours, after all.”
She stared at him. “Did you buy Bella for me?”
He nodded.
Her heart filled. How kind! How wonderfully generous—
“I just ask that you ride close to the Abbey. And take a groom, of course.”
The warmth in her heart dissipated. “Why must I take a groom? If I stay close to the Abbey I can hardly become lost.”
“It is not that.”
Her brows rose. Then what was it?
As if sensing her confusion, he gave a small sigh. “I suppose I could escort you.”
He supposed he could? “Oh, but I wouldn’t want to disturb you from your many important duties.” Thank goodness Mama was not here to hear the edge in her voice.
He studied her as if inspecting a new specimen, with a surprised look on his face. “Forgive me. I would be honored if you would accompany me on a ride today, Lady Charlotte.”
Her soul rankled under his cool formality and mode of address. Feeling properly chastised for her pettish behavior, she said meekly, refusing to look him in the eye, “Thank you, sir.”
He nodded, murmured something about changing into riding dress, and without further ado left her to the scattered remains of her breakfast, and her dignity.
MAMA’S DELIGHT AT learning of Charlotte’s plans far outweighed the enthusiasm displayed by the duke when she finally arrived at the stables. He ceased his low-voiced conference with the head groom and moved toward her. His smile could only be described as tight.
Her spirits dipped. Why did he seem so eager for her company at times, only to appear to wish her far away at others? Would he prove forever too complex for her to understand?
“Lady Charlotte, may I say you look charming?”
She nodded, unsmiling, perversely pleased to see his face dim when his attempt at gallantry fell flat. If he did not wish to ride with her, then why was he here?
His lips flattened, and he led her to where Bella stood waiting, saddled and ready to go.
He cupped his hands, she placed in her boot, and he boosted her into the saddle, his touch leaving her with a fluttery tremor somewhere in her midsection. Pushing these unwanted feelings aside, she arranged her skirts while speaking gently to Bella, familiarizing her with her voice, all the while conscious that the duke had resumed a similarly quiet conversation with his head groom.
She nudged Bella closer, trying to make it appear she wasn’t listening, even as her ears strained to hear what of import was being uttered in the cool, deep tones.
“Stay on the perimeter … look out …”
Frowning, she met the duke’s dark eyes, which flashed with something—annoyance with her? But why? What did he not want her to hear?
Charlotte nudged Bella from the stables. Glancing behind her, she was unsurprised to see Evans also mounting a horse. Her eyes widened. Was that a pistol strapped to his thigh?
“Evans!”
The duke’s sharp bark brought a flush to the groom’s cheeks and a hasty hiding of the weapon. Unease rippled through her.
He moved beside her now. “Pay no attention to Evans. We’ve had a spot of poaching in the forest, which is why we shall stay away from there.”
She nodded, but the questions continued. Surely the duke had a team of gamekeepers whose job it was to protect the woods from intruders? The way Evans was riding, he seemed more occupying the role of protector, rather than searching the woods for any thieving rascal.
She forced a smile to her lips. “So may we ride to the lake?”
“We can ride any place you choose, my lady.”
He said the last with a caress that curled heat through her insides. She tamped it down. “Except the woods.”
His expression grew grave. “Except that.”
She exhaled. “Very well. The lake it is.”
And with a challenging smile and a firm nudge to Bella’s belly, she raced him over the hill toward the water’s edge.
On a normal day, he loved to watch her ride, loved to see her sit so tall and straight in the saddle, moving as one with her Bella. She seemed to revel in time spent away from her mother, able to relax, able to show him those fascinating glimpses of spirit as she had this morning in the breakfast room.
On a normal day, he would delight in wondering what caused her cheeks or smile to bloom, or better yet, in catching the trill of laughter that so enchanted him. He’d never expected she might share a similar sense of dry humor, and that realization would add a layer of sunshine to his soul. On a normal day.
But today was not a normal day. He’d woken too early, his restless night plagued by worry and concerns. Then when she’d suggested riding … he groaned.
Charlotte glanced at him, the small pucker in her forehead present since breakfast pushing deeper.
He forced
a smile. “Do you approve the view?”
She leaned back, studying the landscape as an artist might examine a painting at Somerset House, steadily, as if appreciating the little nuances and details he’d loved all his life.
“It is a very fair prospect.”
He smiled to himself. She sounded like someone quoting an illustrated handbook to a stately home. “And does madam approve the house?”
She glanced at him, amusement quirking her lips. “It possesses a charm both distinguished and warm, the marked symmetry pleasing to the eye.”
He chuckled, pleased as she joined his laughter. “I suspect you have read a pictorial guide or two.”
“I suspect from your comment, sir, that I am not the only one.”
“Such wisdom in one so young.”
Her head tilted, her blue eyes watched him carefully. “Do you think me so very young?”
He sensed the question was not one for which he could give a glib response. “You are younger than I, of course, but not too young, if you catch my meaning.”
“I’m afraid I do not.”
He swallowed. “I gather you would … understand things that a more innocent young lady might not.”
“You do not think me innocent?” Her cheeks mottled.
His chest tightened. How to explain? “I do not think you naive.”
Her gaze remained long and cool, and the tightness in his chest eased a fraction only when she nodded and glanced away. “If you do not think me entirely naive, then why will you not tell me why we are being accompanied by your groom?” She pointed to Evans, half-hidden by a tree.
His heart dropped. “I, er …”
Her brows rose.
“I explained about the poacher.”
She snorted, a sound that made him want to smile, except he felt sure she would be offended. “Yes, you said something about a poacher, but I don’t believe you.”
He glanced away, thinking desperately of how to explain. He could not admit to the truth, not the whole of it, anyway …
“So you do think me a child.”
His gaze cut to her. “I do not wish to alarm you.”
“You think seeing your groom armed and within sight not alarming?”
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 23
