With her eyebrows pushed up and that cool look on her face, he could see she would make the perfect duchess.
“Well?”
He smiled despite himself. She even had the tone correct; even Cressinda would approve. He gestured to the lake. “Shall we walk?”
“If you promise to explain.”
“I promise.”
He helped her dismount, warmth shooting through him as he clasped her slender waist to lift her down. He stepped away hurriedly. It would not do to stir up passions before everything was certain.
They walked closer to the lake, leading their horses. “Hartwell has been the unhappy recipient of several odd occurrences lately,” he admitted.
“You mean the fire?”
He nodded. “And a road was vandalized. And yesterday’s … incident.”
“The poacher?” Her eyes narrowed.
Guilt speared his heart. “The person who should not have been there, yes.”
Tell her this much, yes he would, but he would never admit to what said person had done. There was no reason to frighten her.
Her lips formed a perfect pout. He dragged his gaze away. Heavenly Father, give me strength. Hurrying to the water’s edge, he studied the rocky ground, before selecting a small stone, and flinging it—one, two, three skips—until it sank into the water.
She studied him for a moment, then, before he realized her intention, she’d bent down and collected a small stone in her black-gloved hand, and with a flick of her wrist released it to spin across the water. One. Two Three. Four skips. She glanced at him with what could only be called a smirk.
“Somehow I feel that is a skill of which your mother is blissfully unaware.”
Her chuckle warmed his heart. “I find it important for Mama to remain oblivious to certain things at times, yes.”
“I suppose your brother taught you such things?”
She nodded. “At my grandmother’s estate in Salisbury.” Her eyes followed a duck’s path as it settled onto the water. “Henry never did like it when his stones found the ducks. I don’t believe the ducks cared for his throws overly, either,” she added thoughtfully.
“You are full of surprises.”
“And you are full of mysteries.”
“But have I not been led to believe that you are fond of mysteries?”
“Some mysteries, perhaps. But I cannot enjoy feeling like I’m being treated as a child simply because there might be unpalatable truths. It was my understanding that I was to come here to learn if we were compatible.” Her cheeks glowed. “I understand you might not appreciate such plain speaking, but I have learned from my cousin just how important that can be. And I cannot subscribe to a relationship when I’m being treated as a child.”
“I am not—”
She made an impatient gesture. “You are. We might as well keep skipping stones along the surface for all the truth you reveal. Surely a good marriage cannot exist without getting to know the other person’s depths?”
He stared at her. How had such a chit fathomed the inexplicable nature of his ill-fated marriage? She was right. He’d barely known Pamela, had never known her interests, let alone cared about them beyond how they suited his purpose. Fresh remorse twisted within. Perhaps if he had shown more interest, she would not have sought companionship elsewhere. “You speak wisely.”
“Astounding, isn’t it?”
Again the sardonic edge caught him by surprise. “You have quite a way with words when your mother is not around.”
“You disapprove?”
“I’m not sure.”
Her lips pursed. Then she sighed. “You are very careful, sir.”
“Careful?”
“You give little away. How can I know … ?” She swiped her glistening brow. “I’ve seen those who marry according to rank and duty, without affection, and their marriage is like two horses running side by side yet never properly harnessed. I do not wish to marry merely for duty’s sake, simply because an accident of birth made me a marquess’s daughter. I wish to enjoy a passionate marriage properly harnessed by love, like that shared by Lavinia and the earl.”
He stared at her. Were they really having this conversation?
Her cheeks crimsoned. “I’m sorry. I said too much … Oh.” She turned, hurrying away.
For a moment he couldn’t breathe as the realization of what she was saying finally hit him. Hope lit his heart. She would never have raised this topic had she not felt something.
“Charlotte, please.” He hastened after her.
She stilled. “You called me Charlotte.”
“You’ve taken me by surprise.” He sighed. “You rightly ascertained I’m not used to such blunt speaking. Let me be equally frank. I have no wish to become attached to someone who will seek romance elsewhere. Having been through it once, I have no desire to repeat the experience. I … I have never found it easy to be open with my feelings, but that does not mean I do not feel. I, too, wish for affection within marriage. I understand you might see me as too old or aloof or too serious, but I—”
“Do not wish to be hurt again.”
How did she know this? It was like she could read his innermost thoughts. “Yes.”
He glanced away, saw Evans hovering at the corner of his peripheral vision. The words wrung from his soul. “I also have no wish for you to be hurt.”
“Me?” She glanced from him to Evans then back, eyes wide. “You think someone does not wish us to be betrothed?”
“Perhaps. I do not know. I do know I could not stand it if you were harmed.”
She stared at him a moment, then nodded decidedly, as a gentleman might buy a horse at Tattersall’s. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trusting me to cope with the truth.”
What was he supposed to say to this extraordinary young lady? “You’re welcome?”
She smiled in a way that lit up her face, igniting the dreams of his heart.
On their long walk back, as their conversation touched on everything from poetry to roses to botanical specimens, and they seemed to step ever closer to friendship, he found himself marveling again at how God could have arranged this union between two such different souls, when it seemed as perfect as if he had planned it all himself.
William glanced at the groom, who wore an air of relief as he rode back to the stables.
Perhaps God who arranged all things to work out perfectly might even deliver them from the threat that still unnerved his soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A RASPING SOUND tugged Charlotte from sleep. Her gaze flew to where Sarah stood near the windows, newly opened curtains spilling sunlight through the bedchamber. “Good morning.”
“Oh! Good morning, my lady.” Sarah bobbed a curtsy.
She smiled. No wonder Sarah seemed surprised: her mistress, waking early two days in a row, in a good mood?
“Would you like your hot chocolate now?”
“No, thank you,” she said, pushing aside the bedcovers. “I thought I might breakfast again downstairs.”
Anticipation fizzed through her, like a skyrocket at Vauxhall Gardens. Last night she had barely managed to sleep, tossing and turning between gladness and chagrin at her behavior. Had she been too bold? But she could not regret honesty. And if it helped the duke realize how much she desired affection …
What would he say today? She’d had the impression last night he almost regarded her as a playful kitten, looking at her with that half smile, as if wondering what she might do or say next. She was conscious of a subtle power over him in this; conscious, too, that such power demanded she behave in a manner that would lead to his good.
“Which dress would you like to wear today?” Sarah asked, moving to the wardrobe. “The cream or the green lawn?”
Charlotte peered outside. Not a cloud marred the bowl of vivid blue. “The green lawn should be lighter if this heat continues.”
As she succumbed to Sarah’s dressing of her pers
on and hair, her thoughts returned to last night. Last night, when the duke had showed her yet another side, laughing, engaging in spirited discussions as they read poetry together while Mama dozed by the fire. Perhaps she had misjudged him, and the serious demeanor he carried was simply a mask he wore to hide his depths. She blushed again, remembering the outlandish things she’d said by the lake, almost like she wasn’t speaking but someone else spoke through her. Yet more evidence that he must be good-hearted indeed to put up with such a minx.
As soon as Sarah finished her ministrations, Charlotte hurried down the steps, flitting past the morning room to the breakfast room, to find it—
Empty.
A footfall preceded the butler’s entrance. “Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Travers.”
She shifted, half-poised to leave. Should she stay? Had the duke already eaten? If he hadn’t, would he soon? How could she find him without making it look obvious?
“Shall you be dining this morning?”
“I…” She bit her lip. Stay? Go?
“His Grace sends his regrets but he was called away on an urgent matter and cannot dine with you this morning.”
“Oh.” Spirits sinking, she murmured her thanks and blindly filled her plate.
She slumped into a seat that looked out across the rose gardens, before gazing at her plate. Her nose wrinkled. “Ugh.” How had kippers landed there?
“Did you say something, my lady?”
She shook her head, carefully scraped the smoked fish to one side, and nibbled on a piece of uncontaminated toasted bread instead, fighting the disappointment of dining alone.
How silly to look forward to being with someone who, until recently, she could not bear to be alone with. Now it seemed she hungered for his presence, to see him smile. The fizzling disappointment was almost like that which she’d experienced when she’d been packed off to Gloucestershire with Lavinia to remove her from Lord Markham’s influence. Funny. She hadn’t thought about him for the longest time. She wondered how he was.
Propping a hand under her chin, she studied the prospect outside the windows.
The gardens beckoned, the plump heads of red and pink rose bushes swaying gently in the morning breeze, as if begging her to join them. She hurried her toast and tea in a manner sure to displease Mama were she present, and went outside. The gardens were sweet with heavy perfume. She breathed in deeply, then glanced around. There were so many, surely no one would notice if she picked one.
She leaned into a red bloom and was about to break the stem, when a coughed interruption made her jump. Whirling with a smile, she stopped. “Oh!”
The grizzled gardener frowned at her. “You weren’t about to take that, were you, miss?”
“Er, this flower, you mean?”
“The rose.”
“I know it’s a rose. And I don’t think the duke would mind, do you? After all”—she swept a hand across the gardens—“he has so many.”
“That he does, but only because he don’t be picking them all the time.”
She fixed him with her sweetest smile. “Forgive me, but he led me to believe that roses needed regular trimming to maintain their flush of flowers.”
He coughed. “That may be, but they should only be picked by an expert.”
She raised a brow. “An expert picker of flowers?”
“Someone who knows how.”
“I know how.” Before he could stop her, she’d reached across and broken the dainty stem. “See?”
He closed his jaw, muttering something under his breath. “I see indeed.”
She drank in the perfume deeply. “So beautiful. Have a sniff, Mr…. ?”
“Callinan, miss.”
She shoved the bloom under his nose. “Go on, Mr. Callinan. Is it not very lovely?”
“Aye. The former mistress planted them. She said they were her favorite plants.”
For some reason, this information made her squirm inside. “The duke’s wife?”
“His mother.”
“Oh.” The squirming feeling dissipated. Well, if his mother had liked them … She smiled.
The frost in his face seemed to thaw. “Shall I pick you some, miss?”
“Perhaps in a little while. Tell me, were you responsible for those lovely blooms sent to Hawkesbury House recently?”
“Aye.” His brow creased. “His Grace asked me.”
Yet further evidence of the duke’s kind and thoughtful nature. “My cousin was most appreciative. Now, what is the name of these pinks here?”
The breeze had settled into stillness by the time she and Mr. Callinan had conducted a thorough tour of the roses. She pointed to an apricot rose. “Hawkesbury House has a different variety of these, I believe. Very pretty, with creamy edges, and the most delicate scent.”
“Hawkesbury House, you say?” He scratched his chin. “I heard about their roses. Perhaps we could get some here. I’m sure His Grace would not mind.”
“His Grace would not mind what?”
The quiet voice spun her around, scattering the flowers she held. “Oh!”
The duke bowed, his manner, his dress, all that was elegant. “Good morning, my lady.”
His words, with just the slightest emphasis on the my—or was that simply her foolish imagination?—coupled with that intent smile in his eyes, sent a delicious shiver up her spine.
To hide her confusion, she bent to collect her flowers, ducked her head, banging his in the process. “Oh!”
He straightened, rubbing his head in matching action to hers. “Forgive me. I trust you’re not hurt?” At her response in the negative, he gave a rueful-looking smile. “How clumsy I am this morning.”
Only then did she notice the graze on his hand. She glanced up at him, saw the smile in his eyes disappear, and the gentle shake of his head. She peered past his shoulder and saw a man on horseback. Another guard? Only this man, positioned closer, was not Evans. Fear plucked her heart.
“Perhaps Lady Charlotte, if you have had your fill of the gardens, you might accompany me inside?” He held out an arm, nodded to Callinan. “If you would be so kind as to ensure our guest has a bouquet large enough for her tastes, I’d be grateful.”
“Yes, sir.” The gardener touched his forehead, nodding as Charlotte thanked him.
When they passed from earshot she said, “How did you hurt yourself?”
He shook his head, his expression grim. “That is nothing to concern yourself with.”
“But—”
“Charlotte, is it your intention to argue every time we speak?”
Hurt cramped her chest. She had only intended to show her concern. She withdrew her hand, hurried her steps. Heard his sigh.
“I have no wish to argue with you.”
She halted. Waited for him to draw beside her. Glanced up, saw his strained features. Her heart softened. “I wish you would trust me.”
“I do.” The line creasing his brow lifted, as if he were surprised at that revelation. “I do.”
He smiled his charming smile, causing her heart to glow. He leaned a little closer. “I just—”
“Charlotte!” She turned to see her mother moving toward them. “There you are. Oh, thank you, sir, for bringing her to us. She can be such a naughty girl, running away without so much as a by-your-leave.”
She stiffened as the duke cleared his throat. “Lady Exeter, do you really regard your daughter in such terms?”
“I … er, of course not.”
“Then why speak so dismissively?”
Mama’s smile dimmed. “I … well, I know she’ll always be safe in your company, sir.”
“Safe?” He frowned. “What have you heard?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You spoke as though she might be in danger.”
“Charlotte? No. The only danger she has is in running away.”
“Mama!”
Charlotte glanced at the duke, whose expression had tightened. He refused
to look at her, bowing instead to her mother. “Perhaps you might find sufficient amusement in the conservatory. It is a new addition, and contains a number of plant species from tropical climes. I’m sure Callinan would be happy to point out things,” he continued as the gardener drew near, arms filled with flowers.
“Oh! But are you not planning to ride again, Charlotte?” her mother said with a coquettish smile. “After all, you had such an enjoyable time yesterday whilst riding with the duke.”
This was said with such a hopeful look at their host Charlotte could only cringe.
And cringe again when he said blandly, “My apologies, but I cannot today. My horse is lame.”
“But you have others surely?”
“They are all unfit.” Anger flitted across his face then was gone. “I’m afraid riding today is quite out of the question.”
“How disappointing.”
With a bow and muttered excuses, the duke left them, leaving her to a tour of the conservatory and the gardener’s grunted explanations, and her mother’s fluster and loudly whispered comments about the duke’s peculiar behavior.
She had to leave.
William hurried back to the stables, determination hounding every step. He had to make her leave. She was not safe. If the person could get at the horses, then they could get at whoever was outside. Which meant the only safe place for her was inside or, better still, far away.
She had to leave.
She was dangerous to his heart. Each time he felt himself begin to trust, a comment would spear his soul, reminding him why it was dangerous to put too much stock in other people. The marchioness’s comment about her daughter’s inclination to run away had arrowed fear through him. For if they were to wed and she ran away …
“Your Grace! Come quick.”
William picked up his pace, entering the stables at an undignified trot.
In the far stall, poor Neptune writhed, his hooves thrashing the stable doors as he worked to expel the poison from his system. Emotion clogged William’s throat. He swallowed. “How is young Pattinson?”
Evans released a loud breath. “Lucky you were there to get him out in time.”
“That wasn’t luck, nor any great skill on my part. I think we both know who should be thanked for that particular episode.”
The Captivating Lady Charlotte Page 24
