Her eyes filled again, only to drip down her cheeks. How many times had William proved his affection? His recent actions she’d forgive, knowing they’d come from a place of hurt. But over and over he’d shown himself the better man, the wiser man, the kind, unselfish man. The man she loved, the man she wished she could call husband.
Dear God, help him give me a second chance.
No sooner had the prayer escaped her heart than a twig cracked.
She spun around.
And screamed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE SCREAM PEBBLED his skin. Charlotte!
William gestured to Henry and slipped from Neptune’s back, tying his reins loosely around a branch. He ventured into the woods, pausing every so often as his ears sought to hear the noise again. There!
Two voices. He stepped closer, uncomfortably aware that he was not protected from behind, hoping Henry had understood his silent message to get help.
Another step. Another.
A twig cracked. He bit back a curse. Pressed on. Ahead, a large boulder was dimly visible in the waning moonlight. He crept closer, closer. Another step …
“Your Grace.”
He spun around to see the figure holding a pistol aimed at his heart.
Nausea swished through his stomach at the sight of the bedraggled figure huddled beside her. “Charlotte! Thank God. Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. He took a step forward.
“Get back!” Maria hissed, waving the gun at him, before training it on the frightened girl.
He froze. “Maria, your argument is with me. Release her, please.”
“No! You cannot have her, not when you took away Madam.”
“I didn’t take Pamela away. She died.”
“No!” she screamed. “She cannot be dead! They said the baby died, but she lives. How do I know Madam does not also?”
“Because she is buried in the cemetery not a mile away.”
“You lie!” Beside her, Charlotte’s tears fell unchecked.
“Maria, please let Charlotte go,” he begged.
“No. I’ve seen the way you look at her, like you used to with Madam. He would have abandoned you too, you know,” she hissed at Charlotte.
“I abandoned nobody.” William stepped forward, thankful he drew the maid’s attention—and weapon—back to himself.
Maria spat another curse, pointed a sticklike finger at Charlotte. “She must be gotten rid of. I promised Madam to keep her child safe from this one.”
“So you poisoned her.”
“Yes.”
“And Lord Markham?”
“Such a fool. So easily persuaded.” She cackled.
“Where is he now?”
“Who knows?” The maid shrugged. “Probably bleeding to death where I left him.”
Charlotte gasped, hand over mouth.
“Yes, I shot your lover—”
“He was not my lover!” Charlotte turned pleading eyes to him. “He came to London and tried to kiss me. Mama saw, but she thought I arranged it. But I didn’t. I promise you I didn’t!”
“She lies!” Maria said.
“No! And then he wrote a letter begging me to run away, which I wouldn’t do. He took me when I was asleep. I had to escape, I didn’t know”—she hiccuped—“I didn’t know what he would do!”
“Pauvre enfant,” Maria mocked. “She has always loved him.”
“No! How could I?” Charlotte’s blue eyes widened. “He is nothing compared to you!”
He snorted. “Because I am a duke?”
A sob escaped her. “Because you are good, and faithful, and not self-seeking—”
“He will leave you, like he did my mistress!” Maria cried.
“I did not abandon Pamela,” William said. “She abandoned me for Wrotham and a host of other men.”
“Could you blame her for wanting more? Wanting more than your coldness, than your plants, than that oh-so-ugly house, than an oh-so-ugly husb—?”
“Stop!” Charlotte gasped, tottering to her feet. “Do not say such things.”
Her words, leaping to his defense, trickled hope into his heart. If only he could be sure that her escape was not only from Maria, but from her handsome Markham as well.
The sound of the pistol cocking snapped his attention to the maid, her weapon pointed at Charlotte’s chest. “Maria! Stop.” William drew out his pistol, readying to aim. “I do not want to shoot you.”
She gave a hysteria-laden laugh. “You! You think yourself so clever, but you are an imbecile! I’m not afraid—”
His finger twitched.
Bang!
Maria staggered, looked at the blood staining her gown, then at him. “I hate you.” She spat another curse in French, then redirected the gun.
“Lord Markham!”
At the sound of Charlotte’s voice, the pistol cracked.
Fire grazed his left arm. William stumbled to one knee, clutching his shirt through which seeped the unsettling sight of blood. In his periphery he caught the sight of Charlotte’s handsome beau rush toward her, saw her face light, saw him claim her lips with his, heard the shouts and moans of chaos.
And he toppled to the ground, conscious of nothing but his complete and utter failure.
“Get off me!” Charlotte pushed at Lord Markham, straining away from his scalding touch.
“Charlotte! Charlotte, my love—”
“I am not your love!”
A moment later the pressure released. “Sorry, Lottie,” Henry muttered, arms pinning Markham from behind. “He got away from us.”
Us. Heart racing, she glanced at the other rescuers: Evans jerking a bloodied Maria to her feet, Jensen and Lord Ware kneeling beside the duke, lying on the ground.
“William!” She crawled to his side as the valet pulled up a sleeve, caked with blood. “Oh, tell me he isn’t dead!”
“He’s breathing,” Jensen muttered. “But bleeding heavily.” He tugged off the duke’s neckcloth, folded it, then held the padded fabric against the wound.
She inched closer, smoothed the duke’s rumpled hair. “Oh, William …”
“Lady Charlotte,” began Lord Ware, “you really should not be here.”
“Of course I should!” she snapped. “He’s soon to be my husband.”
The duke stirred, the thickly lashed eyelids lifting. Pain filled the darkness of his eyes. “Charlotte …”
“Yes, my dearest?”
“Now sir,” his valet said, “this might hurt a little.”
He winced as Jensen wrapped another neckcloth around the wound and pulled it tight.
“Come, Hartington,” said Ware. “Thought Manton’s star would prove a better shot than that. Only winged her.”
“Only intended to.” William’s smile flickered.
“You’re Manton’s star shooter?”
Ware chuckled behind her. “Only his best.”
Charlotte bit her lip, before finally asking, “Were you really in a duel?”
William’s lips flattened. “Much to my shame. I let pride overrule good sense and called out Wrotham.”
She swallowed. Dared anyway. “Rose’s father?”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. Winced.
“Sir,” Jensen said, “please don’t move.”
Ignoring him, William grasped her hand. “I cannot know for sure. My wife was never discreet with her favors, shall we say.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“So was I, for a very long time. Until I met you.” He smiled.
Her breath caught. What a wonderful, passionate, handsome man he was.
“Still, dueling was a stupid thing,” he muttered.
“It was a necessary thing. Wrotham was an utter scoundrel,” Ware said. “Always thought you went too easy on him, Hartington. Some men deserve to be put out of everyone’s misery.”
“Where’s Markham?”
“Henry’s got him now. Oh, I wish I’d never met him!”
“But I lov
e you!” shouted Lord Markham from behind her.
“Shut up,” snarled Henry, as Ware staggered to his aid.
“Love?” Charlotte shivered. “You never really loved me.” Not like William. Who loved her so selflessly. “I know now I never truly loved you.”
“She knows nothing!” Maria screeched. “She’s nothing but a silly, stupid girl—”
Evans clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her away.
Charlotte’s attention returned to the man Jensen had assisted to a sitting position, the man who watched her so intently. “She’s wrong. I know that love is more than just a feeling, more than just emotion.” She thought back to Lavinia and her earl. Swallowed. “Real love perseveres through the hard times, never giving up. True love trusts.”
The duke’s eyes flickered. “Trust.”
His whisper swirled between them. Oh, if he could only learn to trust her again!
She bent closer, fixed her gaze on William’s dark, dark eyes. “There is no choice between you. Markham was a foolish fancy, but you’re the substance of my dreams. Oh, if only you could believe me!”
“I do believe you.”
“I didn’t realize what would happen. I only want you.”
“I believe you,” the quiet voice said again.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—” She paused as his words sank into consciousness. “You believe me?”
“I love you.”
The words from Scripture sang in her memory. “Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things …”
“I love you, too.” A rush of assurance warmed her insides. She would believe, she would hope, she would endure. The God of love would help her. “Oh, William, I love you so very much.”
By the pale thin moonlight she saw his smile, saw his eyes light, and she pressed into his arms, her lips finding his. Pleasure tingled in their touch, curling heat in her midsection as he returned her affection fervently. How wrong she had been. Here was passion, passion that fueled hope, igniting dreams.
Faintly she heard the sounds of protest from her brother and the man he held, but she did not care. She cared only for the man she held, whose arm had stolen around her back, pulling her to him, as his lips became more urgent—
“Ahem!”
She glanced up. Saw the stunned expressions. Drew back. Her cheeks heated. “Forgive me, William. Your arm.”
He grinned. “I wasn’t thinking of my arm just now.” And he pulled her into another embrace.
“Lady Charlotte, you’ll be doing the man an injury,” Ware called.
William’s arm tightened around her, his lips finally drawing away. “Go find your own wife, Ware, and see if you can sweeten her into acceptance of my new bride. I thoroughly recommend this method.” And he kissed Charlotte again.
“Charlotte, no!”
With a wail, Lord Markham was led away, following the hysterics of the black-clothed maid. Charlotte turned her head away, buried her face in the duke’s shoulder, smelled his scent of bergamot and honor, and drew in a deep, reassuring breath.
“Oh, William.”
“Yes, my darling?”
“I know you do not care for London, but if possible, could we please live quietly in the country?”
And the joy in his laughter chased out the last of her fears.
EPILOGUE
Hartwell Abbey
April 1815
CHARLOTTE LAUGHED, TICKLING little Rose’s bare feet as she crawled across the blanket. The sun was shining, the day warm enough to sway Mrs. Bramford and Nanny to the benefits of a picnic, and her husband to take a more substantial break from his latest scientific plans. He looked so cheerful these days, so much younger, the light in his eyes rarely dimming, save when he returned from his visits to Bethlem and reported on poor Maria’s condition or heard news of wretched Lord Markham and Rogerson, soon to face transportation to Van Diemen’s Land.
A shadow crossed her mind at how easily she’d been led astray. How childish to have thought love was something that happened to her rather than something she could learn to cultivate. She knew William would keep her heart safe, but more importantly, she’d determined not to permit anything to hinder her love for him—no offense, no unforgiveness—as she sought to put him first. And the more she strove to bless him, to be a blessing for him, the more she found her affection growing. Learning to appreciate his many kindnesses had only increased her esteem for him, had only made her realize just how much she had for which to thank God. For without Him, this joyous, precious life would never have been possible.
She drew in a deep breath of rose-scented air and smiled, her heart singing unto heaven.
William watched his wife, his wife so full of love and affection as she played with their daughter. He’d never dared dream to feel so happy, to know Charlotte was as content as he. All doubts had fled, his trust renewed, her manner warm and playful with him, her look and tone becoming frosty and most duchess-like whenever somebody tried to take a liberty.
Not that there was much chance of that. They barely left Hartwell, Charlotte declaring no place was nicer—especially now the tunnels were all blocked up. The priest holes were kept open, at her insistence—and that of Henry’s—ostensibly “for Rose’s sake” they said, but William suspected it was more for their own amusement, just as he and Cressinda had also found such things diverting in younger days. Cressinda had not visited quite so often in recent months, William’s quiet word with Ware about controlling his wife’s tongue seemingly doing the trick, just as it had with Lord and Lady Exeter. The marchioness’s overbearing presence was such that he couldn’t bring himself to issue invitations beyond the barest necessity.
His wife’s blue eyes caught his, and she smiled at him, that secret smile hinting at the arrival they both hoped would join them before another Michaelmas had passed. Joy sparked anew in his chest.
God was good. His plans were good. He was faithful. Together they would trust Him.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
VAUXHALL GARDENS, WHICH so delighted Charlotte, was one of London’s chief places of pleasure beginning in the 1660s. The gardens were privately owned, cost a shilling entry fee, and were situated just south of Westminster—behind the present-day location of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, MI6! They were much as described here, with entry via boat across the Thames, and filled with twinkling lanterns, musicians, and twisting paths amid trees perfect for clandestine rendezvous.
John Loudon McAdam was a Scottish engineer, whose signature smooth coating for roads became the precursor for what is known as tarmac today. He lived in Bristol in the early 1800s, and made a number of proposals to Parliament about the benefits of his method of road construction. I like to think that the scientific, progressive Duke of Hartington would be keen to adopt his methods, hence his inclusion in this novel.
While Hartwell Abbey is completely fictional, I have based some of its design and features on the magnificent Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire, including the twenty-four views of Venice painted by Canaletto.
In 1814, London was filled with relief that the long-running war with Napoleon was over. This led to the Prince Regent sponsoring a number of celebrations: the parade of Coalition Allies on June 20, the ball at Carlton House on July 21, and celebrations in various parks on August 1, which involved a number of high-priced extravaganzas, such as a balloon ascent in Green Park, reenactments of Nelson’s victory on the Serpentine, and the building (and unfortunate accidental burning) of a seven-story Chinese pagoda in St. James’s Park. (History tells us these celebrations were a trifle premature, as Napoleon made one final push before the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 finally sealed his fate, but we all benefit from hindsight, don’t we?)
On a far more personal note, Lavinia’s experience with miscarriage is another blend of fact and fiction. In 2001, after four years of marriage, my husband and I were thrilled to learn I was expecting. I still remember waking before dawn only a few weeks later,
knowing something was wrong. In those cold, dark hours as I watched a precious life ebb away, I felt myself challenged: I had praised God in church only the day before; could I still praise God even when my world tumbled apart?
The Bible doesn’t promise a life of roses, but God does promise to be with us, that nothing can separate us from His love. My challenge in those dark hours was whether I would blame God or actively trust Him by doing what He says. I chose to “put on the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness” as described in Isaiah 61. Like Lavinia, I was desperately sad, but in those days and weeks afterward, I felt the depths of sorrow were eased by this decision to sing by faith.
At times the Bible may seem full of contradictions: love your enemies, do good to those who persecute you, rejoice in times of trouble. They’re easy phrases to say, so much harder to do.
I hope that no matter what situation you might be facing that you’ll be encouraged to turn to God, not away, and allow Him to ease your burdens and heal your pain. In the words of a former pastor of mine: our God loves us, His plans are good, and we can trust Him.
God has proved this in my life; God will prove it in yours, too.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU, God, for this gift of creativity, and the amazing opportunity to express it. Thank You for demonstrating the ultimate in sacrificial love through Jesus Christ.
Thank you, Joshua, for your love and encouragement. I appreciate you more than you know.
Thank you, Caitlin, Jackson, Asher, and Tim—I’m so proud of each of you, and so thankful you understand why Mummy spends so much time in imaginary worlds.
To my family, church family, and friends, whose support I’ve needed when I felt like giving up—thank you. Big thanks to Roslyn and Jacqueline, for being patient in reading through so many of my manuscripts, and to Kim, for believing in me even when I didn’t believe this dream could come true.
Thank you, Tamela Hancock Murray, my agent, for helping this little Australian negotiate the big wide American market.
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