by Olivia Kane
“Leave him alone now so he can get some rest.”
Charlotte and Guy backed out, Charlotte slowly closing the bedroom door behind her. She followed Guy down the staircase back to the library and sat down in her old seat. Guy positioned himself on the settee. Silence settled over the room.
“Oh,” Guy started. “Thank you for the Udolpho.”
‘You are welcome. Did you finish it?”
“Yes I did. It was a fast read.”
“Enjoyable?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
Charlotte nodded.
“Help yourself to something to read while we are waiting,” Guy said. She rose and surveyed the volumes on the shelf. She doubted she could concentrate enough on anything at that moment; so she pulled a slim volume of poetry out. Poetry usually confused her but she had no intention to read anyway.
Much to her surprise, Guy did not quiz her on her choice, thus missing an opportunity to judge her tastes. He kept his nose buried in his book and that irked Charlotte as they sat quietly alone together.
This was a very romantic setting, she thought to herself, with the wind whipping and the trees swaying back and forth, a wild night ripped straight from the pages of her Udolpho, but Guy seemed to be purposely ignoring her. When she was acting as his host in her own home, she had at least tried to keep the conversation flowing. He could not even be given credit for that. He was entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts, which in her mind was truly the height of self-centeredness.
The relentless rain hammered down. An hour passed and the doctor still did not come.
Charlotte occasionally rose to look out the window and every time she did, she could feel Guy’s eyes follow her. For his part, Guy was fighting the urge to take advantage of the rare opportunity the fates had bestowed upon him. It did not go unnoticed by Guy that, if he so desired, there was nothing to prevent him from taking Charlotte in his arms and kissing her that very second and declaring his love for her.
Nothing to prevent him except a damnable lack of courage.
Sure, it was easy to kiss and caress the tarts in the London nightclubs when one was plied with drink and the lady was happy to make the first move. As to how one approached a respectable girl, like Charlotte, Guy hadn’t a clue. She had snapped at him once already that afternoon. To make the wrong move, or worse a clumsy move, and incur her ire would make for a very uncomfortable evening together. The potential for disaster loomed large.
Besides, Charlotte was most likely overcome with worry for her father—surely he was correct not to disturb her with conversation. He sat there on the settee, upright and stiff. He read the same page over and over.
So the hour passed.
Finally, a rattle of a carriage was heard and Guy leapt to the window.
“He’s here!” he exclaimed, bolting from the settee.
Charlotte followed after him as he let the doctor in and showed him upstairs. She stood at the foot of the stairs, pacing and looking upwards, waiting anxiously.
Twenty minutes later, she heard the bedroom door open, muffled voices, and then the doctor descended the stairs smiling.
“There is nothing to worry about, my lady, although the Lord Radcliffe should rest tonight. His lungs are fine. He was right about the leaf dander. The rain will clear the air but it will be best to wait until tomorrow to begin the journey home.”
“Oh thank heavens!” Charlotte cried, sitting down on the stairs in relief.
“I will see myself out. Good evening.” The doctor shut the door behind him and ran to the carriage in the downpour.
Charlotte rested her chin in her hand and sat on the bottom riser, extremely relieved. The sight of the doctor brought back bad memories of last winter, when her father’s prognosis had been worrisome.
Guy approached the top of the stairs and saw Charlotte sitting at the bottom. She looked small and completely defenseless and his heart went out to her. The Radcliffes were a close family; having lost his own father two years ago, he understood the ladies’ concern. When he reached the bottom, he sat down on the step next to her; convinced that would be her cue to get up and walk away, but she stayed put.
“He’s fine. He’s resting now, and the doctor recommended some warm soup when he is ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lancaster. You are too kind.”
He said softly, “I will be forever grateful to your father for his generosity to me over the years. I would do anything to secure his comfort.” He paused and then added, “Please call me Guy in my own home.”
“Thank you, Guy,” she said. Her head was spinning. She thought she had never been so tired and when her head tilted against Guy’s strong shoulder and stayed there, quite on its own accord, she held it there, curious as to his reaction.
Guy froze, completely taken aback by her tender vulnerability but terrified that if he budged an inch, she would move away. So he stayed put, feeling he should make a similar move toward her to echo back his affection, but stumped as to the proper response. Plato did not cover such topics and he had no idea what the rulebook was for these situations. Finally, when he could not bear the awkward silence between them, he blurted out:
“Charlotte? Are you hungry?”
Charlotte was silent for a moment. How very unromantic to be speaking to her of her stomach. She very slowly removed her head from his shoulder and then stood up, smoothing her skirts.
“It’s Lady Charlotte, please,” she said haughtily and with a flip of her head, turned her back on him and made her way primly down the hallway back to the warmth of the library.
Guy could not tell if she was teasing him or highly offended by his use of her first name. He got up from the riser and followed her. Charlotte heard his footsteps close behind her and tried hard not to laugh as she turned into the library. The rain continued to pelt and twilight had darkened the room; the only light came from the flickering of the fireplace. The day had been too serious; Guy was much better company when she poked and irritated him. Otherwise, what was the point of him?
Guy entered the library right after her. Even in the gloomy atmosphere, he could tell by the glint in her eyes and the tilt of her head that she was toying with him. She stood there, by the fire, searching his face for his reaction. He stopped for a moment, summoned his courage, then took a step toward her, determined not to let the moment pass without addressing her.
“My lady,” he began. He paused momentarily, half expecting her to back away but instead she held her ground. He was an arm’s length from her and his heart began pounding crazily. The way she was standing there, waiting for him, made him dare to hope that he would not be rebuffed. He was forming the words of endearment on his lips when he heard the floorboards behind him creak. He spun around to see Belmont sheepishly backing out of the room.
The moment was gone.
“Pardon me, I assumed you were upstairs with the doctor. I noticed the room was pitch black and came to light the candles.”
“But of course,” Guy answered. “It’s getting dark so early nowadays.”
Charlotte turned her back to Guy, picked up the volume of poetry from where she had left it on the chair, and sat down, raising the open book in front of her face to block his view. It felt as if the whole of her upper body was shaking and that Guy could see this quite plainly. Inexplicably, she had been hoping he would assert himself with her. Her hands trembled with lingering excitement.
The lady servant popped her head into the room.
“A light supper is laid in the dining room, my lord. The Lady Radcliffe is on her way downstairs.”
“Thank you,” Guy said. He looked over to Charlotte.
“My lady?” He motioned toward the door and she stood up slowly, avoiding his eyes, and left the room in front of him. Guy held back a few moments so that she could not hear him exhale in disappointment.
The rest of the evening was spent listening to Lady Radcliffe recall better days when all of her children lived at home and Guy was their constant tutor. Guy an
d Charlotte nodded in polite amusement, feigning complete absorption in her stories up until the last moment before bed.
The next morning, the Lord Radcliffe declared himself anxious to start the journey home. By the time the Radcliffe carriage was heading back up the small rise of the road and exiting the gates of Ludlow Lodge, Charlotte had regained her senses. Relief that her father was not seriously ill was what had caused her to momentarily lose her senses and recline against Guy’s shoulder.
Really, he should understand that I was not myself, at all, in that moment and read nothing into it, she thought. Obviously, Guy had been about to reproach her for her familiarity right before Belmont interrupted them. Thank goodness for Belmont!
The Lord Radcliffe could not contain his pleasure with their extended stay, declaring that he had experienced rest beyond compare. “Ludlow Lodge is really one of the garden spots of England,” he concluded.
“If only it were in Hertfordshire, it would be perfect. Poor Mr. Lancaster!” the Lady Radcliffe exclaimed.
Charlotte smiled at her parents and leaned her head against the carriage window, closing her weary eyes. Last night had been difficult. The combination of the strange bed and the wild weather kept her awake. Even when the rain stopped and the winds died down, sleep had eluded her. She stared at the beamed ceiling above her, or out the window at the unfamiliar trees, and could not shake off the excitement of her close encounter with Guy. For a moment there, she had thought Guy might kiss her and she was horrified to find herself disappointed when he didn’t.
Thank goodness the visit to Ludlow Lodge was behind them and she had no plans to see Guy Lancaster again for a long, long time. It seemed that every time she was thrown into Guy’s company, she acted as silly as that Lydia Bennet!
She woke with a start. Outside the carriage the footmen at Bennington Park were standing in the forecourt, ready to welcome the family back. Charlotte blinked several times.
“Oh my, I was sound asleep,” she said aloud, squinting in the bright morning sun. She had been dreaming. She and Guy were happily walking along a London street, shopping for new shoes. It began to rain inside the shop but Guy insisted they stay and eat the figs that were being served to them, so she stayed, knowing it was not what she wanted to do but feeling as if her feet were bolted to the floor. Suddenly, the Earl was at the window peering in, and she ducked behind Guy and hid behind his strong, wide shoulders, terrified because she knew the Earl was looking for her. Then she woke up.
What a bunch of nonsense dreams were, she thought. Guy really had a way of getting under her skin.
Chapter Ten
The afternoon with Charlotte had riled Guy up so that after two sleepless nights, he set off for London. “Too much countryside for now,” he explained to Belmont as he threw a satchel in his carriage and waved goodbye.
A change of scene will do me good, he thought, for in the country I tend to think of my country problems, but in the city I have no problems beyond what to drink and eat.
When he got to his club, he fell into a leather chair and ordered a glass of brandy. How humiliating it was to be so lacking in social skills that he had squandered no less than three opportunities to express himself to Charlotte.
Three!
In his own home, in the utmost privacy!
He had read enough mythology to know that the gods did not reward those who faltered when the prize was there for the taking. He downed the first drink quickly, anxious to forget his troubles.
He quickly motioned for another brandy.
The thought had come to him before, and now it reared its ugly head again, that he did not declare himself to Charlotte because he knew her family preferred the Earl to him. Charlotte was probably right, he mused. Perhaps following one’s heart was not a dependable indicator of one’s future happiness. Perhaps he should be rational as she was about picking a spouse.
It was quite likely that he was more suited to Cecelia, a woman with whom he felt no pangs of inferiority, a placid woman willing to please. Already, she had helped him turn Ludlow Lodge into a home. There was no rule that upon reaching the upper classes, he had to marry one of its minions.
He would have a predictable life with Cecelia, and maybe that was the point Charlotte had been trying to get across to him in that first afternoon in the drawing room, defending her list of suitable suitors. He had felt a passion for Charlotte and yet at the same time had never felt more miserable. His heart ached for the simple life he had led before that fateful, impromptu visit to Bennington Park.
Perhaps it was not a lack of courage that was his problem. Perhaps it was a finely honed tendency toward acting rationally that had guided his actions all along, that had kept him from declaring his love to Charlotte, or grabbing her face and kissing her like he had wanted to in that dark library. Passion was a sort of madness that could override one’s reason, he realized. A sort of precipice one willingly fell off, much to one’s future detriment.
He still had time to win Cecelia back, he figured. Her father had been very wise in separating them until he came to his senses. Nothing had been said that could not be taken back.
Dear, sweet Cecelia, he thought to himself. I’m so sorry for doubting you.
Satisfied with his new life plan, and slightly drunk, he fell into a deep sleep, slumped against the soft leather chair.
Presently the noise of the club woke Guy and he fell into conversation with the men present. More drinks were ordered and soon the embarrassment he felt regarding Charlotte was but a memory.
They moved to the gambling room and sat down for a game of whist. Guy was feeling reckless, and his bets were large, but Lady Luck was on his side and as the evening progressed, he was able to win more than he lost. A gambling debt amongst his peers was the most solemn of obligations. Guy always paid up and on that fact his partners congratulated him.
“Take care you do not become like the Earl who lost a great bet last month and has not yet paid it,” said the Lord Sommers.
“He claims to be broke yet he bought a new phaeton. I saw him in it just yesterday,” observed Sir Robert Christopher.
“The man lives entirely on credit,” noted one Mr. Archer.
“Yes, and he gets away with it.” Sir Christopher pointed out.
“We will see. Rutland is beyond angry about the debt but now the Earl has other problems. Wilcox is furious and has challenged him to a duel. He means to settle once and for all that nasty business between the Earl and Mrs. Wilcox,” the Lord Sommers said, sneering at his cards.
“Rutland is torn between wanting to see the Earl dead and wanting to keep him alive to pay off the debt,” Archer noted. They all laughed.
“Now that his wife is gone, he has taken to even more outrageous bets. However, he keeps insisting to Rutland that he will have more than twenty thousand pounds coming soon in the form of a new bride,” Sir Christopher said in a low voice.
“An untouched new bride, not like the used up tarts we see him with,” Archer laughed.
“Yes, he laughs that he will steal her innocence and her money,” Lord Sommers said.
“Poor girl,” Sir Christopher threw down his hand.
Guy, who had been concentrating on his cards and only half listening, suddenly found his ears perk up.
“What is this rogue’s name?” Guy asked.
“Buckland. You have seen him here for sure,” Archer told him.
Guy nodded; his pulse quickening. “I have made his acquaintance. You say he found a bride with that much money? Now that’s the kind of luck that has eluded him at the gaming table, as there cannot be that many young women around with such a fortune at their disposal.”
“A young chit who lives nearby whose family doesn’t venture out much beyond Hertfordshire,” Sir Christopher said.
Guy suddenly felt the need to be sober and called for a pot of tea.
“Buckland was here last night, begging the Duke’s indulgence. I do believe Rutland gave in and gave him an extension w
hen the Earl promised that his marriage was imminent,” said Archer.
“Wilcox, however, wouldn’t budge. The duel is set for tonight! I wish I could attend,” Lord Sommers stated.
Guy was instantly rooting for Wilcox, whoever he was, to shoot the Earl dead. If not it was his duty to inform the Lord Radcliffe of this information. Clearly, he could not mean for Charlotte to be the wife of such a man!
The gods had placed him in the right spot at the right time, after all. Without his being a party to the information, Charlotte would be blindly led into a terrible future.
He knew sleep would elude him so he sat up until after sunrise, awaiting news of the duel. His mind fixated on images of the Earl’s stocky body crumpling to the ground, a fatal shot delivered straight to his immoral, cheating heart.
Instead, it was Wilcox shot dead at sunrise. The Earl put a bullet to his head, one to the chest and another to the neck for good measure. Rutland watched; he was the only witness relieved to see the Earl survive—but a dead man paid no debt. Rutland was all about the debt.
Guy left the gaming hall upon hearing the news. He went to bed, furious and restless. He might not be the proper suitor for Charlotte, but that did not mean he could stand by and watch the Earl abuse the Radcliffes’ trust in him. News of the Earl’s duplicity would be a hard message to deliver to the Lord Radcliffe. His own motives might be questioned, but he was a man of honor and his conscience would not permit him to keep his counsel. He was nobody’s tutor; in need of no one’s references to keep food in his mouth. He would speak the truth and suffer its consequences. If it meant changing London clubs, or not being received in Bennington Park afterwards, well then so be it.
He would leave for Hertfordshire tomorrow after a day of rest. He needed his wits and verbal skills about him to present his best case against the Earl. The thought came to him that he did possess courage—the right kind of courage. And when he had finished with the Radcliffes, he would call on Cecelia.
Chapter Eleven
Miles away, Charlotte felt the walls closing in on her. Her usual interests failed to satisfy. She tried to paint but there were no pleasant subjects left in the world. Her novels depressed her; she had no patience to read about fictional people with fictional problems. Needlework was pointless; there were already entirely too many pillows in Bennington Park; it was madness to stitch another.
