“Is your sister prone to premonitions?” Charlotte sought some comfort to offer. “How can she know she’s to meet someone? Does the school she’s at host events in the community?”
Hetty shrugged. “I don’t know. She sounded very sure, though.”
Though she hadn’t met Hetty’s sister, Charlotte had the impression she was the sort of young woman who always believed herself certain. “She has months left at her school. Much can change, even in matters of the heart. As sure as she sounds, there’s every hope any attachment she forms will be brief.”
Hetty cast Charlotte a wide-eyed glance. “Oh no. Once Marian settles on someone, she’ll never abandon them. That’s why she says it’s so important to have fun now, and travel, and do all the things she longs to do. That’s why she was always racing, and dancing with Mister MaClagan, and disobeying Father. Once she weds and has babies, she’ll never change her mind. She promised.”
“No, certainly she won’t.” What an odd worry for a young woman to have. Changed minds, after all, were the province of men, as Charlotte well knew. “Why ever should she?”
Hetty shrugged. “She doesn’t want to be like Mama, is all. Marian says a woman must never, ever abandon her husband and children. She says it’s too cruel, to too many.”
Charlotte shook her head. While a woman should never leave her husband and children, it seemed hardly fair to blame Lady Waverly for dying. Obviously, the free-spirited Marian was badly scarred by the loss of her mother. “How old was Lady Marian when your mother died?”
Hetty turned to Charlotte, expression shocked. The team, in response to the jerk of the lead lines, cut across the lane at a sharp angle. The phaeton headed straight toward the low stone wall that separated land from pasture. Ahead, several sheep looked up from their rocky fallow and blinked.
“Hetty,” Charlotte exclaimed. She tried to take the reins, only to find them twined about the girl’s hands. She yanked Hetty’s hands backward, tugging the team to a halt. They stopped a scant few feet from the wall of piled stone.
“My mother is dead?” Hetty squeaked, still gaping at Charlotte.
Charlotte pressed a hand to her pounding heart and struggled to calm her breath. “You nearly ran us off the roadway.”
Hetty looked around. She blinked, then looked down at the reins. “I’m sorry, but, you must tell me, has something happened to my mother?”
Was the girl mad? “She’s dead. She died when you were five.”
Realization further widened Hetty’s blue eyes. “Oh, no, she didn’t die, Missus Fairhaven. She left. Ran off. She said Caithness was the most boring, unbearable place in all the world, devoid of society and dark all year long, and she left us.”
It was Charlotte’s turn to gape. Her mind stilled. Her heart stuttered. “Your mother is alive?”
Hetty nodded, a frown on her face. “Are you unwell, Missus Fairhaven? I’m sorry I nearly ran us off the lane, and for the confusion over my mother.”
“Your mother is alive and your father is still married to her?” Divorce wasn’t unheard of in Scotland, especially in cases of abandonment. Lord Edward was a member of the peerage. He could easily have the union declared void.
“Of course, they’re still married.” Hetty sounded offended. “But, you see, that’s why I believe Marian when she says she will never leave once she’s chosen. She swore not to be like Mama. She promised me so many times that she wouldn’t leave me, too.” Hetty’s eyes filled with tears. “But now she’s going to fall in love and stay in Wales.”
Charlotte struggled through the haze of numbness closing in on her mind. “I’m sure she won’t fall so desperately in love as to abandon you.” Her voice sounded far away, pressed through stiff, cold lips. Lord Edward’s kiss, then, hadn’t been born of love.
“I hope not.” Hetty dashed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I truly meant to have a driving lesson, not to press my troubles on you.”
Charlotte swallowed. “Think nothing of it.” Her initial numbness withered about the edges. Beyond lurked a dark pain.
“I’ll get us back on the road,” Hetty said, showing more of her usual brightness, though she dashed at her eyes again, sopping up unshed tears. “I’ll drive much better, now. I promise.”
A glance at the girl’s wavering smile scattered more of the fog from Charlotte’s brain. Such a trusting face. One she’d thought… She swallowed again, convulsively, as Hetty began to maneuver the team.
Charlotte couldn’t remain in the phaeton with Hetty and her half-formed dreams. Even worse, if she remained for the entire drive, she would face Lord Edward and his attempts to bring her back to Talla Gaoithe for their rendezvous. The very thought was intolerable.
“Stop,” she croaked.
Phaeton nearly put right on the lane, Hetty cast her a startled look. “I’m doing it wrong?”
“Stop, please,” Charlotte begged.
Expression suffused with worry, Hetty brought the phaeton to a halt. “What did I do?”
Charlotte shook her head. Her gaze darted toward the pasture, where the sheep had returned to grazing. They hadn’t come far. If she cut across, she could return to Talla Gaoithe with speed, and without the risk of meeting anyone. “Nothing. You did nothing wrong. I must go.”
“Go?” Hetty repeated.
“Yes. This moment. Please forgive me.” Charlotte slid to the ground, nearly twisting an ankle in her haste.
“Missus Fairhaven, where are you going?” Hetty called. “I can take you home.”
Charlotte didn’t reply. She scuttled across the lane and clambered over the low, moss-caked wall. Ignoring Hetty’s continued cries, Charlotte clenched her skirt in both hands and ran.
Chapter Nine
Talla Gaoithe was blessedly empty when Charlotte pushed open the front door. Vivian had obviously put her plan for offering seclusion into effect as soon as Charlotte departed. She hoped her friend and the staff were having a better afternoon than she was.
Almost against her will, her feet took her to the library, but stilled in the doorway. Her gaze settled on the spot where Lord Edward’s kiss had sparked forgotten dreams of love and family. Charlotte wrapped her arms about her middle, trying to squeeze back pain.
Feet heavy, she crossed the room. Not to the shelves where they’d stood, but to the tall, narrow windows opposite the doorway. Across the lawn, the pine forest stood. Dark. Impenetrable. She should go there, press her way between the heavy limbs, find a quite glade, and lay down, never to return.
She permitted the fantasy for long moments while the mantle clock at the far end of the room ticked off time. Then, she drew in a deep, slow breath and pulled out a kerchief. She wiped tears from her face, and tried to stem the flow of more. How could misunderstanding the kiss of a man she hardly knew hurt even more than when she’d learned she’d never possessed her husband’s love?
She should leave. Depart Caithness. If Rivington still lurked in Edinburgh, she would find somewhere else to go. Perhaps she truly would visit Shetland. Her sorrows couldn’t possibly follow her across the sea.
How long she studied the pinewoods before his footfalls rang out in the corridor, she didn’t know. It felt like days. It may have been hours. She blotted her eyes, which must surely be red, and turned from the window to face him.
His steps were hurried, but he halted in the doorway upon seeing her. “Missus Fairhaven, whatever has happened?” Lord Edward’s expression showed confusion. “Hetty said you’re unwell. Is there aught I can do?”
Charlotte suppressed a sigh. He was a magnificent man, Lord Edward, and he stood before her not growling, or angry, or even suffused with desire. His voice exuded worry. His mien radiated concern. He looked like a man in love.
Only he wasn’t, was he? He was a man in wont of a plaything, and she the more than obvious choice. Something snapped back into place in Charlotte. She squared her shoulders.
He started across the room toward her, the picture of a worried lover. She could read his
intention of taking her into his arms to comfort her. That, she couldn’t permit. She knew where his embrace would end, and she’d be the more scarred for it.
She raised a staying hand. “Your wife is not dead.”
Her gesture hadn’t halted him, but her words did. He went still in the center of the room. Confusion and wariness replaced some of his concern. “She is not.”
“I was under the misconception she was.” Charlotte struggled against the ragged edge that threatened to undermine her reasonable tones.
He frowned. “Does it matter?”
“I was…” There was no point hiding it from him. He would demand an explanation for her change of heart. “I was under the impression we were embarking on a different course.”
“A different course?” The lines marring his brow deepened. “Why would we be on anything other than your usual course?”
She caught the thin underlayment of scorn in his words. So, he would have had her, but resented her for giving herself? Anger sparked in her breast. “My usual course?”
He pulled off his hat. She realized he hadn’t divested himself of any outerwear. Was that his haste to console her, or simply Cuthbert’s absence from the foyer?
Edward beat his hat against his thigh. “What do you wish me to say? You came here with your excessive display of décolletage and lack of a companion, and gave every impression you’re a woman who gives her favors freely, and where she will.” He shook his head. “What other path could I possibly think us on?”
“One that might lead to marriage,” she snapped.
“Marriage?” He stared at her as if she’d proposed they divest themselves of all garments and run naked through the town. “I’m married.”
“I realize that, but your wife is not here, is she? Everyone said she’s been gone for years. How was I to know?” Who, after all, would leave him?
His expression frosted over. “She has been gone for years, but she is not dead. My man of affairs keeps me informed of her movements. He would tell me if she were so good as to die. The last I heard, she was whoring her way across Italy.”
“Italy?” She repeated, startled by his crassness, the venom in his tone. Still, hope sparked in her breast, painful and weak. “She’s abandoned you. You could divorce her.”
Again, that look that questioned her sanity. “The Barons of Gaoth do not divorce.”
“No, of course not.” Charlotte didn’t suppress the bitterness in her tone. Why did her heart insist on scrounging for hope? He clearly regarded her as little more than a common doxy. “You are an honorable gentleman. Like my late husband. Who died in a duel over his mistress’s affections.”
He blinked, clearly surprised. “I should like to think I am more honorable than that.”
“Are you?” She took a step toward him. “You find me vile for seeking affection where there is no love, yet men do as much freely and with abandon, with no regard for whom they harm.”
“Some men, perhaps, but not me,” he bit out.
“That is what I thought. That you were not the sort to dally. That you must hold me in true affection.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you have corrected that misimpression, my lord. Quite thoroughly.”
“What do you want from me, Missus Fairhaven? Lies to salve your ego?”
“My ego?” She wished she’d remained by the shelves, for his books would make ready missiles. “My ego is unscathed. It is my heart you have damaged.”
“I find that difficult to believe,” he growled. “In my experience, women like you have no heart.”
“Women like me?” She bit out each syllable. “What sort of woman is that?”
He shrugged, but there was no ease in the movement. “Women like my wife.” He cast her a look of disgust. “I don’t know why I am cursed to be drawn so unrelentingly to harlots, but you can’t imagine I would make the error of marrying another.”
Rage shot through Charlotte. “Get out.”
“Talla Gaoithe is mine. I will stay where I wish to be.”
The man was insufferable. How she’d ever forgotten that, she’d no idea. “Get out or you won’t see a farthing more in rent.”
His laugh was devoid of warmth. “What care I for your rent, Missus Fairhaven? I permitted your presence as a favor to Stirling.”
Eyes going wide, she looked about the glorious library. The rows upon rows of books. The expensively upholstered sofas and thick rugs. “Your finances aren’t strained.”
“Strained?” He offered another bitter laugh. “Exceedingly far from it.”
The man was endlessly, infuriatingly confusing. “Then why don’t you reside here?”
“Because every inch of this place reminds me of my wife.” The hardness in his features faltered. He swallowed. His gaze slid toward where they’d kissed. “Nearly every inch.”
Charlotte felt emotions slip away to leave her empty. She’d been wrong, about so very much. “I see. You are not pockets to let, nor a grieving widower, nor in want of a wife.” She forced the words from numb lips. “You are a wealthy, married, influential baron who sought a small diversion with a woman whose lesser qualities you were willing to overlook in view of how alluring you found her.”
He was still for a long moment. Deep in his gray eyes, she could see pain, but for what or on whose account, she couldn’t fathom. Certainly, it had little to do with her.
He raised his arm, held out his hand. “Charlotte.”
She shook her head. “I do not believe it’s appropriate for you to call me by my Christian name, my lord.”
His gaze once more sought the shelves to his left, where they’d kissed. He dropped his arm but raised the other, shoving his hat onto his head. “I will not trouble you further, Missus Fairhaven.”
He bowed. She said nothing, did not so much as dip her head. Lord Edward turned and strode from the library, steps less hurried than when he’d come.
Charlotte unclenched her fists. She looked about, possessed with a deep longing to destroy something. Anything would do. Everything there belonged to Edward.
No. She would not be so childish. He had not, after all, lied to her. Nor deliberately mislead her. He couldn’t help her erroneous assumptions. It wasn’t his fault she’d read so very much into their kiss.
Her hand twitched toward a lovely blue and white vase. She yanked it back. Her feet began to move, to take her away from temptation, but outside the library, everything was the same. Edward’s vases. Edward’s delicately inlaid hall table. Edward’s glittering crystal sconces.
Her breath grew shallow. Her pace quickened. She shot from the manor and into the garden. There, she ripped the heads off a handful of spring flowers, shredding the blooms. Pink, white and yellow petals flew everywhere, dancing about her hem on the breeze. She took another handful, and another. The bed before her ruined, she stormed across the lawn and started on a second.
“Missus Fairhaven.”
Charlotte whirled to find Hetty.
The girl looked about with wide eyes. Her gaze lingered on the destroyed bed for a moment before returning to Charlotte. “I… I came to see if you’re well.”
“Perfectly,” Charlotte gritted out. As well as a harlot who’d foolishly handed her heart to an unmitigated ass could expect. She unclenched her hands to let fall a shower of torn blooms.
Hetty’s expression was dubious. “Can I fetch you anything? Or look for someone? Only, I couldn’t find any of your servants when I came in.”
Charlotte stared at her, this girl she’d had the brief hope of mothering. Hetty’s round face was worried. Her hem was dusty, making it likely she’d walked to Talla Gaoithe. Her blue eyes, so very young and unscathed by the disappointments of reality, were focused on Charlotte with concern. “There is only one thing you can do for me.”
Hetty blinked. “What?”
“Listen to your sister’s advice. Have fun now. Enjoy life. Race phaetons. Dance with whomever you like. Don’t wait in some vain, fruitless hope that happiness will come on
ce you’re wed. As soon as you give your heart, all chance for joy will leave you.”
Hetty’s mouth fell open. She closed it, eyes wider than ever. “I, ah, I’ll try.”
“Good. Now, please leave me. I am in no state for guests.”
“Ah, yes Missus Fairhaven.” Hetty turned and retreated toward the manor. Halfway there, she stopped to look back. “Are you sure I shouldn’t send anyone to you? Maybe my father could—”
“No.” Charlotte winced along with the girl at the harshness of that syllable. “No, thank you,” she said in kinder tones.
“But maybe he could—”
“No,” Charlotte repeated, quite firmly. “I’m afraid the very last person I wish to speak with is your father.”
Hetty’s eyebrows shot up, but she nodded. She turned away. In moments, she slipped inside and out of sight.
Charlotte sank down on the lawn. Her skirt puddled about her atop the torn, scattered petals. She picked some up and let them fall through her fingers. Pulling her knees close, she rested her face against the soft fabric of her dress and burst into tears.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte remained in the garden until Vivian found her near dinnertime. She had the returned servants run a bath and took Charlotte straight to her suite. There, Vivian plied her with brandy and listened as Charlotte poured out anger and hurt, then left her to her bath with strict instructions to soak until the water grew cold.
They had a cozy dinner seated in matching armchairs before the fireplace in Charlotte’s sitting room. Vivian, in a show of solidarity, set aside whatever plans she’d made and donned nightgown and robe for the occasion, as Charlotte was in no mood to dress for the evening. They chatted amiably about past lovers, their path of conversation selected by Vivian who, with her usual lack of subtlety, clearly endeavored to remind Charlotte how wonderful it was to be free.
Vivian put up a similar show of support at breakfast and throughout the morning until Charlotte, for the sake of both their sanities and relationship, ushered her friend away. She asked Cuthbert to admit no visitors and took herself to the smallest of Talla Gaoithe’s parlors, a cozy little room that would be filled with sunlight all afternoon. There, she settled into a deep armchair and rang for a maid.
Rake Ruiner: The Marriage Maker and the Widows Book One Page 8
