by Jenna Jaxon
She peered at herself in the mirror and wished she had not. Her face was badly bruised where Cates had hit her. Rose would be hard pressed to cover the purple marks on her cheek even with cosmetics. And her arm throbbed from her father’s brutal grip. Still, her heart ached more than her body. She wanted to be happy that Edward had escaped, but she couldn’t ignore the empty pit in her heart.
An hour later, she entered her father’s study, fighting not to wince as she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. Unless she met the man with strength, he would trample her and never look back. She stood before the huge, worn mahogany desk, exactly as she had every time she’d displeased him in her eighteen years.
He continued writing, not even looking up to acknowledge her presence. Another of his ploys.
Remaining still, she stared at his hand as he made the small, neat letters. The trick was not to say a word. Allow him to make the first move.
At last he signed his name with a flourish, set the pen down, and capped the ink. Then he raised his head and looked at her. And smiled.
Charlotte’s stomach sank. The smile meant triumph. It meant whatever the punishment he had set for her, he had gotten his way with it. She firmed her lips. She’d not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
“Well, your little indiscretion of last night has cost us the Ramsay alliance.” He leaned back, his hands clasped.
“It has?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. The settlements for her marriage to Lord Ramsay had already been signed. How had the betrothal been broken?
“Ramsay caught wind of your little escapade. I’m not sure how, but I’ll find out which servant talked. They will never set foot in a decent household again.” He tapped his forefingers together. “Nevertheless, he knows that my daughter tried to elope with her groom and now refuses to have you.”
Well, good for Lord Ramsay. She had nothing against the man except that she didn’t know him and certainly didn’t love him.
“I could have forced the issue, but he has agreed to be discreet about the reason he now finds you objectionable. I have broken the betrothal on your behalf. Perhaps next year I will give him your sister Agnes.” His intense stare made Charlotte’s skin crawl. There would be worse news to come. “She’s much more biddable than you ever were.”
“Thank you, Father.” Not that this situation pleased her much more than marrying Ramsay. Of course, now he’d have to send her down into the country to wait for him to choose the next-most-advantageous match for her. A plan with merit, for being out of his presence was a boon. Even had she found a man this Season at least palatable to her, her father would never allow her to marry him unless the alliance served his purposes.
“But do not despair, Charlotte. You shall have your wedding, and on schedule.” His eyes twinkled and her stomach sank even further. “I have called in a favor from an old friend. He has agreed to marry you and take you off my hands.”
“An old friend, Father?” Dread built slowly in her chest. This must be her punishment.
“Sir Archibald Cavendish. You remember him, I daresay. He’s been my guest often enough at the hunting lodge in Kent.”
Her breath stopped. No. That was not possible. Marriage with . . . “Sir Archibald? But . . . but he’s your age.” And balding and as big around as he was tall. The last time she’d seen him, two years ago at the lodge, he’d been so drunk he stank of whiskey and the strong clove scent he wore in his cologne made her sneeze. Now she’d be expected to marry the man? She had to clutch the back of the chair in front of her.
“Two years younger, but that’s of no consequence.” The jubilant tenor in his voice told her he was enjoying her horror. “Sir Archibald is just the man to curb that spirit of yours.”
“I won’t do it. You cannot make me marry that nasty old man.” She had spoken with her cousin Jane when she’d been betrothed to Ramsay and been informed that English law required her to consent to her marriage. Well, she would never willingly agree to this alliance. Being a spinster or anything else was better than being that man’s wife.
“Oh, I think you will, daughter.” He leaned toward her, menace etched in every line on his face. “Because it is Sir Archibald or the lunatics at Bedlam. Any woman who would disgrace herself by running off with a servant would easily be deemed mad by the authorities. I have sent inquiries to one of the physicians on the board, telling him of your irrational behavior and asking if they would admit you if you do not see reason.”
“You would really do such a thing to me?” He would. She had no doubt.
“It is your choice, Charlotte. I will not have scandal in my house. Had you behaved according to your station and married Ramsay, we could have avoided these less-appealing options.” He sat back again, cold, emotionless. Triumphant.
He had her trapped. She could not choose the asylum if she expected to live. Edward had not wanted that for her, even at the cost of his own life. She swallowed hard and prepared herself for the inevitable. It would have to be the odious Sir Archibald. Perhaps she could persuade the man to leave her in the country while he gallivanted around and thus spend as little time with him as possible. At least there was that hope.
With a heavy sigh, Charlotte nodded. “Then I accept Sir Archibald’s suit. You can inform me of the wedding details when you have arranged them.” She clenched her hands and spun on her heel, determined to leave the study without seeing her father’s gloating face. Before her tears rained down again, as she knew they would, the ocean her father had predicted just beginning.
Chapter 2
London, June 18, 1816
Lady Charlotte Cavendish squeezed into the upstairs retiring room at Almack’s, shaking in her new yellow slippers, half in excitement, half in terror. The parlor was already crowded with gaily dressed women eager to show their patriotism for the Waterloo veterans. She, on the other hand, attended for an entirely different reason—a reason that gave her joy for the first time in six long years.
Charlotte glanced around, unnerved by the crush of people. She was unused to such crowds after five years of marriage and a year of mourning. Surely she could find a bit of unclaimed wall where she could wait for her cousin, Jane, Lady John Tarkington, and contemplate the freedom she’d celebrate tonight. Not the normal return to society by a grieving widow. Then again, she had never grieved one day for the odious Sir Archibald. Considering she was still a virgin, she could hardly be called a normal widow at all.
She danced out of the way as two portly matrons hurtled past her.
“And then she said Lord Fairfax dragged her into the library . . .” The ladies moved off, heads still together, oblivious of the others around them.
Charlotte ran her hands over her skirts, checking for tears. She had never seen so many people here before. Had half of London turned up? Spying an open spot, she hurried toward it, tread on the hem of her gown, and stumbled against the cream-colored rear wall.
Drat. She turned her back to the wall and inspected the edging of the garment. The modiste had apparently cut it a little too long despite her exacting measurements. Why hadn’t she noticed this at home? The lace wasn’t torn, however. She sighed in relief, relaxing just a little. There was no reason to be nervous about rejoining society, yet she was on pins and needles. She must compose herself and wait right here for Jane so her clothing would not be further mussed.
She glanced down, smiling in satisfaction at her gown, which the seamstress had delivered yesterday. The fresh confection, cut daringly low in both front and back, in the most delectable shade of deep primrose yellow, boldly announced her eagerness to engage in life anew.
Time now to re-emerge, like a bright butterfly from a twelve-month cocoon, to stretch her wings. Charlotte fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other, full of pent-up energy after years spent suffering through an empty marriage to a man she had never loved. I’d have better spent the past twelve months grieving the loss of Edward. Or perhaps I should have mourned my ste
pson Hal. He set me free.
Harold Cavendish, her husband’s second son, had died at Waterloo. When the news had reached Sir Archibald, he’d suffered an attack of apoplexy and died. His elder son, Edgar, now Sir Edgar, held the title to the baronetcy. What a pity the fates of the sons had not been reversed. Charlotte had always gotten along well with Hal. Edgar was another matter entirely.
Near the entrance, the press of women seemed to thin a bit. She strained to see through the throng that still surrounded her. Drat. Had the dancing begun before her cousin arrived? She didn’t want to miss a moment of tonight. Cocking her head, she strained to hear through the soft din of voices. Snatches of discordant notes drifted in from the ballroom as the orchestra tuned up.
Why hadn’t Jane arrived? Charlotte eyed the doorway, willing her cousin to appear. As the first social function Charlotte had attended since her mourning ended, this fete represented her bid for freedom and she did not intend to miss a moment of the ball.
Thanks to her father’s treachery, not since her ill-fated flight to Gretna Green had she experienced one moment of love or tenderness with a man. Her aging husband had made it quite clear on their wedding night that he would not demand his marital rights. He’d never given her a reason for his disinterest, although she had her suspicions. During the next five years, however, he’d been as good as his word, never so much as putting a foot over the threshold of her bedchamber. A circumstance for which she gave thanks to God nightly—Sir Archibald had been short, potbellied, with breath like an old chamber pot. Charlotte had often wondered who she despised more, her husband or her father.
What she wouldn’t give to just once know the long-denied pleasure of a man’s attentions. She imagined herself on the dance floor, held in the arms of a dashing gentleman who would sweep her around the room as if they trod on air. He would smile for her alone and perhaps hold her a bit more tightly than was proper. She would laugh and flirt with him, without a care in the world beyond who her next partner would be. Yes, she had dreamed of this night for years.
Her blood beat a quick rhythm in her veins. The air had grown quite stifling. Alarmed, Charlotte pulled out her fan and plied it vigorously. She simply could not faint here! Not before setting a foot on the dance floor.
Had she known Jane would be this tardy, she would have accompanied her to Lady Darlington’s crush. Instead, Charlotte had preferred to have more time to dress, to perfect her first impression after so long an absence. If Jane didn’t arrive soon, however, she might give in to desperation. Might even be tempted to go into the ballroom alone. A dreadful way to call attention to herself, but she’d been waiting all her life for this moment.
As if summoned by Charlotte’s frantic need, her cousin rounded the corner into the retiring room. Panic receded. Charlotte breathed deeply and waved to her. Ever since they were children, Jane’s presence had had a calming effect on her. Though truly sorry for the loss of her cousin’s husband, she had been grateful when Jane had moved into the London town house with her and provided her with advice on widowhood.
“Oh, Jane!” Charlotte hugged her slight frame. “I thought you would never arrive.”
“I told you to come with me, Charlotte. Then you wouldn’t be in such a state.” Jane straightened the topaz and gold necklace around Charlotte’s neck. “You seem ready to fly to pieces.”
“I am.” Charlotte laughed, so giddy now the flickering candlelight spun. “I’m so tired of waiting.”
“Well, you likely will still have your share of that once we enter.” Jane nodded toward the ballroom. “We will probably have a devilish time attracting any attention at all from the gentlemen.” She frowned and flipped open her fan. “That is a major concern, my dear. The Season is all but over.”
Charlotte nodded. Now that they could accept any invitation they liked, the invitations had ceased to arrive.
“Our mourning ended at such an unfortunate time of year.” Jane started toward the doorway. “What few events remain will not likely be well attended by gentlemen seeking to marry. The most eligible have either been brought up to scratch already or have managed to escape and think themselves safe for another year.” She stopped and nodded to an acquaintance. “Despite the numbers drawn to the fete tonight, I fear we will find dancing partners scarce.” Jane sounded miffed, but Charlotte smothered a smile at her words. She doubted her cousin would sit out a single set unless she chose to. Jane had always had a way with men.
“Then by all means, let us hurry to make our presence known.” Charlotte bit her lip. Prickles of excitement coursed down her glove-encased arms. The moment she had waited for had arrived. Once again she would enter the giddy world of the ton. Shoulders straight, a pleasant smile carefully gracing her lips, Charlotte swept toward the glittering ballroom, ready for life to begin again.
* * *
“Demmed slim pickings this late in the Season, eh, Wrotham?”
Blandly surveying the crowded ballroom, Nash, twelfth Earl of Wrotham, had to agree with his friend, George Abernathy.
“Well, none of them showed great promise, even when out in full force in April. Too young and too silly if you ask me.” A shame too, as Nash had determined he would do his duty and marry this year. He’d come into his title unexpectedly, only eighteen months before, and at thirty had no time to waste putting an heir in his nursery. Life was a chancy thing.
“You may be right at that.” George surveyed the room, his usual look of boredom unchanged.
“I suppose we must wait and hope for a better crop during the Little Season.” Nash sighed as several young ladies, dressed in all manner of frothy pastel gowns, congregated not ten feet from where he stood. He smiled pleasantly to acknowledge them, all of whom he’d stood up with before, but none of whom had drawn his interest for more than a dance or two. “I do hope at least one or two here tonight can dance tolerably. Such a shame Miss Benson is now betrothed.”
Abernathy cocked his head and produced a quizzing glass, through which he seemed to study Nash. “You cherished hopes in that direction?”
“Not a bit.” Nash chuckled. “The chit is as flighty as they come, but she moved like a sprite. I’ve not had a partner such as her in ten years.” He shook his head. Not that he had indulged in dancing much at all in that time. “Fortunately, the ability to dance well is not my highest criteria for a wife.”
“Now there we can agree.” Abernathy settled himself to gazing about the room, likely looking for a suitable candidate for the opening reel. “Fortune is the primary consideration when seeking out a wife. Fortune and good breeding.”
Nash shook his head. “A consideration perhaps, but not the highest one. I’m much more interested in a pleasant woman, a good companion. A lady who will not insist on dabbling about in my business affairs, although she must be an outstanding hostess.” He looked expectantly at two young ladies entering; then he recognized them as Miss Olivia Sanderling and Lady Catherine Dole. Neither one old enough for his taste. “She should also enjoy living in the country and sharing quiet pursuits. I seek a woman I will want to sit across the breakfast table from, which means she can’t be some miss right out of the schoolroom, fortune or not.”
“Humpf.” Abernathy swung around toward the ballroom entrance, where some sort of commotion had erupted.
Had the press of people entering become too great, creating a stoppage? The organizers should have foreseen that with this particular ball and fete. Everyone must want to attend this evening.
Nash peered at the little knot of people now filing through the doorway, his attention immediately drawn to a lady in yellow who chatted animatedly with another woman. The bright hue of her gown riveted his gaze on the elegant figure, an arresting, almost fierce expression on her face, as if determined to enjoy the evening no matter what.
“I say, Abernathy, do you know that lady there in yellow, just come into the room?” Nash had never seen her at any other ton event. Of course, this was his first full year on the Town and he ce
rtainly had not met everyone. One of the disadvantages of inheriting his title with no warning had been his lack of preparation for the duties expected of him. Including attending all these blasted functions and remembering names and faces.
I would have remembered her.
George once again raised his quizzer. “Well, well. Lady John Tarkington. She was widowed last year. I suppose this means her mourning is finished.” He smiled and licked his lips. “Lady John is quite the figure of a woman, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is she the one in yellow?” Nash couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“In blue. With blond hair.”
Nash shot his friend a sideways glance. “Bit older than your usual conquest, isn’t she?”
George let the quizzing glass drop and straightened his jacket. “Yes, but ever so much more fun. She led Tarkington a merry chase before and after their marriage, so I’m told. Always a breath away from scandal was Lady Jane Munro before she married. And now she’s apparently back on the market.” He started across the dance floor. “Come, let me present you so I can ask her for the first dance. Perhaps she will introduce you to her companion.”
“But who is the lady in yellow?” Nash followed, frowning. He hated when things went on the fly. Fifteen years in the Royal Navy had taught him that lack of organization usually led to disaster.
Abernathy shook his head. “No idea. Didn’t get a good look at her.” He nodded toward the two women, talking and laughing together with several ladies they had joined. “But Lady John obviously does.”
Nash trailed behind, weaving his way across the floor, where the first set was making up. If fortune shone on him, an introduction would be forthcoming in time to ask the lady in yellow for the honor of the first dance. If not, he’d ask for the second set and admire her during the first.
