A Passionate Endeavor

by Sophia Nash

  Running down the stairs, she held her flaming cheeks in her hands. It had been mortifying to face the perceptive glance of the Duke of Cavendish. Despite his age and condition, his knowing, eagle eyes had pierced her composure. And she had fled like a poacher caught with a tangle of game over one shoulder.

  She met Charley coming the other direction, carrying a heavy book. “Miss? The doctor said you might be needin’ this. Said sumpin’ about a book you’ve been lookin’ for.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, Charley. Is he coming then to relieve me?”

  “Yes, miss. He bewaitin’ on the medicine you asked to be brewed. He said for you to wait until he comes.”

  Charlotte took the large volume and returned to her post, outside the duke’s door, after thanking the lad.

  The door was ajar, and she could hear the voices of the son and father clearly. Charlotte, desperate for a distraction, opened the tome and refused to eavesdrop. But the temptation was too great, once she heard her name mentioned, and her resolution too weak. The voices floated from the sickroom.

  “My son,” the duke said. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the look in her eye.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Miss Kittridge is not for you.” Again a coughing fit overwhelmed the father. “No, let me continue. I must… it cannot be left unsaid.”

  She could hear the bed creaking and the whisper of the satin-ticked bedcovers being arranged. He must be sitting on the grand bed.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “She would not be happy living the life of a duchess. And our acquaintances, even the servants, would snicker behind her back, as some do even now, guessing her roots, questioning her French lineage and physician father. And you well know she would never suit you. You, you,” he paused, “are not suited for one another in any way, my son. It would be disastrous for you and for the continuation of our line.”

  “Father, I gave you my word, many years ago, that I would follow a certain course. Do you doubt my promise? I have never given you cause to worry. I do not plan to marry Miss Kittridge,” he said.

  Seated just outside the doorway, Charlotte pressed her tired fingers against her throbbing temples. She didn’t want to hear anymore. A chill had fallen through her as she had listened to the conversation.

  Her exhaustion had weakened her control, and she felt a sob threaten to escape her tight throat. She couldn’t bear to hear any more. She had to leave, and she would do it on cat’s feet. Her ancient slippers would not give her away, she thought. And they would have done their duty, save for the crash of the forgotten tome on her lap. She stopped to pick it up, half hoping he would come out and confront her.

  But, he did not. There was to be no enlightenment, no feelings to swell the heart. No denials. Nothing at all. But of course there would not. She knew with all her being that there never would be. Not for her. But then eavesdroppers deserve every poisonous word they hear as their just desserts.

  Her father appeared at the top of the stair, and walked with purpose toward her. He whispered, “Charlotte, my dear. You are exhausted. Go and rest. I insist you spend the whole of this evening and tomorrow at our cottage. I’ll have Hetty sit up with His Grace tonight.”

  Charlotte felt like protesting. But in the end, her sadness and ill ease made her accept her father’s prescription.

  The duke’s voice grew weaker. “Are you sure, my son? Quite, quite sure? I never liked the idea of holding you from a wife,” he said gruffly. “Perhaps I could ask your stepmother to find a suitable young lady. Someone who is unable to produce children.”

  “With your permission, sir, I will continue on with the original plan. It is much more to my liking. And I shall take better care not to elevate Miss Kittridge’s expectations.”

  “I am glad to hear it, for Miss Kittridge has become very dear to me of late—almost like another daughter. She reads to me, and nurses me with the most gentle spirit. I would hate to see her hurt in any way. Her intelligence is vast—even surpassing her father’s, I believe, at times. I would not see you overpowered by her wisdom, and her cowed into hiding it to boost your own confidence.”

  “I believe you have the right of it, sir.”

  “You hold her in very high regard, do you not, my son?”

  A long silence ensued.

  “It is as I thought. Do not answer.”

  “I gave you my word.”

  “Nick, my son, I believe you. I promise not to question you again. I know you will stand by your promise.”

  ‘Thank you, Father.”

  “I began giving Edwin authority over Wyndhurst and the other estates several years ago when I began ailing and he was of age. The war has been a great blow to the estates—our profits are shrinking and our expenses increasing. It would not do to take any chances with everything in such a precarious state. Edwin is doing an admirable job despite the economic downfalls. I trust you will allow him to continue.”

  “Of course, Father. It has been agreed long ago. I shall have the title, in name and by law only. I will not meddle with anything he puts into place.” Nicholas bit his tongue. He could not burden his father on his deathbed with his ideas to help ease the poverty in the parish.

  “You will be tempted when I am gone, I will hazard a guess. And the tenants and laborers will all come clamoring to you, the new duke, with their lists of grievances when I am gone. They seem to come more and more these last few months.… But I don’t want you to worry about any of it. You chose your course a long time ago.” His father began to cough again.

  Nicholas willed himself not to leave his father’s bedside to find out where in blazes the blasted tea was. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher nearby and forced his father to take a sip.

  “Yes, I know, Father. You must rest now. Please, put your mind at ease. We made the arrangements long ago, and I will stand by them. I will not be swayed by the power of the title. And besides, I have decided to return to my regiment very soon.”

  “I had guessed as much. But you will wait, then, until I am… gone?”

  “Let us not talk of these matters. I will stay with you for as long as you need me.”

  “Then you will stay as long as it takes to see me on my final journey.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nicholas leaned down to kiss his father on his forehead. He had the sudden thought that they had exchanged roles. Unlike many heirs, he loved his father. And yet, he had never spent that much time with him -very few hours in his youth, and almost none in his adulthood. But he loved him. He dearly, dearly loved him. And he would honor his promises to him, without wavering.

  Chapter Eight

  “A woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.”

  —Northanger Abbey

  HAVING spent an agitated night with little slumber and even less happy thoughts, Charlotte rose from her bed exhausted. At least she would not have to face him today. He would not come for the promised lesson when his sire lay so close to his final moments. It was close to the end now; she had seen it in the old gentleman’s eyes. And he knew it too. She hoped he would be out of his pain soon, now that he had had a chance to say his good-byes and make his peace with the world.

  He would not come, she thought as she sat in the simple dining room, nibbling on the corner of her toast. And it was for the best. She had been overcome by the duke’s keen observation of the state of her heart, and humiliated by their discussion. She was certain that her poor acting skills would not stand up to her next audience with Lord Huntington or his father.

  Suddenly, the door to the room opened and in walked her father. He appeared haggard from the long night spent at the duke’s bedside.

  “Ah, there you are, Charlotte. Here’s one more burden to add to our dish.” Her father waved a letter before Charlotte as James walked in and joined them. “We are to expect a visit from your cousin, Alexandre Barclay, the Friday after next.” “Not, dear old Alex? After all these years?
” James asked.

  Charlotte’s hand stopped for just the merest second in midair as she poured herself another cup of tea. One drop escaped onto the pale green tablecloth.

  “It seems your half French cousin on your mother’s side has ascended to his English father’s viscountcy. He is now Lord Gaston and he has a desire to visit our little family circle in whom one member in particular” —her father paused to look pointedly at Charlotte—”was destined to become a part of his own twice over many years ago.”

  “Many years ago,” echoed Charlotte.

  “He has a very pretty way of turning a phrase, he does,” said her father, as he continued reading the letter. “Will he be able to turn my dearest daughter’s intelligent head as well?” He peered over his spectacles at her.

  “Father!”

  “I am but teasing you, child. The viscount must possess lofty ambitions far superior to a physician’s daughter, no doubt. And you are practical enough to admit it.” Her father returned to scanning the page. “We have no way to warn him of our vast descent from the ton. I cannot like this visit. It portends nothing but trouble, if I remember this young gentleman’s character very well. However, we do owe his parents much,” he concluded, shuffling the pages.

  “The way I understood it, Grandmamma had selected him with care for her favorite and only granddaughter,” James said with a grin. “Wonder what the chap looks like. Do you think he is short and portly, or thin and mean-tempered?”

  “I would not care to guess.” Charlotte concentrated on spreading some jam on her toast.

  “Oh, come, Charlotte, do not tell me you are not curious about the man you were to marry?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Charlotte replied, using her napkin.

  “Remember you are speaking to a future man of the cloth. Falsehoods require serious penance.”

  “James, this was all arranged when I was but four years old—a mere child. I barely remember him, I assure you,” she said, lying through her teeth. She had never been able to forget the tall, dark-haired boy who had been much more interested in horses and fishing than meeting the girl for whom he was intended. When she had been a child, Charlotte had thought of him as her handsome prince. “None of us ever expected him to carry through with both families’ intentions after the revolution.” Charlotte gave her brother an angry glare.

  “Forgive me, dearest,” James said, trying to swallow a smile but failing. “I for one would like to meet the man who callously jilted my sister, fairly broke her heart with sorrow for long-lost dreams.”

  “James…” warned the father. “Enough poppycock. Charlotte has never had any intention to marry,” her father said, as he speared several sausages and transferred them to his plate. “We shall see how the viscount conducts himself. And we will learn the purpose of his visit. I for one hope his stay is short and without incident. Once he sees that we are unable to supply him with any interesting forms of entertainment, as we are always required at the abbey, I am sure his visit and any curiosity he holds will wane quickly,” he said, before turning his attention to the breakfast before him.

  Charlotte tried to ignore her brother’s teasing grin as she considered the viscount’s forthcoming stay. She finished her meal in a pensive state. The visit would bring nothing but embarrassment and a continuous stream of annoying remarks from her brother. She must find an especially large tome of sermons at the abbey to recommend to her father, thereby ensuring a premature retribution for James’s unbrotherly behavior.

  With gratitude, she acceded to her father’s request that she take some air this morning and visit Mrs. Bumsides, one of the tenant farmers’ wives, who was lying in after the birth of her eighth child. Yes, that would take her mind off her embarrassing situation. Then she would return to the abbey to confer with her father, who had hastened there soon after the sparse morning repast.

  Her plans in place, Charlotte ignored the grayish clouds in the distance and the short rushes of breeze that assaulted her body when she departed the cottage. Head down, and equipped with a basket full of supplies and muffins, Charlotte headed toward the valley. It was but two miles to the rundown Burnside cottage.

  The first fat raindrop struck her arm a little more than half the distance to her destination. It had been folly to think she could have returned from her jaunt before the storm began. And she had misjudged the direction of the wind. Those were her last thoughts before the heavens let loose their fury. She turned back and ran as fast as her skirts would allow. The wet grass tickled her cold ankles, and more and more mud began to fly as she ran. She slid to a stop upon the sudden appearance of a horse and rider—Lord Huntington, to be precise.

  Her heart lurched. Before she could say a word, he spoke.

  “Miss Kittridge, give me your hand, and use the stirrup to step up,” he ordered, kicking free from the object in question. “I will have you at your cottage in five minutes, if you will allow.”

  Charlotte very much wished she had the courage to refuse his offer because of the humiliation of the last evening. But looking into his kind eyes and handsome face, she found she could not, and obeyed without a word, finding herself seated sideways atop his “good” leg in a moment. Wordlessly, he opened his greatcoat and wound her arms around his waist. He covered her with the front of his coat almost completely. She tucked her head under his broad chin and allowed herself to absorb the lovely warmth of his body. Had Marianne in Sense and Sensibility felt thusly with Willoughby when he had carried her home? Charlotte’s experience far surpassed anything she remembered reading. Just the smell of him intoxicated her senses, making it difficult to speak.

  “His Grace? Is he—”

  “He has turned the corner,” he interrupted. “Your father said to tell you that my father is resting comfortably now— not a cough for the last hour. Perhaps he has turned a corner.” He gave her a warm smile despite the rain pouring off his hat.

  “I thought to keep our appointment. Your maid sent me out after you in fear of the storm.”

  “I have made you all wet and dirty.” She glanced down to where her boots had muddied his new high-topped boot.

  “Save your breath, my dear. It is Charley who will come after you, boot brush in hand. He has become quite the dandy’s keeper.”

  His happy exuberance was contagious. He was obviously relieved by his father’s turn for the better. And she was glad the old gentleman had been made comfortable once more.

  With that, they were off. It was a very uncomfortable perch despite the smooth, rolling gait of his horse. The pommel dug into her body, forcing her to move closer to him. But she would not have had the ride end if she had had a choice. For several minutes they rode without words, and she tried to imprint the experience in her memory.

  She breathed in the heated, masculine smell of shaving lather and his overall scent, feeling dizzy from his closeness. And she hugged his muscled torso closer to her, marveling at its broadness. She heard a deep rumble of laughter when he finally brought the horse down to a fast walk. The drenching shower changed to a light patter.

  “I would not have let you fall, Miss Kittridge, fear not.”

  “I trust you, my lord.”

  “Do you, now? Is that wise?”

  “I trust you to deliver us back to the cottage, at least,” she said, joining him in laughter. Sunlight broke through the clouds and bounced off the wildflowers, glittering in the now light mist of rain. She looked up at him. The sunlight had turned his eyes a clear green.

  “Ah, Miss Kittridge, I warned you I cannot be trusted around dimples,” he said, as she experienced the full intensity of his expression.

  She tried to wipe the smile from her face and force her lips over her teeth.

  “You are failing miserably, you know.”

  A giggle escaped her.

  “Ah, Miss Kittridge, did you know that you have two sets of dimples when you attempt to erase the first pair?”

  “You are an out-and-out bounder, sir,” she said
, conceding a full smile.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. And then, suddenly, his gaze moved to her mouth.

  “Are you going to kiss me again, Lord Huntington?” she whispered before she could stop herself. She cringed privately with embarrassment.

  “Are you flirting with me, Miss Kittridge?”

  “Oh—that was very wrong of me.” She shifted and tried to regain her composure.

  “More’s the pity, my dear. But never let it be said that I allow an opportunity to pass.” He had transferred the reins to one hand and lifted her chin with the other while halting the horse.

  Did he speak in jest or in earnest? She had never had any experience to sharpen her wordplay—whereas he was a master in the trenches of human dialogue. Perhaps he was excessively gay because of his father’s improvement. Joy overtook many a person with news of good health. She was very unsure of herself, not knowing that her very timidity would add fuel to the fire.

  Oh, God, what was he doing? What was he thinking? Her eyes looked so large in that virginal face of hers. And he could not embarrass her now by not following through, could he? She expected a kiss, so he must oblige. He must.

  His lips touched her beautiful mouth and he was lost. She tasted of honey toast and roses and rain all bundled into one small pretty parcel. She opened her mouth tentatively to his gentle prodding, and he had a great desire to crush her to him. He felt overwhelmed by her trust in him.

  Her skin was so soft and her lips so inviting and sweet. He lightly nipped her upper lip and touched her slick hair, with waves more pronounced from the rain. Ah, he wanted just a little more. Just a very little more.

  Without a word, he disentangled her arms from around his neck, and lowered her to the ground. She said naught as he dismounted and pulled her back into his arms. Ah, she felt so very small, but perfect there. He could almost span her tiny waist with his hands. But she was no child. His palms traveled slowly up her frame to find perfectly formed breasts filling his hands.