The Deceptive Earl: Lady Charity Abernathy: A Regency Romance Novel

by Isabella Thorne

  “Then you are unkind,” Lady Charity said.

  “Quite the contrary. It is only that I would not wish to be absented from your beauty, not even for a moment, as you are quite the most lovely and vivacious in attendance here tonight.” Lord Wentwell looked at her expecting to see the preening debutante, but instead, there was a smolder in her eyes; fire upon the sea.

  “Do you think to turn my head with your cleverness? Your words are rehearsed, Sir. Do you repeat them to each young lady you meet?” the lady said lifting her chin a bit. “Or does the delivery vary?”

  She studied at him through narrowed eyes. “I warn you, your honeyed tongue will not work on me,” she said, but the flush of her cheeks belayed her words.

  “As you will. But if we shall speak of honey and tongues,” he said softly. “I shall be very kind, indeed.” His voice was a low purr.

  Lady Charity took a step back, snapped her fan shut and brandished it before her as she spoke. “You are a rake, sir. Both unkind and dishonest in truth,” she said loftily, but he noticed she did not move significantly away, and her color was high, but not a true blush. He gathered that she was enjoying the interplay as much as he, and he wanted to test the limits of their interaction. It was, after all, not her first season.

  “You do wound me,” he intoned.

  “You are easily injured then, Charity said. “I would not have thought a gentleman of your experience would not be so fragile.”

  “And I would think a lady of such verve would thirst for more than punch,” he said.

  The heat of a blush colored her face fully now. “You are too forward,” she said bringing up her fan to hide her face and turned as if to leave.

  “Is that so? I think I am not forward enough, but upon your word, I shall desist. But do enlighten me. How do you find the soiree, this fine eve?”

  She stuttered for a moment at the swift change of subject, and then caught her balance. “It is pleasant,” she replied.

  “Ah, for a lady bent on honesty, you do bend the truth. Tell me, what does my lady truly wish for this night?”

  “An honest conversation, perhaps an honest gentleman, but I despair. I shall find neither here, certainly not in such trappings as you employ.”

  “Am I not honest when I extoll your beauty?”

  She ignored the complement entirely and said, “Even if you are honest, you hide it well.”

  “And I venture, that your plea for honesty is but a ploy.”

  “I assure you, it is not.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his coat, and waved it about, affecting a much more foppish manner than he usually employed, as he whispered conspiratorially, “Oh, but what a cad I would be if I said that a lady’s dress was ill fitting or that her maid ought to be flogged for the bird’s nest that she left upon her mistress head.

  Charity nearly snorted with laughter as she followed his eyes to Mrs. Thompson, who did indeed look as if she wore a grey tangle of a bird’s nest upon her head.

  “For shame. She is our hostess,” Charity said with little censure.

  His voice lowered to a secretive whisper and leaned close. She did not pull away from him this time, and he breathed in the scent of her. “I shall keep your secret,” he said.

  “What secret?” Her face was wrinkled in that quizzical frown that he had begun to enjoy.

  “I know you are not parched as you implied to Colonel Ranier, “but rather, perhaps as floating in punch as that poor potted plant.”

  “Now, that is surely not honesty, but cruelty,” she said.

  “To the flooded plant, for certain” he said. And her lips quirked in amusement.

  “Still, you should not say it.”

  “And the lady craved honesty.”

  Lady Charity tossed another look over her shoulder to her mother. Wentwell realized that she was indeed closely chaperoned, and he wished to see the unencumbered girl who was so bright and forthright last summer, without her mother standing by. His heart went out to Lady Charity as he realized her predicament. He attempted to walk with her a bit, to move her out of her mother’s direct line of sight, but she side stepped him, staying in her mother’s view, and he smiled indulgently. “Perhaps then, you would take it upon yourself to teach me,” he said.

  “Teach you? What would I teach?” she asked, her face screwing up in the most adorable frown of confusion. Almost immediately she wiped the expression from her face, and the cool mask was pulled upon her face once again. She was once more as bland as the rest of the Ton. Oh how he wanted to see that unguarded wonder upon her face again, and perhaps more.

  “Why, to be honest.” He said earnestly.

  “I think that lesson is an undertaking for an expert,” she quipped, with a slight laugh.

  “Are you not up to the task? In all honesty, then what do you see when you look at me?”

  “I know you are a rake sir, and honesty is the last thing to pass your lips.” Charity made mock to turn away from him, and she caught sight of Miss Macrum who was standing nearby, perhaps coming to join in the conversation. “Oh,” Charity exclaimed in surprise. “Miss Macrum.”

  Miss Macrum pursed her lips in a sly grin. She seemed well aware of Charity’s game and Charity felt a moment of embarrassment, as if she had been caught out, for what she was not exactly certain. Charity wondered at the sudden tension. Surely, Wentwell was not one to be hurt by a bit of banter and they were in full view of her mother. There was no scandal here.

  Charity brought a smile to her lips. She was never particularly friendly with the lady, but she was also never one to give another the cut. She stepped aside to allow Miss Macrum to join them, but the woman sported a particular scowl. Charity felt as if she should tell her, as her mother had often done, that such frowns cause wrinkles, or perhaps, that her face may stick that way. Charity would never have had the nerve to say so in polite company, still she bit her lip, a quirk of a smile escaping.

  “We meet again, Lord Wentwell.” Miss Macrum said as Lord Wentwell gave her a stiff bow. “Miss Macrum,” Lord Wentwell said shortly.

  He did not take Miss Macrum’s hand and for just a moment Charity wondered if he was annoyed at Miss Macrum’s intrusion. No, that could not be, she thought as Miss Macrum renewed her acquaintance with Lord Wentwell, and leaned upon his arm. It appeared, according to her familiarity that they were old friends.

  Miss Macrum pursed her lips in a sly grin. She seemed well aware of Wentwell’s unsavory reputation, but it didn’t seem to bother her. She sent a condescending look towards Charity. She appeared to be aware of Charity’s game as well as the fact she was more proficient in its playing.

  “Look at you, Lord Wentwell, ” Miss Macrum said after introductions were finished. “The pinkest of the pinks wearing a scowl to frighten tomorrow.” Although the words were said with a smile, Charity thought Miss Macrum a bit forward to speak so. This only heightened her assumption that the two of them were familiar with one another.

  “Tomorrow is not what I hope to frighten,” he said in a dry voice.

  “Why you will frighten the young lady away with such a countenance. There must be a demon at your heels, for such a black look,” she said simpering.

  “No doubt,” he agreed. “It is called matrimony.”

  “Surely, it is not so,” Macrum said. “I have heard that a titled man must be ever seeking a wife.”

  “You are misinformed,” Lord Wentwell said. “It is only a man on the rocks who seeks a wife, and then only a woman flushed of pockets.”

  “Could the woman not be flushed of face?” Charity added.

  Wentwell turned from Miss Macrum to Charity. “Indeed she could, but flying one’s colors is a maiden’s ploy,” Wentwell said.

  “It is no ploy,” Charity said, feeling the heat of a blush on her cheeks. She wished she could stop the coloring, but Wentwell smiled indulgently at her before turning to Macrum.

  “Now, flying to the time of day is more the established game,” Wentwell said,
‘For those more world wise. Do you not think so,” Miss Macrum?

  Miss Macrum opened her mouth, but did not speak. “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

  “Then why are you here?” Wentwell asked reasonably.

  “Here?” she said a bit confused, and truthfully, Charity was also not sure what Lord Wentwell meant. He clarified. “Here,” he said again. “Here in Bath; here at this soiree; here speaking, in this conversation.”

  “Why it is customary, I believe for unmarried ladies to place themselves in the company of unmarried gentlemen,” she said with a small smile for Charity before her eyes went back to Wentwell.

  “Ah yes, the marriage mart, the torture chamber of unbounded gentlemen, to unbounded pleasure of all unmarried ladies.”

  Charity thought he was over dramatic, but she too did not find the façade enjoyable. “I do not find it particularly pleasurable,” Charity interjected. It grew tiresome to be paraded before every eligible young gentleman in the Ton, although talking to Lord Wentwell was beyond exciting.

  “Are you not seeking a husband, Lady Charity?” Miss Macrum asked.

  “My mother is completely engaged in the matter,” Charity replied.

  “But you are not?” Lord Wentwell asked.

  “If you knew my mother, you would know she does not require my help in the endeavor.”

  He laughed a short bark of joy. “I do know your mother, or at least my mother knows the lady. So The Lady Shalace is to do the choosing? Have you no say in the matter, Lady Charity?”

  “Apparently,” she said. “I must bow to her opinions.”

  “Of course you must,” Miss Macrum interjected. “The opinion of a countess must be obeyed.”

  Lord Wentwell gave her a look, and then turned back to Charity. “I am not generally interested in other’s opinions,” he said and Charity was aware of a sudden coldness in his voice.

  Miss Macrum seemed stunned to silence.

  “She is my Mother,” Charity said into the gulf, but she was not at all sure her mother was still the topic of conversation. “Her opinions are important to me.”

  “Of course they are,” Miss Macrum said, reaching out to pat Charity’s hand indulgently. “I am sure she is doing her very best for you. In fact, I have never seen a more stunning depiction than the one you present this evening, the picture of ingenuous charm.”

  Charity was not sure why Miss Macrum suddenly found her interesting. A moment ago, her eyes were all for Wentwell. Nonetheless, Charity was gracious. She expressed her gratitude for the complement and groped for one of her own in return. Unfortunately, Miss Macrum’s garments were quite obviously a remake of last season’s style. No doubt the lady was saving the best for when the rest of the Ton arrived in Bath. Charity latched onto the topic of the dress, which although not quite the height of fashion, was expertly sewn, and Charity did so often need the services of a good seamstress.

  “I must say, your dress fits you perfectly,” Charity said. “I must have the name of your dressmaker. She is a miracle worker.”

  “Indeed,” Wentwell intoned.

  Miss Macrum’s eyes narrowed momentarily, whether for Wentwell’s comment, or suspecting that Lady Charity was making fun of her outdated dress, Charity did not know, but Charity’s bright smile caused her to reconsider and her lips stretched into a smirk.

  Wentwell looked away seeming somewhat distracted, and Charity took the moment to answer Miss Macrum’s silent question.

  “Truly. You have no idea how often I need the services of a good seamstress.” Charity leaned in to speak softly to the woman, while Lord Wentwell stood, his shoulders stiff and still. “The dressmakers so often misjudge my size and that of their tape,” Charity said.

  Miss Macrum tittered as if Charity had shared secret of worth, and Wentwell turned back to them, his eyes appraising Miss Macrum for a moment. She preened in the attention. “I take it you like my gown,” she said, her voice honey sweet, and her hands passing slowly down the front of her dress, and playing with the buttons along the bodice.

  Charity thought that Miss Macrum’s fishing for a complement gauche, but expected Wentwell would accommodate her.

  He paused, giving her another slow appraisal which Charity thought might be uncouth, but that was before he spoke and proved himself a rogue.

  “It looks a fair bit of muslin to me,” he said, his voice flat and matter of fact.

  Miss Macrum sputtered and blushed, at his crude comment and then pursed her lips, but before she could respond, he continued, his commentary in a cold and businesslike manner. “I should think that the buttons on the front of the dress, should be a great time saver, Miss Macrum,” he said. “In the event that you do not have a lady to attend you.”

  Charity very nearly asked when she would possibly lack such service, but she was so appalled by the comment that she bit her lip and the hush extended between them like the calm before a storm. Charity felt herself color darkly in embarrassment.

  Wentwell laughed aloud, breaking the awkward silence. The sound was sharp and entirely false but Miss Macrum joined him with her own shrill twitter. “You are so very droll,” she said, laying her hand back on his arm.

  “And you Miss Macrum. Are simply unbelievable.”

  Charity threw a glance to her mother to see if she was still watching. She felt so out of her depth. She knew she was meant to be flirting, but somehow she could not summon the same lightness that she had before Miss Macrum joined the conversation. She did not think Wentwell droll. She thought him a callous, full of artifice and insensitivity.

  Wentwell smiled at the ladies, but the light did not reach his eyes. He gave a short bow, and excused himself with barely concealed haste. “I see some friends I must speak to before the night ends. Excuse me.” The excuse was so flimsy as to border on rude and Charity wondered what she might have done to remedy the matter.

  “Of course,” Charity murmured. She wondered if she done something wrong at his abrupt departure. She was supposed to hold the gentleman’s attention. She tried not to notice that her mother was frowning at her. She discovered that she did not care.

  Charity felt soiled by the conversation. Both Miss Macrum and Lord Wentwell had such counterfeit personalities that Charity told herself she was glad to be rid of all their intrigues, but she found her mind going back over the conversation to try to figure out where she lost her way. It was all pretense. How could anyone follow it? And yet she had for a moment. For a moment, she thought that she and Wentwell shared…something. Tonight perhaps, or perhaps during their dance last summer.

  No, she reminded herself. All of his charm is fake, it is simply hard to remember such things when dancing with him. One must wonder what it is that he seeks so hard to hide beneath the mask. Although the thought intrigued Charity, she decided that she really did not want to know what lie beneath Lord Wentwell smooth façade. She did not care. I am sure it is something horrible, or perhaps it is nothing at all, she thought. Perhaps he is just empty.

  She just did not notice how empty until Miss Macrum joined the conversation, but Charity thought, when she watched the dialogue, rather than participating in its exaction, she saw a different side of him, a side that was coarse and biting. Yes, she decided. Miss Macrum had revealed his cruelty. His rakish façade may hide some true decadence, and if that were so, she would have nothing to do with him. Still try as she might the Lady could not quite convince herself the smile Lord Wentwell had given her was entirely false.

  ~.~

  Chapter Four

  “Shall we stroll,” Miss Macrum asked, looping her arm with Lady Charity, and startling her out of her reverie. Charity felt trapped at once, but she could not deny the offer now. “I see that The Earl of Wentwell has caught your eye,” Miss Macrum said.

  A flutter went through Charity’s midsection at the thought. Had he? Were her thoughts so transparent? “I haven’t surely. Or he hasn’t,” she said glancing over her shoulder at the man.

  “Don�
�t look now,” Miss Macrum cautioned tucking a gloved hand into her own and patting it as the pair moved along the floor.

  “It is alright, my dear. I quite understand.” Miss Macrum crooned, leaning close as if she and Lady Charity shared a secret.

  The truth was, Charity never quite got on with Miss Macrum. She was exactly the sort of female that her mother would have wished Charity be befriend: full of artifice and cunning. Miss Macrum would have been called plain, if she were not so skilled in the presentation of self so as to make herself wholly appealing. Charity listened while Miss Macrum made conversation, telling her how she was on good terms with the Collington family; how she and her good friend Miss Danbury would often partner with Lord Wentwell and his younger brother, Edmund at events. Charity’s heart sank. Lord Wentwell did have a brother. She remembered now. “Still, he is the most challenging fellow in the room,” Macrum continued. “It will take far more than a simple flirtation to earn a proposal from The Rake of Wentwell. Never have I met a man so against the institution.”

  Of course, Miss Macrum was right. Charity was quite out of her depth considering the Earl. She knew that, but Miss Macrum annoyed her, even though she was only repeating much of what Charity had thought of herself. She had known Lord Wentwell was not a suitable marriage partner. Charity felt her cheeks grow red with embarrassment. Still, she had encouraged the flirtation. Never had she thought that Miss Macrum would think Charity and herself of similar ilk. The thought made Charity’s throat tight, and yet, what other young miss might she befriend for the evening.

  “I…” Charity searched for an excuse to not walk with Miss Macrum. The woman made her uncomfortable, but no reason was forthcoming.

  “Is that not what you are doing?” Miss Macrum asked. Had Charity been so forward with another lady, in the company of her mother she would have been scolded for her cheek. Lady Shalace would have taken offence, but Charity although she was loath to admit it could not deny that Miss Macrum had read the situation with expert eyes. “Were you not thinking to gain favor with the Earl here amongst lesser company before the true test of the opening ball?