The Deceptive Earl: Lady Charity Abernathy: A Regency Romance Novel
Page 5
Charity enjoyed beautiful things and was always mesmerized by the exquisite style, where everything had its place. The simple symmetry of Bath calmed her. She loved the mosaics set with glittering stones. When she was doing needlework, one stitch at a time, she often wondered at the patience it must have taken to construct such beauty one tiny stone by tiny stone. She admired the fine sculptures as well as the street crafts and often found some little treasure made by humble hands. She had always been drawn to the artists, sculptors, painters, potters and metalworkers who constantly visited Bath to share their talents with the gentry who summered there. She was a constant patron and a few of the merchants even recognized her.
In the past, Miss Julia Bellevue would have strolled with Charity through the streets as they admired some beauty of manmade design. Julia’s eye for art was unparalleled, and Charity longed for the artist’s companionship. Now that she was married, Julia was more like to stroll with her husband, Godwin Gruger, The Baron Fawkland. Perhaps one day, when Charity had acquired a husband of her own, the pairs might take their leisure together once more.
Prior to their matches, the ladies had chittered about their futures as wives. Laughing and wondering about the men they would love had occupied countless hours. Now that the reality had begun, Charity found herself quite outside of the loop. The others had found their mates, while she remained unhindered and wholly at sixes and sevens. She was completely unprepared for this reality.
Perhaps that was why she now found herself so drawn to the Poppy sisters. Through the years, they had grown close enough to call one another cousin, despite no blood link between the families. The Poppy sisters were, four in number, three of them still unwed with no prospects in sight. At least, not that Charity had heard tell of any serious suitors.
She sighed and glanced up just in time to see the smiling face of her dear friend Patience approaching upon the arm of her brother, Reginald. Her heart leaped for joy. Even as a married woman, Patience did look somewhat like a waif, with her wide eyes and red hair curling around her face as it came loose from her summer bonnet. Charity could not help but smile, all of her previous melancholy melted away in the presence of just one good friend.
Charity stood and waved the siblings over with a warm greeting, and Patience caught her friend’s hands with a bright smile.
“Ho!” the gentleman cried. “A bright face for this dreary morn.” He greeted Charity.
“The sun is shining,” Charity laughed at the absurdity of the gentleman’s claim and felt instantly better than she had felt all week. “I cannot claim to compete. This day is lovely.”
“That it is,” Reginald confirmed.
“I thought Lord Beresford was delayed in parliament and you would not be here until next week,” Charity said to Patience.
“My husband remained behind. I have come with Reginald and Mother and their household.”
“Oh?” Charity said concerned. “And you only just married? Is there some distress?”
“No,” Patience said “Quite the contrary. But tell me, what brings you to the gardens?” Patience asked as she squeezed her friend’s hand.
“Father is taking the waters,” Charity announced.
“Have you time for a stroll?” Patience craned her neck toward the bathhouse which was teeming with patrons.
Charity glanced at Jean who nodded without looking up from her needlework. “I shall be happy to wait for The Earl, Milady,” Jean said.
“Yes,” Charity confirmed. “Father should be an hour yet.”
“Then you must walk with us,” Patience begged. The siblings informed Charity of their intent to stroll through the gardens and toward the town center in search of some small gift to send to London for a cousin’s wedding.
“I should rather like a walk,” Charity accepted the offer with a smile. The day was hot and the prospect of waiting upon the park bench for her father’s return promised nothing, but discomfort and unladylike perspiration. At least at a walk she might catch a breeze or even stop in the shade of a shop or sample some cool drink.
Jean would remain at the park to keep watch for Charity’s father and manservant, though there was no indication of their appearing for quite some time. Charity might walk in the protection of her friends without causing alarm, nor would her father need worry that she had gone missing. Bath was, after all, a bustling town, not quite as big as London of course, but it had its own charm.
Charity and Patience excitedly discussed about the opening ball, and made guesses about who might be coming to Bath this summer. Charity began to feel quite revitalized by Patience’s happiness. She admitted that she was looking forward to the arrival of the socialites that would be soon making their appearances in the vacation town.
“It has been nothing but a bore,” she admitted to her friend. “There are few enough of us here to form a true party, and even then I seem the only one without a pair. It’s quite ghastly,” she confessed. “It appears, everyone has been married.”
“And what of me?” Reginald feigned offence. “Have I been wed without my notice? My word, someone might have told me.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to see a surprise wife there on his arm.
Charity laughed. “You have only just arrived,” she consoled the gentleman. “For today we might be the only two to ourselves, Lord Barton.” She realized that the comment might be construed as forward, but Reginald did not see her as a possible bride, and neither did she see him as a suitor. She had known Patience and the Evans family too long. Although there was no true impediment to their marriage, she could not see Reginald so, although her mother would have had them trussed together in no time if she had her way. Still Reginald teased her as an older brother might.
All in all, they spoke more as relations than acquaintances and therefore the conversation was nothing more than a lighthearted banter to pass the time as they made their way to the shops.
“I am undecided,” Patience mused. “A new parasol, or shall I trim a fine shawl for the bride?”
“Something for the house,” Reginald offered, but Patience shook her head.
Charity shrugged. She had no need for such items for her mother kept her armoire bursting with such finery. She always wondered what a marriage might provide that she did not already possess. There was only one answer, she thought as a flush filled her face, for it was not something that could be gifted by a guest.
Reginald stood kicking his fine kid boots in the dirt as he listened to the women debate the usefulness of each item. Charity bit her lip as she thought him rather like a school boy who itched to run in the fields rather than sit for his lessons.
“Why don’t we peer into this shop ahead,” Charity suggested.
“If you wish,” Patience agreed, “But I find I am parched.”
“Perhaps your brother might fetch us a refreshment,” Charity said, but Patience shook her head. “Let us but glance in this next shop, and Reginald might procure our drinks while we browse. Then we shall meet him to sit a while in the café. This is the café, is it not?” Patience inquired of her brother, gesturing towards the corner establishment.
Lord Barton lit up at the suggestion of a pause in the shopping. “It is,” he agreed.
“It is far too hot to walk very far without a sip of something cool,” Patience said. Charity looked at the establishment. As evening drew nigh, the room, may become more of a pub, but in the light of the morning, it was respectable enough.
“We shall meet you in a few brief moments,” Patience promised.
“Moments turn into hours,” he teased his sister.
“Go on.” She shooed him away.
The gentleman raced away before the ladies could change their minds. No doubt he would have preferred a pub, but nonetheless, the room gave a small respite from both the heat and the women. He flashed Patience a grin before he left the ladies.
Patience laughed at her brother’s retreat, knowing full well that he had no interest in shopping other than that
his sister, needed a companion for the excursion.
A short while later the women exited the shop with little to show for their efforts save a string of pearls that Charity had purchased on a whim. Perhaps, she had thought, they might be woven into her hair or artfully placed along the crown of a hat she had been thinking to commission.
The two ladies went into the neighboring café to rejoin Reginald. It was all that Lady Charity could do not to groan aloud when she saw what, or rather who, awaited their return.
Their request of libation had been met with vigor, though it appeared that Reginald had acquired a stray along his journey. The gentleman at his table was an addition to their party, which made Charity start, though she said nothing and hoped her face did not show her unpreparedness.
Neville Collington, The Earl of Wentwell, looked relaxed as if he were in his own home, with one arm draped over the back of the chair and his trousers pulled tight. He and Reginald both stood at the ladies entrance and seated them at the table. Wentwell offered Charity her drink. Charm spilled around him and his smile was all too appealing. The same eyes roved her as if he could see more than she was wont to show. She picked up her drink and was reminded of the empty drink cup and Wentwell’s flirtation at the soiree. She put down the cup and immediately fanned herself, artfully using the contrivance to obscure his view. He raised his eyes to hers and grinned at her. She had the uncanny feeling that he was remembering the same conversation.
Charity pursed her lips to keep from admonishing the perpetual flirt. Mother would scold her for not participating and, to be fair, Charity had no direct grievance with the gentleman. Perhaps it was the heat that was making her irritable. Or, perhaps it was the pressure that she had been receiving to engage in such conversations with those of the opposite sex, when she just wanted to enjoy her summer in Bath. Charity was not annoyed with Neville Collington in particular. Only, all that he stood to represent, rakes in general and the artifice which kept ladies from finding a man’s true nature.
“Lord Wentwell!” Patience said smiling. “It is good to see you again. Reginald said you had a letter to post.”
“I do hope I did not inconvenience you, Lady Beresford, Lady Charity,” Wentwell said with a nod. “It was an important matter that I did not wish to leave to a servant.”
“Not at all, Wentwell,” Reginald said, answering for the women. “We were all ready for a sip of something to cool our palate.
“Yes,” Patience said. “I do hope you will join us for the rest of this morning.”
Charity nearly groaned aloud. Her hope of an uneventful and relaxing morning just disappeared.
“I have already promised Reg I shall do so,” Wentwell said, with a slight nod of his head to his friend, and Charity wondered if he had not promised, would he have slipped away to some more gentlemanly pursuit.
Reginald was grinning like a madman, but he hid his smile in his cup.
~.~
Chapter Six
There were few men who frequented Bath that were not familiar with Lord Wentwell. Somehow they all seemed to take favor with him despite his ways among the ladies. Charity wondered if it was some sort of vicarious longing that the other gentlemen had for his loose morals. Lady Charity could not see the Earl’s appeal: refused to see it, in fact. Of course Neville Collington was in possession of a dangerous array of features. The Earl of Wentwell was altogether too handsome, and he knew it. Every fiber of his being shouted the knowledge as did his artful grin and his glinting eye.
Patience was already on to a new topic, recounting their shopping excursion to Lord Wentwell while they enjoyed their slight repast.
In no time at all, Patience expressed her desire to continue shopping, and she led the way, guiding the foursome toward a neighboring shop, where various novelties were sold.
Lady Charity found herself flanked by the two gentlemen and she did her best to devote her undivided attention to Lord Barton and ignore Lord Wentwell entirely. Despite her determined focus, she could not cease to be aware of the pair of devilish green eyes that burned her from behind.
Whether she had intended to or not, she had somehow piqued Lord Wentwell’s interest. Charity refused to be another challenge for the gentleman to best. She did not doubt that he notched his bedpost with his conquests. She would have none of it. She would not allow herself be so used.
“Reginald,” Patience called to her brother as she browsed an outdoor booth that was bursting with bolts of fabric. “You must help me find something similar to Mother’s evening shawl. I am certain that this style is just the thing for her.”
Charity strolled after the siblings wishing that she had never agreed to this excursion. At this moment, she would rather be sitting at home or upon her bench with simple Jean than partnering Lord Wentwell through the streets of Bath.
“My dear Lady Charity,” Lord Wentwell spoke her name as if merely capturing her attention were enough to make her swoon. Charity had to admit his voice was deep and smooth as butter. She turned away from him, determined not to hear or let the man affect her.
“Are you often in Bath?” he continued, this time close enough that she might not continue her pretense without offense. She could smell the scent of him, a pleasant sandalwood smell. Only a scoundrel would overstep personal boundaries so. Still, she had to answer or be proclaimed rude.
“Only in the summer,” she replied shortly. Her response was honest, but not forthcoming. She picked through a box of trinkets, weighing each in her hand and holding one up for inspection.
“Do you not prefer Brighton and the sea?” he tried again.
“My father prefers Bath.”
“Then you do prefer the sea.” He smiled as if he had gleaned some great insight into her character with the assumption.
“I have not been often enough to make a determination,” she admitted with a simple lift of her shoulder. She turned back to her examination of the trinkets with aplomb. She would not give him a moment’s regard.
“You should try the sea,” Lord Wentwell leaned against the table of baubles and Lady Charity tried not to notice how the artful cut of his clothing clung to his fit frame. He looked a bit rumpled this morning as if he slept in his clothes, and yet somehow his disheveled appearance made him all the more appealing. Charity turned abruptly away, a blush coloring her face.
Lord Wentwell began to regale her with tales of the waves and the salt spray. At one point he lay his hand, warm on her elbow and she nearly dropped the bauble she held.
“Here in Bath, the heat of summer air is heavy with moisture and the scent of the mineral waters. I find it to be somewhat cloying and I do not enjoy the taste. The sea, on the other hand, ah, the sea sends quite a different message to the senses. It is freeing and quite overwhelming.”
She turned to him startled at his passion.
“I should like to take you to the sea,” he said fervently.
To speak so ardently was not seemly, but he continued, almost as if he were not speaking for her ears, but for himself alone. “The sound of the waves as they crash against the shore is intoxicating. It fills one up, pulls one in and rolls over the skin, like an ever present heartbeat.” His voice was soft and sensual, and Charity felt a moment of unease with the conversation, though she could not quite put her finger on the reason. Goosebumps appeared on her skin although the weather was uncommonly hot.
“The clean salt of the air is quite unlike any other taste one can imagine,” Wentwell said. “It lingers over the lips and leaves an altogether delightful languidness trailing in its wake.” He looked at her then, his green eyes altogether darker in color than she had imagined earlier.
Charity pulled away from his touch, anger rising like a bright flame. She gasped thinking of the telling way that he described the coastal town. Their conversation of lips and waves and heartbeats was not inappropriate in any overt way; however his words sent strange feelings through her. He affected her sensibility in ways which made her insides twist.
Instead, Charity cultivated a feeling of annoyance, for herself, and indeed for all of the young ladies who would soon begin their first season and in their innocence fall prey to Lord Wentwell’s honeyed tongue. She reminded herself that Lord Wentwell was a dangerous man. He was a flirt through and through: a rogue and a scoundrel. He used his wit and smooth speech, much like one would tread a garden path. He took the path without thought of his walking. His speech, like the traveling of said limb was altogether immaterial. He used speech without effort, without thought and without sincerity so intent was he upon the destination.
It was as if his flirtation were a reflex, a muscle that must be exercised but that took no effort or care on his part to maintain. The habit was so ingrained that Charity wondered if the gentleman could make untoward statements in his sleep and dishonor a woman with the same nonchalance.
“Lord Wentwell,” she began. “You need not play your games with me. I assure you, I have neither the time nor the inclination to participate. Walk alongside me, if you must, but you need not waste your breath on convincing me of the benefits of… of the sea.”
Lord Wentwell laughed. He threw his head back and let forth an honest bout of laughter that caught Charity off guard. “Now you are incensed,” he said. “How like a woman to get her dander up when a man would be droll. I only meant to engage in a bit of witty discourse, not to cause you emotional upset, Lady Charity.” He paused. “It is I suppose a woman’s nature to be emotional when it is a man’s to be logical.”