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

by Isabella Thorne

  Charity narrowed her eyes. “That is surely a falsehood.” Certainly, he did not believe the dross he spouted. She did not understand Neville Collington, and although she told herself she should pay him no mind, the puzzle that was Lord Wentwell had engaged her interest and despite her best judgment, she found herself torn between wanting to know more and brushing him aside altogether. “And I care not for your tricks and games,” she said loftily.

  “Tricks and game,” Lord Wentwell mused. “My Lady, you think me so base as to imply nothing but subterfuge to meet some foul end. Oh fie! Again you wound me.”

  Still his words seemed disingenuous. It was as if he expected her to require his banter, and that he would dutifully oblige. At no point had Charity ever witnessed the gentleman let slip an inclination of true interest, in any female that she knew, Charity controlled her features and matched him, revealing little more than disinterest. She felt as if she were walking on moss covered stones and at any moment she may be plunged into the cold water of a pond, but still she kept on, excited by the conversation in some odd way.

  “Quite base,” Charity spat back, though her teasing tone belayed the seriousness of her words.

  “Come now. I do not think all the ladies consider me so dreadful.” As he leaned close, she could feel the power of his presence, but she refused to be cowed. She would not back down.

  “Perhaps, they do not know you.”

  “Perhaps you do not know me,” he quipped.

  “Ah, but I know of you, Lord Wentwell.”

  “Do you think so?” he questioned, somewhat amused. “Then tell me, what is it you think you know of me?”

  “I know that you are said to be a rake, and as such, I should have nothing to do with you.”

  He chuckled in a deep masculine way that put Charity on edge.

  “From the look of you, I had not taken you for the pious type.”

  Charity fumed at the insult, so carelessly placed he had no idea what he had done, or perhaps he did. She fluttered her fan in front of her bosom.

  “Pious?” Charity scoffed. “Which do you call me, Sir, frigid or forward, and then pray tell when flattery lost its appeal so that you now seek to deliberately insult me?”

  “Not at all, my dear lady.” Lord Wentwell smiled, and the action lit up his face. “It is only that I have found that there are two types of women.” Lord Wentwell leaned close to taunt her. The scent of him was fresh and filled her senses. It was not often a gentleman smelled so delightful. It was some expensive cologne, of that she was sure. “The pious sort who tremble in fear at my rakish ways…” Lord Wentwell’s voice had dropped to a whisper, his breath trailed silkily over her ear. With difficulty she brought her mind back to the conversation at hand. “…and those who have the bravery to engage in a little lighthearted flirtation; those who understand a bit of fun.”

  “Fun! Lighthearted flirtation?” Charity repeated with obvious disbelief. It struck her that he had willingly labeled himself a rake. Charity wondered what that meant. Was he shameless or might there be some level of awareness in what appeared to be a callous unfeeling man?

  “Of course,” he teased. “But what harm is there in a hint of verbal intrigue?”

  “I fear the problems arise when the intrigue veers off the verbal path,” Charity retorted.

  “I shall follow where my lady wishes to go,” he said smugly.

  “I assure you, My Lord, I do not intend to go anywhere with you.”

  “So you are pious,” he repeated.

  “I am neither pious nor party to your tricks. Rather, I myself lay somewhere in between. A pity that you have only met two sorts of female. Perhaps you might consider expanding your outreach.”

  The sound of his laughter was the music of the angels, but she had no fear of his appeal for it would be lost upon her. She knew his tricks. She was raised as witness to the most skilled of falsehoods. She would not be made a fool by some gentleman at play.

  “Ah,” he grinned.

  Charity could see how many a Lady had felt a fluttering of the heart at such a sight. His teeth were so even; his lips so full. Oh, lud, why would she even be considering his lips?

  “Then you are a secret member of the second group,” he continued.

  “Which group?” She had lost the thread of the conversation, much to her chagrin.

  “Those skilled with words and savvy enough to withhold you attentions in an attempt to increase appeal,” he said. “A difficult challenge, but not beyond my effort.”

  Charity’s instinct was to roll her eyes and pommel the fellow for suggesting that she might be playing hard to get, but she would not do so. She told herself that his arrogance was getting on her nerves.

  Neville Collington was an uncontrollable philanderer.

  “I assure you that there is no artifice in my words,” she answered with a cool smile. “It is in all honesty that I call you a rogue.”

  The slight lift of the corner of his mouth told Charity that Lord Wentwell was not offended. Far from it. In fact, he was enjoying their little spat, not because there was any sense of flirtation, but Charity assumed that it was not likely that the gentleman had ever been challenged so directly.

  “But Lady Charity, there is always artifice when words are exchanged between men and women. Indeed, I do not believe that those of the Ton can converse without it. Mine is at least is an obvious pretense, and therefore, an honest one.”

  The man spoke in riddles. How could a pretense be honest? The Earl of Wentwell was an enigma. Charity felt she must unpuzzle his perplexing behavior, but she could not see the way of it. He must find it amusing, she realized. Yes. Lord Wentwell was so bored that he played these word games as a form of entertainment. “You admit then, that you toy with ladies’ hearts for your own amusement?” Charity asked, proud that she had deduced his aim. “What a gentleman might call a light hearted flirtation often left a lady in tears, or worse, ruin. The gentleman is rarely the worse for it.”

  “If a lady should choose to gamble her heart am I to blame if she would lose it?” Lord Wentwell retorted, a wicked gleam in his eye.

  Lady Charity wanted nothing more than to spout her dissent. She controlled her reaction by applying pressure to the inside of her cheek. She felt her hackles rise as she faced the over-confident gentleman. She might not fully approve of the games this gentleman played, but she understood their execution. Her mother had seen to that. A lesson might be taught here.

  Charity raised one shoulder and allowed it to drop in a show of nonchalance as she stared the gentleman dead in the eye. “You think yourself so skilled. Perhaps it is only you have yet to meet your match.”

  Lord Wentwell had the gall to laugh. It was an open joyous sound, but it was clear the he thought no lady up to the challenge. He, so skilled in the art, could not possibly be susceptible to the charm of one so inexperienced as Lady Charity Abernathy. It was all she could to do suppress her grin. His assured nature would cause him to play right into her hand. Lady Charity had no tolerance for toying with people’s emotions and that was often why she found it difficult to aimlessly flirt as her mother wished. This, however, had nothing to do with emotion. Charity would prove to Lord Wentwell that he was not so in control. The gentleman had far too much certainty. It would do him well to be brought down a notch.

  Charity glanced toward Patience and Reginald who were now bickering like two five-year-olds over whether their mother’s aged shawl had a pattern of flowers or fern and which she preferred, and indeed if either of them had the gall to pitch the thing out without their mother’s knowledge.

  ~.~

  Chapter Seven

  Lord Wentwell thought of the interaction with Lady Charity as he lingered about the booths. Of course, he was not truly offended. She was pretty enough to catch his eye, and he enjoyed the banter, but she the friend of his friend’s little sister. If anything he thought her ingénue rather endearing.

  It was not long afterwards, when a slight dark-haired
shop girl fluttered her eyelids coquettishly at him. Wentwell noticed that Charity was watching, and he smiled down at the shop girl who was all to open with her charms to ignore. She spread the fabric before the ladies with aplomb but her dark eyes were shuttered, and in a moment she glanced up, first at Lord Wentwell and then at Lord Barton. Her gaze settled on Wentwell, as he expected. He had a moment of pity. Poor Reg and that blasted red hair.

  His eye strayed momentarily to the shop girl as she brushed her fingers over his, straightening the fabric, but his gaze went back to Lady Charity. Aside from her beauty, Lady Charity was witty and fun. Still, he was sure that Lady Charity was not so unlike all of the other dozens of ladies that he had come to know. She offered a challenge. He liked her quick wit and ready smile. She met him quip for quip without inane giggling, and that was refreshing. She did not seem to be enraptured by his charm, but he was sure that could be remedied if he wished it so. He was quite confident in his abilities.

  She was lush and beautiful, but she was not a dalliance, and he was not for marriage. So what did he care what she thought of him? He knew his own worth. He was an earl in his own right, and he knew what that meant among the ladies of the Ton. As far as Lady Charity was concerned, it did not matter. It was not as if they would be wed. In fact Neville would do all in his power to avoid such a trap for as long as possible. He intended to remain a bachelor until convention demanded marriage of him, and as an earl, he was allowed quite a bit of time.

  For the moment, Lady Charity was an appealing distraction. Certainly she was pleasant to look at, soft in all the right places. Still she was a lady of the Ton, not a light skirt. Neville had always harbored a soft spot for women of deep and particular softness. He was not attracted to women who were long of limb and fine boned like the shop girl who was batting her eyelashes at him or for that matter, Miss Macrum who seemed to think that she was making headway with him.

  He could not see why a man would want to bed a woman who was nothing but bones and angles. He liked the feel of flesh in his hands. And of course, there was her glorious golden hair. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in that mass of silken curls. However, barring that impossibility, he doubted Lady Charity, or any lady born and bred to the Ton, would hold his interest for long. Even practiced widows were only a short amusement at best. He had grown to expect little else. Still none had offered the honest discourse that Lady Charity offered. He found her intriguing.

  By now, the skinny shop girl had grown bolder, leaning in to him, promising more than the wares in her hands, but she held no interest for him. If the gentlemen had been alone he would have told her directly that she might be more to Reginald’s preference, but of course, he could not make his wishes known in present company.

  The heat of the sun had reached its peak and Neville was beginning to wonder how much longer they were to remain at the shop. He was bored, and the shop girl, his station and wealth in mind, was all too interested. Neville was beginning to feel the pressure to disengage as the girl brushed her hand against his several times in obvious invitation. If she became much more bold it would be gauche. It was the light of day, and he obviously was with ladies of the Ton. Perhaps she expected him to promise to return tonight, but he made no such promise. He would have told her bluntly to desist if the ladies were not in attendance. As it was, he had to endure and ignore to keep with convention.

  Lady Charity suddenly insinuated herself between him and the skinny shop girl, and lay her gloved hand on his arm.

  “Oh Lord Wentwell,” her soft voice crooned at his elbow. The very sound of it was like the clear ringing of bells and her eyes were bright, so earnest, that he could not look away. “I saw a seller across the way with a brilliant emerald broach that I cannot forget.” She leaned into him giving all appearance of a lover. Her voice was low and coaxing, her breath hot against his neck. “May we go?” Her fingers tightened on his arm.

  Neville looked down into her clear blue eyes. There was a gleam that would go unnoticed by any save himself. A gleam that was there to speak a message just for him. She was all too aware of the shop girl’s attention, and rather than being incensed, her lips quirked in an almost smile. She found humor in his predicament. Still she had appeared just in time to extricate him from the situation, as if an angel from a dream, or was she jealous of his attentions to the shop girl.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she blinked at him, long and slow. Sweet heavens, her lashes were long, and her eyes as blue as the sea. The shop girl was forgotten. There was only this seraph in front of him.

  “May we go,” she repeated.

  He breathed in the scent of her. “Of course we may.”

  Charity giggled lightly, a sound like music. Strange how the sound was not grating on the ears. No. It was a charming sound of real happiness.

  The shop girl sized up the lady, and determined that there could be no competition. Wentwell realized there were few that could hope to best one with the combined position and form of Lady Charity Abernathy.

  He tipped his hat to the lowly maiden and offered his elbow for Lady Charity Abernathy’s grasp. He placed his hand over her gloved one, inching up to rub a thumb across the skin at her wrist. “Whatever you wish,” he said in a low voice meant to entice her.

  “My,” she giggled in a low whisper for his ear alone, “I had expected you to be more skilled at the retreat. You have had the practice.”

  Neville’s eyes glanced down upon the coy female. He refused to admit that he required the assistance. Yet, she had come to his aide. Why?

  “You might thank me later,” Lady Charity added in a husky voice as she clung to his arm in a moment of sudden clumsiness, forcing him to tighten his hold to keep her upright, the softness of her brushing against him as she stumbled. The sudden and profuse blush that filled her face had him believe that she had not tripped on purpose, and yet she failed to clarify in what manner he might thank her as she offered. A number of very inappropriate ideas flitted through his mind as he breathed in the scent of her perfume. It was the softest hint of lavender. Neville could not help but think that she had meant to imply some sort of clandestine payment was in order. He wondered at the slight upturn of the corner of her mouth, almost a smirk. Her lips were quite pink, as if she had been recently kissed, or wished to be kissed. He dragged his eyes away from her face.

  After their removal from the shop, the pair made their way across the lane. Still, there was something in Lady Charity’s manner that made Neville wonder if she understood the effect of her manner. True to form, few ladies could maintain their cool facade in his presence. He had perfected the art of appeal, although she had proclaimed herself immune.

  “An emerald broach, you say?” he asked in hope of redirecting the conversation.

  Lady Charity released a frustrated sigh.

  “I should never choose such a color,” she revealed. “Green is my least favorable color.” She faltered a bit as she looked up at him, and caught his wandering gaze. ”But then,” she continued, haltingly. “It should only diminish the effect of my eyes,” she said finally.

  She made the statement with aplomb, as if she had been told the fact a hundred times. She was neither proud, nor boasting. The statement of blunt fact seemed to reveal that her claim had been a ruse, and then she lowered her eyelashes in a coy gesture and he was uncertain. It was as if she had pulled the very earth from beneath his feet.

  “I am sure any jewel would look lovely against your fair skin,” he offered as she shyly avoided his gaze, taking special attention to admire a collection of embroidery swaths on display for the commission of crests. It was a bland complement, but a truth. One of the display counterpanes was bright and beautiful, reminding him of the broderie perse, his mother had bought, imported from India, an elegant and elaborate piece of embroidery for the guest bedrooms’ done on whole cloth quilts. Yes, he thought, Lady Charity could wear nothing but a bit of bed linen and still look fetching. In fact, she would look very appealin
g clad only in said linens with his own crest embroidered upon it, or perhaps only in emeralds. Heat blistered through him at the thought.

  Though her eyes were a deeper blue than the summer sky after a heavy rain, even a green gem could not diminish the effect. She seemed not the type to encourage compliments and so he kept any further comments to himself, save what had already been said.

  She offered no response. It was a strange thing, he thought, that a lady would not do what she could to continue his commentary on her person. Most women never tired of complements. Lady Charity seemed bored by the prospect. Had she been a man, Neville thought, they might have been friends, but as a woman they had no recourse to such friendship, at least it was very rare. He knew several men who had befriended women, but those ladies were either one’s own wife or the wife of another. The thought of her as the wife of another shot a spark of anger through his veins. Why he would care if she were another man’s wife? He asked himself. There was no answer.

  “I have no interest in a broach,” she admitted. “Nor am I aware that any such bauble even exists.”

  “Is your ploy then is to separate me from the crowd,” he teased. “Are you aiming to find yourself alone in my presence? You, my dear lady, play a dangerous game.” Perhaps, he thought there was a quiet corner where he might steal a kiss. The thought was uncommonly exciting as it was broad daylight.

  “Lud,” she said, and her lips broke into a smile revealing a slightly crooked tooth. He found it strangely endearing. “I would not stoop to such measures,” she said. “My ploy is to have someone convey my package,” she said placing her boxed and paper-wrapped pearls in his hands.

  He grinned at her. “Your package is my pleasure,” he said with a slight bow, and he waited for a blush that did not come. She had already turned away as if his banter meant nothing to her.

  Lord Wentwell agreed with her statement that according to convention, she needed accompaniment, but he did enjoy teasing her. He followed in her wake as she perused the market. She gave the appearance of no tolerance to his flirtations, yet neither did she do anything to dissuade his antics. It was as if she might handle his attitude with good humor and yet, somehow, at the same time cease to encourage any further relations. He was unable to gauge how he was affecting her sensibilities.