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

by Isabella Thorne

  She looked up and then off into the distance where other wares were set up for sale. “In truth, I too should like to move on from this place, though I am much in need of your services,” she said.

  “Indeed,” he intoned, and she ignored the innuendo. Instead of rising to the bait or even blushing shyly, she was direct to the point of bluntness.

  “You see,” she continued, ‘If I am to stroll across the way, I shall be in need of a worthy companion.”

  “Am I not a worthy choice?” Neville asked with a grin.

  “What other choice might a lady have?” she asked. Again, her words were vague and enticing, yet demure at the same time.

  “But surely an heiress such as yourself, must have a long list to choose from,” he teased.

  “The last of my list, to be sure,” Lady Charity lifted her chin and sniffed.

  She was indeed a daughter of an earl, he thought, but what a countess she would make.

  “Still, you shall do, however, in lieu of a better sort,” She intoned. Neville found himself smiling alongside her. She left no pretense as to her opinion of his character, yet she would not be put off from her own tasks. She took his arm and they put some distance between them and Reginald and Patience. He was curious now. What was she about? Surely all this was not simply for a shopping escort.

  Wentwell glanced back to his friend and his sister. Reginald and Lady Beresford still stood in their argument with the seller of some bolt of fabric that had caught the lady’s interest. To barter the price was to be expected, yet Lady Beresford seemed offended by whatever it was that the shopkeeper refused to negotiate.

  “I feel a bit faint,” Lady Charity breathed

  Neville, immediately tightened his grip on her to keep her from falling, but she did not swoon. She only looked up at him, and said in a breathy voice, “The heat is stifling”

  Her words were to draw his attention, he was sure, as was the movement of her fan. Yet it was the faraway, dreaming look in her eyes that captivated his soul. Beads of perspiration had indeed appeared on the lady’s skin. A single drop made its wayward journey from the hollow of her throat down…down to the cleft of her breasts. It was all that Neville could do not to stare as she fluttered her fan over the sight. He looked back to her face, wanting nothing more than to taste the sweetness of her lips.

  Lady Charity had the form of a goddess and the mind of a minx. Neville was certain that she could take whatever she wanted from whatever man she chose, if she set her mind to it, but most of the time, she seemed oblivious to her charms.

  Lady Charity’s blue eyes lifted to meet his own and she seemed little more than bemused. She pressed the pads of her fingers to her neck as if she might pat away the heat with her bare hand.

  Neville cleared his throat and released her unsure of what he should do.

  Then in a stroke of sheer brilliance, for his brain was clearly addled, he recalled that he was in possession of a handkerchief which might provide the Lady some relief.

  With the offer of the napkin, Lady Charity graced him with a benevolent smile.

  “I am most grateful, Lord Wentwell,” she said in a tone that was at once soft and endearing and held a husky edge of sin. Though he did not often consider himself tempted by women of the Ton, he could not deny that Lady Charity seemed to be a cut of a different silk. She was no slip of a girl. No. Lady Charity was all feminine. Her curves and stature were nothing less than those dictated for the angels by the Lord Himself. She did not immediately use the handkerchief to mop her face as a man would have done, but instead snapped her fan shut and waved the aforementioned handkerchief above her bosom and then delicately dabbed at the damp trail along her neck and chest. The motion only served to draw his attention to her flushed skin.

  Neville had never wished that his hands could replace those of another, but this time, he did. She was both soft and steady, calm and cool, and most disconcerting of all, seemingly completely unaware of her appeal.

  Lord Wentwell felt as if he needed a General to force his thoughts into line. It was a novel feeling, one which he had little practice when it came to management of such issues. Neville had faced the most precocious and sensual women of the Ton and emerged unscathed. He began to fear that Lady Charity’s lush body combined with her innocence would be his undoing.

  “My Lord,” she whispered, catching his arm. “I have a… particular request.”

  “Yes?” he asked. Anything, he thought. He could not be sure as to her thought, distracted as he was by his own wandering mind. He shook his head to clear it of immoral images.

  Get ahold of yourself Wentwell, he thought. Ladies were not easily capable of causing Neville to lose track of his aim. The truth was that he had one focus in mind, whilst among the ladies of the Ton, whether they were aware of it or not, and it was not what most ladies might guess. It was not licentiousness. It was avoidance. He would not be led to matrimony. He had trod that path nearly to his own detriment. He was now wary.

  Yet, Lady Charity Abernathy was such a strange combination of contradictions. She was both in need of his care, and firm against his ways. She was strong and soft, hot and cold, captivating and standoffish, but above all, she was a lady of the Ton, a lady to be wed, and not bedded until that holy blessing.

  “I should like nothing more than to collect a potion for my father,” she admitted with a slight blush. “You see, he is often much improved by the waters here in Bath, and I would like to give him a gift to relieve his spirits. Something, perhaps, that he might sip at night when he is weary. He is alas, unwell.”

  Of anything he expected the lady to say, Neville did not expect her to speak of her father. It should have been a douse of cold water on his passion, but it was not. He was genuinely concerned that her father was ill. He understood, more than most, how disconcerting it was when a loved one was out of sorts.

  A portion of his heart broke at her words. She was so sincere and honest in her approach. Neville understood the desire to soothe the pain of a loved one. And how disconcerting it was when a family member was out of sorts.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” he said.

  Lady Charity’s commitment to her father caused him a level of unease that he had not expected. It seemed such a noble request. Such a selfless request, it threatened Neville’s cool posture.

  “Will you help me to find some seller of the waters?”

  “Of course,” he capitulated.

  They wandered down the lane in search of some item that could be taken back for the relief of Lady Charity’s father.

  “What ails him?” Neville asked after a short while of silence.

  “It is nothing,” she said, as if suddenly thinking she had already told too much. Her father was a Peer of the realm. One did not let loose the news that a Peer was unable to fulfill his duties. One did not say that his wife and steward had been running the Earldom for some time now. No. One did not confirm such rumors especially to one such as himself.

  Lady Charity blushed furiously. Much more flustered now, than she had been, she turned from him, and he did not wish her to turn away.

  “I am sorry for your pain,” Neville said catching her gloved hands in his own.

  She sighed and for just a moment her eyes brimmed and her thoughts were far away from him.

  She turned her direct gaze back upon him with a dazzling smile and the moment of weakness was gone.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated. “And will help if I am able,” Neville offered while replacing a small bottle of smelling salts that Lady Charity had deemed unworthy upon the seller cart.

  “Do not feel pity for me,” she replied. “My father and I share a great love, a bond beyond illness and time. He is a great man.”

  “I am sure that is so.”

  Lady Charity finally selected a small vial of perfumed water that might be sprinkled upon her father’s bedclothes.

  “There,” she nodded. “Now he might rest easy when I leave for an evening. He worries so for
my welfare. It is only right I worry for his.”

  What did Lord Shalace have to worry for his daughter? Neville asked himself. She had everything, and more. Or, was it something that he could not guard, such as her heart, which might be at risk? For the first time, he found that he cared for the answer.

  Neville warned himself that those thoughts never ended well. It would be best to remember that Lady Charity Abernathy was no different than the other ladies he had encountered as of late – fleeting at best. He had no need of anything more permanent. More than that as a daughter of an earl, a dalliance was out of the question. Any misstep would lead only to marriage. And that he would not allow. Still he silently wondered if perhaps a bit of lavender water might be just the thing for Edmund’s troubles.

  Lady Charity dabbed once more at her glistening skin while she made some further comment that his mind could not gather. Her neck and the regions southern occupied his mind without exception as she attempted to find some reprieve from the heat.

  She looked up at him with heavy lids. It was then that Lord Wentwell recognized that they were standing, quite alone, in an isolated way that bridged the distance between two of the most populated shopping centers of Bath.

  If the Lady stepped forward but an inch, their bodies would be a mere breath from touching. Lud, she was so very soft. She turned her face up toward his; their lips, but a second from colliding if he simply chose to lean down upon her. Her breath was heavy, which sent every fiber of his being into chaos.

  Lady Charity did not close her eyes in anticipation, as he had expected. Instead, she watched him as he stood with a question in his eyes. Would she allow his kiss? He wondered. It was a bright afternoon. Even so isolated, he could not risk it.

  Her teeth, the one ever so slightly out of alignment, clamped down upon her lower lip and as she worried it, he realized that was what made her lips so pink and alluring. A moment later her tongue darted between those lips, moistening them. The action did more to Lord Wentwell’s control than he cared to admit. That tender flesh was trapped beneath her teeth while her pale eyes bore into his soul. For the first time in ages, Lord Wentwell felt as if someone could see the truth in him, rather than what he chose to reveal.

  “I…” she gasped but did not continue. She licked her lips again, and dragged the handkerchief up from her bosom to her chin. She lifted her chin a little and met his eyes.

  He stood over her, unsure of how to proceed. Lud, he want to kiss her. His hand snaked forward to settle, ever so gently, upon her waist. Yet, he did nothing further to invade her space. He watched her with shuttered eyes, leaning forward ever so slightly, willing her to turn her face an inch or so upward inviting him, so that he could press his lips to hers. He could not recall the last time that such an urge has so fully possessed him. All had been an act until now.

  “Lord Wentwell,” she breathed. Her words rippled across her lips and he could think of nothing else. He never nearly told her to please call him Neville, but he did not. To do so would imply a familiarity that he could not allow himself.

  He let his eyes close and reopen languidly to see her still hovering an inch or so away. He would let her come to him with her lips. He could not take, but only sample what was freely given. Only a breath of wind might bring them together now. He waited for her tacit approval. One small, delicate hand crept forward to rest against the beating of his heart, her gloved hand, so small upon his chest.

  Their eyes connected and it was as if the world stood still. She saw him, the truth of him, he was sure.

  “Lord Wentwell,” she repeated.

  His name upon her lips did something to him that he could not explain. It was like a branding of his soul. She had laid claim, and he was willing.

  “Call me Neville,” he said wanting to hear his given name fall from that sweet mouth.

  “Lord Wentwell,” she said again, with purpose, and the air about them suddenly cooled. “Do not ever doubt that a woman is capable of the same pretense that you pedal. She is no more or less capable than a man.”

  Her words were like a dagger in his heart. He knew that. God be good, he knew, and yet he had allowed himself to forget. The softness of this woman had beguiled him. Women were not sweet and helpless things. They were vipers. Now, this one, this soft angel had proven her point, a point that until this moment he had forgotten. How had he ever forgotten?

  “Now,” she stared up into his eyes with all the heartfelt care that her tone promised, yet her words and eyes were ice cold, “let us not dally any further in these games. I believe that I have made my point.”

  He moved his hands to her shoulders, and set her aside, with finality, though not ungently. He took his hands from her as if he had been burnt. It had been a close thing, but he remembered. He felt his own cool mask descend and once again he was safe.

  “Excellent,” she revealed a cool grin. “Now, the next time you are so certain that you are capable of winning any female heart, I only ask that you recall this moment. Women, of any status and fortune are no less capable of achieving their ends than a gentleman who is in search of temporary entertainment. Women are not toys for your amusements. We are people. Are we understood?”

  Neville found himself nodding, much like he might if he had been schooled by his tutor at this ripe age of eight and twenty. A memory bubbled to the surface, one that left him feeling flushed and bothered. Lady Charity had nothing to do with the negative reaction that cooled his veins like ice. However, she had reminded him of the calculated ability of another determined female, one that had taught Neville how to guard his own heart against the supposedly gentle sex.

  In his heart a rage burned for the woman who had left him nearly at the altar, and for this woman who so callously reminded him of his sin. He ground his teeth together.

  Lady Charity strolled away with the confident gait of one who expected him to follow with no rebuttal, and he did follow, because it was custom, but he was wiser now. She rejoined her friend and continued her conversation with Lady Beresford as if nothing out of the usual had occurred.

  Neville knew otherwise. He had to shake his head to process the matter. He had met women of high confidence; he had nearly married one of those calculating vipers. He had met those with pride in their form or position. He had never, until this moment, met another female so capable of duping him, save once, and both he had almost fallen to. He would not fall again. Lady Charity had played him like a fool. Her skill and charm was both appealing and devastating, leading him to believe she was honest. Only upon her exit had he learned that each calculated word was an act, and although he was filled with a cold rage, nothing could have made him want her more. The need to chastise her as she had done to him was almost a fever within him.

  There was little that made Neville’s blood boil, but falsified encounters such as what he had just experienced were at the top of the list. Though he was expert in their exaction, he had only once before been the recipient of such gameplay. Until this very moment he had thought himself immune to such tricks. He had learned his lesson. He would not ever again be made the fool.

  He had been young and naïve when Miss Katherine Dubois had toyed with his heart. He knew Katherine wanted to be a countess, but he also thought she had some tenderness for his person. She did not. She was beautiful, and buxom and entirely false, just like the lady before him.

  It was Katherine who had kissed him, and it had been the first time he had kissed a woman. His mother had warned him: ladies did not allow such kisses unless they were bound for marriage, and he was willing to offer it for the sweet taste of her, but that taste turned bitter when he realized that he was only a means for her to catch another. She had used his young and tender heart as bait to catch another older, but Neville thought, perhaps not wiser peer, for that man now had a viper in his bed.

  Neville had cried like a child when he lost her. The last time he cried so, he had been eight, when his father died. It was Reginald who had pulled him out of his doldrum
s. Reg told Neville, he had not lost her; for Katherine was never his in the first place. You are better off without the strumpet, Reginald had said.

  Then the two of them had gone to a club and gotten roaring drunk. Neville had bedded a skinny dark-haired wench who was much more Reg’s type than his own. Before his friend dragged him home and practically poured him from the carriage at dawn. Neville remembered nothing more from that night except for the first time in his life, he had apparently rang a fine peal over his mother when she attempted to chastise his behavior: a fact that she reminded him of in subsequent days.

  While Neville might wish never to see Katherine again, Lady Charity had caused him to dredge up the past. As he considered her calculated attack, he became aware that the truth of the pain came more from that long ago encounter than any action with the present lady. She thought she had taught him a lesson, yes, but she had also wounded him deeply without realizing it. She had caused him to recall a grievous injury that had not and could not be repaired. He had thought himself in control. He had thought himself well armored. Now he realized he was not. He remembered that the dangers of the female sex were far beyond the physical damage that might be done by a gentleman. He walked in silence as the ladies prattled and Reg joined their laughter until they found their way back to the Grand Pump Room where Lady Charity’s maid still waited for The Earl of Shalace.

  A short wave and nod ended their encounter as Lady Charity rejoined her maid upon a bench outside the bath houses. She allowed fulsome farewells to her friends, while offering little else than a single raised eyebrow to Lord Wentwell.

  He bit his tongue and refused to allow her willful approach to cause him anger. He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. He would go and tomorrow, he whould never have to think of Lady Charity Abernathy again, unless he wished to…unless he wished to teach the little chit a lesson. He knew, it was best if the pair avoided one another as a whole, rather than continue this game of which might hold the relative power. But there was a part of him that would not let the game end here. He had been bested, but he would not take the defeat easily.