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

by Isabella Thorne

  It occurred to her that James never got the chance to ask after the Earl’s brother. For that, at least, she felt remorse. Charity felt the tension in her stomach roil and she clenched her fan her fist. It snapped like a twig. Why was it that every man who was the least bit attractive seemed to be a rogue?

  “Charity,” her cousin said. “You were quite rude.”

  Well that was certainly the understatement, Charity thought. But Wentwell was just as rude, or moreso. He made her blood boil. She turned to James and stared up at him gesturing to herself with the remains of the fan at her chest. It wobbled like a broken wing.

  “Me? How can you chastise me and defend a cad like him? How can you be friends with such a man? He admits to spurning Miss Macrum. He had ruined her friend, but then goes on as if it never happened, without even so much as a by your leave. He is an insufferable man.”

  James smiled at her indulgently. “What do you think happened, Charity?”

  She would not be swayed.

  “I know what happened, James. Lavinia and your sisters told me everything.”

  James sighed deeply.

  “What?” she demanded. “Pray tell?”

  James shrugged, “Is my word not of value?”

  She started to reply, but James patted her hand and led her back to the edge of the fountain. “Come. Let us not worry over these matters. It is not like Wentwell would offer for you anyway.”

  “I would not accept him,” she said smartly.

  James chuckled. “Good,” he said, “Because he is the last man I expect to get married.”

  “Yes, I agree,” she nodded. “He could not limit himself to one woman.”

  James shook his head. “You misunderstand. In truth, he is not one to be tricked a second time and will slip free of that noose easily enough.”

  “Noose?” Charity repeated indignant.

  “You see!” James cried. “You only focus on one part of what is told, that which might make him look a rake.”

  “Well,” Charity scoffed, “I cannot think him the type of man to be too deeply hurt by it. Perhaps his pride, nothing more.”

  “Perhaps, Wentwell has the right idea,” James grumbled in response.

  “What say you?” she gasped in horror that James might support his friend’s activities.

  “I only meant; oh never mind what I meant. I am far too comfortable with you, cousin, and allow myself to speak to freely. Let me find you some refreshment and take you back to your mother and the women. Here I am monopolizing your time when you should be looking for suitors.”

  “I am enjoying myself. Or I was,” she said, but Charity allowed James to lead the conversation from the Earl although she could not dispel the thought of his smoldering green eyes from her mind.

  ~.~

  Chapter Twelve

  Reginald followed Neville’s path from the ballroom to the stables where he directed the groom to get his carriage.

  “Where are you going?” Reginald asked him.

  “Home.”

  “You cannot blame every woman for the actions of one,” Reginald protested.

  “I’m not,” Neville said. “My brother has not been well, and my mother can’t handle him. I should be home.”

  “That is an excuse and you know it.”

  “She cannot see past the lies of her friend, Macrum.” He said miserably. Neville did not say Charity’s name, but Reg knew him well enough to see between the lines.

  “I do not think they are friends. Patience has never mentioned her.” Reg said.

  “They are birds of a feather.”

  “Some birds fly alone,” Reg said.

  Wentwell looked at him for a long moment. “I can’t do it again, Reg. I can’t. I won’t.” He shook his head.

  “I do not think that will work, Wentwell. You are an earl. You will have to get an heir eventually.”

  “I should just wait until I am old and grey and then take a young wife to get an heir on her. It worked for my father, and her father too as a matter of fact.”

  “Do you want to see your son grow up?” Reg asked.

  Wentwell, sucked in a breath. “That was a low blow, Reg.” Wentwell’s father died when he was young and Reg knew it. Wentwell regretted that he knew his father only as a boy and not as a man.

  “Come back into the ballroom. It is the opening ball. You will be missed.”

  “I do not care. I cannot dance with another woman. I cannot even speak to another woman. I’m just done.”

  The coachman brought out his carriage and Wentwell paused before getting into it.

  “I don’t know. Maybe when I am old, I won’t care so much that all they see is a title and jingling coin.”

  “You know that is not what Lady Charity saw in you.”

  “No. She saw a rake that she hoped to reform.” He thanked the coachman and took up his seat.

  “Is that so bad? You can reform and she will feel proud of her accomplishment.”

  Wentwell threw him a look. “She did not see me at all, Reg. Not. At. All.”

  “Patience says she is more than meets the eye. You should give her another chance. She believed her friend. That doesn’t make her a bad person. That makes her a loyal one.”

  “Reg, the world is not as rosy as you see it. I wish it were, but it is not.” He signaled the driver and left Reginald standing in the drive before the stable.

  On the ride home, Neville could not get Charity from his mind. He thought, he had never meant for the argument to go so far. He had never meant to speak so before a lady. His crude language was inexcusable. She was a lady, not some slattern tavern wench. Reginald said he should let her reform him, and truth be told, he did need some betterment. He had to admit there were times when his flirtation had gotten out of hand, and bordered on hurtful. No. Perhaps it was hurtful. She had accused him of being careless with women’s hearts and he was. He was aware of how hurtful words could be now that his own heart was breaking. Still, he could not forgive Miss Macrum, and truthfully neither should Lady Charity. Miss Macrum had seen his attention to Lady Charity and sought to destroy their budding relationship. He realized with a start that she had done so. Miss Macrum had had her way, at least in part. He would not touch the woman, but she had destroyed the trust between himself and Lady Charity. Perhaps it was not as she had wished, but nonetheless, she had no doubt shattered any warm feelings the lady may have once held for him, but as much as he wanted to blame all on Miss Macrum, he could not.

  He had lost his temper. He had acted basely and despicably. He had all but called her a whore to her face, likening her to Macrum and Danbury. If she had had a father or brother present, he would have certainly been called out. As it was, James was of a softer sort, but even James was scandalized by his behavior. Wentwell could see no way to remedy the situation. Lady Charity Abernathy would certainly never speak to him again. In truth, he did not blame her.

  ~.~

  “Where were you?” Lavinia asked as Charity returned to the ladies.

  Charity certainly was not going to tell anyone, not even her friend about her quarrel with Wentwell. “I broke my fan,” Charity said pouting.

  “Oh,” Lavinia gave her a moment of pity before telling her, “Your mother was looking for you, Charity. I sent her to speak with Ebba.”

  “I just needed a moment of air,” Charity said.

  “With James Poppy?” Lavinia asked confused.

  Julia, who was hanging on Lord Fawkland’s arm frowned at her and raised her eyebrows. At least, there would be no hint of rumor about her and Wentwell. The ballroom was a crush and it was not easy to keep track of acquaintances.

  Charity just shook her head. She could not explain, and she did not want to speak with her mother right now. Patience came to her aid and glanced up at the doorway where Wentwell, still stood. Reginald exchanged a glance with his sister and followed his friend from the ballroom. Charity found herself pulled into a dance set with Percival Beresford, Patience’s husband as
her partner. He was a quiet man and did not attempt to engage her in conversation which allowed her to think as she danced.

  Lord Wentwell would probably never speak to her again. She did not care. Why she should care what a rake thought of her, she told herself. She would be gay and beautiful and dance, but her heart was still beating outside where she had left it with Lord Wentwell.

  Two sets later she had danced with Lord Fawkland and Captain Hartfield before being passed along back to the Poppys. She danced with Michael and with Colonel Ranier before dancing with a whole host of naval gentlemen. Her mother returned to the ballroom, but had no time to interrogate her, and she had no time to think about what she had done. She felt that she had somehow betrayed Wentwell. She did not believe him. She had believed Miss Macrum, and as she thought of her actions she realized she had no reason to believe the woman and no reason to disbelieve him. But what was done, was done.

  The gentlemen she danced with told Charity that she looked beautiful, but she did not feel beautiful. She felt decidedly ugly. She had accused a man of ruining a woman, and now she was not sure she was right. He thought that she was of the same ilk as Miss Macrum, and if Miss Macrum did start the rumors then what must Wentwell think of her? She knew what he thought. He thought she was horrible, like Miss Macrum and Miss Danbury. He said as much. He categorized them together as backbiting and false. Had she become just what she had striven not to be?

  She wanted to cry, but she pasted a smile on her face. Her mother didn’t know it, but it was perhaps the best performance Charity had ever accomplished. By midnight, her feet were aching and she went to sit with the Poppys. Michael came to her side and brought her a glass of punch. It was a kindness, and she thanked him as she sipped the refreshment.

  “Would you like to dance?” he asked. She could see in his eyes that he did not actually want to dance himself, but he asked nonetheless.

  She shook her head. “I am tired,” she answered. “But do sit with me.”

  He sat beside her but said nothing.

  Wonderful, she thought. The two of us are sitting here brooding together. She pulled a bright bit from her saddened soul and managed a smile, but inside she felt only hollowness.

  Michael smiled back brightly and took her gloved hand in his

  ~.~

  ~ Part 3 ~

  Loss

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nearly two weeks later, Lord Wentwell watched as Lady Charity entered the Drummond garden party amongst a large group of people including the entire Poppy family. Still, she drew his eye as if she were the only lady in attendance. She was dressed in a soft white day dress trimmed with ribbons the same deep blue as her eyes. The garment was exquisite as was the woman within it. It fit her fit to perfection, or perhaps she was perfection. As the day wore on, the evening sun cast pink shadows against her, and her hair fair glowed in the fading light. It ached to be touched. She looked like an angel, an angel he admired from afar.

  After the words they had exchanged at the opening ball he could not approach her. To say they had ended that night on less than ideal terms would be a gross understatement. Truth be told, her censure had stunned him. He was accustomed to being pursued by women. It was a new sensation to meet one who was not the least impressed by him.

  Now, Neville did not know what he might say to her. It was ludicrous. How had she managed to make him so tongue-tied? He had supped with dukes and visited at court. His manners were perfect and refined. He did not hesitate and dither like a schoolboy. He was invited almost everywhere and the ladies loved him, but Lady Charity haunted him. His own feelings vacillated between anger and desire. It was not love, he told himself. That emotion had been burned from him when he stood solitary awaiting a bride who married another.

  Few enough women could see beyond those items of wealth and position to the man within. Neville had only met a handful or less in his life, all of them snagged up by gentlemen at the first opportunity. He had often thought he would do the same when he met a lady with such depth of character. Once, he thought he had done. He wooed her, revealed the truth of himself, and promised to love and care for her forever, but Katherine had been false. She had proved the wiliest of all. It had become clear that she never loved him. She had used his young and tender heart; then she washed her hands of Neville Collington and left him broken to piece the bits of his soul back together. He was determined that he would not fall for the same trick twice.

  Neville Collington knew what his merits were: wealth, position, health, youth, appearance. Never again would he think that a woman could see past that. No, although his present looks and comportment were all the rage, next season a stockier man would be in fashion, or a taller man, or a dark and brooding man. Looks were transitory, youth was fleeting and fashion was fickle. Only position, and in his case, wealth would last.

  He was now certain that women were far better at the act of subterfuge than they cared to admit, and Lady Charity all but proved the point over a fortnight ago. She has shown during their market stroll that she was capable of tricking him, if she so desired. It had been years since Neville had been so easily duped by what he thought was a willing female. Perhaps he had only let his guard down.

  Lady Charity might have chosen to continue that act, if she had ends to meet, but her credit she did not. In light of the Miss Danbury rumor, she had chosen to ignore him instead. That meant that she did not view him as worth the effort for her machinations. That knowledge both pleased him, for sake of her character, and wounded him deeply, for sake of his pride.

  Lady Charity needed neither his wealth nor his position, for she was in possession of her own on both counts. That must be why she found it so easy to dismiss him. He had nothing with which to tempt her. That begged the question, did he have nothing of himself, only wealth and position. Was he, himself, worth nothing at all? The thought pained him. Certainty his name was worth even less now. Rumor had been rife for weeks and had only grown with the retelling.

  He had always thought that his rakish nature was a fun game. He joked with Reg that it kept the rabble at bay. He had never thought that anyone truly believed the dark persona. Sure, mothers cautioned their daughters, and he played the reprobate to weed out the fawning women who meant nothing to him, but he never thought that any lady he truly wanted would be swayed by the rumor, not as Lady Charity had been he thought bitterly.

  He had never let rumor get so far out of hand that he could not dispel it, only now it had, and he couldn’t. He found he could not shed the façade and be, in truth, the person he always knew himself to be. Somehow, the lie had become him. What was once a careless flirtation, had become the man, and he did not like what he saw in himself. Nor did he know how to correct the matter. Lady Charity Abernathy had every reason to be cold to him. He knew that now.

  She had called him out and castigated him for his treatment of women and for snubbing her friend, if Miss Macrum was even her friend, her or Miss Danbury. He highly doubted that now. Lady Charity was above such petty women. She had no personal involvement with them. She had been affronted on behalf of her sex.

  She had taken him to task for his treatment of womankind, and he had retaliated in the worse way possible. He had substantiated her every word by his actions. The Ton had called him the villain, and he had shrugged off the insult, but he had not expected Lady Charity to believe the worst of him, and when she did, he stupidly proved her word true. He had not expected the pain that her rejection caused him. Hers most of all.

  Neville felt the strangest juxtaposition when he thought of Lady Charity. He did not want to feel at all. He had thought himself cool and beyond such flights of emotion, but that was the cruelest lie, because he did feel. He was angry, for she made him furious. Yet he was drawn to her like the face of a flower reached toward the rays of the sun, asking for her beauty. She was either the purest of souls or the darkest of evildoers. There could exist nothing between. The more he thought on it, the more that he began to suspect that she wa
s the former.

  She was forthright and although her words were harsh, he now realized she voiced what all the Ton was already thinking. Only Lady Charity had been bold enough to voice it plainly. Only she had given him honesty and he had called her viper. He deeply regretted those words now. He was so surprised, he was struck dumb and the he had spoken in anger. He had never thought of himself as the reprobate she so colorfully described, but the women of the Ton had. All the while any of them flirted with him or laughed or smiled at him, inwardly, they all thought him capable of ruining a lady and then throwing her over. They truly believed he could be so callous.

  If they really thought so little of him, then any hope of finding a lady of character was for naught, for he had so blackened his own that no true lady would have him. He knew full well why Lady Charity was vexed with him but he knew not how to remedy the matter or even if he should try. Perhaps he had played the reprobate so long he had indeed become one. If so, what right did he have pursuing the lady at all?

  If the pair remained at a distance, he told himself he might soon come to forget her. His heart cried out at this decision, a sharp pain in his chest. Still, he would not search her out He would not ask after her. No Neville would go about his business as if the thought of Lady Charity as his wife never crossed his mind. He would forget her beauty, no matter what pain it entailed.

  Beauty was fleeting. He would focus on other matters, and soon Lady Charity Abernathy would be nothing more than a vague memory. He told himself it was so. Had he not already made this decision? When he was old, he decided, he would take a young and silly bride, and get an heir on her. He would win her with a title, a fine home and jewels. Purchased, his brain supplied. He would then have a wife, paid for, just as one paid for a whore. The thought made him near physically ill.

  One more glance at Lady Charity in her white dress, as pure as an angel in heaven sent a shiver down his spine as his mouth ran dry. He released a deep breath as he felt heat take him. He closed his eyes willing his body to nonchalance. Willing himself to forget the way her blue eyes flashed fire when she had chastised him in righteous anger. To forget the feel of her breath against his cheek, the warmth of her hand on his chest where the shattered remains of his heart still beat. The traitorous organ sped up at the very thought of her and he cursed his emotional silliness. Forget her. He would. Though it appeared that forgetting Lady Charity was going to take all of his effort and the Lord only knew how much time.