"Good, I find the Row gets too crowded after six," Lady Anne replied, settling her skirts around her knees in preparation for the journey back to Grosvenor Square.
"I was led to believe that the crowds were the whole point of the Row," Penrith countered, with a flash of brotherly humour, "One must be seen to be seen, and that is not possible if there is no one about to witness you being seen."
"La!" Lady Anne cried in reply to her brother, "You will give me a headache, Penrith."
Charlotte bit her lip to prevent herself from laughing at the siblings' squabble. Penrith might think himself a high and lofty duke, but even he was not above irritating his sister for his own amusement.
The barouche continued on its journey toward the far gate on Serpentine Road, though its progress was slow, given that it had become rather crowded. Carriages filled with ladies dressed in all their finery passed by, whilst dashing gentlemen in pristine riding coats rode tall upon gleaming steads.
Charlotte allowed herself to gaze at the other riders on the Row, glad that it allowed her to appear absorbed by her surroundings. In reality, her attention was focused solely on the man sitting next to her, whose presence was most distracting.
A few minutes later, a familiar figure approaching on horseback caught Charlotte's eye, and she shrank back into her seat, hoping that he would pass by without noticing her.
"Is everything alright?"
Penrith was a dutiful host and noticed right away the change in Charlotte's demeanour. While she could not fault him his attentiveness, Charlotte rather wished that the duke was not quite so observant.
"Everything is fine," she whispered back, affixing a tight smile to her face. Her head was studiously turned toward Penrith and away from the approaching rider, but she saw the duke glance over her shoulder, to try and see what it was that had upset her.
Don't ask, don't ask, Charlotte whispered to herself in silent prayer. And, miracle of miracles, the duke did not.
"I say, Anne, did you mention earlier that the Theatre Royal is running a festival of some sort?" Penrith called out abruptly.
"They're showing different works by Shakespeare throughout the season," Lady Anne confirmed, frowning slightly, "If I recall, you said you would rather eat your cravat than sit through a work by the Bard."
"Did I?" Penrith adopted a look of innocence, "I am sure that you misheard me. Miss Drew, are you fond of the Bard?"
"As much as the next person," Charlotte replied, before wondering if this was the correct response. The person next to her was Penrith and, according to his sister, he was not at all fond of The Sweet Swan of Avon. Cravat eating not fond, if Lady Anne was to be believed.
"Then it's settled," Penrith decided, "We shall attend a showing of the next play in the programme. I have a box which we can make use of."
Penrith settled back into his seat, content. His sister, Charlotte noted, looked equally as pleased by his statement, though he had made no mention of inviting her.
Charlotte, meanwhile, was torn between frustration at the duke having arranged another outing for them, without her expressed consent, and gratitude that he had distracted her from her old foe.
Was it possible that Penrith had instinctively understood Charlotte's discomfort, and had rescued her with a distraction? She found it difficult to marry the idea of the high-handed Duke of Penrith also being a knight in shining armour, so she dismissed her fanciful notion.
He simply liked giving orders, Charlotte decided, allowing herself to feel satisfactorily irritated by him—which was far preferable to feeling grateful.
The barouche soon turned back onto the streets of London and, within half an hour, Charlotte was clambering out of the carriage, assisted by Penrith.
"Thank you," she said primly, as they reached the top step of Ashfield House. For a moment, she worried that he might lift her gloved hand to his lips, but Helga's withering glare put a stop to any ideas of romance.
"Until we meet again," the duke said, bowing to both women, before turning on the heel of his gleaming Hessian to leave.
Charlotte and Helga were accosted the instant that they stepped into the entrance hall.
"Tell. Me. Everything."
"Hello Grandmama. How lovely to see you too. Yes, I am well, thank you for asking," Charlotte quipped sarcastically, as she tore off her gloves.
"We have no time for niceties," Lady Everleigh replied, with an impatient wave of her hand, "Bianca tells me that you went riding with the Duke of Penrith."
"And his sister," Charlotte clarified, lest she be accused of anything untoward, "On the Row."
"And?" Lady Everleigh prompted, her eyes—green like Charlotte's own—wide with expectation.
"And, nothing," Charlotte shrugged, "It was a perfectly pleasant experience."
Lady Everleigh let out a growl of frustration at her granddaughter's reticent reply. Her eyes narrowed and she switched her gaze from Charlotte to the lady's maid standing behind her.
"Helga," Lady Everleigh commanded, "You will tell me how it went."
Lud. Charlotte bit back a sigh of annoyance; her grandmother had never shown any interest in any of Charlotte's activities, yet here she was now, preparing to launch her own version of the Spanish Inquisition into her afternoon with a duke. Mayhap there was a torture rack waiting in the drawing room if Helga did not disclose enough information, Charlotte thought dourly. Was it not enough for her Grandmama to know that she had been out with Penrith, did she need to know the number of teeth in his head?
Before the maid had a chance to respond, Charlotte's father entered the fray, bringing with him a stench of cheroot smoke.
"What's all the fuss?" Brandon growled, "Can a man not get a moment's peace and quiet in his own home? I am attending to very important business in the library."
Along with the cheroot smoke, Charlotte detected the distinct smell of alcohol from her father's breath, which meant that he had been attending to a very important bottle of brandy, rather than business.
"Hush, Brandon. Helga was about to illuminate me as to how your daughter's outing with the Duke of Penrith went," Lady Everleigh replied, suitably dismissive of her son in law. To the countess, Brandon Drew had never been more than a nabob who had married above himself, and she was not afraid of letting him know how she felt.
Right now, Brandon was getting in the way of Lady Everleigh's meddling, and Charlotte did not think she was above having one of the footmen escort him from his own home if he continued.
"Eh, Charlotte has been stepping out with Penrith?" Brandon replied with surprise, before quickly quietening himself at Lady Everleigh's icy glare.
"Now," the countess continued, "Tell us, Helga, how it went."
Charlotte froze with fear as she realised that she had handed over the reins of her future to her cantankerous maid. She needed her father to think that everything was going swimmingly with Penrith, but Helga was sure to put a dour spin on things.
Oh, why was she so stubborn, she thought ruefully, as she waited for Helga to say her piece.
"It was dreadful," Helga pronounced, drawing herself up to her full height—which was not inconsiderable.
Charlotte's heart fell, as she watched her father and grandmother frown with annoyance. She could near see them thinking that stubborn, head-strong Charlotte had mucked things up again.
"There was sweet-talking," Helga continued, visibly affronted at the memory, "Whispering in each other's ears, talk of being 'smitten'. My lady, it was clear that His Grace would have tried to kiss Miss Drew's hand at the door had I not managed to prevent it."
Shocked silence filled the hall and Charlotte had to bite down on her knuckles to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter. Dear Helga, whose strict Protestant sensibilities had been so offended by Penrith, had actually gifted Charlotte a win with her complaints.
Her father could not say that Charlotte had not succeeded in securing the attentions of a duke, when Helga had described him as having been akin to a
slobbering dog in Charlotte's presence.
It was perfect.
"Not only that," Helga continued, her aggravation gathering wind, "But His Grace wishes for Charlotte to attend the theatre with him. You know, my lady, that the theatre is nothing more than a den of iniquity."
"Er, yes," Lady Everleigh replied, a little perplexed as to how she should respond to the maid's indignation, "I shall keep that in mind, Helga. Thank you. Will you please give Charlotte and I a minute alone?"
The Nordic woman nodded, taking Charlotte's coat and gloves as she departed, leaving Charlotte alone in the entrance hall with her stupefied relatives.
"Well, Papa," Charlotte said, trying to conceal her triumph, "I have done as you asked, and secured a duke's attentions. You might permit Bianca to make her come-out now."
"Not so fast," Lady Everleigh held up a hand, before Brandon could have a chance to reply, "One swallow does not make a summer, and one carriage ride with a duke does not make a-a-"
"A romance," Brandon supplied helpfully.
"Yes," Lady Everleigh nodded in agreement, "You will have to continue on with Penrith for a while, Charlotte, before your father decides you have redeemed yourself enough in society's eyes."
The unfairness of her grandmother's statement rankled Charlotte; she had done as requested and delivered their prize pig—not, of course, that she thought Penrith comparable to a pig—yet she was still being held captive.
She opened her mouth to object against her grandmother's wishes, but when she caught sight of her grandmother and father's expectant faces, she hesitated.
The whole point of this ridiculous charade was to prove that Charlotte was capable of change; stubbornly objecting was what they would expect of her. So, Charlotte clamped her mouth shut and offered them both a spurious smile.
"As you wish," she said, as she valiantly refused to acknowledge the part of her which was secretly quite pleased with the prospect of another outing with Penrith...
Chapter Six
Guilt was not a feeling that Hugh was accustomed to. This was not to say that the Duke of Penrith had never wronged a person before, but rather that he had never before thought to feel guilty about his wronging.
Now, his deceiving of Miss Charlotte Drew, was all that Hugh could think upon.
Well, that, and her bewitching green eyes, which had somehow seared themselves into his memory.
Hugh had never thought of himself as a rake, nor had he ever been infested with the same mad urges as some of his peers, who delighted in stringing young ladies along for sport.
No, Hugh had always been upstanding in his dealings with the fairer-sex; he avoided young, marriageable ladies like the plague, preferring instead to focus his interest on the worldly ladies of the demi-monde, who knew exactly what to expect from a dalliance with the Duke of Penrith.
Miss Drew, for all her spark, was still a green-girl when it came to dealings with men, Hugh thought. He recalled, with a light smile, the blush which had stained her cheeks at his risqué remark during their carriage ride. His usual partners would have parried his flirting with a mildly scandalous remark of their own, but Miss Drew had revealed her innocence by flushing and looking away.
And Hugh, for the life of him, could not understand why he found this so beguiling.
Innocence was not something he had ever sought in a partner and now here he was; transfixed at the thought of a virtuous miss and addled by guilt for his desire.
She is not so virtuous, Hugh thought stubbornly, as he climbed the front-steps of his mother's Mayfair home, she is just as guilty as I of deceit.
Miss Drew was leading him on a merry dance of her own; but while Hugh might reason duplicity on both their parts, it was only he who was consumed by base desire.
"Ah, there you are dear," the dowager duchess remarked absently, as Hugh was delivered into the drawing room by the butler.
His mother was seated upon an overstuffed chaise, holding a letter in her hand. Even from across the room, Hugh recognised the impatient scrawl which covered the page, and as the duchess hastily hid the letter beneath a cushion, it confirmed again who it was that had written to his mama.
"How is he?" Hugh queried, with a nod to the cushion, as he took a seat on a vacant chair.
"Hmm?"
"Leo," Hugh said, again glancing pointedly at the cushion. His mother had many talents, but acting was not one of them.
"He is well," the dowager duchess gave up on her pretence and removed the letter from its hiding place, "He is still in France, engaging in diplomatic tasks for Wellington. He mentioned that, perhaps, he might soon make a return to England."
The pause which fell between mother and son pressed down on the room like a ton weight. The dowager duchess was failing spectacularly in her attempts to look nonchalant and Hugh was certain that her neck would ache tomorrow from the strain of not turning it to look at him.
"It will be good to have him home safe," Hugh offered, his stomach clenching a little with worry about where his brother might decide was home.
Dark words had been uttered before Leo sailed for France, several years ago, and the brothers had not spoken since. Any communication between the recalcitrant pair was carried out by their mother, who stubbornly refused to acknowledge a rift.
No matter how much their mother might ignore the argument between her two sons, there was no denying that it had happened. As the years slipped by with neither man willing or able to admit fault, it felt to Hugh that they might never mend the split. A thought which always left him rather irritable and out of sorts, though he could not say why.
"Now, dear," his mother said, as she folded the sheaf of paper in two and tucked it away into one of her pockets, "What's all this I hear about you throwing yourself headfirst into the marriage pool?"
"I have done no such thing," Hugh objected, bristling with indignation.
His indignation quickly died as he recalled that his mother had no clue about Dubarry's predicament and that, to an outside observer, his actions of late did make it look like he was considering marriage.
"Attending Almack's, dancing at Almack's, inviting a young lady for a carriage ride," the dowager duchess listed off on her fingers, as a smile played around the corners of her mouth, "Tell me that those are not the actions of a man seeking a bride."
"Very well," Hugh scowled, "Those are not the actions of a man seeking a bride. Satisfied, mother?"
"Methinks you doth protest too much," came the amused reply, as his mother ignored his petulance. "Your sister tells me that it is the eldest Drew girl whom you have set your sights upon. I do recall that she made her come-out at the same time as Mary."
At two and twenty, Mary was the youngest of Hugh's four sisters. She was currently safely ensconced in Avon with her husband, the Earl of Froome, as the pair awaited the imminent arrival of their first child. Mary had made her come-out three years ago, and Hugh wondered why it was that Charlotte had since been left to linger on the shelf. True, she was spirited, but her beauty might allow one to overlook that, and her fortune must certainly have enticed more than one second son to offer for her.
Why was it that she had never married?
"And what do you recall of Miss Drew?" Hugh queried, attempting for nonchalance but realising too late that his acting skills were on a par with his mother's.
The dowager duchess raised an amused eyebrow at Hugh's none-too-subtle enquiry; if he hadn't been so interested in her answer, Hugh would have huffed from the room at the smugness of her expression.
"I recall a sweet, young thing," the dowager duchess replied, much to Hugh's astonishment, "Who was much in demand from suitors. She was much like all the other debutantes; interested only in dresses, dancing, and eligible young men—but most girls are, at that age."
"Are you certain that you are recalling the same person?" Hugh asked, struggling to marry his mother's memory of Charlotte with his own.
The Charlotte Drew that he knew attended meetings of radicals a
nd delivered homilies on the plight of the poor; she did not fall into raptures over the newest shade of ribbon, or the latest fashion plate in the Belle Assemblée.
"Quite certain," his mother replied, with a sniff, "I might be advancing in years, but I am not so old that my memory has turned to mush."
Lud. Hugh bit back a sigh; his mother was quite sensitive when it came to matters of ageing, quite often perceiving insult where there was none.
"I did not mean to insult your memory, Mama," Hugh placated, hoping that he sounded more patient than he felt, "I questioned you merely because your description of Miss Drew is so far removed from the way that other people might describe her."
"And how might other people describe her?" the dowager duchess questioned, with interest.
"A bluestocking, a shrew," Hugh shrugged, before changing his tack as he noted his mother's frown of confusion. "Is how other people might describe her, given how opinionated she is, but not I."
"Good," the duchess said, as she smoothed her skirts with an irritable hand, "I am glad to know that no son of mine—with four sisters, no less—would deign to call a lady a shrew merely for holding opinions. I detest it when gentlemen who have been offered the finest education that money can buy, stubbornly hold on to a parochial view of the world."
Hugh felt suitably chastised by his mother's dressing down. Her eyes, blue like his own, were watching him with a knowing gleam, which made Hugh momentarily question if his mother might, perhaps, be omnipotent.
"I do hope that you are not trifling with the girl's affections, Hugh," she said abruptly, a frown creasing her brow, "For if I recall correctly, Miss Drew has already been greatly disappointed by a young man. I should not like it if your name were to be added to the list of society's ignominious gentlemen—Gemini knows, it's long enough."
"I am not trifling with Miss Drew's affections, mother," Hugh replied, though his conscience prickled with guilt. He sighed, hoping to give the look of a man greatly troubled by false assumptions about his morals, before quickly moving on to more important matters.
Tamed by a Duke (Wilful Wallflowers Book 1) Page 7
