She was, in short, magnificent, and she had been by his side through everything, including that horrible night at the ball. She had never once left his side, even though she likely should have. For she was a marquess’ daughter. She could have done far better than him, a viscount who could not remember his past and who had at least one bad apple – his brother Stephen – on the family tree.
So when Francis had begun dreaming of another woman – a woman who was decidedly not Charlotte – nearly four months ago, he had felt more than a little sick inside. He had no idea who this woman was, though he felt as if he should. As if he had known her before he became Francis Deaver again. He also wondered if his happiness was about to be snatched away from him because of his past – a past he still could not remember.
Even a year later, Francis remembered nothing of his past. Not even a glimmer of anything that had come before that convalescent home in Brighton. At least not until the dreams began. Dreams that were always the same and he was beginning to fear were not really dreams at all but memories fighting to resurface.
In his dreams, Francis was standing with a woman. She possessed champagne blonde hair that was similar to his, but not exactly the same. He could never see the whole of her face but she did appear to be well dressed in a traveling costume of some kind. They were standing in what might have been a tavern or an inn and in the dreams, he felt inexplicably sad as if his heart was being torn out of his chest.
Consumed with guilt and fear, Francis had gone to both his physician, Dr. Hastings, as well as to his brother in law, Nick, when the dreams persisted for more than a few weeks. He was, quite simply, afraid of what they might mean – not just for him but for Charlotte as well.
From the first, Hastings had been rather adamant that Francis might never regain his memory and his opinion on that matter had not wavered. The blow that had left him with a scar below his right ear had also possibly damaged his brainbox and was likely the cause of his memory loss. However, Hastings had cautioned that on occasion, particularly strong memories from Francis’ past might resurface. Or they could be nothing more than dreams, his mind still working to sort out all that he had endured over the last year. There was no way to tell.
That was why Francis had requested that Nick send someone out to investigate the area around Cross Hill, the estate where Francis had ostensibly grown up – and technically still owned. Though Francis had yet to travel there himself, a search through records and discussions with the Crown via Nick had revealed that there was no other heir listed for the Denton family. And since nothing could be proven either way just yet about who Francis really was – unique eye and hair color seemingly not proof enough for the country’s legal authority – Francis had been allowed to keep the title of Viscount Moxham as well as the funds, lands, houses, and holdings associated with the title.
Such a thing was unprecedented really, but then when one’s brother by marriage was the Bloody Duke, a great many unusual things became not just possible but usual. For no one, not even Prinny himself was anxious to cross a man who had likely taken more lives than anyone knew.
For the better part of a year, Francis had been content to ignore his past and his time at Cross Hill. After all, he was certain someone in the nearby village could have provided information about him and his formative years there. He and his family had surely not lived as cloistered monks, after all. They had to have interacted with someone who knew or remembered something.
The truth was, however, Francis simply didn’t want to know about his life as William Denton in Cornwall. Not about any of it. For he wasn’t at all certain he would like what he learned.
Francis had made a new life for himself in London with his birth family. He had regained his life and his title, the ones that had been stolen from him at birth. He was reasonably happy, even if he couldn’t wed the woman he adored just yet, though he was optimistic that her father would relent in time. He was planning a future, one that did not include the man he used to be – whoever that man was. The last thing he wished to do was disrupt that future by venturing back into a past he could not remember and possibly didn’t want to, either.
Then came the dreams of the unknown woman and Francis knew he couldn’t pretend the past didn’t exist any longer. That was why he had requested Nick investigate his past. Francis might not want to know the truth, but this woman he was dreaming of could be a very big hindrance to his future with Charlotte.
Particularly if that woman was already his wife.
For in recent weeks, Nick’s men had found references to a woman known only as Violet Denton. Who she was, where she was now, and how she was connected to him was a mystery, but something in Francis’ gut told him that this Violet Denton was the woman in his dreams. And she was not old. She was young. Not to mention rather pretty. Well, he assumed so based on what he could see of her in his hazy dream world.
Which was why Francis had seemingly abruptly backed off his professed desire to marry Charlotte as soon as possible. He hadn’t changed him mind, certainly. If anything, he wished to marry her now more than ever, especially after last week when she had all but stripped herself bare for him. She was, he was pleased to note, every bit as delectable as he had hoped.
However Francis could not wed Charlotte if he was already married, even as William Denton, because the truth was, Prinny had all but declared him two men at the same time. And until Francis knew the truth about this Violet Denton, he could not and would not put Charlotte at risk like that. He cared about her far too much.
For if she married a man who was already wed? Well, he would rather not think about the consequences, especially the social ones.
Francis should have told her the truth, he supposed, for she had never once walked away from him, no matter what was revealed about his past. He should have trusted her as well, but this was no matter of trust. This time he was simply embarrassed. He always had been when it came to his lack of memory. It embarrassed him that he could not remember who he was or what he had done before he returned to London. Was he a good man or a bad man? Charlotte was convinced he was a good man at heart. So were his friends. However, Francis himself could not be sure and that, among other things, was a source of profound embarrassment.
Not to mention that lately, Francis had begun to question how he could ask a paragon like Charlotte to bind her life to his when he couldn’t remember who he truly was. What if he was a murderer (he didn’t think he was) or a thief (likely not that either, really) or already wed. That last one might be a very real possibility, so he wished to be certain he was not already wed before he took Charlotte to the front of St. James and requested that the archbishop declare them man and wife.
Or as reasonably certain as a man with no memory could be, of course.
Francis hadn’t thought it would be all that difficult to convince Charlotte to wait a bit longer to marry. After all, they had waited this long. What was a little longer? With any luck, Nick’s men would have information regarding this Violet woman soon and, if she was not his wife? Then he and Charlotte would be bound for Gretna as soon as he could manage it. In the meantime? Well, he could stall a bit longer.
Or so he thought.
However, in recent weeks, Charlotte had been increasing her pressure on him to wed. Francis had no idea why and when he questioned her about it, she avoided the issue, usually becoming angry and saying something about how if they cared for each other, the rest should not matter. He, in turn, often felt as if she would no longer understand if he were to tell her the truth about the dream woman, so he became more reticent and yes, probably a bit more distant.
Maybe a good bit more distant. Just as she had become.
Now, after weeks of hiding more from each other than they confessed, Francis felt as if something between he and Charlotte was being irrevocably broken. Not quickly, but rather slowly, like a small fracture that continued to spread bit by bit until it was a massive break that could not be repaired.
Tonig
ht when Charlotte had proposed running off to Gretna before the sun rose, Francis hadn’t known what to say. So he had reacted – badly. He had pulled away from her, gone rather cold, and quite possibly hurt her feelings with his refusal of her proposal.
However Charlotte was Charlotte, and if there was one thing Francis was certain of was that she cared for him, likely beyond all logical reason. He would call upon her tomorrow with her favorite chocolates and some flowers and put this situation back to rights. She was simply overset tonight. Perhaps he should have kissed her again. That might have helped things. It might have convinced her that he did care and that he was simply trying to protect her – even if she didn’t quite know what he was protecting her from.
Or it could have made things worse.
Then again, had he already made things worse?
He wasn’t sure.
He really hoped he hadn’t done that.
Oh, how he hoped.
Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Charlotte prayed her father was either still out for the evening or already asleep by the time she finally returned home to Waverly House. The marquess was known for keeping late nights, but as the family coffers dwindled, he was not staying out as late as he otherwise might, having come to realize that most gaming hells that still offered him credit lines would not extend nearly as much coin these days as they once had.
Nor would they provide him the excessive drink he craved or the expensive whores he believed were his right to bed. Once he could have demanded all of that and more. He could – and often did – get away with many sins that would have crushed another, lesser and more mortal man. However, those days were long since passed. Not to mention that her father’s sins were beginning to catch up with him as Charlotte always knew they would.
In his prime Lord James Cleary, the Marquess of Waverly had ruled London society like a king. Denied nothing, he had lived a life rich in debauchery, returning home only long enough to get another child on his wife, Agnes. Assuming all of the Cleary children were his, of course. They might not be, as everyone in the ton often whispered.
For over the years, Lady Agnes Cleary, known to her lovers as “Aggie,” had not been too particular, nor too careful whose bed she shared or when. Charlotte had long suspected that her third sister, Deborah, did not share their father’s blood, given her bright red hair and striking green eyes. Her other sisters were more like Charlotte herself, blonde and fair with brown or auburn eyes. Or mostly fair anyway, for at least two of them had skin that darkened far more in the sun than they ought.
Even her brothers might not be Clearys by blood, though Charlotte hadn’t seen Duncan, the heir, and Martin, the spare, in quite some time. They had been on the Continent for the better part of a decade now, but last she had seen them, their dark looks were more Continental – much like one of her mother’s old and longtime lovers – than they were fair English.
Charlotte was the only child that anyone could prove with any degree of certainty was a true Cleary. A youthful portrait of her paternal grandmother back at Summerton, the family’s country seat, was nearly an exact match for Charlotte herself. The similarities were too striking for her to be anything other than a Cleary by blood.
Because of this – and because just about the whole of England knew of her parents’ philandering ways – Charlotte’s father had decided that his one “true” child should be the one to save him from penury, and quite possibly debtor’s prison as well. No one else would do. Well, that and his other daughters were already wed and bridges between their husbands and the marquess well and truly burned to the ground many years ago.
Charlotte supposed that her father had not pressured her to wed earlier because there was a decided lack of rich dukes on the marriage mart when she had made her come-out and he had long since decided she would wed no less of a title. Not to mention that the proposed duke (whoever he might happen to be) had to be obscenely wealthy and, more to the point, weak enough of character to be manipulated into sharing that wealth with his new in-law.
For by this time, James Cleary had discovered just how quickly his coffers were emptying and was quite desperate to refill them. Another man might have slowed down his profligate spending until he was confident in his plans coming to fruition, but not the current Marquess of Waverly. Despite his exacting specifications for a husband for his youngest daughter, he was so confident in his ability to find her the perfect match that he continued to spend as if his funds were limitless.
Except that things did not go according to Waverly’s plans. The dukes he had selected as potential mates for his daughter turned out to either be in love with other women and unwilling to compromise on marrying anyone else, or they were simply too powerful and too willful, unwilling to be controlled by an old man like James Cleary.
Again, one might have thought a wise man would have ceased spending, but then, no one had ever accused the current marquess of being a wise man. He was, however, thought to be an unwise one on more than one occasion.
Her father should have been happy when Francis had asked to be allowed to officially court Charlotte. After all, Francis was obscenely wealthy – probably more so than most realized. He was also titled and would gain a more elevated title someday in the future. However, whether it was because he was not a duke or because the marquess did not think he would be able to control a man who boasted the Bloody Duke as a brother in law, each time Francis asked for Charlotte’s hand, her father rebuffed him. Sometimes angrily.
Thus began her father’s constant rants about wishing Francis dead so that Charlotte would turn her attention elsewhere.
She never did, so her father was determined to turn them for her – preferably in the direction of the ancient and nearly dead Duke of Springford. The man had been a recluse for the last fifteen years or so, but recently, the five and eighty-year-old duke had announced that he was seeking a young and healthy wife to bear him an heir. Never mind that his two previous wives had failed at the task. The duke was confident that a new, healthy young bride would be just the thing he needed to secure his line.
And if all else failed? Well, once the duke passed on, his nephew, Lord Noah Acton, the current Earl of Snowly, would be more than willing to step in and fill his uncle’s role in the young bride’s life and bed. Or so the rumor went.
Charlotte wasn’t certain if that last bit was true or not since she had never met Lord Snowly and was thus unable to judge his character. However, she was certain that the first part of the rumor was true, for she had seen the duke at a ball not two weeks previous and he had been hunting for a new, young wife.
At the same time as the duke had begun making appearances in Society again, Charlotte’s father had gotten it into his head that a dying man would likely be easier to manipulate than a healthy one and had made plans for Charlotte to marry the duke. The contracts weren’t signed yet and she only knew that because she had overheard her father speaking with his solicitor the other day. The door to his study had been left ajar and she had been passing by on her way back to the drawing room from the library.
The news of her impending engagement had chilled her to her very marrow. That was why she needed Francis to marry her now – before it was too late. For Charlotte did not doubt that if her father wished her to be wed to the Duke of Springford, then she would be. And soon.
The only stumbling block, from what she had heard, was the nephew. He did not want to be bound to wed his uncle’s widow. In fact, Acton didn’t think the duke should be taking a bride at all, let alone hoping to pawn off his unsuspecting widow onto the earl. Apparently, the earl had some integrity, unlike his uncle. Until that little wrinkle was worked out, Charlotte was safe. However, that “wrinkle” would not last forever. Sooner or later, someone would give in and she would be forced to wed the ancient duke.
Charlotte supposed she should have mentioned this to Francis so that he might understand her haste to wed. However, she did not wish for him to marry he
r out of pity. Or at least she thought she hadn’t. Now, as she tried to sneak through the corridors of her home, visions of the nearly dead duke dancing in her mind once more, she was beginning to think that perhaps she should have been a little less prideful and simply confessed all to Francis. Perhaps then he would have understood her urgency.
Or perhaps he had changed his mind about marrying her.
Perhaps he had grown weary of chasing after something he might never have for his own. Lord knows, other men would have.
“There you are. Out late with that wretched viscount again, I presume.” Her father’s slurred voice cut deep into Charlotte’s thoughts.
“I attended Lady Ardenton’s ball this evening. I informed you of my plans earlier.” She held herself stiff, just as she had in the garden with Francis. She needed to be strong in front of this man. Even foxed, her father was still vicious enough to strike at her if he thought she was weak.
“Where you met with that fool Underhill,” her father sneered. “He’ll never marry you, girl. You should know that by now.”
For the second time that night, Charlotte resisted the urge to throw something at a man’s head. Fortunately for her father, her mother was in the middle of redecorating again and the new Chinese and Oriental-themed vases and knick-knacks that had arrived the other day had yet to be placed on the tables and stands that crowded the narrow halls, the previous Egyptian ones long gone.
“Not if you keep wishing that he would die, then no,” Charlotte spat more angrily than she had intended. “Just give us your blessing to wed and I will be out of your life for good. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“You know it bloody well isn’t, you ungrateful girl!” Her father must have lost heavily at the card tables tonight to be in so foul of a mood. “You will start learning to do as I say!”
A Lady to Desire Page 3
