A Lady to Desire

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  “I won’t.” Charlotte’s own mood was a bit dark this evening, too, so unlike her normally cheerful nature. Then again, she had endured a rather bad evening, not to mention a disappointing one as well.

  As she expected, her father took a menacing step toward her, his hand raised, but she refused to back down. And, as expected, when she did not flinch, he did, lowering his hand to fish something out of the pocket of his evening jacket.

  “Not that it matters anyway, I suppose. Here.” He thrust the paper he had pulled from his pocket at her. “I expect you to begin packing your bags tonight. You are going to Havenhurst and I don’t want to hear any argument from you!”

  Slowly, Charlotte unfolded the paper. Written on heavy, decorative vellum, it was an invitation to an impromptu spring house party at the Duke of Fullbridge’s country estate just a few miles outside of London. She had heard about this party earlier in the evening, as these spring house parties seemed to be all the rage at the moment. This event was being hosted by Fullbridge’s sister, Lady Priscilla Trew, who hoped to finally secure a new bride for her notoriously choosy brother.

  The house party would be a short one, no more than three or four days at most, but it was a chance for Society to escape London for a brief time. It would also be a chance for Phineas Trew, the notoriously picky duke, to attempt to secure a new bride in a place where he felt far more comfortable than the sometimes-constricting confines of London.

  “I am not interested in marrying Lord Fullbridge.” Charlotte really wasn’t. While she found the man charming enough, he was overbearing and controlling. At least from what she had observed at balls and such. If she desired that sort of life, she could simply remain where she was.

  “Daft girl!” She was certain her father was about to strike her again but once more, he hesitated before changing his mind. “I don’t give a bloody damn about Fullbridge. However, Lord Snowly is going to be at the party as well. Even numbers and all of that polite rot.”

  Suddenly, Charlotte understood. “And you want me to cozy up to him so he will change his mind about your arrangement with his uncle.”

  Her father snorted. “I knew you overheard that conversation. Nosy chit.” He rubbed at his bloodshot eyes and reached for a table to lean against. Not finding one where he expected it, he propped himself up against a wall instead, looking far less lordly than he probably hoped. “Springford is more than happy to wed you, bed you, and then pass you on to his nephew’s bed.” He paused. “Even before he dies. That way, everything is all neat and tidy and your brat is considered the true heir to Springford rather than Snowly’s whelp.”

  Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Am I to guess that Lord Snowly does not approve of this arrangement?” If the man had any morals, he wouldn’t. The fact that her own father was willing to be a party to this sort of debauchery was sickening.

  “He doesn’t,” her father spat. “What is the world coming to when a man won’t accept the gift of a chit he doesn’t have to wed in his bed? At least not at first.”

  “You want me to attend this party and change his mind.” Bile rose in her throat. Charlotte had always known that she was little more than property to be bought and sold as far as her father was concerned, but she had never imagined he would stoop so low.

  Her father shrugged. “You can allow him to bed you while you are under Fullbridge’s roof for all I care. Just so long as you convince Snowly that this arrangement is in everyone’s best interest. Especially his.”

  Inside, Charlotte was seething with fury but showing her anger would also be allowing her father to win. “And if I don’t?” She was certain there was a threat lurking somewhere. There always was with her father.

  He shrugged carelessly. “Then there will be consequences.”

  Knowing her father, Charlotte was certain he hadn’t thought that far ahead to decide what consequences for her failure would be. He was too drunk right now to probably even comprehend what she was asking. However, he would sober up eventually and she had a feeling the “consequences” would involve marrying the Duke of Springford whether she wished to or not. And likely without the possibility of salvation at the hands of Snowly, provided he was the sort of man to be reasonable.

  What she also understood now was that her father would never approve of a marriage to Francis. There was nothing anyone could do to change his mind, not if he was considering going through with such a mad scheme. And since Francis now refused to marry her without her father’s consent, it seemed they were all at something of an impasse.

  Unless…they weren’t. Unless she could use this party to her advantage. Perhaps to even make Francis jealous enough to change his mind? So jealous that he might wed her without consent.

  Francis cared for her. She knew that he did. So would seeing her flirting with another man, dancing with another man, and being escorted by another man be enough to shock him out of his complacency where she was concerned? Perhaps.

  When Francis had returned to London, he had captivated her from the first. All it had taken was one dance and she had been completely enamored. In fact, Charlotte could admit that she had all but thrown herself at the man that very first night. Was he now taking it for granted that she would always be there, waiting until he was ready? Possibly, she supposed.

  What would Francis do if he thought he might lose her to someone like Lord Snowly? Would that be enough to convince him to elope before her father would wed her to the ancient duke?

  Perhaps it was time to find out.

  Also, if Francis was not jealous and had, in fact, changed his mind about marrying her, then perhaps Charlotte could find someone else at this house party to wed before being essentially sold to the duke as a broodmare. Just as a sort of secondary plan, mind you. Given a woman’s precarious lot in life, it never hurt to have options. Especially with a man like Lord Waverly as a father.

  “Do not cross me on this, Charlotte,” her father warned, taking her silence while she was thinking for reticence – which, to be fair, it had been at first. “Springford desires this match and he truly believes that his nephew can be brought up to scratch.” He pointed a wavering finger in her direction as he leaned more heavily against the wall, the effects of drink beginning to make him drowsy. “I don’t care if you have to lock the earl in a room and undress in front of him. You will bring Snowly around to his uncle’s way of thinking. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” Charlotte notched her chin higher. She was thoroughly disgusted with her father but he had perhaps inadvertently provided her with a way to obtain what she desired – namely Francis as her husband. Jealousy could be a powerful motivator.

  “Excellent.” The marquess attempted to nod his head but instead only succeeded in tipping himself forward until he came to rest against a large floor vase Charlotte had not noticed before. The thing was hideous and she suspected that it might be one of those wretched Antoine De Clercq pieces that everyone in Society was so eager to own these days.

  Charlotte cleared her throat, eager to be away from her father. He disgusted her. He truly did. “Is that all, Father?” she asked icily. She needed him to believe she was doing this against her will. He could never know she had ulterior motives for attending the house party.

  “For now.” Even those two simple words were slurred almost beyond recognition. Then, without warning his eyes snapped up, and she knew he was having a brief moment of clarity before the drink fully took him. “This is the best offer you could ever hope to receive, my girl. The best one I could hope to receive, especially after you become a widow. Don’t muck it up.” With that, he righted himself as best he could and wobbled off down the hallway toward his study, leaving Charlotte staring after him, her blood gone ice cold.

  For she had forgotten one very important piece of her father’s plan. He wanted money from Springford, and presumably later Snowly, in exchange for her body. The duke was old and would likely die soon but from what she knew of the young earl, he was in the prime of his life.
How did her father plan on getting money out of the young man once he became the new duke? For everything that was Springford’s would eventually pass to Snowly since it was likely no heir would be born before the man passed, and the earl didn’t seem like the type of man to be easily manipulated.

  So if her father believed he could manipulate Snowly, why was she being tasked with going to the house party to change his mind about the arrangement? Why wasn’t her father making the trip? Unless he couldn’t bend the earl to his will, having already tried at least once or twice. In which case, her father’s parting comment about his fortunes after she became a widow made much more – and far more chilling – sense.

  Even if she had been hesitant before, Charlotte knew she had to attend this house party if for no other reason than to warn Snowly about her father. While she tended to doubt that her father was desperate enough to murder someone over money, she was not as certain as she might have been a few years ago.

  Then there was the matter of Francis. The entire reason for her agreeing to this farce in the first place.

  If she could make him jealous with her attentions toward another man, perhaps even Lord Snowly if she found him attractive enough, then she would know that he cared and that there was still hope for them. If he did not? Then what better place to find a husband than a house party designed for just such a purpose?

  Reinvigorated, Charlotte took the steps top her chambers two at a time. Even though the hour was late, she had a house party to prepare for at once. She also had letters to write to make certain that the man she wanted to see most was there as well.

  She and Francis had been dancing around this issue of matrimony for a year now. It was time for them to either move forward or to finally part. She could no longer go on this way and she suspected neither could he.

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Four

  Town Tattler

  Another one of these foolish spring house parties? Truly? Praises be, no wonder the French thought us mad and in need of guidance. For these things are the very heights of insanity. First the Hambly affair and now this one, hosted by Lord Fullbridge and his sister, Lady Priscilla? They are mad! The lot of them!

  That said, I cannot completely fault Lord Fullbridge, for selecting his new bride within the confines of London has been something of a challenge. The sort of lady he seeks to take to wife might not necessarily haunt the ballrooms of London. After all, the new Lady Fullbridge will likely be expected to be meek and mild, almost a backward, country miss. I would hardly call the debutantes of London meek. Or in any way countrified.

  Perhaps there is a point to this madness after all.

  -Lady A

  “What do you mean Charlotte has gone to the country?” Francis still hadn’t yet had his morning tea, and he was beginning to think he would not for some time now. It was also far too early in the day for this sort of nonsense.

  He had awoken at his usual early hour – for he had never been able to adjust to the town hours most of his friends kept – and dressed for the day. When Pender, his valet, had arrived with his morning tea, Francis had asked the man to see about procuring some of Charlotte’s favorite flowers and perhaps a box of Belgian chocolates so that he could be fully prepared by calling hours. He had chosen not to pay a call yesterday – the day after the Ardenton ball – thinking it better to give her some time to cool her temper. Today, however, was a different day.

  With the weak morning sun just beginning to stream through the partially open drapes, Francis had prepared to take his first sip of tea for the day when the door to his bedchamber had burst open and his three best friends in all of the world had trooped through the door looking as if they were more worse for the wear.

  Given the limp cravats and wrinkled jackets they were all sporting, he wasn’t certain any of them had been home since the night before. He was also not certain why they had felt the need to invade his private chambers at this ungodly hour. He hadn’t even known that any of them were capable of being awake at this time of day.

  However they were awake and there were here in his chambers and, once he had put down his teacup, he was ready to hear them out. If they had called upon him now, whatever news they had to impart was of the utmost importance.

  “She has gone to one of these ridiculous spring house parties,” the Earl of Raynecourt – or Rayne to his friends – offered with a shake of his head as he ran his hand through his hair. “Foolish thing, these house parties, but the duke is desperate. Or so I’m told.”

  Francis simply stared at the other man, not comprehending. “Desperate? For what?” None of this was making any sense, though Charlotte’s departure yesterday would explain why she had not attended Lady Allendale’s musicale last evening.

  He also really wished he had been able to have at least a little bit of tea before his friends had descended upon him. He needed a far clearer head than this to deal with the coming trouble, he was certain.

  “A bride,” Frost – more properly known as Viscount Chilton – replied in what he likely thought was a helpful manner – even though at the moment it was anything but that. “Everyone knows the man is foolishly mad to take a new wife with…what did he call them again, Rayne?”

  “Perfect breeding hips, I think,” the earl said with a yawn, indicating that perhaps this hour was a bit too early for him as well. “It’s no secret he wants his spare. He’s all but taken out a bloody ad in the newspapers. Last I heard, he was pursuing Frost’s sister, Aurelia, for just that purpose.”

  “No longer,” Frost snapped irritably, the subject clearly a touchy one with him. “I would never allow that cad to touch a hair on her head. She is worth more than simply becoming some worthless lord’s breeding stock!” That declaration was punctuated by a low growl, indicating exactly what he thought of the duke. “Besides, I wish to keep my own head firmly attached to my shoulders, thank you, so the duke has been presented with other options to pursue.”

  Rayne grinned wickedly. “Makes sense. Hunt would kill you if Fullbridge tried to steal Aurelia away and you allowed it.”

  “Which is why there are other chits now in the duke’s path to distract him,” Frost grumbled. “Hunt is the last person I’d wish to cross.” His eyes flicked across the room to where another man lounged lazily against the wall. “Save for you, of course, Nick.”

  “Of course.” Slowly, the Bloody Duke shifted himself away from the wall and offered Francis a neatly folded piece of paper. “If it helps, my brother, I’ve secured you an invitation to Fullbridge’s affair. You may depart as soon as you are ready.”

  “Thank you?” Francis wasn’t certain that was the appropriate response.

  The duke shrugged carelessly, though his eyes were shadowed, indicating that there were, indeed, possibly tasks beyond even his reach. “That small scrap of paper wasn’t easy to obtain, even for me, so yes, be thankful that I was able to procure it for you.”

  “I am.” Francis fingered the heavy vellum. “But I am not certain this will help. Charlotte is furious with me and we did not part on the best of terms the other night. She, er…”

  “Left you in the garden in a fit of brilliant anger. Yes, we know,” Frost offered that comment a bit too cheerfully, seemingly coming a bit more awake now.

  Francis did not even wish to know how his friends had come upon this news. “Then you know that she likely has no desire to see me at present. She wants something I am not certain I am in a position to give. All of you know this.”

  “Tempers pass and tempests blow over,” Rayne replied, and Francis knew he was referring to his own spot of trouble with his wife some months ago. “She cares for you. You care for her. In the end, that is all that will matter.”

  Except that Francis wasn’t so certain any longer. He thought Charlotte cared for him, but even before the other night, there had been a growing distance between them. It was nothing he could put his finger on, precisely, but rather just a general sense of discontent. Yes, the lack of a ma
rriage offer was part of the reason. That went without saying. However, there was something more, something beneath the surface that neither of them wanted to acknowledge that had been haunting them even before he had received the news that a Violet Denton existed somewhere near Brighton. Near the convalescent home where he had awoken with no memory of who he was or how he come to be there.

  “Will it?” Francis fingered the invitation again.

  “Only you can say for certain,” Nick replied, though his eyes were still troubled, indicating he likely knew more than either Frost or Rayne about the situation. “The path to happiness is never a certain thing. God knows, mine and your sister’s wasn’t.”

  That was, Francis admitted, something of an understatement. Nick and Eliza’s journey to wedded bliss had been anything but pleasant and unfortunately, Francis himself had been a large part of those problems, albeit unwillingly.

  “She says I am different now than I was before. Different than when we first met.” Lud, Francis had no idea why he’d just said that.

  “You are different.” Rayne scrunched his eyes shut as if the light hurt them. “You are not the man you were a year ago. You’re more careful now, if I had to pinpoint things. Less brash.”

  Francis thought about that for a moment. “I suppose I feel as if I have to be. I know who I am now or at least, who I am supposed to be. I didn’t then. I had no idea who I was. I merely thought I did.”

  “You have lost your confidence.” That came from Nick. “The man I met a year ago was determined to prove that he was the lost Framingham heir. Which you are.” He shrugged. “Just not in the way we all thought.”

  “You are too cautious,” Rayne offered, still squinting his eyes at the light as if that would make it go away. “You are no longer, well, you, for lack of a better word. The Francis you were a year ago is gone. I’d venture to say you are almost timid at times. As if you are trying to be too perfect. Too proper. You used to not give a bloody damn what other people thought.” He gave up on trying to block out the light and simply tilted his head down. “Now? You do.”