by Susanne Lord
“I remember—that is, I remember your writing of them.”
“I know I’ve not behaved as I should,” he said. “I hope we can proceed on friendlier terms.”
Friendlier terms. It was too late. It had always been too late. “If that is your wish.”
Her polite words appeared to annoy him. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, upsetting the perfect knot of his tie. “I just thought, since I am friends with your family…and I wouldn’t want any trouble with Spencer at your house party.”
“No one knows that I kissed you. I believe,” she added uncertainly.
“I’ve not told anyone. I never will.” His gaze settled on her mouth. “And I kissed you back, if you recall.”
With regret, she returned the beautiful necklace and he took it without a word.
Her carriage rounded the corner. A trio of ladies exited the house and cast curious glances at them.
She held out her hand. “Will you shake my hand, Mr. Repton?”
He complied instantly, looking bewildered.
“For our audience,” she explained. “Good evening.” She turned, signaling he must leave, and pretended to button her glove.
“He’s a fortunate man. If Lord Spencer is your choice,” he said behind her. “I wish you happiness.”
Happiness… “Yes, I…thank you.” Her stays had been drawn too tight. They’d been oppressing her all evening.
“If there’s anything I might—”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t she breathe? “Here is my carriage.”
The coachman moved to hand her in, but she nearly leapt inside to gain privacy. Safe within, she rested her head against the squabs.
She would be happy again, she would. She would have purpose. She would know where she belonged. Perhaps as soon as she wed.
Perhaps as soon as she was Viscountess Spencer.
Eight
“I wonder if I should have packed my fishing rod.”
Will’s mother didn’t even look up from her novel at her husband’s comment. “I wonder at your wondering, because you do not care for fishing, John.”
“I don’t?” his father asked.
“The last time you fished, you fell asleep in the sun and came home with a painful burn,” his mother said.
“Ah yes, yes. So I did.”
Will vowed to never, ever ride in a closed carriage with his parents again. Their conversations were pointless. Being strapped up top with the trunks might’ve been a preferable mode of travel.
His mother, long familiar with his father’s rambling mind and mad enough to still love him despite it, laid a hand of comfort upon her husband’s neck. “There will be much to divert you. Don’t be uneasy. You were eager to learn how that Desprez China rose would fare in the midlands. It’s nearly June, it should be in bloom. The Saint-Priest—”
“The St. Prist de Breuze?”
“Right, that one.”
His father’s eyes gleamed with a new excitement, and he patted his mother’s lap and kept his hand there. He leaned against his wife. “Did you pack your new bonnet, Lizzie?”
Will had no idea if this was some sort of lover’s code, but his mother swatted his father playfully with her book. He’d long ago abandoned trying to decipher their secret language. His father was understandably besotted. Elizabeth Repton was still a handsome woman.
As for his father, his brilliance in matrimony and botany didn’t extend to sartorial concerns. The man didn’t give a whit if his trousers matched his coat. Only his wife kept him looking presentable. Still, at the end of the day, his father’s hair would be tugged and mussed into impressive dishevelment for a man merely working with flowers.
“William.” His mother’s stare pinned him from over her book. “You must not allow your father to disappear on his daily rambles. I’ve told him he will be expected to be social.”
“You will have to meet Charlotte Baker, Father,” Will reminded him.
He sighed. “I wonder if we will have a chance to know her at all. If Charlotte is half as comely as Lucy, every young man there will be soliciting her attention.”
“She’s already got a beau.”
Will caught his mother casting a regretful eye over him, her bachelor son. The lamentable state of Mrs. Elizabeth Repton, long denied a grandchild from her only offspring, would not be rectified soon.
“What do you make of her, William?” she asked. “Will she be able to countenance our country ways?”
“Don’t worry, Mum. She’s an elegant lady but doesn’t put on airs.”
“And is she a pretty girl?”
Will wiped his face. “Very.” He looked out the carriage window, the bucolic scenes of Derbyshire only sinking him further. “More beautiful than her sister.”
His parents’ brows rose and they both aimed calculating looks at him.
“And she’s likely accepting Viscount Spencer’s marriage offer at this party. You two must be addled if you think a woman like her would accept a man like me.”
At his parents’ dashed expressions, he regretted speaking.
Mum sniffed delicately. “I suppose it is addled to want grandchildren before I’m too old to lift them?”
He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “Just a few years, Mum, and I promise to wed the first lady I see as I walk down the gangplank on my return. Provided she’s plump, pretty, and fertile.”
Mum pushed him back to his seat, her humor somewhat restored.
“Look at that stand of elms, William.” His father was peering out the carriage window.
What appeared to be a stand began to form two long rows of trees as the carriage turned. “We may be nearing Windmere. Ben mentioned an alley of elms along the drive to the house.”
The carriage crested the hill and began a long descent, and the majesty of Windmere, with its honey-gold stone and three stories of tall, sparkling windows, appeared, its green hills rolling from it in all directions. Yellow dahlias sprouted cheerily from planters surrounding the circular drive, and soon the carriage wheels rolled onto crushed gravel and a wave of servants descended the front steps. And there was Jacob, bouncing with excitement.
“Oh my. My, my, my,” his father whispered. “I’d no idea Windmere was a palace. Lizzie, to think we’ll be sleeping beneath a roof as fine as that.”
But Will didn’t hear the rest of his parents’ conversation, or pay any heed to the grandeur of the house. Charlotte was near. She was home.
Damn me…I can feel her.
* * *
Charlotte steadied herself against the window of the blue parlor. The Reptons alit from their hired carriage, but she was still not prepared to greet them as Ben, Lucy, and Jacob were doing.
Here he was.
The thought rose unbidden as it always did with every fresh sight of Will Repton. Here he was in her favorite place on earth. Familiar…adored…impossible.
The party moved into the house, and with a steadying breath, she walked into the library where she had last heard voices. It appeared everyone was descending from the library’s terrace to the gardens. The senior Mr. Repton must be eager to see Lucy’s rose garden, having procured most of the bushes himself.
Ben and his mentor, John Repton, were bent in study over a rose bush, while Lucy and Wally followed Abby as she stumbled happily between the flowers. Will Repton and his mother stood with their back to her as she entered the garden.
Jacob saw her first. “Aunt Charlotte! Mr. Repton is here!”
Mr. Repton’s gaze met hers briefly before he bowed.
“Welcome to Windmere, Mr. Repton.” She had only a second to admire his hair glittering in the sun before she turned to meet his mother.
Mr. Repton presented his mother. “Mother, this is Charlotte Baker. Miss Baker, my mother, Elizabeth.”
Charlotte smiled at the woman, whose eyes were the same glorious blue as her son’s.
Mrs. Repton’s eyes crinkled with her smile. “My word, there is great beau
ty in the Baker women. William told me as much and still I am all amazement.”
Charlotte flushed at the compliment. “Oh, how kind of—”
“Come, dear,” Mrs. Repton said. “John has been eager to meet you. Let’s see if we can lure him from the love of his life.”
There was no sight in the world more delightful than the silver-haired man buried deep in Lucy’s roses congratulating Ben—no, the roses themselves—on their excellent appearance.
“Father?” Mr. Repton’s deep voice close behind her made her start. His expression was pained looking at him. “Miss Baker is here.”
Charlotte beamed at the darling man straightening to greet her. A father and son could not be more different. Will Repton was serious, detailed, economical in mind and body. And John Repton had misbuttoned his waistcoat.
“Oh my, Miss Baker!” John Repton regarded her with a smile. “My, my, my. Yes, charming. We are long overdue in meeting Lucy’s little sister. I’ve brought you a Blanche de Belgique rose and was telling Ben to plant it nearer the Flemish varietals.” He grew a little serious at this point. “Now, I almost brought you the Madame Carolina rose for obvious reasons, but Will tells me you’re partial to white.”
“Indeed I am.” Charlotte hastened to reassure him. “Thank you. I will always treasure it. Will it bloom this late in the season?”
“Yes, I daresay it will.” John gave her a pat on the hand and studied her a moment longer. “Yes. The Blanche rose is exactly right, I think.”
His eyes sought his wife’s and the warm smile he gave Elizabeth made Charlotte’s heart ache with yearning. Elizabeth Repton, like Charlotte’s sister, was loved.
“Liz, who’s that you’re speaking to?” John Repton ambled toward his wife. “That strapping young man cannot be Jacob Paxton. Master Jacob was just a wee babe yesterday when we plucked him from under that cabbage leaf.” With a cheerful wink at her, John Repton stooped to speak with Jacob, leaving Charlotte with his son.
“Don’t trouble yourself if you don’t know the reason for not bringing a Carolina rose my father was speaking of.” Mr. Repton stacked his arms over his chest, taunting her with the glorious breadth of his shoulders. “Most people don’t understand his mind. Even I can’t tell you what he intended.”
“But I do understand. A Carolina rose might seem obvious because Charlotte is the French version of the name Caroline, and Carolina is the Italian.”
Surprise flickered across his face, chased by something like bemusement. A small sadness panged within her. How many times had he misunderstood his father? It was as if the men spoke different languages.
She tried not to stare and failed. In the sun, the late-day growth of his beard was golden, darkening to amber on the underside of his hard jaw.
Mr. Repton caught her study of him and sobered his countenance. Walking to the end of the rose garden, he looked out over the lawn.
In the distance, the water spray from the powerful gravity-fed fountain misted and shred like a horse’s tail streaming in the air—only one of Windmere’s many treasures. The gardens were immense and surrounded on all sides by Ben’s design, but nearly every visitor to Windmere asked to see Ben’s masterpiece first…
“Where is the Palm House?” Mr. Repton asked.
“It is on the south, behind the kitchen gardens.”
Mr. Repton looked at Ben and his father, engrossed in conversation.
“Would you like me to show you?” Seeing his jaw tighten, she regretted the offer. “But then, anyone would prefer Ben to guide them.”
“No.” He looked at the vast lawn, not at her. Never at her. “I’d be pleased if you would. Thank you.”
She led him onto the lawn to the back of the house. Evidently, his curiosity had overcome any discomfort he might have felt being alone with her. Unless over the course of two weeks, he’d forgotten everything they’d ever said and done to each other.
There was no reason not to walk with him. He was a guest at her home and the grounds were filled with garden staff.
Though she would not like to run into Hugh. The viscount’s attentions these past weeks left her in no doubt of his intentions. And she told herself daily the progress was welcome. She just needed a bit more time before she was prepared to keep company with both Hugh and the man she’d kissed like a wanton in his garden.
“Windmere is wonderful,” he said. “When did you come here? How old were you when your sister married the earl?”
“I was eight.”
“You must have loved living here,” Mr. Repton said.
“Oh, I did. I had a pony.”
His eyes softened. “Well, I should think so. Did you braid flowers in her mane?”
She smiled, flushing a little. “Beatrice never seemed to mind.”
“Beatrice…?” His eyes widened, as if he had just realized something. “That was a pony.”
“What was?”
“The pillow, in your parlor in London. I decided it was a goat. How old were you when you made it? Eight? Nine?”
She looked at him. “Twenty.”
The smile wobbled on his lips. “Oh.”
A goat?
“Right. Well.” Mr. Repton plucked a blade of grass to fidget with. “Has Viscount Spencer arrived?”
“Yes. He and his sisters rode into Highthorpe, with a few other guests. Helen and Hester are anxious to renew your acquaintance. In truth, there are many ladies who wish to meet you.”
“I’m not here to meet other women.”
“Oh?” She hoped her tone was convincingly teasing. “Are your affections engaged elsewhere?”
He looked confused.
“You said ‘other’ women.”
“No. No women, Miss Baker,” he said, definitely not looking at her now. He squinted. “I see the top of the Palm House. I can find my way now. Thank you for directing me.”
And without a backward glance, Mr. Repton left her standing alone on the lawn staring like a stupid cow.
Drat the man! She wiped her eyes. One minute he thrilled her with a teasing smile, and the next, he stripped her of all composure.
This was unnatural, this melancholy. She cradled the nape of her neck and squeeze at the tightness there.
“Charlotte?”
Her eyes flew open at Hugh’s voice. He was approaching from the direction of the front drive. “You’ve returned,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Highthorpe is a charming village. I bought a pair of gardener’s gloves for myself, inspired by Windmere’s many glories.”
Charlotte had to smile at that. Pottering about in a garden was the least likely locale for Viscount Spencer. “An excellent notion, Hugh, and eventually those gloves will be a thoughtful gift for your gardener.”
“You wound me, Charlotte. I only wish to cultivate interests we might share.” He smiled and pulled playfully at a ribbon on her sleeve. “My estate in Hertford is in a woeful state. I daresay, in time, the grounds might be as pleasing as Windmere. It wants a woman’s hand, I think.” The last was said with a meaningful look into her eyes.
Can we be happy, Hugh? She stared into his eyes, seeking an answer there.
He lifted her chin and kissed her.
She had vowed—no more tests. But perhaps this one last time…
She pressed her lips more firmly against his. Apparently encouraged by her response, his hands came atop her shoulders and his lips parted hers slightly.
Something akin to panic welled within her. She felt…nothing. She opened her eyes and waited for Hugh to stop the kiss a second later.
His pleased smile broke her heart. Nothing at all. Only fondness.
Was that enough?
Nine
The hunting tower stood majestically apart from Windmere’s house and gardens, atop a steep rise of earth with an endless panorama about it. Yesterday, Will had found the tower on his morning walk. Perhaps for that reason, the leash of deer grazing along the slope paid no heed to his climbing the hill a second time.<
br />
The muscles in his calves burned from the exertion, but as running was yet difficult, he climbed as steeply as he could, as fast as he could. And he relished the exercise. He needed to be strong. Four months on a boat could wreak havoc on a man’s body if it wasn’t strong to begin with. While on land, he preferred to climb.
He could forget the nightmares he’d woken to when he climbed.
As for the pain, he stomped that down. He had another mile or two before the leg collapsed on him entirely.
The wind fought him as he ascended, roaring in his ears and stealing his breath. He was gaining the top when a flutter of blue flashed behind the tower. Two more strides, and he knew it was a skirt. Four more, and Charlotte appeared, leaning against the stone tower.
His pounding legs slowed to a stop before he crested the hill, but it was too late to turn back. Charlotte, appearing startled, straightened to face him.
“Sorry, I’ll leave you be,” he said between panting breaths. He bent at the waist, bracing his arms on his knees. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your walk.”
“I rode my horse. I was—”
“Expecting Spencer?”
“Not at all.”
She looked affronted and he swiped his words away, too breathless to explain his weak jest.
“Goodness, Mr. Repton. Did you walk all this way?”
He tilted his head up to squint at her. “I require exercise in the morning.”
“Would not a more moderate pace be safer?”
She was clearly disturbed by his hard breathing, so he straightened to appear more at ease. “I’m in no danger. And I’ve not had air this fresh to breathe in months.”
Her nose was still crinkled with worry.
“Well. Good morning to you.”
“Wait, Mr. Repton.”
He looked back at her in question and, appearing surprised by his compliance, she frowned. “Rest a moment, at the least. That is…please. If you would indulge me.”
Such a lady. Even when she was scolding him. A minute wouldn’t harm. Besides, they couldn’t avoid each other the entire week.
“I even left my horse at the bottom to rest,” she said. “But I love the view from here. I feel as if I might actually go somewhere. Though I would still be on the estate if I ventured only as far as my eye reaches. Miles and miles, but that is the purpose of the tower, I suppose. Not that anyone in the family enjoys to hunt, thank goodness. Do you hunt, Mr. Repton?”
