Charity Falls for the Rejected Duke: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hamilton, Hanna

  What the Reverend lacked in parental authority, he compensated for in a fretful disposition and a constant endeavor to control his daughter’s life in whatever way he could.

  He had chosen not to educate his daughter too extensively, feeling that a great deal of book-learning was not suitable for a girl. He had taught her enough scripture to fulfill her envisaged role as a clergyman’s wife, but had preferred not to take her education any further.

  Charity’s regular raids on his library were, therefore, her earliest exercises in quiet defiance of her father. In this way, Charity had taught herself a great deal more than she could have learned from most governesses or at polite seminaries for young ladies, including the rudiments of several European languages and whatever else she could lay her hands on.

  The notion, therefore, that her father might be a beloved and trusted tutor to the lively young man whom she had twice encountered that morning, was a peculiar one.

  “Did Mr. Harding look well after all his travels?” Esther asked.

  Charity hesitated. “I scarcely know,” she replied. “I cannot say what he looked like before.”

  “It must have been a distressing time for him,” Esther pointed out. “I hear that there is some talk of his being disinherited.”

  “Surely not,” Charity said, thinking of the young man with the lively eyes and struggling to believe that he could have done anything so egregious as to prompt such an extreme response. “Could the Duke not have responded to a small dispute in a fit of bad temper? Could both parties not have overreacted somewhat?”

  He would not be the first young man, she thought , to quarrel with his father and disappear to the Continent to prove a point. Although I can hardly believe that he is the type to behave so melodramatically.

  At this, she shook herself. And what, she asked herself, do I know of temperament that would qualify me to make such a judgement on the strength of two very brief encounters?

  “I think it unlikely that there was poor judgement on the Duke’s part,” Esther replied temperately. “By all accounts, he has always been a sensible and well-balanced man, if somewhat prone to hot-headedness.”

  Esther’s father was the Duke of Mornington’s steward, and as such, she had some knowledge of the family at Lawley Hall, albeit from a distance.

  “Then perhaps there has been some misunderstanding,” Charity suggested, wanting very much to place some credit in her own words. “Perhaps the whole matter will be resolved now that Mr. Harding has returned home.”

  She could not say why she felt so invested in the idea that all would soon be resolved between the Duke of Mornington and his heir. Charity had never much concerned herself with the whims of the aristocracy.

  She knew that there were young ladies in the vicinity who would have heard of Mr. Harding’s return and immediately begun to calculate how it might affect their own prospects as women of marriageable age. But Charity had a great disdain for any behavior that she considered to be mercenary, and therefore avoided any chatter of marriage, particularly when it pertained to wealthy young men.

  Her curiosity about the young gentleman was far more organic. She simply could not understand any of the particulars of the matter - why Mr. Harding had left, why he had returned again, and why he had chosen to seek out her own father as soon as he had arrived.

  Apart from anything else, Charity’s lively mind was not sufficiently stimulated by her daily tasks in the vicarage, nor by the society of her very limited circle of acquaintance. The perplexing matter of Mr. Harding gave her something to consider, something of substance for her to contemplate.

  And of course, there was something else that occupied her too. Something ineffable, something that she did not voice, not even to Esther, but that pertained somehow to the sensation she had felt in her bosom when she had seen the tall figure of Mr. Harding in the early morning light of the grove.

  It was a feeling quite unlike the polite interest that she always did her best to feel when introduced to the earnest and sensible young men of the parish, the clerks and sons of lawyers destined for the clergy, toward whom her father would always position her.

  It was a feeling that seemed to emerge more stubbornly the more Charity did her best to push it away. It was a sensation of wanting to linger over the image of Mr. Harding’s broad shoulders and noble profile in her mind’s eye — a deep thrill running through her, seeming to disturb the very chemistry of her blood, when she thought of his voice.

  A wish, she reminded herself, that was quite irrelevant to reality. After all, what did it matter what the sight of the Duke’s son made her feel, when she was the daughter of a mere clergyman, and he was apparently disgraced and therefore, no doubt, in need of a monied young heiress?

  Esther and Charity continued with their chatter. Since they talked every day, or near enough, one might have thought that the two ladies would have run out of things to say to one another. However, that had never proved to be the case so far.

  And yet…though Charity was certainly not bored by her friend’s conversation, her mind continued to wander back to Mr. Harding. The more she did her best to resist the thoughts, the more insistently they continued to emerge.

  Chapter 6

  Adam left the vicarage, and for a good ten minutes of the walk home, he could think of nothing but the radiant smile of Miss Miller, the elegant fall of her simple print dress, the way that the sun had seemed to shine a little brighter when she turned her eyes upon him.

  It was only when he came upon a small tumbledown cottage on the outskirts of the village that he was rudely brought back to the troubles at hand, and predictably ashamed for having allowed his thoughts to linger so long on such a pleasant matter when there were other pressing matters more grave.

  The tumbledown cottage that had so abruptly interrupted his thoughts was occupied by an elderly woman by the name of Mrs. Warwick. She had lived there for as long as anyone in the village could remember and had seemed extraordinarily old for even longer.

  As Adam rounded the corner where Mrs. Warwick's cottage stood, the woman in question emerged from the threshold of her little abode, with a rather broken-looking straw basket one might assume she intended to fill with vegetables or some of the wildflowers that ran rampant in her little garden.

  As her bent form emerged through the doorway, Adam felt his heart turn to ice, and — hearty and healthy though he was — he feared it might stop altogether. It was a testament to how distracted he had been by the thoughts of Miss Miller that he had walked this way at all, instead of coming by a more circuitous route.

  Though he did his best to walk tiptoe, old Mrs. Warwick seemed to sense his approach, and her head snapped up to look at Adam with a speed that belied the age of her bent and frail body. Adam stopped dead, too frozen to so much as lift his hat in a greeting to the old lady.

  For what seemed like hours, but probably no more than half a minute, the two of them stood, regarding one another. Adam could scarcely have said what he felt, save that his heart was continuing to beat as though it might explode. The old lady looked back at him steadily with an expression that was very hard to read.

  Hard to read, Adam observed to himself, a few rational thoughts still able to break through the flurry of his racing mind, and yet…and yet I do not perceive any anger in her gaze, nor hatred either. Perhaps…perhaps she knows that it was not me.

  With a supreme effort, Adam managed to nod his head in greeting at the old lady. Perhaps he hoped to engage her in conversation, but certainly, that did not have the desired effect. Rather, the old woman fell into a strange muttering and retreated directly back into the house from which she had emerged only a few moments before.

  For a while, Adam stood frozen in the lane, and then he set off again at a pace quicker than before, walking as fast as he could without breaking into an outright run.

  Mrs. Warwick had lived in the village all her life. She existed far beyond the margins of what might be considered polite society,
and yet, she made enough of a living for herself in the brewing of medicines and delivering of babies that she had never been required to beg the charity of the wealthy.

  Though poor and wretched, the inhabitants of the village had always felt obliged to speak of Mrs. Warwick with a certain degree of respect, owing perhaps to her evident medical skill. No one had the least idea if she had ever been married, but the title of ‘Mrs’ had been bestowed upon her as honorific in deference to her age and knowledge.

  The last time Adam had seen Mrs. Warwick had been two years ago when his father had held his yearly Christmas banquet for the poor and needy of the parish. The old woman had stood entirely upright and had not looked in the least frail, despite her advanced years.

  However, in those two years, something had happened. Something that had bent Mrs. Warwick’s back into its current state had taken all the steel from her blue eyes and left only sorrow.

  Mrs. Warwick had had a daughter. Since no one knew whether the old woman had once been married and because people, in general, were disposed to think well of Mrs. Warwick, it had been generally assumed that the daughter was legitimate, despite the lack of evidence to support that belief.

  Mary Warwick had been a lively, capable woman, educated by the parish but with a wit sharpened by years of assisting her mother in her work. When it came to securing a position, Adam’s own father had stepped in to offer her a position, and Mary had been a housemaid at Lawley Hall for as long as Adam could recall.

  She had a particular genius for music, despite having received only a minimum of instruction. No one could account for the instant and natural ease with which she could pick up any instrument and play it almost at once, not just with skill but with real flair.

  The Duke had been charmed by the housemaid whom he had referred to as the ‘songbird’ for the way that she sang as she went about her work, and had always encouraged the young girl to play the grand pianoforte in the Hall.

  This had been considered most peculiar by wider society, but it had never struck Adam as unusual in any way. His father was a great patron of the arts and valued talent wherever he saw it. He had often encouraged the servants to read as much as they wished from his personal library, provided that they took care of the books and were able to conduct a lively discussion on whatever it was that they had read.

  It was precisely this sort of eccentric quality that had always caused Adam to love and respect his father above all other men. The Duke’s manners and social graces could not be faulted, he treated everyone, whether their station in life was great or small, with the same courtesy and compassion. His simultaneous gentlemanliness and disregard for empty custom had always inspired Adam to cultivate an independent mind and to refrain from adhering to rules that he believed to be foolish merely because they were the ‘done’ thing.

  So convinced was the Duke of Mary Warwick’s talent regarding music that he had even suggested that the lady instruct Adam in music, to supplement that which he learned at school. Those hours spent at the piano had always made Adam extremely fond of Mary Warwick, and not a little in love with her, as young boys will often fall in love with a pretty young woman who is far too old to be interested in him.

  In time, Mary had come to occupy a position somewhere in between that of a maid and a governess, and the Duke permitted her to give music lessons to supplement her income. She had in return always remained devoted to the Duke’s service and played and sang for him whenever he might have asked.

  When Adam had come away from Lawley Hall, first to attend Eton then later Cambridge, he had always returned home to a warm and friendly welcome from Mary.

  He had never been able to fathom why Mrs. Reynolds had not much liked the girl. But then again, Mrs. Reynolds was a very traditional sort of housekeeper, and perhaps it was hardly surprising that she did not care for a woman who blurred the boundaries of social position in the way that Mary Warwick did.

  However, four years ago, Mary had been sent away from Lawley Hall, under circumstances that no one cared to disclose in any great deal.

  Adam was presently reliving the strangeness of that day when he had come home to find Mary gone, and the rest of the household tight-lipped regarding her absence, when he came across one of his father’s tenant farmers walking along the road in the opposite direction.

  Adam hailed him directly.

  “Mr. Roberts! It has been too long! How goes it with you?”

  “Very well, sir,” the farmer replied but said no more. He looked a little uncomfortable that Adam attributed to the strangeness of addressing him as ‘sir’, rather than the title ‘My Lord’ that he had held since his first-and-twentieth birthday.

  “I take it you have had a fair harvest this year,” Adam continued genially. He was trying to behave as though he had never been away, but had been standing in country lanes and commentating on the state of harvests for as long as anyone cared to remember. The pretense was an uncomfortable one, and he knew this discomfort was being conveyed in his tone.

  His discomfort, however, was matched by the expression on Mr. Roberts’ face.

  “Fair enough, sir,” was all that he said in response.

  “Very good.”

  In his time abroad, Adam had missed encounters like this — simple, easy pleasantries with men he knew well, men who shared his mother tongue and with whom he did not need to navigate strange customs.

  So why, Adam wondered to himself, even as he continued to nod and smile at Mr. Roberts, is it that I discern so much distrust in the man’s face that I almost believe myself to be untrustworthy?

  Almost, but not quite. If Adam had less of a strong sense of himself, then he might have started to believe that he really was at fault, whenever people like Farmer Roberts regarded him so coldly.

  It was becoming evident to him, the longer he stood there, that Mr. Roberts had no wish to speak to him, and it was only deference to Adam’s rank preventing the man from avoiding him altogether. Once the surprise had faded from the farmer’s features, it was replaced by outright hostility.

  “I do not wish to keep you any longer than needed, sir,” Mr. Roberts said presently.

  “Not at all, Roberts,” Adam replied. He did not know why he was continuing to speak in this tone of forced joviality when it was so clear that Roberts wanted nothing more than to quit the conversation. “It is good to see you again after so long.”

  Roberts did not say anything to indicate that the feeling was mutual, but stayed silent.

  “Good day then,” Adam said at length, lifting his hat.

  Roberts bowed, but Adam thought he had never seen such a grudging action in all his life. Even after the farmer had disappeared down the road on his way, the hostility in the air remained palpable.

  Well, I suppose that answers the question of whether or not the community thinks me guilty of this dreadful crime, Adam thought grimly to himself. Was he to remain a stranger in his own land for the rest of his life? How might he ever carve out for himself a home or a family, when his own father banished him, and the people around whom he had grown up were treating him like a pariah?

  No young lady would even entertain the idea of marrying such a man. Certainly none of the heiresses whom Adam knew he ought to set his sights upon if only to save himself from financial ruin.

  But, if Adam was being truthful with himself, he knew that it was not heiresses that he cared most about. If he did not clear his name, then no woman of virtue would be shielded from the rumors forever. Even though the accusations against Adam were false and nothing had been proven in a court of law, the court of society was far harsher.

  No young lady of virtue would involve herself with such a man, and certainly not anyone who was supposed to be a paragon of Christian virtue. Certainly no one like the vicar’s bright-eyed daughter.

  Adam was not the sort of young man to take an insult lying down, particularly when he had good motivation to defend himself. And the thought of being able to spend more time with Mis
s Miller was motivation indeed.

  Chapter 7

  Charity had always been encouraged by her father to give alms to the poor. The first incidence of this direction from her father had come on the occasion of her christening and had been reinforced ever since.

  “I do not feel particularly charitable,” she had once remarked to Esther on one of their stolen walks in the woods. “I feel a great many things — impatient, eager, energetic, curious — but I rarely feel charitable.” At that, she had sighed. “I suppose one’s parents name one after the person they think one ought to be, and it has very little to do with the person that one ends up being.”