The Unmarriageable Collection (Books 1–3)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “Such as what?” Cecily asked, apparently intrigued.

  “Getting well,” Charlotte said lightly. “I was a sickly child.”

  Shortly afterward, Lady Barnaby declared it time for her and Cecily to continue their journey.

  “I have enjoyed meeting you,” Cecily said with engaging impulsiveness. “May I write to you?”

  “Of course, if you would like to,” Charlotte replied, surprised. She didn’t actually suppose the mercurial beauty would write. She was more likely to have forgotten Charlotte by Finsborough, which would be for the best. For her own peace of mind, Charlotte should avoid all contact with Alvan’s connections.

  *

  Alvan’s days at Mooreton Hall were no longer full enough. To stave off the blackness, he took up physical work on the farm he ran on his own vast estate. It was there that his brother Julius found him about a fortnight after his return from Audley Park.

  “Bit beneath your dignity, isn’t it?” Julius said, leaning against the gate.

  Alvan threw down his hoe. “Very little is beneath my dignity. How much do you want?”

  “Why should you assume I’ve come to touch you for money?” Julius demanded, aggrieved.

  “Because you should be in Oxford.”

  “It’s a trifling debt, but don’t lecture me, for I have learned my lesson. No more high stakes.”

  “Everyone knows you’re my brother. They’re lining up to fleece you. It’s fleecing me by proxy.”

  “What’s made you so grumpy?” Julius asked, straightening to walk with him back toward the house.

  “I’m not grumpy.”

  Julius laughed and clapped him on the back, and he was obliged to smile. In truth, he was glad to see his madcap young brother who was generally good company.

  Only over dinner, when he had drunk far too much wine, did Julius touch the raw nerve.

  “So, did your suit not prosper?”

  Alvan scowled at him and threw the remaining content of his glass down his throat. “No, not exactly.”

  Julius looked stunned, which might or might not have been flattering. “How come? I thought all the females were dangling after you.”

  “So did I.” But the only one he wanted wouldn’t have him. She didn’t like him enough. Or perhaps at all. He hadn’t behaved well and yet he’d thought… he’d thought he’d found her. Without her, the blackness seemed inevitable. He shrugged impatiently and reached for the decanter. “I misjudged.”

  “Misjudged what?” Julius asked curiously.

  “Everything. Character, family loyalty. Affection.”

  “I can’t believe Thomasina Maybury turned down the Duke of Alvan. What on earth did you do to offend her?”

  “Thomasina? Nothing.” He let out a bark of laughter that clearly startled Julius. Except waiting too long to ask. And offering for her sister, of course, which he doubted she knew. Her vulgar jealousy-mongering trick merely gave him the excuse he needed, for in truth, he could never have married Thomasina now that he loved her sister.

  Love, he thought with loathing, and drained his glass again. “Tell me about your debts, Julius. They’re bound to be more interesting.”

  Julius, having raised his spirits in the evening, departed the following morning for Oxford, a slightly worried frown on his face, which Alvan did his best to dispel with cheerful remarks.

  But when Julius had gone, he finally gave in to the inevitable, and let the darkness come.

  *

  Much to Charlotte’s surprise, she received a letter from Lady Cecily within the week. It was a witty and amusing epistle, so much like her actual speech that it made Charlotte smile. She read parts of it out to entertain her father and Thomasina, who was at first outraged that anyone of the duke’s family should correspond with her, and then seemed to realize how foolish she was being. She still looked morose, but at least Lord Overton chuckled.

  Charlotte wrote back. With difficulty, she refrained from asking for news of the duke, contenting herself with accounts of the neighborhood doings that she hoped would amuse her new friend.

  It was the beginning of a regular correspondence that helped raise Charlotte’s spirits over the following month. She worked hard to think of Lady Cecily as quite separate from the Duke of Alban, and for the most part, she succeeded. Only occasionally did the knowledge rise to the front of her mind, and gave her secret comfort. This was as close as she would ever come to him.

  In one of her letters, she mentioned that Thomasina was a little under the weather. A few days later came the reply, which read,

  I am sorry to hear that Miss Maybury is unwell. Sadly, so is my aunt, and we have resolved to go north into Cumberland, to Blackhaven, which is considered to have wildly beneficial waters, far more so than Bath or any of the other English spas. Here, we hope, she will recover her health and spirits. What I also hope is that you and Miss Maybury might join us so that she, too, can recover with the miraculous waters. I have enclosed a letter to your father from my aunt requesting your company, which I assure you, I shall die of boredom in Blackhaven without! And of course, I have long hoped to meet Miss Maybury.

  “Good God, no,” Thomasina exclaimed aghast when Charlotte read it out at the breakfast table. “Everyone would say I was still pursuing the duke!”

  “Well, maybe that isn’t such a bad idea,” their father said. “You never know what may come of friendship with his sister.”

  “Nothing, I doubt,” Charlotte said. “I believe they see little of each other, for she resides with Lady Barnaby. Oh, do let’s go, Tommie, it will be better than sitting here moping, and you have been so low these last few weeks, perhaps you do need to take the Blackhaven cure.”

  “I would rather go to Brighton,” Thomasina said. “You would like that, would you not, Eliza?”

  Eliza, who, without Horatio, tended to wander the house and grounds like a wraith, nodded obligingly.

  “I suppose we could go to Brighton for a week or two,” Overton allowed.

  Thomasina smiled. “There, then that’s decided. Of course, you may go on your own to Blackhaven with Lady Cecily, Charlotte.”

  She so clearly didn’t imagine that her sister would dare do such a thing that Charlotte said flatly, “I believe I shall.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A little over a week later, having spent the previous night at Lady Barnaby’s London house, Charlotte set off with Cecily and her aunt. They travelled at a brisk pace, since the duke kept horses stabled along most of the main roads in the country for his family’s use.

  “Oh, we’re making a slight detour tonight,” Cecily said apologetically, “just to call in on my brother, and then we’ll be on our way in the morning.”

  Charlotte’s stomach twisted. “Call on the duke?” she asked, just to be sure.

  “Of course! There’s no point at all in calling on Julius, for he won’t give you as much as a cup of tea. If you like sherry, you’d be fine.”

  “Cecily!” scolded her aunt.

  Cecily smiled quite unrepentantly. “You know it’s true. But Alvan will give one a very decent dinner and an opulent bedchamber before he throws one out in the morning.”

  “Do you have to make your brothers sound quite so inhospitable?” Lady Barnaby demanded.

  “No, but now, expecting grudging hospitality, Charlotte will be delighted with the merely careless. If he is in that mood.”

  Charlotte smiled weakly, wondering how she would cope. One half of her rejoiced, longing to see him again, even grudging. The rest was afraid of reading indifference in his eyes, or utter dislike. Or simply making her own impossible feelings worse.

  Thomasina had been right to avoid this. Cravenly, she wished she, too, had gone to Brighton.

  The duke’s main seat was in Lincolnshire, a county Charlotte had never visited before. The light was fading as they passed through the town of Lincoln with its fine medieval cathedral perched on a hill overlooking all.

  “It’s just about an hour from
here,” Lady Barnaby said, closing her eyes “and then we may rest.”

  Charlotte doubted very much that rest would be possible but managed a grateful smile.

  “How surprised he’s going to be,” Cecily said with satisfaction.

  Lady Barnaby’s eyes flew open again. “Surprised? Cecily, you did write to him as you said?”

  “I meant to, but I forgot,” Cecily said apologetically. “But I hardly think we need to worry. The house is run by a positive army of servants and I have yet to see Mrs. Neville put out by any unforeseen circumstance, let alone three extra covers for dinner.”

  This was getting worse by the moment. What would he think of her? Would he imagine she had put Cecily up to such a trick? Surely not. He must know his sister that much.

  Her heart beat a violent tattoo as they drove up the well-maintained drive and the massive house came into view. As the carriage drew nearer, she realized that the apparently even, symmetrical façade was in fact, a mixture of new and old blended together almost seamlessly. Climbing down from the carriage, she looked up and up at the vast array of windows. Would Thomasina really have liked to be the mistress of this? It made Audley Park look like a country cottage by comparison.

  Liveried servants dashed out with more lights. Stable boys materialized to care for the horses. Cecily, who seemed excited to be here—it was her home, after all, even if she had not lived in it much—swept Charlotte up the imposing front steps, greeting the superior butler with apparent delight.

  “Granton, how are you? You’re looking very well indeed! How is Mrs. Granton? Charlotte, this is Granton, who has always been here. And Mrs. Neville, the housekeeper,” she added as a well-dressed, comely woman of middle years hurried across the huge entrance hall, which looked more like the great hall of a medieval castle. “Sorry about this, Mrs. Neville. I failed to write to his grace to say we would stay the night.”

  The housekeeper’s quick exchange of glances with the butler was not lost on Charlotte. They did not seem displeased precisely, more… alarmed, which intrigued as well as worried Charlotte.

  “Come in and sit by the fire,” Mrs. Neville urged, “while his grace is informed of your arrival. He… he hasn’t been well.”

  “Oh dear,” Cecily said, searching the older woman’s face, while Charlotte’s stomach tugged with anxiety. Somehow, she knew they were not discussing a cold. “Is he in bed?”

  “No, my lady, I don’t believe so. We were just delaying dinner until we found him. Let me take your cloak, Lady Barnaby. I’ll send in refreshments.”

  There was a roaring fire at the far end of the hall, surrounded by sofas to create a cozy area as large as most normal reception rooms. A servant lit more candles, making that part of the hall even brighter and more welcoming. Even so, Charlotte was surprised the duke’s family hadn’t been taken to somewhere more private.

  “I think we have come at a… bad time,” Charlotte said nervously, sitting down by Lady Barnaby.

  “Oh, no, there is never a bad time,” Cecily assured her. “Alvan is merely eccentric in his habits, which you may not have noticed when he stayed with you, for he would have been on his best behavior. Don’t worry, I know where he will be! I’ll be back with him in just a few moments!”

  Cecily abandoned her ratafia, leaving Lady Barnaby and Charlotte alone by the great fireplace while she ran up the marble staircase. After a little, Lady Barnaby smiled reassuringly and allowed her eyes to close. Charlotte rose and took the glass from her relaxing fingers just in time. She had just set both glasses down on the tall mantle shelf when the front door slammed and she spun around in startlement.

  A large, rough looking man strode across the great hall in his shirt sleeves, a coat of some kind held negligently over his shoulder. His too-long hair was wild and unkempt and a beard covered a good part of his face.

  Perhaps her sudden movement caught his attention, for his head turned toward her.

  “Send dinner up n—” He broke off, halting and staring at her.

  She stared back, for the stranger’s voice tugged something more than mere memory. This could not be the cool, refined duke, this wild, barbarian… who bore similar features and issued orders as if he lived here.

  “You,” he said hoarsely. “You cannot be here.” Rubbing his forehead just above the eyes as though that would make her disappear, he paced nearer.

  The civil words of greeting she had rehearsed—indeed any words at all—fled before the reality she could never have imagined. She could not look away from his sunken eyes, which were dull and black and yet somehow writhed with torment.

  “You do not speak,” he whispered, coming to a halt right in front of her. She could not move away for the fireplace at her back. “Of course you do not, you are not real.”

  She tried to speak, but he raised his hands, and at the first touch of his cold fingers on her throat, words fled once more. Firm, yet gentle, his hands slid up to cup her jaw while his agonized eyes devoured her. With startling suddenness, he pounced, seizing her mouth with his in a hard, somehow despairing kiss. Still, everything in her seemed to leap in blind, helpless response.

  And then he just stopped, jerking up his head to stare at her.

  With a snort, Lady Barnaby woke up. Panicked, Charlotte grasped his wrist to make him release her.

  “Alvan!” his aunt barked. “She’s your guest, you don’t need to inspect her quite so closely.”

  His hands dropped as though burned, and he stepped back, again rubbing his forehead so hard it looked as if he’d crush his skull if he could.

  “I beg pardon,” he muttered. “I’m not well. Fever. Or something.”

  At that moment, Cecily flew down the staircase, calling joyfully, “Alvan! There you are!”

  Alvan turned, staring at his sister. But when she launched herself into his arms, they closed about her, convulsively.

  “I’m so sorry, I should have warned you,” Cecily said, pulling back. “We’re going to Blackhaven and I’ve persuaded Miss Charlotte Maybury to join us.”

  A frown of bewilderment had formed on Alvan’s brow, then, deliberately, he smoothed it.

  “I’m not dressed for dinner. Give me ten minutes. Aunt. Miss Charlotte.” With this semblance of civility at the last, he strode away, running up the staircase as if he couldn’t wait to escape.

  Charlotte dragged her gaze back to Cecily. “What is wrong with him?” she asked brokenly. “Is he fevered?”

  “No,” Cecily replied ruefully. “It’s not fever.” She glanced at her aunt, then back to Charlotte. “He will be right as rain in a few days, but he is subject to melancholia. Julius, my younger brother wrote the other week to say there were some signs, so I wanted to check on him. Sometimes he can lift himself out of it before… before this.”

  I should not be here… oh God, how do I help him?

  Cecily took her hands. “Charlotte, do you think your sister broke his heart?”

  Stricken, Charlotte stared at her. “Maybe,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Lady Barnaby said crossly. “Hearts do not break, and Alvan’s melancholia was well established before he ever met Miss Maybury. Or any other member of your family. Ah, here is Mrs. Neville to show us to our chambers. We need not change for dinner.”

  *

  Inevitably, the guest bedchambers were large, grand affairs with old but comfortable furnishings. Charlotte admired the embroidery on her bed hangings and the view from her window across the flat, curiously attractive fens.

  Having washed her hands and face, and repinned her hair, she sat on the end of the bed to wait for Cecily and try to calm her agitation.

  The hall’s splendor was of a different caliber to that which Charlotte was used to, but as she accompanied Cecily along wide passages with vaulted ceilings, and down grandly carved staircases, she found herself more fascinated than overwhelmed. She imagined Alvan and Cecily as small children running loose about the grandeur, laughing a
nd playing the games all children played. And then, she imagined Alvan alone here after the death of his parents, with just governors and tutors and occasionally an uncle for companionship.

  Her own family had always been large, noisy, and chaotic as it travelled around the world, quarrels and disagreements vanishing when support was needed. She remembered the kindness of her sisters, and even her little brothers when she’d been ill. She didn’t know if Alvan’s “melancholia” was an illness or not, but he must have been left alone to deal with it, apart from odd visits from his brother and sister.

  Her heart drummed as a footman opened the door to the dining room. “This is the family dining room,” Cecily explained. “There’s a massive banqueting hall, too, for entertaining, but this is much cozier.”

  Cozy was not an atmosphere Charlotte anticipated as she entered, her heart in her mouth.

  Lady Barnaby was already seated, the duke beside her chair as though they had been talking.

  He took her breath away.

  More properly dressed in a black coat and white cravat at his collar, he had been shaved and his too long hair brushed back from his face. It was not a fashionable look but to Charlotte it was devastatingly attractive. Apart from the blackness which lurked still in his eyes.

  “Miss Charlotte,” he greeted her distantly, just as if he had not held her face and kissed her almost to oblivion less than half an hour before.

  “Your grace,” she murmured, going to sit at his other side as indicated. Cecily sat beside her, and dinner was served.

  After six weeks of loss and longing, it felt strangely unreal to be sitting beside him, doing something as mundane as dining. Cecily and Lady Barnaby carried the conversation, talking to him about the land, the people, and some farm of his own that he appeared to run on the estate. They drew Charlotte in, too, and the duke contributed civil answers. Being who they were, the siblings infused the conversation with humor and wit, but Charlotte was very aware that he held himself rigid throughout. She ached for him, because he wanted to be anywhere but here.