Married By Midnight (Pembroke Palace Book 4)

by Julianne MacLean

  This was his sanctuary, his place of private reflection, where he researched the newest methods of scientific investigation. She was exceedingly proud of him, and pleased that he derived so much pleasure from his work. He often said it was what gave his life meaning, even when he had been forced to endure certain disappointments.

  He was referring, of course, to the loss of his great love—Charlotte’s mother Adelaide, now the dowager duchess of Pembroke. It had been years since Charlotte and Dr. Thomas spoke of it, but she knew the hole in his heart would remain there forever, just as the hole in her own heart would always be a part of her. “Like father like daughter,” he once said to her. “We are two peas in a pod.” Not exactly, however, for his lost love was still alive and now attainable. There was hope for them yet.

  “William,” Charlotte said with a warm smile, still standing in the doorway as he approached her from behind, having just exited one of the examination rooms.

  They were on intimate enough terms to use their given names, at least in private, but he refused to let her call him Papa. It was not to be acknowledged.

  “My darling girl,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “What brings you to London? Another meeting with your publisher, I suspect? They must be so pleased with the success of your book.”

  “Yes, and they are eager for me to finish the next one. My editor had all sorts of questions about it this morning.”

  “What sorts of questions?” he asked as he moved into the room and closed the door behind them.

  Charlotte took a seat in the leather chair in front of the desk and told him more about her meeting.

  After they had caught up on each other’s news, Charlotte sat forward on the edge of her chair and folded her hands primly on top of her reticule. “Did I mention that Mother is here in London as well?” she asked. “We intend to stay for what’s left of the Season and will probably attend the theatre this week. Thursday, perhaps. Tomorrow we will walk in the park. What plans do you have this week, William? Anything of note?”

  She spoke in a light, casual tone, so as not to ram too forcefully through the gate in the first five minutes, for she firmly believed that matchmaking required a certain... subtlety. The persons involved in the potential match must not feel they are being pressured, persuaded, or manipulated. They must believe they alone are the source of the attraction, and that they are making their own choices without any outside influences. They must each believe they are holding the reins.

  Dr. Thomas sat back in his chair, removed his spectacles and laid them on the desk. “My plans for the week,” he replied, “involve a great deal of research and reading. Which is exciting enough for a man like me.”

  She inclined her head at him. “What do you mean? A man like you. You speak as though you are a dull sort of fellow, which is the farthest thing from the truth. Your work is fascinating. I am sure Mother would love to hear about all your latest research. She is very much looking forward to our walk in the park tomorrow. The coachman will take us to Marble Arch entrance around two o’clock, I believe. I do hope it will be a fair day. If it rains, we will hold off until the following day, but two o’clock is such a fine time to walk in the park, don’t you agree? And Marble Arch is a convenient spot to begin. It is not far from here.”

  Dr. Thomas inclined his head and studied her with some curiosity.

  Charlotte forced herself to stop talking, for she was quite sure her subtlety had just slipped from her grip like a wet frog and was hopping like mad out the open window.

  “Are you trying to play the matchmaker, Charlotte?” he asked with an amused look on his face.

  She found herself relaxing, and chuckled softly as she dropped her gaze. “There it is. My secret is out. You know me too well, I suppose. I thought I could lure you innocently to the park, where you would take one look at Mother and remember what you were to each other at one time.” Her gaze lifted. “You haven’t seen her since the funeral. That was two years ago.”

  “How is she doing?” Dr. Thomas asked with a genuine note of compassion in his tone. “I know it wasn’t easy for her in those final days before the duke slipped away.”

  “You were a great comfort to her,” Charlotte told him, leaning forward to clasp and squeeze his hand on the desk. “I don’t know what we would have done without you. Not just in those final days, but in all the years when he was so...” She couldn’t finish, for there were no proper words other than confused, delusional, impossible to care for. Pitiful.

  “I was happy to be of service,” Dr. Thomas said. “You know how much I care for you and your mother, and for all of your brothers.”

  Garrett especially—her twin—for he, too, was Dr. Thomas’s natural child, and now a surgeon himself. They worked together occasionally at the medical school in London.

  “I do know it,” Charlotte replied, “which is why I have come. I would like to see Mother find happiness again. I thought perhaps you and she might like to spend some time together.”

  “You have given this a lot of thought,” he said with a smile.

  “Yes,” she openly admitted. “So what do you say? Could you join us tomorrow for a walk in the park?”

  Dr. Thomas slowly pulled his hand from her grasp and sat back in his chair. He was quiet for a long moment, and his cool withdrawal caused a knot of discomfort to form in her belly.

  “I appreciate the invitation,” he said, “but I am afraid I must decline. I am sorry, Charlotte, but your Mother and I had our chance many years ago. She chose to marry the duke.”

  “But it wasn’t really her choice,” Charlotte argued. “I know what happened that night before the wedding. She only went through with it to protect you.”

  “I didn’t need her protection,” he said. “All I wanted was her.” Then he quickly shook his head, waved his hand as if to erase the conversation, and rose from his chair to stand in front of the window. “I don’t want to discuss it any further. I care deeply for you and Adelaide, but please understand that I cannot pursue the very thing that nearly broke me on so many different occasions. I loved your mother and I dreamed of her for years, but then the time came for me to move on with my life and accept the fact that we were not meant to be together.”

  “But she is free at last,” Charlotte argued as she watched him stare out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “Won’t you consider giving it one more try?”

  He faced her. “I am sorry, Charlotte. I am Adelaide’s friend now, but nothing more.”

  Charlotte stood up and approached him. “Please do not give up so easily. Things are different now. She is a widow. She can do as she wishes.”

  “And what is it, exactly, that she wishes to do?” he asked. “Do you even know?” He regarded her with a knitted brow. “Did she send you here? Or is this your idea, alone?”

  Charlotte looked down at the floor. “She doesn’t know I am here. I didn’t want to push her. Or you, for that matter. I had hoped we could simply encounter each other by accident at the park tomorrow.”

  “I see.” He sat down on the window ledge and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he looked up and inhaled deeply. “You must put this out of your mind, my dear. When I told you I had moved on with my life, I meant it. You say your mother is free at last, but the fact is...” He paused. “I am not.”

  He may as well have thrown a glass of cold water in her face. Charlotte stepped back. “I don’t understand.”

  He couldn’t be married. She was his daughter. He would have told her. Wouldn’t he?

  “I have been courting someone,” he said.

  Charlotte swallowed uneasily. “Is there an agreement between you?” she asked as a sickening mixture of dread and disbelief flooded into her stomach. “Do you intend to marry her?”

  “That is the direction it has been heading for quite some time,” he replied. “She is a lovely woman—also a widow—and completely devoted to me. I have been a disappointed bachelor all my life, but she adores m
e, Charlotte. I hope you can be happy for me.”

  Charlotte looked into her father’s eyes and felt a painful, aching love in her heart. Of course she wanted him to be happy, but she had wanted a happily ever after for herself as well. She had believed she could accomplish that by watching her true parents come together at last, fall in love all over again, and walk down the aisle while the family threw white flower petals at them.

  But clearly that was not to be.

  Somehow Charlotte found the strength to smile and take hold of his hand. “Of course I am happy for you,” she said. “And I hope to meet this woman one day soon. She must be very special.”

  “I believe so,” he said. “But let us take it one day at a time, shall we? I will introduce you when the time is right.” He moved to fetch his spectacles from the desk. “Now I must see a patient, my dear.”

  “Of course. I will take my leave.” Charlotte gathered up her reticule from the chair.

  A few minutes later, she was standing outside on the breezy street, waving to her coachman who had parked a few doors down, and fighting a severe wave of disappointment. How many years had she dreamed of seeing her true parents finally reunited? The tragedy of their love affair always seemed so unfinished. She had truly believed a happy ending was possible for them.

  Perhaps it was her way of dealing with her own lost love. Perhaps, by bringing her parents back together, it would have proved that the cracks and breaks in one’s heart could actually be repaired one day. But it was not to be, and she was terribly unsettled by it. She had been so sure that William and Adelaide would end up together. Was she truly a foolish dreamer? Was she living in a fantasy world?

  The coach pulled up in front of her. She was about to step inside and return to Pembroke House when a giant lump formed in her throat. Good Lord. She couldn’t possibly face her mother until she collected herself.

  She turned to her driver. “I’m afraid I am not ready to go back yet. I would like to take a walk.” She pointed down the street. “I’ll just go to that corner and turn up that street there. I’ll be back here in a quarter of an hour.”

  “Would you like George to accompany you?” the coachman asked.

  The footman stepped forward. “It would be my pleasure my lady.”

  She gave him an appreciative smile. “Thank you, but I would prefer to be alone with my thoughts. I shan’t be long.”

  With that, she started down the street and turned at the corner.

  It was a quiet residential neighborhood into which she had ventured, and she strode at a brisk pace along the cement walk, looking around at the townhouses and wondering who lived in them—anything to take her mind off her botched attempt at matchmaking, and the fact that her real parents were never going to be together.

  Then suddenly, rapid footsteps pounded along the pavement behind her. She stopped to look back, wondering if there was some sort of emergency. Before she had a chance to make sense of the man who was barrelling towards her, he grabbed hold of her reticule.

  “What are you doing?” she cried as she gripped the purse tighter, refusing to let go.

  The thief tugged harder and nearly swung her around. “Let go of it!” he shouted.

  “I will not!” she replied as she leaned back to pull with all her might.

  Charlotte had been raised with four brothers who were not above playing rough with her when they were children, and for that reason she was made of stern stuff. Nevertheless, she was completely astonished when the man shoved her back into the wrought iron fence in front of one of the townhouses. Her head snapped back and a sharp pain resonated in her skull. She was barely aware of her knees buckling as the world spun circles in front of her eyes, and she crumpled to the ground in a haze of white.

  Chapter Three

  DRAKE TORRINGTON WAS just exiting his townhouse when the sound of a lady’s voice from across the street drew his attention.

  “I will not!” she screamed.

  He spotted her just as she was knocked into the fence by a scoundrel who made off with her purse.

  Drake leaped down the steps, darted across the street, and reached the woman in a matter of seconds. “Are you hurt?” he asked, kneeling down to lay a hand on her shoulder, for she had collapsed.

  She seemed dazed by the strike to the head, but then she frowned up at him with a pair of gleaming blue eyes that upset his balance, for he hadn’t seen a woman so beautiful in years. Perhaps never.

  “I am fine, thank you sir,” she said as she struggled to rise, “but that man has stolen my reticule. I want it back.”

  He helped her to her feet. “You’re certain you are all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait here, then.” He took off after the thief who had paused foolishly at the corner to rummage through the contents of the purse.

  Drake sprinted towards him. He looked up in surprise, then turned to make a run for it.

  Reaching into his pocket, Drake grabbed his watch—a conveniently heavy piece of gold weaponry—and pitched it at the back of the man’s head.

  The strike was spot on. The bandit tripped and tumbled forward to the ground. Disoriented, he rose up on his hands and knees and shook his head like a wet dog just as Drake came upon him, grabbed him by the lapels, and pulled him to his feet.

  Drake shook him. “Hand it over, scoundrel, or I’ll knock your brains out.”

  The thief refused to part with it. He threw a flimsy punch, which by some dumb stroke of luck connected with Drake’s jaw. The pain reverberated through his skull and sparked his blood into red-hot flames of savage aggression.

  It had been years since Drake had enjoyed a good fight, and he wondered what happened to his old instincts, for there was once a time he would have anticipated and easily skirted such a watered-down blow. His pride bucked violently in response, and a heartbeat or two later, the thief was sprawled out unconscious on the pavement, while Drake stood over him, feet braced apart, flexing his bloodied fist.

  The noises of the street had somehow faded away. All he could hear was the slow beat of his own heart, like a continuous rumble of thunder in his ears. Then he realized his heart was actually beating quite fast.

  As his body rhythms returned to a more natural pace, reality came crashing back. He dropped to his knees to check the man’s pulse at his neck. He was still alive. Drake removed the reticule from the man’s possession, rose to his feet, and turned around to discover the lady with the giant blue eyes standing only a few feet away, staring at him in shock.

  Charlotte felt slightly dizzy and considerably alarmed as she locked gazes with the man who had retrieved her reticule. Naturally, she was grateful that he had come to her rescue, but after witnessing such a shocking display of violence, she felt no safer now than she had when the thief first came upon her.

  She had watched every heated second of the fisticuffs, and had recognized the force of the gentleman’s blow. Her breath had hitched in her throat when the thief was propelled backwards through the air, as if he had been rammed, head-on, by a raging bull at full gallop.

  Glancing down at her rescuer’s big brawny fist and bloody knuckles—then down at the lifeless form on the ground behind him—she carefully asked, “Is he alive?” It would be a miracle if he were.

  “Yes.” The gentleman’s voice was husky and low, barely more than a whisper, and she was riveted on the spot. “I believe this is yours,” he added as he stepped forward and held out her reticule.

  Charlotte stood utterly still as he drew near, for she felt rather breathless. From a distance she had known he was a tall man, but now she could sense—and feel—the looming power of his massive male brawn. His chest was thick, his shoulders wide, though his torso narrowed down to slender hips and undoubtedly strong legs.

  “And this must be yours,” she replied, holding out his pocket watch, which she had picked up on the street a moment ago. “It appears to still be working.”

  As they made the exchange, Charlotte felt a shiver m
ove through her. She wasn’t sure what was causing it. She told herself there was nothing to fear. Judging by the way her rescuer was dressed—he wore a fine black frock coat, silk top hat and shiny black shoes—and the fact that he lived, or at least knew someone who lived, in this fashionable neighborhood, he was a gentleman.

  Nevertheless, her head was spinning like a top, for there was very little about him outside of the clothes that seemed the least bit refined. He was coarse-looking, like a laborer. Crude, even. Perhaps it was the way he moved with a swagger that was particularly threatening after what she had just witnessed.

  Or perhaps it was his rugged facial features. His eyes were a pale shade of bluish-grey, his nose was misshapen, as if it may have been broken a few times in the past, and there were scars on his cheekbones, and evidence of an old gash through one of his eyebrows. His upper lip was scarred as well.

  Was he a barbarian warrior in another life? She could easily imagine it—this man, with his huge, scarred, muscled body, standing shirtless in battle, swinging a sword in one hand, wielding a dagger in the other, his eyes burning with bloodlust.

  Stop it, Charlotte.

  “That was quite a punch,” she said. “How is your hand?”

  He flexed it a few times and looked down at his bloodied knuckles. His fingers were thick. So were his wrists. “It’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t look like fine to me,” she replied. “I daresay you did some damage, on both sides.” She looked up and down the quiet street. “Should we send for someone? A constable perhaps? Or a doctor?” The side of her head was throbbing. A bump was probably forming already.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” he said in that husky, mesmerizing voice. “I live just there.” He pointed at his townhouse, a few doors down. “If you will accompany me, madam, I will send one of my servants to fetch assistance, and I promise this man will be arrested.”

  “Is it wise to leave him here?” Charlotte asked. “What if he wakes up and runs off?”

  “I will have him brought inside right away.”