Miss Hurst blinked, and it was clear that she wasn’t quite sure what to make of this statement. Nor was she the only one. Was his aunt hinting that girls ought to allow gentlemen liberties? He was beginning to rethink the choice of Aunt Florence for a chaperone. But he’d had no idea she had such…radical notions of what constituted acceptable behavior.
“Aunt Florence, you’re going to give Miss Hurst a poor impression of us, talking like that.” He turned to Miss Hurst. “My family doesn’t, as a rule, condone fast behavior.”
“Speak for yourself, Nevvy,” his aunt retorted. “Times were different in my youth, to be sure. Then no one minded a bit of slap and tickle, as long as the gentleman intended to come up to scratch in the end.”
“Yes, well…” William cleared his throat uncertainly. “I don’t really know how to respond to that,” he muttered under his breath.
Miss Hurst offered him a sympathetic smile.
Harry chose that moment to disentangle himself from his owner’s affectionate embrace and jump across the gap between the seats, landing squarely on William’s lap, precisely in that area of a man’s anatomy that was sensitive to blows of any kind.
He couldn’t quite stifle his gasp of pain. Harry was fourteen pounds (give or take), thanks to Aunt Flo’s habit of frequently feeding her darling tidbits of his favorite foods. Without a word, since he was suffering through the pain with a clenched jaw and tightly pressed lips, he brushed Harry off his lap onto the leather seat in the space between them. Miss Hurst, to her credit, pretended not to notice his obvious discomfort.
“Harry,” Aunt Florence scolded. “Be nice. You know better than to jump on people.”
Unperturbed, Harry bumped his head against Miss Hurst’s right arm. He continued to meow and bump against her arm until she reached over and scratched between his ears. Once again the sound of Harry’s purring filled the carriage.
No one spoke for a few minutes. Miss Hurst’s attention was solely focused on the cat, which he suspected was her considerate way of allowing him time to recover from Harry’s unexpected leap onto his groin. Aunt Florence appeared to have dozed off, and before long, she began to snore, the sound mingling with Harry’s contented purring. The carriage ride, William noted with irony, was not precisely unfolding as he’d envisioned it, and he couldn’t decide whether he preferred his aunt’s company when she was awake or asleep. He could only imagine what Miss Hurst’s impression of all this was.
After a while, William felt more himself. Miss Hurst was no longer petting the cat, who was now busy giving his chest a tongue bath. Less preoccupied with his own discomfort, he noticed with some concern that Miss Hurst seemed to be suffering from some discomfort of her own. Sitting quite stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, she reminded him of his youngest sister, Amelia, who suffered bouts of stomach sickness during carriage rides. Perhaps Miss Hurst also suffered from that malady, although she’d seemed fine riding in his curricle yesterday. Or maybe she only became sick while riding in a closed carriage.
Just then, an odd hiccup-like sound escaped her, deepening his suspicion that she did suffer from the same condition that plagued his sister.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. But since the declaration was obviously pushed through clenched teeth, he didn’t believe it for a moment. The last thing this evening needed was for Miss Hurst to cast up her accounts in the carriage.
“If you’re going to be sick, I keep a basin in the carriage for that purpose. My youngest sister, Amelia, can’t ride in a carriage without one.”
At his words, a peal of laughter burst from her before she could clap a hand over her mouth, and he watched in bemusement as she bent forward in convulsions of muffled laughter. Apparently they wouldn’t need the basin stowed under the seat.
Finally, wiping the tears from her eyes, she straightened. Across from them, Aunt Florence, her head lulled back against the seat, snored on, and between them, Harry continued with his cat toilette, twisting himself around in an attempt to bathe his back.
“Oh my goodness,” she said. “I thought for certain I’d wake your aunt. I apologize for making a spectacle of myself. I couldn’t help it.”
“So I gathered,” he said.
“If you’re wondering what was so funny, it was a series of things.”
“Was I included in this series of funny things?”
“To a degree,” she admitted. “Mostly it was the noise being made by your aunt and her cat. One doesn’t typically hear those sounds on the way to the theater, and it struck me as funny. And then you were sitting there so stoically, which wouldn’t have seemed so amusing, except that you maintained your stoicism amid the racket. And then when you offered me a basin…not that I didn’t appreciate your solicitude, but…” She paused, and he suspected she was fighting the urge to giggle again. Finally in command of herself once more, she continued. “I don’t know why, but for some reason those elements added together just struck me as hilarious.”
“I can see where they might,” he said. “Once I wasn’t so busy being…stoic, I became aware of the more…farcical qualities of this ride.”
Harry leaped across the seats and settled himself next to his mistress, and began to lick his foreleg with vigorous motions.
“I’m beginning to rethink my aunt’s suitability as a chaperone,” William said dryly.
“It’s a moot point, don’t you think?” Charlotte asked. “It’s not as if you’re planning to take any liberties.”
He shot her a droll look. “It’s the principle of the thing. I assumed, given my aunt’s age, and her status as a spinster, that she’d be a stickler for propriety. Instead, she all but encouraged me to ravish you, and now she’s fallen asleep, giving me the opportunity to do so.”
“True, but I’m sure she trusts that you will behave as a gentleman.”
“Does she? Apparently, the Honorable Henry didn’t all those years ago.”
“But you’re not the Honorable Henry, who, from what I know of the man, didn’t live up to the honorable part of his name. It sounds as if he treated your aunt quite shabbily, having an understanding with her and then marrying a girl from the colonies without breaking it off first.”
“It’s possible the understanding only existed in Aunt Florence’s mind.” He let out a dry chuckle. “You know what’s funny? Funny in the absurd sense, that is.”
She shook her head. “What?”
“I just remembered that my aunt, on occasion, acted as a chaperone for my married sisters when they were being courted by their husbands. Which makes me wonder if any of my brothers-in-law ever took liberties with my sisters.” He wasn’t outraged exactly, but at the same time, he wasn’t entirely comfortable at the thought of this potential misconduct.
“I don’t suppose it really matters now, does it? Since they’re respectably married.”
He shrugged and sighed. “It would have been so much easier if I’d had only brothers. Thank God, Amelia is the last one left to launch into society. When she makes her come-out, I’ll be sure to employ a proper dragon to watch over her. A real fire breather to keep her in line,” he added.
“But you’re the third child. Would you be satisfied living the life of a younger son?”
Would he? Even though he felt the burden of carrying on the family legacy, and of stepping into the shoes of his father, whom he’d idolized, would he truly prefer things to be different than they were?
If he were honest, the answer would be yes, at times. But the yearning for a more carefree existence came less frequently, and he liked to think his father would be pleased with him, with his efforts to manage the family estates, ensure the welfare of their tenants, take an active role in politics.
“I have moments when I envy younger sons, but I don’t guess I’d wish for a life other than the one I have,” he said at last.
“There are times I envy sons, younger or otherwise,” she said. “Men have so much more freedom and c
hoice.”
“True, but freedom often comes with the burden of greater responsibilities.”
“Then perhaps,” she said, giving him an arch smile, “you gentlemen should hurry up and support legislation that gives us a more equitable legal standing, so we ladies could help you shoulder those burdens. As it is now, I have more legal rights as a single woman than a married one. It’s shameful that a female’s identity, legally, at least, is subsumed by her husband’s the minute the wedding vows are finalized.”
“You aren’t talking politics with the girl, are you?” Aunt Florence demanded, evidently having wakened from her nap. “Good heavens, boy! Is that the best you could come up with while I was dozing?” His great-aunt gave her hair a pat, then ran a hand across her chin. “No drool, thank goodness. Are we almost there? I hope so if you’re going to foist political talk on us.”
“In my defense, Auntie, I don’t think Miss Hurst minds.” He glanced toward Miss Hurst, who looked as if she wanted to start laughing again. “In fact, nearly from the moment we met she’s been quite emphatic about expressing her opinions.”
His aunt frowned. “Really? She seems like a nice girl. Too pretty to be a bluestocking, I should have thought.” She shrugged. “Well, no wonder you two paired up. Birds of a feather, and all that.”
William wasn’t sure what to say in response to his aunt’s observation, which managed to both compliment and insult Miss Hurst. Since he had the distinct impression that she was amused by his aunt’s pronouncement, he decided the best course would be to say nothing at all.
“Norwood,” his aunt continued, “since your sisters are joining you tonight, I hope you don’t mind if I spend the evening in Fanny Walpole’s box. I haven’t seen her in a donkey’s age.”
“I’ve no objections,” he said. “Provided you rejoin us for the ride home.”
Aunt Florence waved her hand dismissively. “Well, naturally. I’ll need you to take me home, won’t I?”
“And Miss Hurst needs a chaperone, Auntie,” he reminded her.
“She only needs the appearance of one. You’re no Henry Albers, Nephew, and that’s a fact.” The old lady gave a sad little shake of her head. “If you were, that girl”—she gestured toward Charlotte with a bony hand—“would look well-kissed right now. Henry would have taken advantage of his opportunities if my maid had nodded off like I did.”
“This is the first time I’ve been lectured for behaving,” William said. “But despite your opinion, Aunt Flo, I’m quite sure Miss Hurst appreciates my restraint.”
“Certainly, I do,” Miss Hurst murmured.
“Maybe she does, or maybe she doesn’t.” His aunt chuckled. “Sounded like a pretty lukewarm response to my ears.”
He’d also been struck by the lack of conviction in Miss Hurst’s voice, but he blamed it on his aunt’s embarrassingly outré attitude making Miss Hurst uncomfortable. Which was why he felt compelled to say, “I’m sure you misread the lady, Aunt.”
“Maybe so. You know her better than I do.” She turned toward Miss Hurst. “My girl, I apologize if I’m the reason for that pretty blush you’re sporting.”
“Truly, no apologies are necessary,” Miss Hurst said.
William had to agree with his aunt—Miss Hurst blushed most becomingly. Their gazes met, and to his amazement, her blush deepened and for a brief moment he caught a flicker of something unexpected in her eyes—an echo of that yearning he’d seen in them yesterday—making him wonder if Aunt Flo’s observation didn’t have some merit to it after all.
Was she blushing because his aunt had hit on the truth of it? William would have dismissed the notion if not for that flash of emotion he’d seen in her eyes. Did Miss Hurst feel the same tug of attraction for him that he felt for her?
The carriage drew to a halt outside the theater, effectively putting an end to the conversation, but not his curiosity. Whatever the truth of her feelings, this pretend betrothal would afford the perfect opportunity to uncover them.
Chapter Six
Once inside the theater, they parted company with Aunt Florence, who went off in search of her friend. It took Charlotte and the earl quite some time to work their way to his theater box because they were frequently stopped by acquaintances of his who wished to offer congratulations on their recent engagement. Despite this, the earl somehow managed to steer them inexorably through the crowds, and Charlotte let out a small sigh of relief when they finally reached the entrance to his box.
She disliked being the center of attention, and particularly scrutiny of this kind, where one felt rather like a specimen being examined under a magnifying glass. She’d expected to be an object of curiosity tonight, and tried to prepare herself for it, but the truth was her natural inclination ran more to avoiding the glare of attention than seeking it.
They stopped in front of a tall door that divided the hallway from the interior, and Lord Norwood helped her out of her cloak, handing it to the attendant standing nearby.
He gave a brief bow and swept his arm out gallantly. “After you,” he murmured.
Upon entering his box, Charlotte spied a gentleman and lady who already occupied a pair of the ornately carved, gilt chairs. Before Lord Norwood could even announce their arrival, the woman stood and, wearing a bright smile, began to make her way toward them.
She was dressed in the latest stare of fashion in a mulberry-colored silk gown. Her blonde hair, flawlessly curled and coiffed, framed a beautiful face, delicately featured, with slate-blue eyes startlingly like Lord Norwood’s. It wasn’t hard to deduce she was one of his sisters. Since the gentleman following in the woman’s wake possessed thick chestnut hair, Charlotte surmised this must be the Chatworths.
“William,” the lady said. “And Charlotte, my soon-to-be sister.” She reached out and took Charlotte’s hands in her own, and gave them a friendly squeeze, her gaze resting on Charlotte with an expression of genuine delight. “I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to welcome you to our family. William is the luckiest of fellows. And I’d be entirely remiss, dear Charlotte, if I didn’t say how lovely you look tonight. That blue gown sets off your eyes so beautifully. I do hope my brother remembered to pay you a pretty compliment.”
Charlotte blinked, rendered momentarily speechless by the effusiveness of this greeting, not to mention the uncertainty of how to frame an answer that didn’t cast the earl in a bad light, and also didn’t sound as if she wished for a compliment.
“Well, actually…that is to say—”
Before she could devise a satisfactory reply, the earl cut in, “I was regrettably neglectful in expressing my admiration for Miss Hurst tonight.” He turned to Charlotte. “I hope you will accept it now though. You look quite captivating.” He leaned in and added in a low voice. “And I’m not just saying that. I mean it. I should have told you earlier.”
Lady Chatworth slipped her arm through Charlotte’s and began drawing her toward a seat. “Come,” she said, smiling prettily. “We’ll have a cozy chat, you and I.” She turned to her husband and William. “You can entertain yourselves for a bit.”
Lord Chatworth’s eyes lit up. “So you won’t mind if we pop over to Reggie Dermont’s box? I hear he’s thinking of selling Golden Shamrock.”
“If you fancy a chance to add him to your stables, Chatworth,” Lord Norwood said, “he’ll cost you a pretty penny. I heard Dermont won’t let him go for less than six hundred pounds.”
“Six hundred pounds is a bit high for my blood,” the other man replied, sending a hesitant glance in his wife’s direction. “But I wouldn’t mind feeling him out, all the same.”
“Go.” His wife made a shooing motion with her hand, and having secured her approval, the gentlemen bowed and departed.
Lady Chatworth’s mouth drew into a fondly indulgent smile. “I’m counting on William to provide a restraining hand and keep my husband from making any rash expenditures. His stables are his weakness.” She laughed. “Well, along with me, of course.” They’d reache
d the front of the box, where three chairs were placed in a row. Lady Chatworth sat in the one farthest left and patted the velvet-covered seat of the middle one.
“I understand you haven’t been married very long,” Charlotte said, settling into the chair Lady Chatworth indicated.
“Only six months. Six blissful months.” Her eyes brightened with a merry, almost mischievous gleam as she leaned toward Charlotte. “I highly recommend marriage.”
“You do present a compelling picture of wedded bliss.”
Lady Chatworth’s face dimpled adorably. “My sister Elizabeth always teases me about it. She says it’s the height of bad taste to look so obviously happy, but I can’t help it.” She tilted her head and studied Charlotte a moment. “I think the two of us shall get on famously, don’t you?”
“I sincerely hope so,” Charlotte said, warmed by Lady Chatworth’s easy friendliness. Lord Norwood had been right about his sister. With her sweet nature you couldn’t help but like her.
“So, tell me about yourself, Charlotte. You don’t mind if I call you, Charlotte, do you?” Her brows lifted uncertainly. “I don’t want to be annoyingly forward, but calling you Miss Hurst seems so frightfully formal. We tend to be more casual within our family circle.”
Charlotte refrained from pointing out that she wasn’t in the family circle, nor was she likely to be.
“I don’t mind at all,” she assured her. “My family’s never been high sticklers for that sort of formality, either. I don’t call my brother by anything but his given name.”
“Oh, excellent.” Lady Chatworth clasped her hands before her briefly. “And you must call me Lydia. And now that’s out of the way, let’s get to know each other better. What sorts of things do you like?”
“Goodness, that’s a very broad question.” Charlotte gave a little laugh. “Where should I start?”
Not the Kind of Earl You Marry Page 7
