Charity

by Deneane Clark

  When they entered, dozens of pairs of eyes swiveled to watch them and follow their progress through the room. Charity had never felt so dreadfully conspicuous. In hindsight she realized her behavior on the terrace had likely not been in her best interest, but she’d believed that, since it took place in full view of the assembled guests, it would be discussed and then dismissed in favor of the next pseudo scandal. Lachlan’s actions, however, had turned it into a shameful act, adding fuel to the fires beneath the wagging tongues, and people would now imagine something deeper than harmless flirtation had occurred to make him step in.

  For the remainder of the night, although Lachlan had apparently taken himself off to play cards in the drawing room or some other such male nonsense, Charity was studiously avoided. Nobody asked her to dance. Amity joined her and Amanda, having learned of the altercation, and the three girls stood on the periphery of the dance floor. Amanda and Amity did their best to improve Charity’s mood.

  The only male in attendance below the age of fifty who dared come near Charity was Anthony Iverson, who met with such polite disdain from Charity’s companions that even he did not remain long. Thankfully, before too much more time passed, Lachlan reappeared. Amity sweetly asked if he would mind terribly taking them home. The marquess looked from Amity’s open, earnest face to Amanda’s disapproving one, and then at Charity, who refused to meet his eyes. Her expression was shuttered, icy, and distant.

  “No, Miss Ackerly,” he finally said. “I don’t mind in the slightest.”

  “Charity?”

  At the sound of her sister’s soft voice, Charity dragged her unseeing gaze from the quiet street below. Amity stood in the doorway to the bathing chamber that connected their rooms, biting her lip with worry.

  Charity smiled and walked over to the bed, waving her twin into the room. Amity broke into a relieved smile and met her there. They flopped across it like little girls, and both began speaking at once.

  “I’m so sorr—” they said together; then each broke off with a laugh.

  “I know you don’t care for Lord Asheburton, Charity, and I’m very sorry about what happened, but I’m so grateful you went with me.”

  Charity flipped over onto her back and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “You don’t like him, either?” Her voice was deliberately offhand, but she held her breath, awaiting her sister’s answer, unsure why it was so important to her.

  Amity hesitated. “I’m sure he’s quite nice, and he’s certainly been kind to me. It’s just that . . . well . . .” She paused, and then blurted, “I like somebody else.”

  Charity rolled to her side, propped her elbow on the bed, and cradled her head in her upraised hand, regarding her sister steadily. She tried to remember with whom she’d seen Amity dance besides the Marquess of Asheburton. “Lord Baker,” she guessed. “No . . . that blond knight. Sir What’s-His-Face?”

  Amity laughed and knocked her sister’s forearm so that her head fell back on the bed. “No, silly,” she said. “It’s . . . Matthew.”

  “Seriously?” A wide grin crossed Charity’s face. “Dr. Meadows? Does he know?” She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest, completely adoring this new development. “Gracious, do Faith and Gareth know?”

  “Hush, Charity!” Amity sat up, too, and grabbed a pillow. “Someone will hear you.”

  Charity snatched the pillow out of her twin’s hands and shook it at her. “What did you think you were going to do with this? Smother me?” She laughed, more quietly this time. “Well, does he know?”

  “No.” Amity shook her head, then gave her sister a warning look. “And I don’t want him to know, at least not until after the baby comes. No one should know. Faith doesn’t need the excitement.”

  “So that’s why you wanted me to tag along with you on your evening with that wretched man.”

  “Yes . . . and you must continue to do so, please. The marquess is the only one who actually calls on me. I haven’t given him the slightest encouragement, and I don’t want Matt, I mean Dr. Meadows”—she caught and corrected herself—“to think it’s serious. I can’t think of a single good reason to refuse to see the marquess that wouldn’t look suspicious, since I haven’t any other suitor.”

  Charity frowned. “I can think of at least a dozen reasons to kick him to the curb.”

  “No,” said Amity firmly. “You can’t. Not good reasons. Promise me you’ll help me. Please.”

  Her twin sighed. “I suppose I can put up with him, especially since it means that, with any luck, he won’t become my brother. We can hope he’ll set his sights on some other unlucky family and cart some poor, unsuspecting girl off to the wilds of Scotland to waste away in his moldy old castle.”

  Amity held her tongue but watched her sister’s face. Charity doesn’t even know she cares for him, she realized with an inward smile.

  Instead of articulating her thoughts, she reached over and gave her sister an impulsive hug. “I love you so much. You’ll see. Soon enough you’ll meet some young man you adore, and then we’ll have the wedding we’ve dreamed about,” she said, her face aglow. She climbed off the bed and headed for the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Charity smiled in response, then crawled beneath the covers and reclined back against the pillows. As soon as she closed her eyes, however, an unbidden image of the Marquess of Asheburton’s disapproving gray gaze popped into her head. “Go away,” she muttered. But the command didn’t work. Instead, those eyes softened to a glowing, molten silver. Exactly the way they’d looked just before he kissed her.

  “I said go away,” she told the eyes, then grabbed the pillow she’d taken from Amity and smashed it down over her face, forcing herself to think about place settings and all the other boring things she’d half learned in Madame Capdepon’s Etiquette School. Left with no alternative, she finally found sleep.

  Ten

  Lachlan lifted a hand to knock on the door to the Lloyd town house, then hesitated and turned to face the street. Once he knocked, he’d be committed to not only enjoying Amity’s company but also to enduring Charity’s.

  He began pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time, his thoughts on the events of the previous evening. There was no question in his mind that Amity Ackerly would make the perfect marchioness. She possessed the requisite poise and grace, as well as a quiet wit that was really quite charming. Her beauty, though not a requirement, was an additional boon, as were her impeccable background and connections through her sisters’ marriages to nobility. There was also, of course, her connection to Charity.

  He placed his gloves neatly together, palms touching, and began slapping them rhythmically into his palm. With a sigh of resignation, he reached up, raised the knocker and let it fall, then repeated the action once more. Marriage to Amity meant he’d be forced to spend more time than he cared to consider in her twin sister’s company. It was plain the two girls were incredibly close. The fact that Amity had asked Charity to accompany them the evening last was one sign of that, but a more telling indicator was that Charity, despite her obvious dislike for him, had willingly tagged along.

  Lachlan frowned at the still firmly closed door and rapped with his knuckles this time. While he waited, he weighed the relative merits of continuing his courtship of Amity against a lifetime of being thrust into social situations with Charity, and he considered both sides carefully. The all too brief moments he’d spent in the garden with Amity filtered into his mind. That kiss—an unbidden smile curved his lips when he thought of the kiss they’d shared, and he knew that his mind was made up. Her passion, though she had shown no outward evidence of it since that morning, had been deep and unmistakable.

  Just as he raised his arm to knock again, the door was snatched open by Desmond, who managed—impossibly, given his shorter height—to glare down his nose at Lachlan. “It is not, my lord, at all necessary to beat upon the door in that fashion.”

  The marquess narrowed his eyes at the recalcitrant butler. He
opened his mouth to give the man the blistering setdown he so richly deserved but closed it when he saw one of the Ackerly twins standing a few yards inward, her hand resting lightly on the banister of the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. Her eyes met his, the expression in their green-blue depths inscrutable.

  With an effort, Lachlan controlled his animosity and managed, in a relatively pleasant tone, to tell Desmond that he was here to visit Miss Amity Ackerly. Somewhat mollified, the butler opened the door wider and beckoned him inside. “I do hope she’s expecting you, my lord,” he said, his tone haughty and imperious. “Nobody told me to be prepared, you see, for visitors.”

  As Lachlan stepped inside, the girl at the foot of the stairs turned away and began the climb to the second floor. “I’ll go let her know, Desmond,” she said.

  Charity looked more serene this morning, as though she had managed to find a way past her anger of the evening before, and Lachlan suppressed an urge to stop her and clear the tension that had arisen between them. Clad in a bottle green day dress that set off her bright hair and cerulean eyes, she was a striking presence in the dim foyer. The meager light filtering through the small panes of glass above the door managed to find and caress her features. He watched her disappear into the upper reaches of the house before Desmond ushered him into the sitting room to await Amity.

  “That odious man has arrived.”

  Amity, seated on a low bench near the window, looked up from the linen collar she’d been embroidering. “Really, Charity, be fair. He’s not odious.”

  “All right then,” she amended. “He’s rude, obnoxious, high-handed, and altogether egregious.” Charity smiled, the expression an amusing contrast to her harsh words. “But I’m willing to agree that he’s not odious.”

  Her twin sighed and set aside her needlework. She stood and shook the wrinkles out of her skirts, wishing Dr. Meadows had already come for his daily visit to check on Faith. “I don’t suppose the marquess gave any indication as to the length of his visit?”

  Charity shook her head. “I didn’t actually speak to him, but I did see that he arrived in a phaeton.”

  Amity grimaced. “That must mean he intends to take me driving. You’ll come along, won’t you?”

  “Not a chance.” Charity backed toward the door, then stopped and scowled at the pleading look on her sister’s face. “Can’t you just tell him you don’t wish to go?”

  “We’ve already discussed this. Everyone will wonder why I’m turning away a man who is not only a wonderful matrimonial prospect, but who is also a great friend of the family.”

  “It’s a two-seater,” Charity pointed out, hoping logic would prevail.

  “We’re small. We’ll fit.” Amity slanted her sister a glance. “Or, if we don’t fit, perhaps he’ll simply visit here for a time and then leave.”

  “Oh, fine,” Charity agreed, a bit crossly. “But I’m not speaking to him.”

  The periods of silence grew increasingly uncomfortable as the well-matched pair of grays stepped smartly through the park. Lachlan, crowded all the way to the left of the phaeton’s high bench seat, guided them with an expert hand while he searched for a topic of conversation that would draw more than a short, polite response from the object of his affection. It was, however, difficult to think past the pulsing wave of animosity emanating from the obstinately silent form of Charity.

  Amity, seated between them, seemed oblivious to both his discomfort and her sister’s smoldering ire. That fact was the only thing that made Lachlan try to carry on with the conversation. “I thought the ball rather well attended last night, for an event held so early in the Season,” he remarked.

  “I agree,” murmured Amity. Silence returned.

  After a time, Lachlan tried again. “I wouldn’t call it a crush, of course, but the company was good.”

  Hearing talk of the previous evening was too much for Charity to bear. Despite her resolve not to do so, she spoke up. “I wouldn’t know. All company I might have enjoyed was frightened off.”

  Lachlan refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he changed the subject. “The Duke of Blackthorne tells me Pelthamshire is a picturesque little village about a half day’s drive from London. Do you miss your home, Miss Ackerly?”

  “I miss my family there, but Grace and Faith are here in London. Having come with Charity keeps me from feeling homesick, too, but I think we both look forward to going back home.”

  Lachlan waited for her to continue the proffered topic by asking him about his home. When she didn’t, he sighed and again attempted to further the discussion. “I miss Scotland a great deal, although I come from a much smaller family,” he said.

  Charity leaned forward and looked around her sister. “Perhaps, Lord Asheburton, that is why you seem to have no idea how one should act in London.” Her words were sweetly offered, and she smiled and batted her eyes a couple times for good measure. She sat back, satisfaction flooding warmly through her belly.

  Lachlan, too, had finally had enough of her brooding animosity. “Would you mind telling me why you choose to be so continually contentious, Miss Ackerly?”

  “Why, yes,” returned Charity. “I do mind.”

  Between them, Amity shrank back.

  “You’re not angry with me,” Lachlan mused after a thoughtful pause. “You’re angry with yourself.”

  “Oh, quite the contrary, my lord. I am furious with you.”

  “Had I not stepped in, your reputation would be in tatters.”

  Charity snapped her head in his direction, but before she could speak she was forced to grab the edge of the seat to keep from being thrown off; he’d brought the vehicle sharply around to exit the park. “You did that on purpose!”

  He smirked.

  Charity glared at him. “Had you not stepped in,” she retorted, “I’d have had a glorious time and nobody would have batted an eye. Instead, you called attention to a situation that was not a situation and turned me into a pariah!”

  “There wasn’t a suitable male in the group.”

  Charity gasped. “What? ‘Suitable?’ Now you’re choosing my male acquaintances? Your high-handedness in areas that are none of your concern knows no bounds, my lord. Suitable for what, please?”

  Lachlan belatedly remembered Amity, who sat quietly between them. A small smile played about the corners of her mouth, confusing and embarrassing him. He lapsed once again into silence.

  Charity, however, wasn’t nearly finished, her temper pushing her recklessly onward with the topic. “What, pray tell, is wrong with Lord Danforth, who merely wished to discuss horses?”

  “He’s broke and looking for an heiress,” Lachlan replied evenly. Then he pointed out, “Which you are not.”

  Charity ignored that. “What about Pelligrew?”

  Lachlan clenched his teeth. “He was a second in a recent duel.”

  “A second?” Charity’s voice was laced with derision. “He wasn’t even the person dueling, and now he’s suddenly unsuitable?”

  “He also doesn’t sit a horse well,” bit out the marquess.

  Amity stifled a laugh and then quickly composed herself when they both looked at her. “Umm . . . the road, my lord.” She pointed at the horses.

  Cursing under his breath, Lachlan made a slight adjustment to allow another carriage to pass safely. He touched his hat in acknowledgment of the other vehicle’s occupants. The twins both smiled brightly and waved.

  After he executed the turn onto Upper Brook Street, Charity’s smile disappeared. She tossed out another name. “Lord Bakersly.”

  “Has been seen frequenting gambling hells. And the cut of his jacket is all wrong.”

  At that ludicrous reasoning, Charity narrowed her eyes. “Anthony Iverson,” she said with deliberate intent.

  “Stay away from him!” Lachlan growled in a low, dangerous voice. His eyes turned hard. Charity paled and grew silent, her anger finally taking her beyond the ability to speak. She stared resolutely forward for the
remainder of the ride, her lips pressed into a tight little line.

  Lachlan slowed the horses and turned to Amity, his voice softening. “I apologize, Miss Ackerly, for the unpleasant drive. May I escort you to the Danwells’ ball this evening, to atone?”

  Having believed herself all but forgotten, Amity was caught completely off guard and couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse. “Th-that would be lovely,” she stammered as the phaeton drew up before the Lloyd town house.

  Charity hopped down between the wheels, not waiting for assistance, and she gained the ground without incident almost before the vehicle came to a complete stop. She shook out her skirts, tossed Lachlan a last venomous glare, and stormed up the steps, brushing past Matthew Meadows, who was just arriving. The doctor heard her mutter something about “That insufferable man,” before she disappeared inside and slammed the door in his face.

  The physician turned back to see the Marquess of Asheburton helping Amity down from his carriage, a smile on his face that was both fond and possessive. Out of nowhere, a surge of jealousy gripped Matthew, and he frowned. When, he wondered, had he developed these feelings for his wealthiest patient’s sister? In consternation, he turned to go inside, only to be met with the solid, unyielding panel of oak.

  Inwardly cursing Charity’s temper and penchant for slamming doors, he politely turned and waited for the couple coming up the steps.

  Eleven

  Good morning, Desmond.”

  The dour butler stopped and stared at the pleasant greeting from Charity, who had been particularly moody since the twins’ arrival in London. So great was his surprise at the unusually affable salutation that, even though he’d only just shown Amity into the drawing room to attend a guest, he looked over his shoulder to be certain he hadn’t confused their identities.