Charity was determined not to be alone with him. She didn’t entirely trust this big, wild Scot. She found Englishmen politer, and more predictable perhaps.
Mercy’s eyes danced. “I can’t wait to see your castle, Lord Gunn.”
He smiled. “And so ye shall.” If he had intended to draw Charity away on her own, he hid his disappointment well.
After they drank tea and ate apple scones in a smaller, cozier salon, they were shown to a bedroom where a coal fire burned in the grate. Mercy rushed to the window.
“Look, you can see the sea!”
Charity placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder and pressed her palm to the pane. She could feel the blast of wind shaking the glass. “It looks rough, doesn’t it? And cold.”
They sat to pull off their boots. “You don’t like it here, Charity?”
“I’m a little apprehensive about tomorrow.” As she unrolled her stockings, she admitted it could prove a step forward in her career; more commissions might come from it. “What I’ve seen so far is impressive.”
“I like Gunn. He’s like a big cuddly bear.”
“Bears are not always cuddly.”
Charity glanced at her sister with a rush of protectiveness. Mercy had grown quite beautiful though she wasn’t yet seventeen. Heaven knew what she would come out with next, as she was too outspoken. Charity would have to keep an eye on her, or she’d have a few Scotsmen attempting to kiss her.
Mercy scowled and flounced away as a maid came in with thick towels. “I am Brynna, my lady. Shall I order a servant to bring your bath?”
“Yes, thank you, Brynna.”
Charity shrugged out of her spencer. She wished she could remove Robin from her mind as easily. He didn’t deserve a place in her thoughts since he’d stopped corresponding with her without an explanation. He was a fair-weather friend. He’d become an arrogant duke, she supposed, which was very disappointing. They might meet when her father broke their journey in Northumberland to visit his sister, Aunt Christabel. She hoped so; she couldn’t wait to give Robin a set down. The unsettling thought crossed her mind that he might have become engaged. A fiancée might not approve of their letters, as innocent as they were. She felt a wretchedness of mind she’d never had before. It was just that she had few friends, and losing one was very hard.
That evening, the guests were piped into the banquet hall by wailing bagpipes. She wasn’t sure she cared for the sound. Protocol apparently differed in Scotland, for she was placed next to Gunn at the banquet table. Perhaps she was the guest of honor. Such a thought brought a corresponding thrill. Servants scurried in carrying huge platters as a magnificent feast was laid before the guests. The rich aromas of sausage, roast meat, onions, and potatoes filled the air. Baked whole chickens and joints of lamb, diced-up carrot, and swede followed, served with oatcakes and pickled beetroot and other dishes she failed to recognize.
“You must try the haggis, Lady Charity.” The warmth of Gunn’s smile echoed in his voice as he served her from a dish.
Charity eyed the sliced sausage on her plate. It looked most unappetizing. “What is it?”
“A savory pudding.”
Charity forked a piece into her mouth. She swallowed hastily. It was not to her taste. “Is it lamb?”
He nodded, a smile widening in approval. “Sheep’s pluck, minced with onion, oatmeal, and spices and encased in the animal’s stomach.”
Farther down the table, Mercy leaned forward and giggled at the face Charity pulled.
“You don’t care for it?” Gunn asked with a lift of his brows.
“Perhaps it’s an acquired taste,” she said, attempting to be polite. She took several sips of wine to banish the taste.
“Most learn to enjoy it,” he said. “As you would, given time.”
His evocative statement was clearly intended to raise a response. Charity ignored it.
Seated at Gunn’s left, her Father appeared brighter. She was relieved to see an easing of the worry lines etched onto her mother’s face.
After the plates were removed, and the tables pushed back, two men entered and placed two crossed swords on the floor. They bowed. When the pipes began, they danced around the swords, their kilts flying over their knees. They were nimble for such big men.
Gunn leaned toward her. “This is called the Ghillie Callum. It’s a tradition that harks back to the days of Malcolm Canmore, a Celtic prince. It is said he crossed his own sword with the bloodied sword of the defeated chief and danced over them.”
“They are graceful.” Charity watched their flying feet.
“It is seen as a good omen if they don’t touch the swords, a bad one if they do.”
“Then it’s a good omen tonight,” Charity said as the men bowed, scooped up the swords, and departed.
The fiddlers began to play a Scots reel, and the floor was soon covered in a swirl of color, the Scottish ladies in their lovely bright gowns and the men in their kilts. Gunn rose and held out his hand to her.
He guided her through the dance with which she was unfamiliar. Hot, flustered, and laughing when she and Gunn left the floor, she was relieved she’d managed to follow the steps of the spirited dancers. Later, they danced again. Charity tried to avoid his intense gaze when they met during the dance. She glanced over at Mercy. She looked like a fairy nymph in her white muslin and was laughing as her partner whirled her energetically around, her feet almost leaving the floor. Mercy was a natural dancer, the best in the family. This was the first time she had participated in a formal dance, which would not have been permitted in England before she made her debut.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of porridge and kippers, Gunn showed Charity and Mercy around his castle. Charity’s legs tired after negotiating a hundred steps, but the startling view from the tower was worth the climb. The fine land and the sea stretched out before them.
Mercy leaned over the parapet. “That gardener down below looks so small.”
As the wind tugged at her hair and blasted into her face, a shiver swarmed down her spine, and Charity reeled back, discovering a fear of heights. A pair of hands circled her waist.
“Are you all right, Lady Charity?” Gunn asked, his warm breath on the nape of her neck.
Unsettled, she moved away from the heat of his big hands. “Perfectly, thank you. Shall we go down?”
That afternoon, a large group of guests gathered to view the unveiling. Gunn insisted Charity pull the cord, and the covering fell away to reveal the portrait of Lord Gunn standing tall against the backdrop of his castle. As loud applause echoed through the hall, her pride swelled at the sight of the gilt-framed portrait hung amongst those of his ancestors.
“I do not look dour, for which I sincerely thank you,” he murmured. “Congratulations, Lady Charity. I wish you further success in the future.”
As exhilaration flooded through her, Charity placed a hand on his arm. “I doubt I could have made you look dour…Angus. And if your prediction comes true, I shall be eternally grateful to you for it.”
He nodded, his mouth curling in an appreciative smile. “I shall hold ye to that one day, my lady.”
Charity dropped her gaze from the heated expression in his eyes, and her heart thudded. What did he mean by that?
Her family surrounded her, hugging and kissing her, pushing her unease about the big Scot from her mind. Even her father gazed at her with respect. She was giddy with relief and happiness, and her vision blurred with tears. She groped for her handkerchief.
“And now we must celebrate,” Gunn cried, striding down the hall. They all trouped after him like lambs following the shepherd.
As she accepted a glass of champagne in the long drawing room, Charity fought to come back down to earth.
“You have enjoyed your stay in ma home?” Gunn asked.
“It’s been wonderful.”
“I would have liked to show you more of it. I wish you a good trip tomorrow. It’s a long way to Tunbridge Wells.”
> “We are to break our journey at the home of my aunt, Lady Huddlestone, in Northumberland.”
“An excellent idea.” Gunn nodded thoughtfully. “I leave for London myself very soon.”
After dinner, when they rose and prepared to retire, Gunn accompanied them into the Great Hall. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, while Charity followed Mercy and her parents upstairs. “I pray the weather remains fine for your journey,” he called out from below.
Charity turned to thank him. With a sweep of his arm, Gunn gestured to where the portrait hung, well lit by candlelight.
There was very little she would alter, she thought, studying it, should she have the opportunity to do so. Perhaps that shadow against Gunn’s right leg might be made stronger. Charity smiled down at him, then watched him stride from the Hall. You couldn’t help liking Gunn. With a sigh, she turned to climb the stairs.
As they climbed sleepily into bed, Mercy snuggled down with a yawn. “I love Scotland.”
“Do you, dearest?”
“Everything about it seems…bigger.”
“Bigger?”
No reply came. Mercy was already asleep.
That was a perfect description of Scotland, Charity thought, settling her head on the pillow.
****
Lady Boothby and her daughter accepted Robin’s invitation to view his gardens now dressed in autumn leaf. Lady Boothby declined to join them, however. While she remained in the salon, Robin took the opportunity to draw Kitty out as her maid trailed at a distance behind them. The day was fine and cool, and a mat of fallen leaves in the colors of crimson, gold, and bronze muffled their footsteps as he and Kitty strolled amongst the centuries-old trees in the park.
Kitty, a dainty young woman, bundled up in her golden brown, velvet pelisse with a matching hat on her dark hair, rubbed her arms with her gloved hands.
“Are you cold?”
Her small shoulders shivered. “A little.”
“Shall we return to the house?”
“Heavens no. I shan’t let the cold spoil the day.”
Robin uncoiled his scarf. Kitty stood quietly, her dark lashes resting on her cheeks as he wrapped the wool around her neck. She raised her chin, and he got the impression she invited him to kiss her. Aware that the kiss would be a declaration of his intentions, especially as the maid was only a few yards away, he stepped back. “Better?”
She patted the scarf in place. “Oh, so much better, thank you, Your Grace. I am a silly thing to suffer from the cold.”
“No need to apologize.”
She glanced at him. “Mama says I should marry someone who could take me somewhere warm for the winter.”
He was sure it was common knowledge that he’d inherited his uncle’s property in Italy, but as he was yet to visit it, he didn’t mention it. Annoyingly, it was Charity he could see there with him, visiting the art galleries and the ancient sites, enjoying the food. This young lady was so petite he doubted she’d have a robust appetite. But she was very pretty. Sweet and biddable, which Charity was not.
She linked her arm through his, and they walked on. “Shouldn’t you like to escape the Northumberland winters? But I suppose someone so big and strong wouldn’t be troubled by the cold.”
“Escaping the middle of winter does sound very appealing.” He smiled down at her urchin face. In truth, he liked the crisp autumn air, and even enjoyed the winter, although the castle’s heating needed improvement. He was encouraged by the scientific approach of Professor Meissner of the Vienna Polytechnical Institute in Austria, who’d published a book on heating with hot air, explaining the laws of warm-air heating. “What part of the garden would you like to view? Do you have a particular preference?”
“I am happy to go wherever you choose to take me, Your Grace.”
“Not many blooms this time of year, but the autumn trees are beautiful, don’t you agree?”
“Oh yes, the leaves of that tree match my pelisse.” She pointed to a majestic towering ash.
He led her along a wisteria-covered pergola. “This is beautiful when in flower,” he said. They emerged onto the lawns, and passed a large marble fountain in silence.
“We have abundant birdlife here,” Robin said, giving up on discussing the garden. He’d struggled for the last half-hour to draw a response from her.
“I like swallows,” Kitty said. “I enjoy watching them soar and dip in the sky.” She fell silent, studying a wet leaf that had stuck to her half boot.
“I suspect you would prefer to be sitting by the fire with a nice cup of tea,” he said, leading her back toward the house.
She didn’t resist but looked anxious. “Have we been gone long?”
“Long enough for you to become too cold,” he said, wondering at the question. “You might prefer to visit the garden in springtime when there’s an abundance of flowers.”
“Oh, yes.” Kitty smiled up at him, her red nose reminding him of an endearing kitten.
Singling Kitty out in this manner could herald a proposal of marriage, but something held him back from committing himself. He refused to consider it was Charity, who was most likely lost to him.
Two days later, in response to his father’s demands, Francis Bellamy returned to Northumberland. His father subsequently read him the riot act, which put Robin’s friend in a bad mood. A good gallop had been Robin’s suggestion of a temporary cure.
Francis took him up on it. “I’m keen to show you the new addition to my stables. But beware, we shall show you a clean pair of heels.”
Robin scoffed. “Brave talk from one who rides mostly in Hyde Park.”
They left the bridle trails when Robin’s spirited chestnut cleared a fence. He galloped Golden Prince across the fields toward the castle with Francis riding flat-out in his wake. Approaching the park, Robin eased the horse to a walk. He grinned with a good deal of satisfaction as Francis caught him up. “And you say your horse is superior to mine.”
“My stallion has his mind on other matters,” Francis said with a snort of disgust. There was little sign that his mood had lifted.
They walked their horses along the road and into the stable yard. Dismounting, they handed the reins to the waiting grooms.
Francis tucked his crop under his arm and pulled off his gloves. “Will we see you at the assembly tonight?”
Robin groaned. “I’ll put in an appearance.”
“I gather Lady Katherine, she of the big brown eyes, will attend?”
“I expect she will. Kitty is a sweet girl. I feel some sympathy for her.”
“Sympathy?”
The grooms led the horses away, and the men ambled back to the house. “Is that the right emotion to feel for a potential bride?”
“No.”
“Then I caution you not to show her too marked a preference.”
Robin swung around to face him. “Oh? I gather gossip is doing the rounds in London. I’m surprised it reached you in the environs of Covent Garden where you spend most of your time.”
Francis glared at him but ignored the gibe. “I heard it from Mother. Lady Boothby expressed the view a betrothal isn’t far away.”
“Lady Boothby can say what she likes.” Robin kicked a pebble.
“Mothers like her are dangerous. I’m merely requesting you open your eyes. You seem to be going about in a funk.”
“Trust a friend to feel the need to sort a fellow out.” With a flash of annoyance, he poked Francis with his crop. “When said friend lives the life of a rake!”
Francis, no doubt smarting from his father’s lecture, retaliated, wielding his crop like a sword. “Someone has to tell you, dammit. Most are too frightened to face up to you. You’ve grown too big for your boots! It’s common knowledge amongst the fellows that you visited the widow in her bedroom the night of the ball.”
Robin swiveled to face him. “You’re clutching at straws. You have no idea whether I did or not.”
“There were one or two other like-minded fellow
s. I imagine she preferred a duke.”
Robin scowled with a growing sense of helplessness. He refused to marry one of those debutantes who would drag him about town every Season. He wanted a quiet life, living with his books on birds and art and gathering information for his manuscript on the birdlife in Kent. Would he ever feel on top of things? Although he employed a large staff, he was exhausted by the time he went to bed at night after dealing with matters concerning his estates. He should be grateful and felt even worse because he didn’t.
“Now that you’re a duke, you seem to feel you can toy with a debutante’s affections with no intention of marrying her,” Francis said, continuing his frank assessment with the confidence of their long friendship.
He danced away out of reach of Robin’s menacing crop.
“You’re right.” Robin ground his teeth at the unfairness of the statement. “I am a duke. And I’ll have you boiled in oil!”
He ran after Francis, who dodged and employed evasive tactics. When his laughter slowed him, Robin managed to land a good whack on his back. “Or locked up in the tower!”
Chuckling, he backed away as Francis, with colorful curses, swiveled to attack. The tip of his crop slashed at Robin’s arm.
“Ouch!” Robin rubbed his arm.
“Touché!” Francis roared with laughter.
With a disdainful grin, Robin attacked again, catching Francis on the shoulder. “Take that and mind your manners.”
Winded, they leapt up onto the terrace and approached the French doors, where Robin grasped the door handle. He turned back to his friend. “What I choose to do or not do about the fetching Lady Kitty is my affair,” he said, aiming one last nudge at Francis shoulder.
“I’ll wager my stallion against your chestnut that you marry Lady Kitty before the year is out…” Francis broke off and stared into the room.
Robin stepped into the salon.
Two ladies sat together on one of the pair of blue and gold damask sofas, drinking tea. “I hope you don’t find me presumptuous, Your Grace,” Charity said, her eyes lacking their usual warmth. “But Franklin knows me so well he was confident you’d invite us to take tea with you.”
The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four Page 5
