Faith glowed with good health when she and Vaughn arrived. For a week the merry house resembled old times, full of chatter and bright laughter, along with the added demands of two small babes. Charity fell even more in love with them as she sketched them. No child, apart from Edward and Honor’s impish son, Lucas, could possibly be as adorable.
No word had come from Northumberland. Her thoughts constantly on Robin, Charity had worked on the portrait until she worried that she’d over paint it. If he didn’t want it, it would be hers to keep. She could gaze at it when she was an old lady. The thought made her bite her lip.
She had answered Lord Kirkbride’s letter and suggested he call to discuss a commission. He wrote back inviting her to his London home, and when she was forced to decline, as her mother and some ladies from the church were holding a fete, he wrote again that, as he was in the general area on Tuesday, he would call at two o’clock.
He arrived an hour early. Her mother had not yet returned from a morning call. The butler showed him into the parlor. “Good day, Lady Charity.” Lord Kirkbride bowed. His dress bordered on the foppish with an artistically tied cravat and very tight coat. That did not deter her, however. The more eccentric the subject, the better.
“My lord.” Charity gestured to a seat. “Would you care for refreshment?”
“No thank you.” He threw up his coattails and sat as his gaze slid over her in her high-necked, pale grey morning gown.
Sitting, she clasped her hands in her lap. “Have you considered where the portrait might be set, sir?”
Kirkbride’s roving gaze continued to make her anxious. “I would pose in my London townhouse. Is that a problem?”
“I could visit to make some quick sketches. And after that, I rough the painting out and my subject sits for me. I prefer to work here.”
“Can I see some of your work?”
Charity flushed. Her studio was modest, and Kirkbride, with his many gold chains and fobs and his padded green coat of a rather sickly color, may not be impressed. If she was to paint his picture, of course he must see her work. She stood. “Please come this way.”
Kirkbride strolled into the studio, removing his gloves. He glanced at Robin’s portrait under a cover on the easel. “This is a portrait?”
“Yes. But I prefer it not to be seen until the unveiling.”
He wandered along the walls, picking up a half-finished landscape. “You have adopted a novel style, Lady Charity.”
He didn’t say he approved of it, but then, he was here, so he must.
“Have you seen Lord Gunn’s portrait?”
“Only read about it.” He turned to her, trailing his fingers along the workbench. “I thought it novel, too, that a young woman should take up such a position.” He stepped closer. “I found it quite exciting, in fact. One must endure to have one’s portrait painted, but what better way than to be entertained by a pretty woman at the same time?”
“I am not in the business of entertaining, my lord.” Charity’s heart began to beat faster.
“We may discuss the means this entertainment might take at a later date. I am aware that this is your family home.”
Two more steps in retreat and Charity felt the hard wall at her back. “Lord Kirkbride! I am an artist. I have no intention of offering any other services.”
His light brows rose as he traced a line along her jaw. “But surely…”
Crammed against the wall, Charity could only turn her head away. “There is no surely about it,” she snapped. “You are obviously under entirely the wrong impression.”
With relief, she heard her mother in the corridor.
He shrugged. “A young woman, alone with me here? You can hardly blame me.”
“I don’t believe we shall deal well together, Lord Kirkbride. I would like you to leave.”
“You have proved to be a disappointment, Lady Charity.”
Mama appeared at the door.
“Perhaps it is you who are the disappointment, Lord Kirkbride,” Mama said. “I’ll have the footman show you out.”
Charity leaned over her workbench, her hands clenching the wood. She was shaking. Despairing, she realized that Robin had been right about Kirkbride, at least. She straightened and frowned. But she would never admit it.
Mama appeared at the door again. “If this should ever happen again, and no doubt it will with this difficult path in life you’ve chosen for yourself, please make sure the footman or a maid remains in the room at all times.”
“Yes, Mama,” Charity said soberly.
Charity turned to painting miniatures for Christmas gifts. Her days were spent in walks along the river or reading with Mercy, who was far more the bookworm than she. With the fear that the life she’d mapped out for herself would be soulless, for Robin would not be in it, a hollow feeling grew inside her.
Wishing for some kind of connection with him, Charity rode out to see if the golden oriole had returned. Of course it hadn’t. Even the ducks were absent. The gypsies were back camping on Robin’s land by the river, on their way south for the winter.
When Charity rode back along the road, a gypsy woman, her glossy, black hair swinging down below her waist, stepped out of the bushes. She raised her hand.
Charity guided her horse over to her. “Can I help you?”
“Have you seen the man who owns this land?”
“No, not for a while. Why?”
“I wish to give him this.” She held out a bunch of purple heather tied with twine. “It’s lucky heather.”
“That’s good of you,” Charity said. “But why does he deserve such a gift?”
“He saved my boy’s life when Lash fell in the river. Jumped in after him, he did, when the river was high and fast flowing.”
Yes, Robin would do that, Charity thought with a heavy sigh. “Would you like me to give it to him? I’ve no idea when that might be.”
The woman stepped closer. “Please take it. I don’t want my husband to see.”
Charity reached down and took it. “Have no fear, I will see he gets it. He has need of some luck.”
With a nod, the dark-eyed woman disappeared into the bushes.
Robin had not told Charity about his impromptu swim. That was also like him, she thought as she walked her horse along the road. Perhaps Father would have some news. He’d been to London during the last week and was expected home today.
She waited anxiously until she heard him come in, then hurried to greet him.
“I’ve heard that Robin hasn’t received any welcome news,” her father said. “But that doesn’t mean the outcome is bleak. I expect it will take time.”
Charity returned to her studio and gazed at his painting. Her vow not to become involved with Robin had shattered long ago. She should have been at his side through this ordeal, even if it meant giving up her art. She felt she’d failed him.
Chapter Twenty
Robin’s elation had faded along with his confidence as the carriage neared Tunbridge Wells. Baxendale’s letters to him had been encouraging, an endorsement of sorts. His last one mentioned that news had reached him of the doubt over Robin’s title. Without putting it in so many words, Charity’s father had hinted that Robin was welcome to press his suit whatever the outcome. Robin had taken notice of his hints on how to proceed. He’d come armed with a persuasive speech to convince Charity she should marry him. He needed to earn her trust; he’d not been as supportive of her art as he should have been. He’d been blindsided by Gunn. Should he be a duke, he could do much to ease the way for her, as he was now more confident in the role, but he could not do everything. And he was not about to lie to her. A duchess has many duties and responsibilities that would take much of her time. He leaned back and tapped his finger on the window ledge. It looked increasingly as if he’d be leaving Harwood Castle.
When the carriage stopped outside Robin’s old Tudor home, a lump formed in his throat. His tenant, Mr. Mason, hurried out. He rose from his bow. “So good of you to
call in person, Your Grace.”
“It’s pleasant to return to one’s old home, sir.” Robin’s gaze roamed over the charming, ivy-covered, half-timbered building where he’d lived for most of his life: the stone Tudor arch over the front door, the oriel windows and ornate chimney pots. Memories crowded in. If he wasn’t the duke, could he come back here to live? He was hit by a wave of nostalgia and sadness for his father and mother, buried in the churchyard, but returning seemed an enormous step backward, and the possibility struck him hard when he was eager to tackle life and move on.
“I’m sorry about the stables, Your Grace,” Mason said, showing Robin into the drawing room.
“The stables?” Robin went to the window that overlooked that part of the property. He gasped at the sight of the blackened shell and the roof that had caved in.
“My letter must have arrived after you’d left, Your Grace.” Mason came to stand beside him. “A lightning strike after a prolonged dry spell caused it. Went up like Guy Fawkes’ bonfire. We were afraid the fire would spread to the trees and place the house in danger, but luckily the local fire fighters arrived to prevent it.”
Robin swung around to face him. “The horses?”
“Saved every one of them, Your Grace.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t have if the gypsies camping in the north field hadn’t come to help.”
“That was fortuitous, Mason,” Robin said, rubbing his brow. “The stables can be rebuilt, but the horses! I must thank the Romanies.”
“They’ve moved on, traveling south, Your Grace. They never stay long. Not bad people. At least, that lot aren’t.”
So they had paid him back in kind, Robin thought, enjoying a moment of warmth on an otherwise cold, bleak day.
****
While Charity worked at her bench, putting finishing touches to a miniature of the two babies who had been christened Thomas and Grace, Father came into the studio.
“A good likeness,” he commented, peering over her shoulder. “We are expecting a visitor this afternoon.”
She began to clean her brushes. “Oh? Who?”
“The Duke of Harwood.
She merely stared at him tongue-tied. She couldn’t quite believe it; she’d wanted this, every day and night since they’d left Northumberland, and now she felt ridiculously shy and nervous. “Robin is coming here?”
“He has business with his tenant this morning. He will be here at two o’clock. I am warning you in advance, Daughter, because I hope you will think carefully about your future.”
“My future, Father?” she asked, surprised by her father’s severe tone.
“I have watched you through this debacle. I know you care deeply for Robin.”
“Oh, Father. You don’t know—”
He held up his hand. “I have given up trying to force my daughters into marriage. I now have too many grey hairs and a concern for my health to do so. But you’re not a foolish young woman. You know he cares for you. Listen to what Harwood has to say.”
“I’m not sure that he does love me. At least not enough to accept me for who I am.”
“Then, perhaps, you should make an effort to change.”
She stiffened. “Have I been a disappointment to you, Father?”
He sighed. “You are my beloved daughter. I merely ask you to accept that you cannot have everything the way you want it. Compromise is needed in any relationship.”
“If Robin remains the Duke of Harwood, I’m not sure having me as his duchess would be fair to him. Anyway, he might not ask me to marry him again.”
“Again?” He frowned at her. “Is there something I don’t know?”
Charity could have pinched herself. “Robin had suggested that we should be married, but that was before he became a duke.”
He raised a brow. “Oh? It’s clear he still wants you to be his wife. And you are most fortunate that he does.”
Father went out the door, leaving her wondering how he’d come to that conclusion. Had he been corresponding with Robin? No, the notion was absurd.
At two o’clock, the ducal carriage arrived, and a liveried footman leapt down from the box to open the door. Charity watched from the window as an elegant man emerged and walked to the front door. His long, caped greatcoat of dark grey swirled around his legs as he removed his tall curly-brimmed beaver with a gloved hand, a gold-topped cane held in the other. Robin! Her heart began to beat very fast. Breathless, she hurried to the mirror to ensure her curls were in order. She had a tendency to poke them with the end of the paintbrush when she was working. Thankfully, this morning her mother’s maid had plaited and coiled Charity’s hair into a neat bun at the back of her head and coaxed soft curls to frame her face. She removed her apron and smoothed the skirts of her saffron-yellow-and-white-striped morning gown. Leaving the studio, she made her way to where voices sounded in the parlor.
Robin sat with her family. She hesitated at the threshold thinking it was a perfect tableau. Mother was happily describing her grandchildren with Mercy interrupting while Father nodded and smiled.
“Lady Charity.” Robin rose and made his bow. “You look extremely well.” His slow smile touched her heart.
“So do you.” Her hand trembled in his and she felt lightheaded.
“You have a dab of paint here, near your ear,” he said, his voice soft. He indicated the spot without touching her. “Rose pink? That is not from my portrait, I trust?”
She smiled and shook her head. Yearning for his touch, she located the spot with her fingers. How she’d missed the way his handsome mouth lifted in a smile and his grey eyes warmed when they searched hers. Even when they didn’t agree, he’d always made her feel special.
Mother stood with a glance at Mercy and Father. “I must go and see Cook.”
Father followed her. “I’d like to show you a book later, Harwood. I believe it’s in my study. I’ll go and find it.”
“Wolf is outside on the drive, looking most dejected,” Mercy said, taking her cue with admirable aplomb. “I’d best go out. He wants me to throw a ball to him.”
The door closed.
Robin and Charity smiled at each other.
“Shall we?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Shall we what?” Her gaze roamed his face while her mind refused to function.
His grin spread wider. “The portrait?”
“Oh, yes,” she said breathily. “Please come with me.”
She led him down the corridor, opened the door to her studio, and he stepped inside.
“This room is very cramped. I could offer you something bigger,” he said meaningfully.
Butterflies bashed at her stomach. “It’s small admittedly, but I make do.”
Charity raised the cloth covering his portrait on the easel. She was proud of her efforts but was unsure if he’d like it. “A few more touches are needed, as I’ve done most of it from memory.” She hoped that didn’t sound like an accusation.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t sit for you.”
She clenched her hands, watching his face as he studied it with his arms crossed. “It’s lush, Charity. The gleam of wood and leather, the old tomes, and Henry too!” His gaze met hers with a hint of amused tenderness. “One might suspect you painted this with some affection for your subject.”
She’d worried about his reaction, but this was hardly what she expected. She found herself tongue-tied, as the desire to throw herself into his arms became almost unbearable.
“The portrait is very fine. But you’ve flattered me.”
She hugged her arms. “I believe it’s an honest interpretation.”
Robin stroked a finger lightly over her cheek. “Then it’s how you see me,” he said softly.
His touch made her shiver with pleasure and unleashed something within her. “Robin,” she burst out, gripping his lapel, her heart too heavy to ignore the feelings flooding through her. “It’s because I love you.”
His eyes filled with incredulity and delight. “You love me?”
She swallowed, wishing he’d tell her he still wanted her. “I…I want to be your wife, I want children. I will give up my art if I have to. Although I don’t want to, you understand.” She sighed. “Do you want me, Robin?”
With a tender smile he pulled her into his arms. “Of course I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyes, and then pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Come and sit with me.” He took her arm and drew her to the sofa placed near the window. “Your father would have told you about another possible heir to the dukedom.”
She could hear the distress in his voice, even though he tried to hide it from her. “Yes. The news did reach us through a neighbor who had just returned from Northumberland.”
Robin slowly nodded his head. “I expect it has been cast far and wide by now.” He explained about the Frenchwoman and her son, and as she listened, she understood how worried he was, and how bitterly disappointed.
“When will you know?”
“My solicitor, Mr. Sprog, is in Paris. I’ve had a letter from him. He hasn’t been able find evidence to dispute her claim. I have to be patient, Charity. And I’m not good at that.”
It had to be a ruse. Robin was the Duke of Harwood in every sense. The thought that some boy of four should usurp him was unthinkable. “Oh, Robin, what an awful thing to have to go through.”
“I do have some compassion for the position Madame Florence finds herself in, if she’s really Charles’ wife,” he said briefly. “But I am somewhat in limbo until the matter is resolved. Now, we must talk about the future,” he said, his voice becoming firmer. “You will have to take a chance on me, Charity. I imagine that I’ll be the subject of gossip for years, whether I’m proved to be the duke or not.”
“As if I care about gossip.” She pressed her hands palms downward on the chair arms. “But you must be the duke, Robin. I can’t believe what this woman says is true.”
His eyes darkened. “Trouble is I believe her.”
She raised her brows. “But why? Isn’t she an actress?”
“At the time I considered her to be honest, Charity. No one is that good an actress.”
The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four Page 14
