On one of her jaunts to examine the splendid paintings by mediaeval artists adorning the walls, she noticed one footman appeared to have a sore foot, for he favored it more than once when she passed him in the endless echoing corridor. “You have an injury?” she asked when next she came across him.
“My lady.” He gave a quick nod. He wasn’t a young man, his hair was quite grizzled.
“Perhaps you’d like a chair,” she suggested.
His gaze widened, and he swallowed. “Oh, no. Thank you, your ladyship.”
“Is it the gout?” she asked sympathetically. “My grandfather suffered from it.”
The footman glanced up and down the empty corridor. “I fear it is, Lady St Malin.”
“Grandfather swore by cold water immersion and powdered elm bark.” The footman cleared his throat.
“Did he, my lady?”
Charity nodded. “I shall ask the housekeeper if she has some.”
“That’s extremely kind of you, my lady.”
“I heard you called Barker. Is that your name?” He looked pleased. “Yes, my lady.”
Charity went in search of the housekeeper. The lady looked shocked when she entered the servants’ quarters. Mrs Graves stiffly admitted she had none to hand, but would send out for the elm bark immediately.
“Please don’t worry, Mrs Graves. I’ll purchase some when next I’m shopping.”
Charity left the woman speechlessly rising from a low curtsey and found her way back to her chamber to change for dinner. A house maid awaited her, who was so nervous she was of little help. In the end, Charity thanked her and attended to things herself as she was used to doing. Satisfied that she looked tidy, she found her way to the yellow salon as she’d been instructed. The scale of the room took her breath away.
Two massive crystal chandeliers hung from the high coffered ceiling and bronze silk covered walls were adorned with paintings and huge gilt mirrors. Robert sat waiting in a brocade chair beside the white marble fireplace.
He stood as she entered. He had changed for dinner.
“Have you been here long? Why didn’t you send word that you were home?” She bit the words off even as she spoke them, watching his eyes grow frosty.
“I had business to attend to. Come here, Charity.” He had opened the package and held a small box. He flipped it open with his thumb. An exquisite rose-cut diamond ring nestled in cream satin like a beautiful exotic flower. It was surrounded by nine smaller diamonds in an elaborate gold setting. There was a matching gold wedding band.
“My goodness.” The diamond in the ring was almost the size of a walnut. She had never seen anything quite so beautiful, but also terrifying. What if she lost it? She’d almost rather keep his signet ring.
He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it, blushing when her fingers trembled. He drew his signet ring off her finger and eased the rings on in its place.
“They fit perfectly,” Charity said with relief. Might he not kiss her and say something nice? He disliked poetry, but he needn’t be so coolly efficient.
“The engagement ring belonged to my uncle’s wife, the former marchioness. I guessed your size and had it altered. I selected the wedding ring to match it.”
“How clever of you.” She turned her hand this way and that. The diamond caught the candlelight and flashed like blue flame.
“Tell me more about your relations.” Charity did so want to know more about her new family. “Those living and dead.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” he said, his eyes shadowed. “In a few days when you are properly dressed, I’ll take you about town. There are many waiting to meet you.”
She swallowed. “There are?”
He nodded. “After dinner, I have engaged to visit my club with friends. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”
“Of course, Robert.” It wasn’t really a question.
After dinner, Robert excused himself and she wandered the library, another cavernous room filled with an enormous satinwood desk and deep leather chairs. She discovered a portrait of Robert hanging on the wall.
He stood by a gnarled oak in riding clothes, a crop in his hand looking young and unhappy. She crossed soft Axminster carpet patterned in rich burgundy and browns which reflected the painted ceiling, and climbed the iron stair to roam the many tiers of books. She selected an anthology of Shakespeare’s plays to read and retired early. Settled in bed, she found she couldn’t concentrate on As You Like It, even though it was a favorite, it reminded her too much of her father. She sniffed into her handkerchief and, after reading the same line several times, concluded she was too tired and put the book aside.
But once the candle was extinguished, she laid awake. Robert’s chamber was down the hall from hers. She heard him return just after the clock in the hall struck twelve. Less lonely now that he was home, she turned over and fell asleep.
Still caught up in the excitement of the evening’s entertainment, Robert paused outside Charity’s door. The boxing match had been a good one although it became rowdy when punters crowded the ring. After the surgeon had lanced the swelling around Brain’s eye, the heavyweight had gone on and beaten Boone soundly.
Robert was tempted to go in and set things straight between them. Once done, he could then concentrate on other matters, and need only visit her on occasion, until she was with child.
The prospect of Charity all sleepy and sweet-smelling with her hair down stirred his loins. He raised his hand to knock, then paused. It was late and waking her would not be politic, and the fact that she was an innocent deterred him. She was not like his mistress, he reminded himself. She would need more wooing than that.
While he deliberated he saw that no light shone out from the crack beneath the door. His clothes were soiled and no doubt he smelled bad from the dubious company he’d kept. He dropped his hand and continued on to his room.
Dressing before breakfast the next morning, Charity was informed that the first of her gowns had arrived. The modiste must have had her underlings working all through the night on it. Robert had paid the woman well to finish them quickly. She called the maid and tried it on, parading in front of the mirror. It was so fetching she couldn’t wait to show Robert.
She was gladdened to see Robert eyeing her approvingly, a smile stretching his mouth, after she appeared at the breakfast room door.
She swept confidently into the room, her new scooped-neck gown of a heavily quilted sage green silk with its ivory satin petticoat swishing about her elegant buckled shoes.
His gaze travelled to her hair, which her new French maid, Brigitte, had artfully tumbled into a pile of curls she called à la grecque. “You look quite charming.”
“Thank you.”
He returned to his newspaper as if he’d said enough. “I do like that color on you. My aunt has done well.”
“I chose this color,” Charity said acerbically. She had hoped for a little praise. She wasn’t unreasonable, but really!
“I commend your taste.” Choosing not to react or either completely unaware of her annoyance, he seized his knife and fork and attacked his breakfast, The Public Advertiser propped up on the table in front of him. “When will your new ball gown arrive?”
“In a few days.”
“We are to attend a ball Saturday next. I expect the king and queen to be there.”
Charity gasped.
His eyes returned to his paper. “I gather you have not met them before?”
She put her hands on her hips and tapped one toe. “Actually, they came for tea one summer.”
He glanced up with a grin.
“Of course I have not. What should I do when I’m presented?” As she sat down, he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.
“Smile, and make sure you curtsey low.”
Her cheeks grew hot. “Of course, but what else is expected of me?”
“They know of our marriage. My uncle was a royal envoy and quite close to the royal family. They may wish to know mo
re of yours. Just answer their questions. It won’t be that difficult.”
Not for you who were born to it! She bit her lip to keep herself from saying something she’d regret. “Very well.”
He smiled. “I’ll be there with you. Don’t worry.” He reached across and patted her hand. “You do look quite charming this morning.”
She propped her chin in her hand and studied him. His thick dusky lashes shadowed his cheek as he read the paper, and she liked how his dark hair curled back from his forehead. “What do you plan to do today?”
“I’m off to the races. I have a horse running.”
“How exciting. What is its name?”
“Mercury.”
“Does he have wings on his heels?”
A spark brightened his eyes. “I do hope so.” He pushed back his chair and rose.
“You won’t be here for dinner?”
“No. Forgive me; I have a dinner engagement with an old friend. I have been absent from London for some time and must catch up with acquaintances.”
Another night spent alone. Charity threw down her napkin.
“I daresay you’re bored,” he said eyeing her uneasily. “But we shall be so burdened with engagements soon you will wish for time alone, I promise you.”
Charity swallowed a retort, knowing whatever she said would sound querulous and unreasonable. He had given her so much and been very honest about what their relationship would be.
She roamed St Malin House, her silk house slippers echoing along the corridors. She found a portrait of her godfather which made him appear more austere than ever, a trait to be found in many relations, it seemed. She spent several hours studying the marble statues and the exquisite Limoges and Sèvres porcelain displayed in walnut cabinets. Further restless hours were spent wandering in and out of the house to walk in the manicured gardens or on the wide stone terrace. A footman insisted on opening the door for her each time, even though she told him she could manage quite well herself. After she implored him to leave it to her, a pained expression appeared on Hove’s face. The poor footman grew red in the cheeks, and she returned to her bedchamber.
A house full of servants was foreign to her. At home in Oxfordshire, the cook, Mrs Morrison and the two maids, Sarah and Vanessa were like family, they’d been with them so long. It had been very hard to see them off to new positions, along with Nanny and Jim, who did for them in the garden. While it was nice to have her every need met, almost before she thought of it, it was difficult to relax and be herself.
Two days later, another of her gowns arrived, which produced a flurry of excitement from Brigitte, but after holding the glamorous creation up to herself in the glass, Charity was quickly bored.
Brigitte folded her new nightgowns of white lawn. “I once worked for a lady who was the mistress of a duke.”
Charity idly turned the pages of the latest fashion magazine, pausing to admire a woman’s outfit much like a gentleman’s regimental coat worn with a waistcoat, skirt and cocked hat. She doubted she was tall enough to carry it off. “Did you?”
“Oui. You should have seen the nightgowns she wore.” Charity looked up. “Oh? What were they like?”
“You could see your hand through them. And the colours, mon dieu! Crimson and black with lots of lace.”
Charity’s interest was piqued. “Did the Duke visit her in her house?” Brigitte laughed.
“Tout à fait. He brought her diamond bracelets, champagne and filled her boudoir with red roses.”
Charity thrust the magazine away. “And how did she act with him?” Brigitte dropped the nightgown and began to sway her hips provocatively, moving around the room.
“She danced for him in her nightgown while he sat and watched and drank the champagne. Spellbound he was. She touched herself as she danced.” Brigitte waved her hand over various parts of her body. “Then poof, he would dismiss me.” She nodded sagely. “She knew how to please a man, that one.”
Charity’s cheeks heated. “My goodness.” Could she ever be that seductive? She could not imagine her mother behaving like that for the life of her. Why her father would have died of the apoplexy. But what would Robert do if she acted that way? Robert was nothing like her father.
Charity took the carriage and did some shopping with the maid accompanying her. She had no one to shop for but herself and Robert. She picked up a silk robe for him and almost bought it, then decided it was too intimate. Since all his clothes were specially made, what could she find that he would actually treasure? She finally settled on a small enameled snuff box with a horse painted on it. She bought Lady Susan a Norwich shawl, Brigitte a pair of embroidered fingerless gloves which delighted her, and ribbons for herself. She found the elm bark powder and gave it to Barker who quite lost his voice in effusive thanks.
The days seemed to crawl by and their first official engagement grew closer. Charity was in a fever of excitement and nerves whenever she thought of it. Perhaps she’d feel better if she kept busy. What did people do in London? She might visit the famous sights, but a lady did not go about unescorted, and it would prove uninspiring without someone with whom to share it. Robert had said that after she’d met the Royal family, they would begin to receive callers, but this prospect only served to unnerve her further.
In her chamber, she took out her small knife and whittled the pieces of driftwood she’d brought with her. Her grandfather had been a sculptor, and taught her to carve things out of wood.
She had quite a display along her fireplace mantel already: a fox peered out from a bush; a rabbit sat, ears almost twitching; a wren rested on a branch. An hour later, she put the piece down.
It now bore a closer resemblance to a horse jumping a log. She wondered if she would ever gain the confidence to show Robert her work. She rather doubted it. Business had taken him to Vauxhall again. He seemed to have settled back into the life he led before they married. It didn’t seem likely he would visit her boudoir any time soon.
Saturday came, the night she would be presented to the king and queen. She had practiced her deep curtsey every day in readiness. Robert had joined her for dinner served at the dining table which seated some forty people. The meal progressed under the vigilant eye of the butler and two footmen.
She sought to draw Robert into conversation, wishing he didn’t always appear distracted or disinterested. “Did you achieve much in Vauxhall today, Robert?” she asked.
Robert took a helping of veal from a silver salver held by the footman. “It’s difficult, my uncle’s pottery business isn’t doing well, and I’ve employed a new manager. We are trying to think of ways to improve it before I sell it.”
“Does the factory make plates like these?” Glad to have something to talk about, Charity pointed to the handsome china plate in front of her, aware that many households still ate from pewter with wooden utensils and not the shining silver that adorned the table.
“No. But I don’t see why bone china is not a possibility.” Robert mused. “We have access to the materials, Kaolinite—that’s clay, close access to the slaughter houses for bone . . .. Hard though, to compete with Europe and China.” He lapsed into silence.
Feeling he would not welcome further discussion, Charity pushed food around her plate, her mind refusing to produce anything of note to gain his attention. She would have to read up on pottery.
“You are looking forward to this evening?”
“Oh! Um, yes, I suppose so.”
Her nerves increasing at the prospect of the evening ahead, Charity returned to her chamber to dress. Brigitte waited for her, standing by the mantel, studying her artwork. “I much admire the new piece you’ve carved, my lady,” she said. “It looks so lifelike.”
Charity felt absurdly pleased. “Thank you, Brigitte.” A wave of homesickness swept over her. Her life in Oxfordshire had been filled with warmth and love. Her father had always been there to lean on. She felt his loss even more keenly since she’d come here.
Brigitte had her b
ath ready. Charity relaxed in the perfumed water as the maid washed her back. She hoped Robert would find her beautiful tonight in her new gown. She longed for him to gaze at her with love, but doubted he ever would. With whom did he dine tonight? Might it be a mistress? She had heard that married men often had mistresses. She suspected Robert would be no different, but her heart plummeted at the thought. She would not allow it to spoil the evening, however. This was an extraordinary occasion; something she never dreamed would happen to her.
She stepped out of her bath and Brigitte wrapped her in a towel. Someone knocked at the door. “Good heavens, who is that? Fetch my robe.” Charity dropped the towel and was about to don the dressing gown that Brigitte held out when the door opened and Robert strode in. He froze.
“I beg your pardon.” His voice sounded oddly strained.
Swiveling, he returned to the door and seized the handle as Charity pulled on the robe. Without turning, he said, “I came to request you come to the salon when you are dressed. I have something for you.”
“I shall, my lord,” Charity said to the closed door, for he’d already left the room. Trembling, she turned to the mirror, finding herself flushed from her cheeks down to her breasts.
Charity sat on the chair to get her breath.
“Oh, my lady, did you see the look on his face? I don’t know why he didn’t come in. He obviously wanted to.” Brigitte giggled and put a hand to her mouth. “Sorry, my lady.”
“It’s all right, Brigitte,” Charity said. Had Robert wanted to come in? She wished she knew.
Brigitte assisted her into her shift, linen pannier and petticoats. A pale pink embroidered corset cinched in her diaphragm and made it hard to breathe. Her breasts were pushed up like twin moons. She stepped into a quilted petticoat.
The maid lightly powdered and combed Charity’s hair over a foundation, arranging side curls and a garniture of pearls and imitation roses to the tall creation. She sat still while her face was powdered with a hare’s foot, and lip rouge and color added to her mouth and cheeks.
“Now the gown, my lady, à la française,” Brigitte said in a breathy tone.
The Reluctant Marquess Page 5
