The green silk gown was brocaded in pink and gold roses with a flounce of lace at her elbows. She slipped on the shoes and raised her skirts to admire a matching green ribbed silk toe. Her breasts peeped above the neckline, rising and falling with each excited breath.
Charity gazed into the mirror. She barely recognized herself.
Brigitte picked up a fan painted with flowers. “And the fan, my lady. No lady is without one. You must flirt with it.”
“Flirt?”
“Like this.” Brigitte opened the fan, displaying a lovely painted rural scene and fluttered it before her face. “Like a coquette, oui?”
“I suppose so,” Charity said doubtfully.
“It is called the amorous flutter,” Brigitte said, warming to her theme. “There is also the angry flutter, like this.” She snapped it shut. “The modest miss, oui, like this? A merry lady, like this….”
She expertly twirled the fan.
“Oh stop,” Charity said, laughing. “I shall never feel comfortable doing any of that.”
“But that is the way of society ladies,” Brigitte said. “I learnt it in France from the Countess De Avignon.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll ease into it gradually.” Charity relented at the disappointed moue on Brigitte’s lips, and Brigitte immediately brightened, handing her the fan and her reticule.
She descended the marble staircase to the salon, gracefully, she hoped. Robert waited, resting an arm along the mantel, holding the bell shape of a brandy glass to his lips.
His eyes widened and he spluttered as the brandy went down the wrong way. She was gratified to see his gaze rove appreciatively from her head to her feet, lingering on her bosom in the low necked gown. His hot glance made her blush. When he could regain his voice, he said, “You look very lovely.”
She gave him a curtsey. “Thank you, Robert. So do you.”
He raised a brow, his lips curving into a smile. “Lovely?”
She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Fine-looking, I mean.”
He came towards her, his cream silk frock coat swinging gracefully above long, well-shaped legs encased in black small-clothes. A diamond sparkled in the lace folds at his throat.
High-heeled jeweled shoes made him very tall. He still wore the black arm-band in memory of his uncle. It was the first time she’d seen him in a white wig with his face powdered, and he wore a black patch at the corner of his well-shaped mouth.
Charity felt the strange heavy sensation in her stomach that was ever-present when he was near. She didn’t trust his restrained elegance. He reminded her of a panther held by fragile silken bonds. Never to be tamed.
He snapped open the lid of a velvet box. Nestled inside was a parure of diamonds, a breathtaking necklace, earrings, brooch and bracelet.
Charity put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my!”
“Turn around, my dear.”
He removed the sparkling necklace from the box and placed the cold gems around her throat. She tamped down a shiver at the soft touch of his fingers on the nape of her neck. He handed her the box. “I’ll let you put the ear-bobs on yourself.”
Regretting that he did not do so, Charity went to the long gilt mirror near the table. She shook her head, and the diamonds swung from her ears, flashing in the light.
She laughed and leaned forward to touch them with a finger.
She pirouetted to show him. “What do you think?”
“Magnifique,” He chuckled at her high spirits and came to clasp the bracelet around her wrist. “The gown is perfect for you. I must write and thank my aunt.”
“Yes, would you? I bought her a shawl to thank her myself.” His eyes widened. “That was thoughtful.”
Charity opened her reticule. “I bought you something too.” He looked pleased. “You did?”
She handed him the snuff box wrapped in silver paper. “I cannot give you anything to equal this,” she said, placing her hand on the cold gems at her throat. “This is only a small thing.”
He pulled the silver paper away and studied the enameled box with the chestnut horse painted on the lid. “It’s charming, Charity.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. I shall fill it with my special mixture.” He took a far grander silver box from his coat pocket and opened it, transferring its contents to the new one.
“Why, I do believe that was my godfather’s snuff box wasn’t it?” Charity walked close to look at it. “The one with the pig. I thought it so unusual when he first showed it to me.”
Robert stared at her, an odd expression in his eyes. “You remember this?”
“Yes. I think your uncle preferred pigs to people.”
“I do believe you are right.” He put his head back and laughed. She laughed too. It felt so good like they were friends. More like husband and wife. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. They left the room with her feeling slightly flat, wishing he had.
Brigitte waited in the foyer with her velvet cloak. Robert took it from her and placed the cloak around Charity’s shoulders, the fur tickling her chin. “Come, allow me to show you off to society,” he said coolly.
His voice was impersonal and brisk. He’d done it again! Backed away from the intimacy, and was aloof again, and the special moment they’d shared might never have happened. She watched his stiff back as they left the house, and she followed, wondering what might have provoked it.
Charity was pleased at his satisfaction, but she felt she’d become a possession, like this mausoleum of a house with its endless corridors and cold marble columns. Now that her interest in him had grown, would he ever really be interested in her?
As the carriage drove through the London streets, Charity asked Robert to tell her more about King George and Queen Charlotte.
“He’s a good king. He takes a prominent interest in the policies of the government, so much so he annoys his ministers on occasion.”
“Yes, but tell me what they are really like as people. One hears rumors, of course.”
“You mean his illness?” Robert smiled. “He is well at present.
They are good people and devoted to one another.” A gleam entered his eyes. “After all, they have fifteen children.”
Charity felt her cheeks heat and was glad the light in the carriage was dim. He looked at her differently since he’d seen her without her clothes. The expression in his blue eyes made her feel desired and womanly. She wanted to ask him how many children he would like to have, but found she couldn’t say the words. “Tell me more about the king,” she said hurriedly.
“He likes to dress as a farmer and live like one on occasion.”
“He sounds nice.”
Robert raised a brow. “Do you think everyone is nice?”
She made a moue with her mouth. “You’re not always nice, Robert.” She held her breath as he took her hand and pressed a kiss on her gloved palm.
“I’m sorry if that is so. You look very nice tonight. Quite delicious in fact.”
When he flirted, his frank gaze was highly disturbing.
Charity didn’t know how to respond. She turned to the window. “Oh look. The carriage is slowing. We must be here.”
“Indeed we are. Just when things were getting interesting,” Robert said enigmatically.
Why was he more enamored of her in the carriage? Why not in the bedchamber, she thought crossly.
The ball took place in a mansion north of the city, set in acres of formal gardens. Lanterns dressed the trees along the driveway of Fairgrove Hall, and braziers lit up the terraces. Their hostess, Lady Arabella Elphinstone, a fair-haired young widow, greeted them in the vestibule.
“Lady Arabella.” Robert kissed the lady’s fingers. “I’d like you to meet my bride, Lady St Malin.”
“Lady St Malin.” Lady Arabella curtseyed. “How charming you look.”
“As do you, Lady Arabella.” Charity caught the sharp expression of dislike in Lady Arabella’s eyes before she turned to give Robert a flirtatious, intima
te smile.
“I had heard the rumor, St Malin, but I must say I did not believe it.” Lady Arabella spoke as if Charity wasn’t present. She opened her fan and fluttered it gracefully like a merry lady, just as Brigitte had demonstrated. “Your uncle was a peculiar man, was he not?” Although she spoke to Robert, her eyes were on Charity.
“Peculiar perhaps, if you aren’t in accordance with his opinions,” Charity said before Robert could answer.
Lady Arabella’s delicate brows rose. “Oh? And what opinions are they?”
“I believe he wasn’t fond of his own kind. He found some members of the aristocracy self-serving.” Charity opened and closed her fan with a snap.
Robert took Charity’s arm and drew her away. “You will meet with some opposition, Charity. You must learn to ignore it with grace. It doesn’t do to make enemies.”
Feeling socially inept and a little bit hurt, Charity longed to leave and the night had not even begun. “I’m not used to being insulted.”
“I’m sorry if you thought you were.”
“She looked at you as though she had a prior claim on you.”
He pulled his arm away. “What!”
“Does she?” Charity searched his eyes, but he looked away. Aware they were being watched, he tucked her arm back into his.
“A lady does not ask her husband such things.”
She raised a brow. “I only wish to learn the truth of things.” He stared down at her and his brows snapped together.
“Forget about the truth. In this town it is more important to learn discretion.”
“Then perhaps I shall not like it here.” She drew away from his arm, picked up her skirts to follow him into the crowd.
“Take my arm,” he said curtly, turning to her. “Do you want to cause gossip before we even begin?”
Her chin raised and her hand resting lightly on his arm, Charity entered the ballroom. He began to introduce her to those who crowded around offering their felicitations. The women curtseyed and studied Charity from beneath their lashes.
A few showed genuine warmth and were gracious in their praise, but many held back. She would have to prove herself to become one with them. The clever and often scandalous gossip she overheard made her wonder if she wanted to. Lady Sommerford’s new baby apparently wasn’t her husband’s, and there was conjecture that several men might have fathered it. It mattered not for he had his heir and a spare, and was quite taken with his new mistress.
The men and women flirted outrageously in the honeyed light of a thousand candles reflected in the mirrors adorning the walls. The air was close and humid, and different scents fought for ascendancy, not all of them pleasant. Ladies whispered behind their fans, their eyes full of laughter. A lady tucked a man’s note into her cleavage when her husband’s back was turned. Charity fanned herself too, not coquettishly, as Brigitte had suggested, but because she was afraid she would faint, not just from the heat but the shock of such an extravagant display.
The orchestra began to play.
“Bach. A favourite composer of the King,” Robert said bending low to speak in her ear.
Couples formed sets for a minuet, moving across the polished wooden floor in slow, ceremonious graceful movements.
Footmen traversed those standing and seated to watch, offering wine and dainty foods to the guests.
The jovial King George and the queen sat on straight-backed gilt chairs upholstered in crimson velvet, surrounded by six of their children. Charity was introduced, and the king peered at her nearsightedly. As Robert instructed, she performed a deep curtsey. When the queen smiled, Charity felt her nervousness slip away. Their questions were mercifully brief. They expressed genuine sadness at the marquess’ passing.
Their eldest son, the Prince of Wales kissed her hand, saying her husband was a lucky fellow. He was considered handsome and known for his charm, but she didn’t find the tall, bulky man with a florid complexion particularly attractive. At two and twenty, he was the same age as Charity, but he appeared much older, like an accomplished rake and his attentions made her feel uncomfortable.
As soon as he was able, Robert drew her away.
“I’m not sure I like the prince,” she said quietly into his ear.
“I’m relieved that you don’t,” he said shortly. He turned to greet someone at his elbow.
When he turned back to her she asked him why. “He’s been through several mistresses already. I don’t want him adding you to the list.”
She huffed. “As if I would. And I am married.”
“Married? The prince’s ladies most often are. Some cuckolded husbands are busy elsewhere. Some suffer in silence. Royalty live by different rules.” Robert glowered down at her. “Prince or no, I’m not one of those husbands who will turn a blind eye, Charity.”
Charity felt rather thrilled at the dangerous light in his eye. He said no more and began to introduce her to more people.
She would never remember all their names. They were polite to her face, no doubt because of her high rank, but a buzz of conversation followed her. The aged Duke of Allthrop raised his pince nez. “That’s the chit who married young St Malin? Did all right for herself,” he said loudly. His wife whispered in his ear. “What? Don’t hush me. Pretty little thing.” Charity moved hurriedly away, her cheeks burning.
She danced with Lord Branchford who seemed to gaze at a fixed point above her head. He trod heavily on her toes. “You are from the country, I believe, Lady St Malin.”
Charity sighed. “Oxfordshire is not so terribly far from London, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, but bucolic, eh? I have a hunting lodge in that area. We all withdraw to the country when the Season ends. I find it a bit of bore and short of the comforts one comes to expect.”
Charity was about to disagree, but she remembered Robert’s warning and merely smiled as he escorted her from the floor.
A handsome middle-aged couple approached them. The dainty woman smiled, but her partner, a heavy-set man scowled.
“Robert, why didn’t you inform us?” the lady asked, reaching up to touch his face.
Robert stepped back and bowed. “My bride, Lady St Malin,” he said stiffly. He turned to Charity, surprising her with the ridge of color on his cheekbones and the dark look in his eyes.
“Charity, I’d like you to meet Lord and Lady Charlesworth.”
“It is nice to meet you, my dear,” Lady Charlesworth said. “You did not invite us to the wedding, Robert.”
“It was done quickly and simply, in the country.”
Her eyes looked wistful. “Will you bring Lady St Malin to visit us soon?”
“Alas, we have many social engagements to fulfill, my lady.”
The lady’s pretty blue eyes filled with despair.
”I’m sure that is so.” Lord Charlesworth returned a cold bow and ushered his wife away.
“Who were those people, Robert?” Charity watched the lady dab at her eyes with a handkerchief as they left the room.
“My mother, and her second husband.” Robert’s fingers clutched her arm, and his cold, strained voice did not invite her to comment.
Charity’s eyes widened, and she felt a rush of sympathy for the woman. Ignoring the warning, she said, “Your mother? But you were so harsh. Why, I believe she was crying!”
Robert stared down at her, a fierce light in his eye. “Becoming my wife does not give you the right to question my behavior.”
Charity clamped her lips together to stop herself answering back. It was inconceivable that such a thing could happen between family members. What on earth might have happened to cause this dreadful rift? She meant to learn more of this by more subtle means. This new-found determination surprised her.
She took the floor only once with Robert. He danced well, and she would have liked to dance with him again, but he left her to the men crowding around her to gamble in one of the ante-rooms. Charity danced for hours. Her feet hurt in her new shoes, and the witty and salacious bante
r that swirled round her became exhausting. The Prince of Wales, who had left the ball along with his parents, was discussed at length.
Mrs Maria Anne Fitzherbert had given birth to a son most felt sure had been sired by the prince. The marriage ceremony which took place between the prince and Mrs Fitzherbert in ’85 was deemed illegal as the lady was Roman Catholic. Some offered the opinion that the prince knew full well the truth of it when he proposed. The baby, christened James Ord, was to be sent to be raised by Catholics in America.
Charity could hardly believe her ears, and indeed wished to cover them, as one witty man listed in very droll fashion all the women the prince had bedded before the tender age of one and twenty.
Charity sat to rest her aching feet, declining another glass of champagne. She hadn’t noticed how many glasses she’d drunk through the course of the evening. It would not do to appear drunk here, and although she’d never suffered such a fate, she felt that she was in danger of it.
When she could bear no more, she went in search of her husband. She found him at the card table. He looked up at her blankly as if he didn’t recognize her.
Charity quaked and lowered her gaze, saying, “I wish to go home, my lord.”
Robert threw down his cards. “I’m out.” He looked in a challenging fashion around the assembled group, and tossed a pile of coins into the mix of paper money and wagers in the center of the table. Shoving back his chair, he bowed to the men.
“Gentlemen. I shall have to wait until another evening to remove you of your funds.”
“Take care, St Malin. You may not win at home, either,” a red-haired man said. Their laughter followed Charity and Robert from the room.
Robert glowered as they sought out their hostess. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said in a fierce undertone.
He complimented Lady Arabella on the success of her ball.
She tilted her head and smiled at him flirtatiously, accepting his praise with grace while managing to completely ignore Charity.
Charity wanted to apologize for embarrassing him in the card room, but his rigid profile made her hold her tongue as they made their way to the front door.
“Bring out our coats and send for my carriage,” Robert told a footman.
The Reluctant Marquess Page 6
