The Reluctant Marquess

by Maggi Andersen

  After the polite clapping died away, Lady Ellis leaned forward and tapped her on the arm. “I must say I wouldn’t mind if my husband fought for my honor, Lady St Malin.”

  Started, Charity said, “I beg your pardon?”

  Lady Ellis’ plucked brows rose. “Surely you heard that your husband fought Lord Southmore?”

  “I hadn’t, where was this?”

  The lady’s small brown eyes gleamed. “In the early hours of the morning on Hampstead Heath.”

  Charity widened her eyes remembering Robert’s bruised and cut cheek.

  “He would not tell you, of course. Lord Southmore was laid up for some time with a broken hand.”

  Charity returned home deep in thought. Had Robert sought to defend her honor? Or was it his pride he defended? She shook her head. She remembered wishing Robert to plant him a facer. Well he had, but she wasn’t thrilled by it. Not knowing he’d seriously hurt someone because of her.

  As the carriage negotiated the busy streets, she came to the opinion that one could feel lonelier in the city than the country. In Cornwall, the days had passed serenely, without the feverish expectations one dealt with every day in this society. Perhaps she really wasn’t intended to live in it.

  Lady Moncrieff, who she had not met previously, had invited her to a costume party at Vauxhall Gardens Friday next, insisting it was perfectly respectable for her to come unescorted. As Robert was not expected home until the following day at the earliest, Charity accepted, hoping it would lift her spirits.

  Dressed in lavender silk and wearing a lacy black mask, Charity traveled with Lady Moncrieff in her carriage to Vauxhall Gardens. It was situated on the Thames River, and many arrived by boat to pay their shilling entrance fee. She thought it a remarkable place with its pavilions and temples and wooded wildernesses of elm, sycamore and lime trees. Couples in their finery strolled the romantic Druid walk. The square was enclosed by walks and the western wall of the gardens. An orchestra building lay in the center and a great marble statue of the composer Handel, by Louis Francois Roubiliac took pride of place. During his lifetime, Handel had often visited the gardens.

  In the Grove, she and Lady Moncrieff entered their supper box which was large enough to hold the fifteen people of their party. Each box was decorated with a different painting but none could be considered serious works of art.

  During a supper of chicken and thin slices of ham, a hush went up as a thousand oil lamps were lit at once, casting the gardens in a warm glow.

  As the evening passed, much drink was imbibed and Charity was dismayed to find the party developing into a rather risqué affair. She was not sure Robert would approve. She sipped a glass of wine and tried to make conversation with the only other woman left in the box. A man approached and the woman went with him to the dance floor. Left alone, Charity glanced about nervously.

  Robert arrived home at ten, hoping to find Charity at home. He was tired but pleased to have sorted the problems out at the iron works. A footman informed him she had not returned from Lady Moncrieff’s party at Vauxhall Gardens.

  Robert cursed. Lady Moncrieff was not the sort of company he wished his wife to foster. Why wasn’t she home, waiting his return, deuce it?

  But Charity had not expected him until tomorrow, he reasoned. He grudgingly admitted he had missed her more than he cared to admit and had hoped that this evening he might try and overcome the gulf that had stretched between them, so vast, it seemed more difficult to cross than the Arabian Desert. He woke his slumbering valet and quickly washed and changed into evening clothes. Sending for a hackney, he set out for Vauxhall Gardens.

  Boats bobbed about on the moonlit rolling waters of the Thames. At the gates to the Gardens Robert paid the coachman. “Wait for me and you’ll get double fare.”

  “Right you are, Gov.”

  He hurried down the avenue where couples strolled along the paths among trees hung with a profusion of lamps.

  Charity was sitting uneasily in the box having refused an inebriated man’s offer to dance, when another more affluent gentleman in a deep purple mask lined with gold approached with the same intention. She agreed, feeling it would pass the time until she could respectfully say goodnight to her hostess. If she could find her amongst the people crowding the grove.

  At the conclusion of the music the tall man escorted her from the floor. “Would you care to see the paintings of Shakespeare’s plays?”

  “Why yes, thank you.”

  He led her to the Prince of Wales Pavilion on the west side of the Grove. In an open portico hung a group of four large paintings of scenes from Shakespeare’s plays painted by Francis Hayman. These were so well executed, Charity was tempted to remove the mask that obscured her vision. She resisted, feeling it unwise to reveal her identity to this stranger.

  “Thank you. Could we now return to the party, please?”

  Charity followed him relieved he knew the way for she’d lost her bearings. The box they entered was empty. She looked around for her cloak and reticule and couldn’t find them. The painting hanging on the wall was different too.

  She turned to the man who was pouring wine into glasses. “This is not Lady Moncrieff’s box, sir.”

  He pulled the curtains across and removed his mask. “Lord Southmore!”

  He bowed. “At your service my lady.”

  “Please take me back to Lady Moncrieff.”

  He smiled. “Let’s not hurry. Surely we can have a drink together.”

  “No thank you.” Charity tried to slip past him.

  He caught her arm. “I have long looked forward to meeting you again. Alone.”

  “Perhaps you are more enamored of revenge, Lord Southmore?”

  “So you heard about our boxing match.” He clenched and opened his hand. “I merely like to finish what I begin.”

  She backed towards the door to the box. “You can’t always have what you want, you know.”

  “Can’t I? I don’t fear your husband, Lady St Malin. Next time it will be pistols and I shall win.” He pounced, taking her by surprise and pulled her ruthlessly against him. His mouth came down hard on hers. She struggled in his arms but he was too strong. Revolted by his clasping hands and his tongue trying to push between her clamped lips, Charity let her body go limp.

  Lord Southmore struggled to hold her upright. She pushed up with her knees and shoved his chest with all her strength. Startled, he fell back over a chair behind him.

  Charity fled the box and hurried across the dance floor, trying to discover where her box was. They all looked the same. With everyone masked it was difficult to recognize any of the men and women she’d met, they seemed to have scattered and disappeared. Finally she located Lady Moncrieff’s box by recognizing the painting which hung there. Entering it, she found Lord Wainright alone, leaning tipsily back in his chair with a glass in his hand.

  As Charity gathered up her cloak and reticule he reached over and tugged at her skirts. “C’mon and join me.”

  Licking her sore swollen lip and trying to keep from bursting into tears of frustration, Charity pulled her skirts away, hearing the fragile fabric rip. The rent was wide enough to expose her petticoat. She rushed from the box, much of her hair falling from its pins. Heading for the path leading through the gardens, she came up against a hard body and tried to dart past.

  A hand on her arm brought her up short. Fear gripped her until she raised her head and looked straight into the arctic blue gaze of her husband.

  “Are you ready to come home?” he asked in a falsely conciliatory tone.

  “Yes …I…that is…I am.” She gathered her scattered wits. “Thank you.” Robert took her arm and led her through the people milling around them. He suddenly stopped and swung around.

  “What is it?” Charity asked with a feeling of dread.

  “Was that Southmore I spied?”

  “Really?” she said her heart beating fast. “Where?”

  “Over there in that purple mask.”
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  “It’s impossible to tell with everyone masked.” She tugged at his sleeve. “Do let’s go.”

  He led her at such a fast walk towards the line of waiting carriages, she could barely keep up with him.

  When they settled in the carriage, his cool gaze roamed over her. “You’ve torn your gown.”

  “Yes, I stumbled and caught my heel.”

  He snorted. “A likely story.”

  Charity exploded. “Yes. It is a story, my lord. I made a mistake and fell into bad company if you must know. A drunken man tried to make me join him in a drink and I tore my gown.”

  “Not very well done, Charity.”

  She tried to hold the torn edges of her gown together, then gave up the hopeless task. “No it wasn’t. I quite agree with you. People do make mistakes. I make mistakes.”

  There was a long pause with only the clip-clop of the horses echoing through the dark streets. Mist hovered over the river forming a halo of light around the lamps. She waited in the faint hope that Robert would admit he made mistakes too. If he did they might laugh and forgive one another.

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Who was the drunk who tore your gown?”

  “I shan’t tell you. I expect it’s more important to fight a duel in my honor than to discuss exactly what needs to be said between us.”

  In the half-light of the carriage lamp, she saw him redden and shift in his seat. “Don’t be so dramatic. I wasn’t planning a duel,” he said.

  “Now who isn’t telling the truth?”

  The carriage drew up outside the house and they climbed the stairs in silence. At her chamber door, Charity felt she couldn’t leave him like this. She made another attempt. “Was your trip successful?”

  He leaned against the door jamb. “Yes it was.”

  She hesitated, her hand on the knob. “I’m glad, Robert.”

  “Charity…” He bent his head towards her and she stilled. Her body tensed with longing. Was he going to kiss her?

  Robert straightened. “Your lip appears to be bleeding,” he said, his tone surly.

  “The man kissed me. I pushed him away. He fell over a chair, and I escaped,” she said in a rush. “I was on my way home when I found you.”

  “Tell me the man’s name, Charity. Might it have been…Southmore?”

  Her throat tightened. “The man who tore my gown was a stranger to me.”

  “I find I don’t believe you. Now why is that?”

  She trembled under his fierce scrutiny. Fearful that Southmore would keep his promise and put a ball through Robert. Even if Robert walked away from the duel, if he killed Southmore the consequences were too terrible to contemplate. “You don’t trust easily, Robert.”

  “Did you have a carriage waiting?”

  “I came with Lady Moncrieff. I’m sure there were hackneys there.”

  “And what if there weren’t? You would have found yourself in quite a dilemma. A most dangerous one.” He firmed his lips. “I won’t leave you alone in London again.”

  She wished she could believe it to be an admission that he had missed her, but it sounded more like a threat. Was he hinting that she would not remain long in London?

  He raised a brow. “Lady Moncrieff has quite a reputation. There are many scheming, unscrupulous people inhabiting society. You are obviously still in need of guidance.”

  She blinked. His words were like a slap to her face and she sucked in her breath. ”How pompous you sound.”

  She slipped inside, slamming the door in his scowling face, and stumbled over to the bed trembling with frustration.

  Robert stalked down the corridor to his room. By the time he reached it he’d cooled down. Charity had looked so abandoned in the moonlight, her hair over her shoulders, and her dress torn. It had invoked in him a sort of helpless rage that he had not been there to protect her. London society was treacherous for the unwary. Anger still swirled in his gut that someone had accosted her. Was it Southmore? Why did he sense she was holding something back? If he discovered who the bounder was, he would run him through.

  Robert set his teeth. Charity was right about his temper. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed a woman, even though plenty of opportunities had presented themselves. That comely woman in the Birmingham tavern, for instance, whose charms he’d resisted. For some reason, since he’d parted from Anastasia he refused to take another mistress. Despite the fact that some of his married friends had a lady tucked away, and he was approached by prostitutes and opera dancers most willing to please him every time he went out alone. It was as though he suffered through some kind of penance. He admitted he didn’t understand women, but he didn’t understand himself either. He shrugged and pulled off his cravat which had grown uncomfortably tight around his neck.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “PLEASE pack the new French Linen batiste,” Charity said. Brigitte was wrapping gowns in silver paper and placing them carefully into the trunk. “I plan to wear it to the wedding.”

  Brigitte nodded approvingly; she considered anything French to be superior. “Si jolie, with the silver embroidered garlands and flowers. You shall outshine the bride, my lady.”

  “What nonsense,” Charity said with a laugh. “Merry is an extremely pretty girl.”

  “And shall we adorn your hair with a bandeau and ostrich feathers?” Brigitte asked.

  “Yes, that is an excellent notion.”

  Brigitte preened under her praise. “Has his lordship seen you in this gown, my lady?” she asked with a sly glance.

  Charity turned away to hide her exasperation. “You are well aware I’ve yet to wear it, Brigitte.”

  “Then he is in for a very nice surprise.”

  Charity’s brows lowered. She doubted Robert would notice. Although he hadn’t failed to notice her torn gown and berate her for it. The following morning at breakfast, he’d offered an apology of sorts. She thought it a mere mea culpa designed to deflect criticism from himself. Obviously satisfied with his efforts, he’d rushed off for the day, before the discussion could develop into anything more intimate.

  She sighed. Since she’d learned of his past from his mother she couldn’t stay mad at him. She knew how much importance he placed on trust. Would he ever come to trust her enough to give her his heart?

  The luxurious carriage swayed on its cushioned springs through Bath. The town was new to Charity and she watched with interest as streets of elegant houses passed by.

  “Shall we take the waters?” She turned to Robert. He’d been scowling and distant for most of the journey. Even worse than usual.

  “Another time perhaps.”

  “Have you ever tried it?”

  He shook his head. “Nasty stuff so I’ve heard.”

  He looked so unhappy, her heart gave a wrench. “Robert, you don’t appear to be enjoying this sojourn.”

  “I suppose I don’t enjoy weddings,” he said folding his arms.

  Not even his own, she thought despondently. “Might it be because your parents will be there?” she asked, realizing she was on dangerous ground.

  Remote blue eyes met hers for a moment before he looked away. “More than likely.”

  And she’d made things worse. Charity watched him silently. The tension he suffered was all too obvious in the lines of his body; his back too straight and muscled thighs taut, long fingers tapping at the window ledge. He hadn’t forgiven her interference. He would never forgive her. She gave a deep sigh and turned back to the window again.

  The carriage slowed in a lane and entered a pair of wrought iron gates with Roseleaf Manor emblazoned on them in gold. Ahead, the roof and chimneys of a large mansion appeared above the woodland trees.

  At the entrance to the warm brick manor, they were greeted by Mr and Mrs Hargrove and the irrepressible Merry.

  “Charity!” Merry threw her arms around her and gave her a hug leaving her breathless and laughing.

  Merry then did the same to Robert who grinned and hugged her back. Charity wa
tched, bemused. Merry reminded her a little of how she used to be. She seemed to have lost the ability to be lighthearted.

  Hugh Foster stepped forward and greeted them with warmth beneath his natural reserve. Charity thought him a perfect foil for Merry. He would keep her safe, but on a loose rein, never crushing her spirit.

  “I do hope your trip was uneventful,” Mrs Hargrove said. “I’ll have Barton show you to your chamber to remove the travel dust. Please then join us in the conservatory where we are enjoying the last rays of sunlight. You’ll find that tomorrow, when the other guests arrive we shall have a full house.” She smiled, looking much like an older version of her daughter. “We’ve put you and Lord Robert in the Blue Wing.”

  In the Blue Wing, the footman opened the door and withdrew, and Charity stepped into the airy chamber papered in robin egg blue wallpaper dotted with daisies. Robert followed her in and shut the door.

  He raised a brow. “We are sharing a bed?”

  “It would seem so.”

  Her heart thumping, she walked over to the roomy half-tester bed draped in blue satin. Would they close the gulf between them amongst these snowy linens? She took a peek at Robert, and found him standing behind her.

  He leant over and prodded the bed. “Comfortable.”

  Not fooled by the casual comment, she swallowed. “It’s just a bed like any other.”

  “Shall we…try it out?” Robert stepped closer. He didn’t try to touch her, but the air almost crackled with expectation, robbing her of breath.

  Her knees threated to give way. The thought of him taking her here, caused her nipples to tighten and her thighs to tremble as moistness gathered between her legs. “We don’t have time, surely,” she said with gasp. “They are waiting below.”

  His blue eyes turned hot. “Let them wait.” His voice was a gruff command. And he touched her cheek, lightly with a finger, his eyes on her mouth.

  She wanted to, desperately. If he touched her she would fall into his arms. But would he then forgive her? Love and come to trust her? Or once with child, install her in one of his properties and forget her. That is what she feared most. That is what she had been holding out against. She had hoped to gain his love, so that he would never wish to leave her. And it seemed she had failed.