The Reluctant Marquess

by Maggi Andersen

  Gazing into his handsome face, her heart filled with love, and her defenses dissolved. She was willing to take the chance, willing to try and get close to him anyway she could. “Robert. . .”

  A tap came at the door. Robert didn’t take his eyes from her. “Come.” The footman bowed at the door. “Your valet has arrived and awaits you at your convenience, Lord St Malin. Your bedchamber is at the end of the corridor. Shall I send up your maid, Lady St Malin?”

  The hot expression faded from Robert’s eyes. He bowed stiffly and left the room.

  Wringing her hands, Charity walked the length of the pretty room and gazed from the window at a folly in the lush gardens. She wished she could understand what drove Robert to make advances at such inconvenient times. Did it then become more like a liaison? It was clear he did not wish to embrace the marriage bed or indeed be married.

  She shrugged and leaned on the sill. It was growing cooler and the trees were turning. They had remained in London throughout the heat of summer, with Parliament closed and London thin of company, during which Robert had showed no desire to retire to the country. She thought of Cornwall in the first blush of spring. It seemed a long time ago.

  Charity lay awake for hours thinking over the day. She had been pleased to see Lady Charlesworth again and welcomed the opportunity to apologize for not yet coming to see her. Lady Charlesworth glanced at her son’s stony face and nodded. “I quite understand, my dear,” she said sadly. Lord Charlesworth looked equally uncomfortable. Fortunately, Merry and Mr Foster, their host and hostess and the assembled guests knew nothing of the undercurrents swirling around, and an evening of whist and faro passed without incident.

  “I think a touch more rouge,” Charity said. She sat in front of the mirror, her face pale in the morning light as Brigitte fussed with her hair arrangement.

  The wedding was to take place in the long drawing room at twelve of the clock. Pulling on her gloves, Charity clasped a silver and pearl bracelet around her wrist, and smoothed the dainty skirts of the gown.

  “Magnifique!” Brigitte said clapping her hands.

  “Thank you, Brigitte, you have done my hair very nicely,” Charity said with a wry smile, accepting that Brigitte took full credit for the overall result.

  Robert’s brows rose when he saw her. “How well that suits you, Charity.”

  She felt a nervous quiver low in her stomach at the glow of appreciation in his eyes.

  The bride wore primrose yellow with flowers threaded through her dark locks. She looked fresh, young and lovely. Her brown eyes sparkled when she looked at her new husband. He watched her proudly his eyes soft with love.

  Charity fought to hold back her tears. She took a peek at Robert and found a smile playing about his lips. You couldn’t help but be moved by the attractive couple. A marriage born out of love was so refreshing in this cynical world in which they lived.

  Once back in London, the days passed with nothing altering between them, and Charity decided she could bear it no more.

  She rose early with a sense of purpose and sought Robert out, finding him eating breakfast, something that he seldom did at home these days. Today, they would talk quietly and work out a way to go forward, even if it meant living apart. He was dressed smartly in that royal blue wool suit which made his eyes look bluer, a silky cravat at his throat. He was so handsome she flushed and dropped her gaze.

  She accepted a cup of tea from a servant. “Are you going out?”

  “Yes. I won’t be home until late. I’m off to Newmarket. Mercury is running in the autumn race meeting.”

  “Oh, how exciting. I do hope he wins.” She was glad to see him smile. “Might I come? I would love to see it.”

  One black eyebrow rose. “My dear, the races would bore you.”

  “I don’t think they would.”

  He regarded her, shaking his head. “My uncle always said there are two places a woman should not go. On board ship and to the races.”

  Charity bit her lip. “I can hardly argue the point with your uncle, now can I?”

  Robert pushed back his chair. He bowed over her hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I must leave. Charles Bartholomew is taking me up in his phaeton at nine.”

  Despite his polite tone, something inside her erupted. She took a sharp breath, suddenly filled with an awful anger.

  Her face grew hot and her fingers trembled with the urge to throw the teapot at his head. “How dare you treat me with such triviality. I am your wife!” She jumped to her feet. She could no longer allow him to treat her like a pariah. “You are shamefully neglectful.” Her gown swished about her as she moved, and she gasped for air as her chest tightened.

  Robert looked astounded, then his eyes flickered dangerously. “Your accusation is unhelpful and untrue, madam. I have been an exemplary husband these past months! You surely cannot find fault with me when I merely wished for a day at the races with my friends. Friends I have seen little of, of late.” His eyes narrowed. “Having remained closeted by your side at every social engagement, sensitive to your every need.”

  One need he had not met hovered unspoken in the air. They faced each other in the middle of the room like sparring partners.

  At the look in those hot blue eyes, Charity’s throat closed. She opened her mouth and licked her dry lips, her breaths jerky.

  Robert glanced down at her agitated breaths evident above the neckline of her gown, and then focused on her mouth. He took a step towards her.

  “You are a cavalier, sir,” she spat at him when she could finally draw breath.

  He reached for her, and his hands burned into her shoulders as he gave them a little shake. “How ungrateful you are!”

  “I ask so little of you.”

  He pulled her closer, glaring down into her face. “You want too much! You want everything.”

  “Everything?” She struggled free, afraid she would cry. “I want a husband who loves me.” She lifted her chin. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “And I want a woman I can trust.”

  “Why can’t you trust me? I’ve never done anything to make you believe you couldn’t.”

  “You think not? Were you with Southmore at Vauxhall?”

  “No…I never wished for that man’s advances.”

  Robert shrugged off her words. “You want a man gazing at you with calf eyes? Paying you pretty compliments? Making passionate love to you?” He followed her across the room and grabbed her arm. “If that’s your idea of devotion, we can start right now. I’m happy to oblige you.”

  “Don’t touch me!” She pulled her arm away, now fearful. This wasn’t the tender love she wished for. She saw the purpose in his eyes.

  “No, Robert.” She backed against the table.

  He stepped closer with a grim smile on his face. “You are my wife, Charity. If I wish to make love to my wife, then I am legally within my rights to do so.”

  She shoved at his chest. It felt like a brick wall and didn’t budge an inch. The action merely made her slide back onto the table.

  He took her by the waist, bending her back, one hand cupping her chin, and forced his mouth on hers.

  Charity gasped. At the touch of his lips, a swift heat and yearning spread through her body, so strong she could hardly bear it. She fought the urge to return his kiss and draw him to her. Through the haze of longing, she realized that this would not mend their troubles. Her eyes closed as his lips traced a line down her throat to her breast, and he murmured something she didn’t quite catch. When his hand caught up the hem of her gown, she trembled and pushed him away. “The servants will come in!”

  He cast her a heavy-lidded gaze, breathing fast. “Then come to the bedchamber.”

  “We must talk first!”

  “Talk? Why must a woman always talk?”

  “You’ve hardly said a word to me since Merry’s wedding. And now this! You cannot treat me like a trollop merely here to satisfy your needs!”

  “Was I?” He gazed at her as
the lust faded from his eyes and gave a rueful laugh. “You seem to bring out the worst in me, Charity.” He bowed. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

  He went to the door and opened it, hauling it back on its hinges. She remained as if frozen, listening to his footsteps in the corridor. They sounded so final.

  She left the room, finding her anger had turned into despair.

  Now that she had cooled down she realized her behavior was even more irrational than his. Why hadn’t she agreed to go with him? Something stopped her, and she knew what it was. It was her need for him to love her, to know that their lovemaking sprang from tender feeling of love and not just from lust. She went to a window to watch him leap up into a carriage and ride away. He cared so little for her feelings and nothing she could do would ever put this right. She returned to her chamber and rang for her maid.

  When Brigitte appeared, she said, “Take out my carriage dress and pack a small trunk for me, please. I am retiring to the country for a time.”

  “Will you be away long, my lady?” Going to the clothespress, Brigitte cast a backward glance, her eyes clouded. No doubt much had been made of her and Robert’s behavior in the servants’ quarters.

  “Get me pen and paper first,” Charity said. “I shall write you a recommendation. Lady Fremont requires a ladies maid. She has had her eye on you for some time.”

  “But I prefer to work for you, my lady,” Brigitte protested.

  “You will enjoy working for a Frenchwoman. I believe she refuses to wear anything but Parisian clothes.”

  “Vraiment?” Brigitte looked slightly mollified. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know. I feel the need of a good rest and some fresh air.” The excuse seemed apt as she did look pale and wan lately.

  “Pack my simplest clothes. I shan’t be attending any balls or parties.” She sat down at her bureau and scratched out a note to Lady Fremont extolling Brigitte’s virtues and one to Robert, echoing what she had just told the maid. It sounded so rational and sensible she was surprised when she read it again.

  The words lacked all the emotion and distress she suffered. She still trembled as she folded it and sealed it with wax. “Please deliver this to my husband’s valet,” she said and handed it to Brigitte.

  After changing into a carriage dress, she calmed herself and went downstairs, passing the footman who’d just taken up position in the corridor. “How is your gout today, Barker? Has the powdered elm bark helped?”

  He gave a brief, self-conscious smile. “It did, thank you, my lady.”

  Buttoning her redingote, she made her way to the foyer and found the butler there. “I’d like the carriage within the hour, Hove. I’m returning to Cornwall for a time.”

  Hove’s polite expression didn’t alter beyond a faint flicker in his eyes. “Very well, Lady St Malin. Do you wish to leave a message for his lordship?”

  “I have done so.”

  “You shall be taking your maid?”

  “No. I go alone.”

  Hove’s eyebrows snapped down, before he recovered himself. Snobbish man, Charity thought crossly. Some of the servants were more conscious of upholding propriety than the ton themselves.

  “I would advise that two armed footmen accompany you. And there’s your carriage pistol should you need it.”

  Chastened by the man’s obvious concern, she said contritely, “If you feel it necessary, Hove.”

  “Highwaymen frequent that route, my lady. One can’t be too careful.”

  “I’m sure you are right.”

  A footman opened the front door for her, and she went down the steps, already planning her trip. She had a handsome dress allowance, certainly enough to pay for two night’s accommodation. To simplify matters, she would stop at the same inns where she and Robert had stayed. Both were of the highest standard. Not that she cared for such things, but it would prove safer.

  Robert arrived home at dusk, his wet coat dripping cold water down his neck and his Italian leather boots squelching and spattered with mud. It had poured during the race. He could barely see the track, and Mercury, who took a dislike to the heavy going, ran a distant fourth. The horse pulled up sore and would spend time out to pasture. He had cursed himself a thousand times for his treatment of Charity that morning. Why on earth had he not just invited her to join him? It would have been a generous thing to do. Charley Bartholomew would have waited and they might have gone in the carriage. It would have pleased him to watch her enjoying herself. Then that awful scene would not have erupted. He should have stayed and put things to rights.

  Robert groaned at his cowardice. Yes, cowardice. It hurt to admit it, but he’d refused to face up to anything of late. Not so Charity. She had taken up the reins of her new situation in life with remarkable aplomb. She made a gracious marchioness. He’d failed there too. He should have praised her more often. When had he become so mean-spirited?

  He shrugged out of his damp travelling coat. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. He would do so now. His anger at what he saw as her disloyalty had melted away. And he could not find it in his heart to believe her of infidelity with Southmore, or anyone else. That bastard might pursue her, but she would never welcome it. Now capable of clarity of thought, he saw that he was at fault. But would she forgive him?

  He stripped off his gloves and handed Hove his mahogany cane, coat and hat. “Where is Lady St Malin?” he asked, combing his fingers through his hair.

  A gleam appeared in Hove’s eye. “Why, she’s gone to Cornwall, my lord.”

  Damn the man, why did he look so self-righteous? Robert frowned. “Cornwall?”

  “My lady said she left you a note, my lord. Perhaps with your valet?” Dread rising in his throat to choke him, Robert ran upstairs, seeking Fenton. He found his valet at the clothespress sorting through his stocks.

  Fenton turned. “I’d better have those boots, my lord,” he said with a grimace.

  “Never mind that man, do you have a note for me?”

  “Yes, I do, my lord.”

  Fenton hurried to the bureau and snatched up the note. Robert scanned it quickly. The formal letter revealed little. Crumpling it in his hand, he paced the room. He knew her state of mind all too well; had been aware of it for some time.

  She had wanted something from him, for some obscure reason, he felt he couldn’t give. She had wanted his love. He uttered a string of curses under his breath as he forced himself to face yet another truth. He had been angry in one way or another since the will was read. Did he want her to suffer as well for his past hurts? The thought sent a prickle of shame up his spine. He rubbed the back of his neck as if to eradicate it. Pivoting on his heel, he was filled with a new sense of purpose. Might something wonderful come from all this even now?

  His valet waited, looking expectant. “Pack my trunk, Fenton. For a lengthy stay in Cornwall.”

  “Best remove those muddy boots, my lord. And change your clothes before you catch your death.”

  Fenton had a one track mind, Robert thought. But he was right; he couldn’t visit looking like he’d lost his senses, although he felt quite close to it. He fell into a chair and held out his foot for the valet to pull off his boot.

  Fenton straddled his leg and pulled. “Do you wish a bath drawn, my lord?”

  “No time for that. A basin and hot water will suffice.”

  Washed and wearing fresh clothes, Robert left the room and went downstairs to the salon. The candelabrums had been lit, and a fire burned in the grate. He pulled the bell and poured himself a whisky. The drink warmed his insides as he sipped it, but failed to ease his angst as he stood in front of Charity’s portrait. How regal she looked, like the true marchioness she had become. Sir Thomas had captured all those qualities Robert had resolutely ignored. Her calm good sense as well as her beauty. He had thrust away her every attempt at affection, spurning her concern for him and her loyalty. What a fool he was. The door opened, and the butler entered. “I require the brougham, Hove.”
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br />   “As you wish, my lord.” Hove cast an approving glance at the portrait. “Lady St Malin looks very fine, doesn’t she, my lord.”

  “She does indeed. My lady took the coach, I gather?”

  “Yes, my lord. I took the liberty of sending two of the footman to accompany her. I made sure they were armed.”

  Robert nodded. “You did well, Hove. Hire a chaise for tomorrow. I leave for Cornwall at first light.”

  A smile lit Hove’s eyes. “I’ll send a footman right away, my lord.”

  A muscle worked in Robert’s jaw as he climbed into the brougham. “Portman Square.”

  He had a lot to do to start putting things to rights. He would begin with his mother. He was prepared to eat crow for Charity’s sake and attempt to repair the rift. But he’d be damned if he’d fall upon his step-father’s breast and beg forgiveness. He grinned at the thought. There was only so much his minx of a wife could make him do.

  He walked into the sitting room to find his mother and father had been enjoying a glass of sherry on the sofa. What a cozy pair they made. He tried to ignore the reaction he always felt, like a knot settling in his solar plexus. Had he not got over all this by now? He bowed. “Mother, Charlesworth.”

  His mother rose and flew to him. “Robert.” She tenderly put a hand up to touch his face.

  He bent and kissed her cheek, painfully aware that she was growing older. “Sit down, Mother. I believe I’ll have a drink also.”

  Lord Charlesworth beckoned to the footman. “A brandy?”

  “Please.”

  When they’d settled, Robert took a breath. “Charity accuses me of being a poor son. A poor husband as well, but that’s between her and me. I’d like to repair the rift in our relationship, if you agree.”

  “Agree? Oh, Robert.” His mother balled a handkerchief in her hand, her eyes misty.

  Lord Charlesworth nodded stiffly.