The Deserted Heart: Unmarriageable Series (Unmarriagable Series Book 1)

by Mary Lancaster

  I should not be here… oh God, how do I help him?

  Cecily took her hands. “Charlotte, do you think your sister broke his heart?”

  Stricken, Charlotte stared at her. “Maybe,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” Lady Barnaby said crossly. “Hearts do not break, and Alvan’s melancholia was well established before he ever met Miss Maybury. Or any other member of your family. Ah, here is Mrs. Neville to show us to our chambers. We need not change for dinner.”

  *

  Inevitably, the guest bedchambers were large, grand affairs with old but comfortable furnishings. Charlotte admired the embroidery on her bed hangings and the view from her window across the flat, curiously attractive fens.

  Having washed her hands and face, and repinned her hair, she sat on the end of the bed to wait for Cecily and try to calm her agitation.

  The hall’s splendor was of a different caliber to that which Charlotte was used to, but as she accompanied Cecily along wide passages with vaulted ceilings, and down grandly carved staircases, she found herself more fascinated than overwhelmed. She imagined Alvan and Cecily as small children running loose about the grandeur, laughing and playing the games all children played. And then, she imagined Alvan alone here after the death of his parents, with just governors and tutors and occasionally an uncle for companionship.

  Her own family had always been large, noisy, and chaotic as it travelled around the world, quarrels and disagreements vanishing when support was needed. She remembered the kindness of her sisters, and even her little brothers when she’d been ill. She didn’t know if Alvan’s “melancholia” was an illness or not, but he must have been left alone to deal with it, apart from odd visits from his brother and sister.

  Her heart drummed as a footman opened the door to the dining room. “This is the family dining room,” Cecily explained. “There’s a massive banqueting hall, too, for entertaining, but this is much cozier.”

  Cozy was not an atmosphere Charlotte anticipated as she entered, her heart in her mouth.

  Lady Barnaby was already seated, the duke beside her chair as though they had been talking.

  He took her breath away.

  More properly dressed in a black coat and white cravat at his collar, he had been shaved and his too long hair brushed back from his face. It was not a fashionable look but to Charlotte it was devastatingly attractive. Apart from the blackness which lurked still in his eyes.

  “Miss Charlotte,” he greeted her distantly, just as if he had not held her face and kissed her almost to oblivion less than half an hour before.

  “Your grace,” she murmured, going to sit at his other side as indicated. Cecily sat beside her, and dinner was served.

  After six weeks of loss and longing, it felt strangely unreal to be sitting beside him, doing something as mundane as dining. Cecily and Lady Barnaby carried the conversation, talking to him about the land, the people, and some farm of his own that he appeared to run on the estate. They drew Charlotte in, too, and the duke contributed civil answers. Being who they were, the siblings infused the conversation with humor and wit, but Charlotte was very aware that he held himself rigid throughout. She ached for him, because he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  And when the meal was finished—Charlotte was barely conscious of what she had eaten, though it had been pleasant—he stood politely for the ladies to retire to the drawing room.

  “Forgive me, but I won’t join you,” he said. “I need to retire early.” His eyes seemed somewhat desperate as they settled on Charlotte. “Cecily and my aunt will look after you. We do not stand on ceremony. Anything you need, ask. Good night, Aunt, Cecily. I’ll see you off in the morning, of course.”

  Her last glimpse of him was standing by the table, one hand on the decanter as he watched them leave the room.

  *

  Alvan could not bear his bed and so, taking his glass and the decanter with him, he weaved his way to the library, flopped down on the comfortable old sofa among the books, and poured himself a final nightcap. Another final nightcap.

  The door opened and Cecily came in.

  Alvan scowled at her. “You should be in bed.”

  “I’m not ten years old,” she remarked. “Or drunk,” she added.

  Wryly, Alvan raised his glass to her and drank.

  She came and sat beside him. “How bad is it?” she asked bluntly.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “Bad enough that you shouldn’t have come, let alone brought her.”

  “Do you love her sister, Alex?”

  He blinked. “Of course I don’t love her sister.”

  Cecily didn’t look surprised. “That’s what Aunt Barny said, though I don’t know how she guessed. Then it is her, Charlotte?”

  “What is Charlotte? Stop poking, Cecily.”

  “Did she turn you down?”

  His lips twisted. “Obviously.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  He stared at her. “Why do you think?”

  “For the sake of her sister, whose hand you went there to request?” Charlotte suggested.

  “That,” he agreed. “And…” He dragged his hand through his hair. There seemed to be a great deal of it, but he didn’t much care. “She does prize wealth or position. She never meant to marry.”

  “Except for love,” Cecily said. “She is that sort of girl. Though I doubt she easily believes in her own attractions. Her elder sister and her younger have been allowed London seasons while she takes her young brothers to and from school. What is that all about?”

  Alvan shrugged tiredly. “Lack of funds. They could only afford two seasons, so they picked their two most marriageable daughters. As they saw it. Besides, she does not care for such nonsense.”

  “Like you,” Cecily drawled.

  His elbows on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands and fisted his fingers in his hair.

  “And you made her a business proposition, didn’t you?” Cecily accused.

  “Of course not. There were reasons, an incident that might have compromised her.”

  “And she believes that’s why you proposed to her?”

  “It certainly controlled the timing. It makes no odds, Cecily, leave it be.”

  “I won’t,” she said, “because you’re my brother and though God knows why, I love you. More to the point, you shouldn’t leave it either.”

  He lifted his head from his hands to stare at her, then barked out a laugh at Fate’s sense of humor. “I think we’ve got beyond that, don’t you?” With one hand, he indicated his unkempt person, and all that implied.

  Cecily said, “I may be wrong, but I don’t think you need to hide anything from her.”

  He snatched up his glass and drained it before all but tossing it back on the table. “Go away, Cecily,” he growled.

  *

  After a restless night, Charlotte picked at an early breakfast with Cecily and Lady Barnaby. Although the duke had promised to wave them off, there was no sign of him. Disappointment as well as anxiety for him ate at Charlotte, but there was nothing she could say to his sister, let alone his aunt.

  Their things were already bestowed on the carriage, the horses harnessed and ready to go. Charlotte collected her reticule from her bedchamber and ran downstairs after Cecily.

  “Oh, Charlotte, I think I left my reticule in the library last night,” Cecily called from the foot of the stairs. “Could you fetch it for me before you come down? It’s the first door on your left…”

  Obligingly, Charlotte took the two steps back up to the landing and went to the room as directed.

  The curtains were still closed, and it smelled of wine and man. She soon discovered why. Adjusting to the darkness, she could see no sign of Cecily’s reticule. But the figure of a man stretched out full length on the sofa. The blanket which might once have covered him had fallen to the floor. And his boots stood neatly to one side, as though someone else had removed them.

 
Anxiety propelled her closer to him, peering through the gloom. “Your grace?” Getting no response, she dropped to her knees by his head. His eyes were closed, his face pale. He seemed hardly to be breathing. In panic, she touched his forehead, which was reassuringly warm. She stroked it with her fingertips. “Your grace, are you well?” she asked a little less urgently. He still slept on, but this close, she realized the wine smell was from his breath. He was merely foxed.

  She couldn’t prevent the tender smile, although tears started to her eyes. “Oh, Alex,” she murmured softly. “What are you doing to yourself?”

  His eyes opened. Even in the semi-darkness they seemed to blaze, and before she could catch her breath let alone jump to her feet, he moved, seizing her around the waist and tugging her onto the sofa. For an instant, he loomed over her and then his weight, his full length descended on her.

  She gasped. Her whole body seemed to melt and electrify at the same time and nothing in the world had ever been so exciting as his chest flattening her breasts, his hardness pressing down at the juncture of her thighs. And then he shifted some of his weight and his hand closed over her breast. His mouth descended to hers.

  A sound like a moan escaped her, and abruptly, the blaze of his eyes doused. He leapt to his feet, all but panting.

  “For the love of Christ!” he said in anguish. “You should never have come here! Just go! Go!”

  Charlotte stumbled to her feet, somehow, and fled. She didn’t know if she was hurt, angry, or disappointed. All three…

  She drew in her breath, trying to behave normally as she descended the staircase. “I could not see your reticule,” she managed to Cecily who waited below.

  “No? Oh well… oh silly me,” Cecily said contritely. “I had it with me all the time! Let us go. Goodbye, Mrs. Neville, Granton. Pass on our farewells to my graceless brother and tell him I shall write.”

  Seated in the carriage, Charlotte hid her trembling hands inside her travelling cloak and tried to gather what was left of her wits. Then, contrary to expectation, the duke appeared on the steps, his cravat untied and his coat unfastened.

  Lady Barnaby tutted, although she raised her hand to him all the same. Cecily laughed and waved enthusiastically as the carriage rolled into motion. Charlotte shrank into the seat, a fixed smile on her lips, and wished she were invisible.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Blackhaven turned out to be a rather pretty seaside town perched on the edge of a dramatic landscape of rugged hills and moors and tranquil lakes. It even had a castle at one end, overlooking the town and the coast. It belonged to the young Earl of Braithwaite who had once danced with Thomasina in London.

  Lady Barnaby had taken a pleasant townhouse on Shore Street, one of the quiet streets leading from High Street down to the seafront and the fishing harbor. It was close to the pump room, where they went every day to take the waters. After the second day, Lady Barnaby pronounced herself energized. Which meant, Cecily murmured, that she had merely recovered from the journey. However, since it also meant she felt equal to accompanying the younger ladies on more interesting expeditions, Cecily hailed the waters as miraculous, and suggested they buy vouchers for the next assembly room dance and hire a box at the theatre. Lady Barnaby agreed to both.

  “Now we shall fall quite into dissipation,” Cecily said wryly, taking Charlotte’s arm. “And Aunt Barny will be happy because the waters make her feel better.”

  There was a theatre performance that evening, consisting of Shakespeare’s Macbeth and a new comedy by someone even Cecily had never heard of.

  “Not that it matters,” Cecily said, “for no one pays any attention to the play. One only goes to see and be seen.”

  “What a waste!” Charlotte exclaimed.

  Cecily laughed. “Isn’t it? In London, sometimes, I have been quite unable to hear the actors.”

  When, from habit, Charlotte went to Cecily’s chamber to see if she could help her dress, she was struck dumb with admiration. Charlotte had always been aware of her friend’s beauty which was quite as great as Thomasina’s, although in a different style. But now, in evening dress and jewels with her hair dressed in a careful riot that highlighted her perfect bone structure, she was dazzling.

  “How is it you are not already married?” Charlotte blurted.

  Cecily laughed. “Because I have so far chosen not to be. I’m far too vain and like men eating out of my hand far too much to give it up for the tyranny of a husband.”

  “Does the duke not have plans for you?”

  “If he has, he keeps them to himself. I suspect he regards his role as one of veto. As long as I choose no one wildly unsuitable, he will allow me my choice.”

  Cecily’s maid was busy at the other side of the room, putting things away.

  “Was it always that way?” Charlotte asked.

  Cecily met her gaze in the glass. “You are thinking of my early disappointment.”

  “I met Lord Dunstan.”

  Cecily stood up. “He does not tell the story to everyone. Only where he thinks he can do Alvan harm. I doubt he told you I was fifteen years old, or that Alvan merely told him to wait. He only forbade it until I was eighteen. Which seemed a lifetime at fifteen and, I suppose, at twenty. Dunstan was more interested in his own dignity and in Alvan’s perceived slight than he was in me.”

  Cecily smiled a little sadly. “He missed Alvan more than me, too, I suspect. Do you ever think that very few people like—or even see—one as one actually is?”

  “Frequently.”

  “My supposed beauty and my wealth. Alvan’s rank and even more wealth. Anyone would think there was no more to us.” She shrugged as though to throw off her discontent, focusing her brilliant eyes upon Charlotte. “And you, Charlotte? What do people only see in you?”

  “Nothing,” Charlotte said lightly. “I am the plain sister between two accredited beauties. And I stammer.”

  “No, you have character,” Cecily said surprisingly, “and a quiet yet fun beauty of your own. My brother regards you as a friend, and he is an excellent judge of character. So am I.”

  Charlotte flushed. “You are also very kind,” she managed, afraid even to think of what Alvan’s opinion of her was now. He had told her to get out with loathing in his voice.

  “No, I’m not,” Cecily argued. She was examining Charlotte from head to toe. “The gown is lovely. It just catches that hint of green in your eyes and reflects their brilliance.”

  Charlotte blinked in surprise as well as pleasure. The gown was one of three evening dresses and two day gowns, which Thomasina had passed on to her, perhaps to make up for refusing to accompany her to Blackhaven. Charlotte had spent time and effort altering this one and was pleased with the result. But Cecily’s fulsome praise took her aback.

  Cecily smiled winningly. “Will you hate me if I suggest Cranston styles your hair?”

  Charlotte laughed self-consciously. “Of course I won’t hate you. How could I? But Cranston has enough to do with—”

  “Don’t be silly. She’s been itching to get her hands on you. Cranston, fetch the scissors!”

  Alarmed, Charlotte was thrust into Cecily’s chair in front of the glass. Cranston appeared behind her wielding sharp scissors, but the dresser merely snipped some ends off her hair, and then began brushing, rolling, and pinning with such speed, that Charlotte could only blink.

  Once, she met Cecily’s critical gaze in the glass and because of where her thoughts always strayed, she couldn’t help asking discreetly, “Will… will his grace be well again soon?”

  “In just a little, I believe so. I think, between us, we gave him the necessary motivation.” It seemed Cecily trusted Cranston’s discretion, for she added bluntly, “I would not like you to think such attacks are frequent, but they have plagued him occasionally since childhood. He has learned to prepare for them, so that if he takes to his bed for a week or three, the estate still runs and life goes on around him. He has loyal servants who care for him and cover fo
r him at such times—although I think they should also hide the brandy.”

  Charlotte let out a hiccough of laughter. Cranston tutted, and reapplied a pin.

  Cecily smiled encouragingly. Then, she said, “Some people think him cold and distant. But of course, he is not. He feels things very deeply. He just does not always express that feeling.”

  You should never have come here! Just go! Go! He had had no difficulty expressing that.

  “There, Miss,” Cranston said, standing back to admire her handiwork. “This is much more the thing.”

  Cranston, it seemed, was something of a sorcerer. When Charlotte’s eyes came back into focus on the glass, she hardly recognized herself. Her hair seemed to cascade in a deceptively simple riot, at once softer and more sophisticated than her usual, casual styles. More than that, it suited her somehow.

  Charlotte peered more closely. “Why, I don’t look plain at all.”

  Cecily laughed and pulled her to her feet. “You never were, silly. But this sets your kind of beauty to best advantage.”

  *

  Blackhaven’s theatre was tiny, but its audience consisted of a surprisingly large proportion of the well-to-do and the fashionable. Both Cecily and Lady Barnaby amused themselves by spotting and bowing to acquaintances.

  “I thought the town would be far more full of sick people,” Cecily said.

  “It is,” Lady Barnaby replied, “but they all have healthy family to escort them.”

  Charlotte was about to add her own witty rejoinder, when a familiar face caught her eye.

  She had only seen him once, at Seldon Manor, when she had accompanied her mother and sisters on a thank you visit the day after the party. Lord Dunstan’s friend, Frank Cornell.

  At once, she began searching for Dunstan, but he was not immediately apparent. Cornell, looking well considering his recent ordeal, sat in a box opposite between a middle-aged lady and a blushing young girl whom he appeared to be flattering outrageously.

  Perhaps he felt her stare, for he looked up and began scanning the opposite boxes. Charlotte turned her gaze to the stage, where the curtain was going up. Her one hope was that she was too unmemorable, for she was sure Dunstan must have told him of her riding away with Alvan that night. And really, who would notice her beside Lady Cecily?