Charity’s eyes widened in alarm. After what they had discussed this afternoon, he thought to offer her carte blanche? “How dare you!”
Marcus blinked, just then realizing what she thought he meant. His eyes rounded to match hers. “Oh, no, no, my lady. Not like that!” he countered, just as the barouche lurched forward. He managed to get his horse in motion until he was once again abreast of the barouche. “For your skills.”
Now, Dear Reader, Marcus Lancaster really should have been more careful in his choice of words. He really should have considered how she would interpret his meaning. But, alas, he did not and only realized too late how his words sounded to a widow, the understanding even more complete when her parasol suddenly whipped out and walloped his Hessian hard enough to send his horse into a gallop and nearly into the back of Lord Devonville’s yellow phaeton.
“If I ever see you again—for the rest of my life—it will be too soon,” Charity said from clenched teeth, managing to keep her expression pleasant despite her words.
For the first time that afternoon, Marcus regretted having ridden his horse. Regretted having made the trip to Hyde Park. “You have my humblest apologies, Lady Wadsworth,” he said in his most pleading voice. “I am not a rake. I am not a brigand nor a scoundrel. I merely...” He had to cease his comment when the Wadsworth barouche took an opportunity to turn off of Rotten Row and make its way out of the park.
Before Marcus could redirect his mount to follow, another carriage had filled the void, a carriage he recognized as the one belonging to Mr. Simpson. His daughter’s attention was on a rider on the other side—a man he recognized from the night before. Christopher Carlington, Earl of Haddon, was regarding Analise as if she were the only occupant in the Simpson equipage.
“Why, Lord Lancaster. I wondered if we might see you again,” Mrs. Simpson said from where she sat between the young ladies. “Have you made the rounds already?”
Marcus tipped his top hat. “Indeed. I believe I’m on my third go-round,” he replied. He tried hard to keep his expression friendly, but the sting of Lady Wadsworth’s dismissal—and his daughter’s intense attention on Morganfield’s son—made it difficult.
How had he bungled it so?
“Lady Wadsworth has had a trying day,” Sarah Simpson said as she leaned in his direction.
Trying day? He wondered if his visit to the ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’ had been the cause. “I do hope I didn’t add to her distress,” he commented.
Sarah dared a quick glance in his daughter’s direction, apparently to ensure her attention was still on Christopher Carlington. When Sarah turned back to him, she said, “One of her clients suffered a set-back, and I fear she is taking it far too seriously.”
Marcus nodded his understanding. “I do hope she understands how important her work is.”
Sarah arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps too well. Tell an old, nosy woman if you will, how long have you and Charity been spending time in one another’s company?”
His horse nearly halted on its own in response to hearing her query. Marcus pulled up on the reins if only because the question was so unexpected. Unfortunately, his daughter overheard the query, for she turned and gawked.
“Father!” she said in surprise, either because she had just then noticed his presence or because she had overheard Mrs. Simpson’s query.
Probably because she had overheard Mrs. Simpson’s words.
“We have not been,” he countered, loud enough for both ladies to hear. “I only danced with her last night at the ball. And then I saw her this afternoon when I paid a call at her office.”
Analise, apparently forgetting the Earl of Haddon was only a few feet from where she sat, furrowed a brow as she regarded him. “Are you courting her?” she asked, her voice suggesting more curiosity than alarm.
Marcus’s eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline. “No!” When it became apparent none of the ladies in the carriage believed him—even Hannah and Henry cast him looks of disbelief—he added, “Not... not yet, at least.”
A small smile appeared on Mrs. Simpson’s lips. “She’ll require a bit of time is all,” she said, just before turning her attention to the earl. “As will Miss Analise.”
Christopher gave a reluctant nod. “I understand, my lady.” With that, he tipped his hat and then he spurred his horse so it moved up to flank the Devonville phaeton.
The disappointment on Analise’s face could not be ignored, which had Marcus feeling even more alarm than he had experienced the night before.
Was the Earl of Haddon more interested in Analise than he had let on at Lord Attenborough’s ball?
And worse, was Analise interested in him?
A few minutes later
Breathless and his heart beating far too fast, Luke directed his horse beneath the gates of Hyde Park. He had passed a parade of all manner of equipage on the way, surreptitiously surveying the occupants of each—especially the curricles and barouches—in an effort to find the one that carried Miss Analise.
He wasn’t paying any attention to those on horseback, so Luke was shocked when he heard “Merriweather?” called out by someone to his right. Glancing in that direction, he found Marcus Batey regarding him with a look of surprise.
“Lancaster? I didn’t know you were going to ride today,” Luke said as he pulled up alongside the older viscount’s bay.
“I didn’t know you knew how to ride,” Marcus countered, his manner suggesting impatience, just before his gaze went to a carriage that had left the rest of those parading along Rotten Row.
Frowning, Luke followed Marcus’s line of sight. From this distance, he didn’t recognize the older equipage, nor the horses that pulled it, but a thought as to who might be in it had him glancing back at Marcus with an arched brow. “Lady Wadsworth, perhaps?”
Marcus allowed a sigh of frustration. “Indeed. She... she is a bit miffed with me. A misunderstanding, is all.” He glanced to his left and found his daughter scowling at him. “On two accounts, I believe.”
Luke slowed his mount and directed his attention to the Simpson carriage, heartened to see Miss Analise sitting next to Lady Simpson. Her expression was anything but pleasant, however, a combination of disappointment and anger making her eyes flash in a most arresting manner.
Although he didn’t wish for her to ever look at him in that way, he fought the wave of desire that gripped him just then.
“Lady Simpson! Miss Hannah! So good to see you on this fine day,” he called out, well aware when Analise’s attention turned from her father to him. Her expression changed to one of curiosity.
“Why, Merriweather,” Lady Simpson replied, her blue eyes bright with recognition. “I haven’t seen you in an age. Or Laura. How is your mother?”
Luke allowed a shrug. “Still in Epping, I fear. She refuses to come to London for the Little Season but says she will join Father for the Season come spring.” He turned his attention on Hannah. “Are you still attending Warwick’s, Miss Hannah?”
The young lady nodded her head. “I’m in my last year, Lord Merriweather. I hear congratulations are in order.” She turned her gaze onto Analise. “Lord Merriweather accepted a writ of acceleration and is already serving in Parliament,” she explained.
Analise redirected her attention to the young viscount. “I’ve not had the pleasure of an introduction.”
Lady Simpson beamed in delight. “Then allow me,” she said, giving Marcus a quick glance. “Miss Analise Batey, may I introduce you to Luke Merriweather, Viscount Merriweather? You might be acquainted with his sister, Eleanor, the Countess of Wakefield.”
Luke watched as Analise’s eyes widened a fraction, and his heart skipped a beat as what appeared to be a genuine smile lit her face. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Merriweather,” she said.
Luke lifted his top hat and gave a nod. “Merriweather, please. And the pleasure is all mine. I had hoped your father might introduce us at Attenborough’s ball, but you must have dance
d every set last night.”
Her eyes rounding at his comment—she was obviously unaware anyone but her father had been keeping track of her the night before—Analise gave a slight shake of her head. “Not every dance,” she said, a becoming blush pinking her face.
“Then the blame lies solely on your father, for he neglected to introduce us,” he replied in a light-hearted jab at Marcus.
Analise’s eyes flashed in the direction of her father. “He has been keeping much from me, it seems,” she said. “May I expect to dance with you at the next ball?”
Luke allowed a slow smile. “Indeed. The waltz. Both of them, if there are two.”
“Now, you needn’t be greedy, Merriweather,” Lady Simpson chided, although she was smiling as she said the words.
“I should say not,” Marcus put in, as if he was just then joining their conversation. His attention had been on something up ahead, as if he were lost in thought. He lowered his voice. “Greedy about what?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Blinking at the query, Luke decided he could fib with his answer. “Two waltzes with Miss Hannah.” The older viscount didn’t need to learn the truth just then. Luke had only earned his permission to call on Miss Analise earlier that day.
Marcus nodded his understanding and then turned his attention to those in the carriage. “I am going to ride up ahead and pay my respects to Devonville. Good day.” He tipped his hat.
A chorus of ‘good-byes’ followed him and Luke as they spurred their horses forward.
“Whatever did you say to earn such a withering stare?” Luke asked after he had rejoined Marcus. They were nearly abreast of the Devonville phaeton.
Marcus allowed a shrug before he indicated a horse and rider up ahead. “My daughter thinks I’ve been courting Lady Wadsworth—which I am not,” he replied. Yet,” he added, deciding he wasn’t about to give up on the countess. “And I believe she has deduced I disapprove of Haddon.” He lowered his voice. “I may have said something to discourage his attentions.”
The younger viscount allowed a grin. “Thank you for that. I stopped at Stanton House to deliver an invitation for her to ride with me on the morrow. Perhaps I can keep her mind off the earl.”
Marcus gave him a withering stare. “I cannot believe you are doing this on my behalf,” he said. “Surely you have someone in mind to make your viscountess. This is no doubt taking you away from her.”
Luke allowed a shrug. “Not at all. I have yet to set my cap on anyone,” he replied lightly. “Now, whatever happened with Lady Wadsworth?” he asked in an attempt to take the older viscount’s attention away from his daughter.
Giving his head a shake, Marcus said, “She thinks I was trying to offer carte blanche—which I was not—and my attempt to clarify why I wished to speak with her further only made matters worse.”
Hearing the disappointment in Lancaster’s response had Luke realizing there was more to his interest in Charity Wadsworth than what the man had intimated the night before. “Do you wish to make her your viscountess?” he asked. “Or your mistress?”
Marcus nearly halted his horse at hearing the bold query. “Viscountess, of course. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Perhaps if you mention your intention first, then she will not assume you are after a mistress,” Luke replied, his tone helpful rather than spiteful.
“I thought I made it very clear...” Marcus stopped when he remembered that not everything he had said to Charity had been said with her actually present. Some of it had been said to the Charity with whom he had spent that half-hour in the gardens the night before.
The Charity in his imagination.
“But apparently not,” he continued in a whisper. Then he remembered Lady Simpson’s comment about Charity.
Lady Wadsworth has had a trying day.
He glanced over at his colleague with new-found appreciation. “You are right, of course. I shall try that approach next.”
Feigning shock at hearing he was right about anything, Luke allowed a grin. “Do be sure to let me know how it goes.” Even as he said the words, though, he knew Lancaster was lost in thought, for the older viscount was staring off where Lady Wadsworth’s coach had long since disappeared. Deciding his presence wouldn’t be missed, he spurred his horse to quicken it’s trot and left Lancaster to ruminate by himself.
Marcus was well aware that Luke had pulled up ahead, but in his current state, he wasn’t feeling particularly sociable. In fact, he was imagining any number of scenarios he might try on the delectable Lady Wadsworth.
Perhaps he would don a mask and enter her bedchamber in the middle of the night. He wouldn’t be intent on stealing her jewels, though, opting instead to ravish her before he took his leave at dawn. He would worship her body with his lips and tongue, his black leather-gloved fingers smoothing over her heated skin and inciting a million darts of pleasure beneath the surface. Perhaps he would secure an invitation to visit her again. And again.
He groaned in frustration, turned his mount in the direction of the gate, and rode home.
Chapter 18
A Charity Doubting Her Charity
Meanwhile...
Her anger at Lord Lancaster slowly abating—how could the viscount be so bold as to offer carte blanche and do so with so many aristocrats nearby?—Charity dared a glance back at Rotten Row and gave a huff.
At least she had managed to speak with a few ladies regarding their unmarried servants, asking if they might know of anyone in need of a spouse. She, of course, had to quickly explain that she was seeing to Lady E’s ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’ as its new matchmaker, lest anyone think she was after something else.
Or someone else.
Thinking Lady Pettigrew would be the perfect person to spread the word about the need for unmarried servants to contact her, Charity was just about to have her driver converge on Lady Pettigrew’s coach when Lord Lancaster appeared. He looked ever so regal in his riding clothes, his breeches snug around his thighs, his boots polished to a shine.
And then he had started to speak. And say things she couldn’t believe she was hearing!
Perhaps she had overestimated the viscount. Earlier that day, she had come to appreciate his attentions, strange as they were. That he would have imagined her in the gardens with him—apparently he had conjured a rather cozy image of the two of them on a stone bench—Charity found she was curious as to just how cozy he had imagined their time together.
Had they kissed? Murmured sweet nothings? Told each other their deepest, darkest secrets? Made a date for a secret assignation? If so, she wondered where that might be. She couldn’t imagine the viscount would arrange anything at his townhouse given his daughter lived with him. Which meant he was probably thinking of paying a call on her at her house!
The cur.
How dare he?
About to curse out loud, Charity had to remind herself she really didn’t know what the viscount intended. She was only there in his imagination.
Which meant he probably imagined a perfect version of her. Unblemished and slightly blushed, with her curly, dark blonde hair splayed out as if it was caught in a gentle breeze. Her naked body a model of female perfection atop a velvet counterpane. Her lips murmuring words of encouragement and invitation. One crooked finger beckoning him to join her. The floral and spicy scent surrounding her slowly surrounding him, capturing him and pulling him in.
And him quite willing to be caught in her net.
Charity allowed a mischievous grin. Oh, the naughty things she could do with a willing man such as him!
As to her deepest, darkest secret, she furrowed a brow when she realized she really didn’t harbor a secret that could be considered deep or dark. Everyone knew she didn’t feel affection for her late husband. But who knew she always wished a masked man might enter her bedchamber in the middle of the night, intent on stealing her jewels and instead ravishing her before he took his leave without going
near her jewel box? How he would worship her body with his lips and tongue, his black leather-gloved fingers smoothing over her heated skin and inciting a million darts of pleasure beneath the surface.
“Milady?”
Charity was about to allow a moan of sensual satisfaction, about to beg for more, when she realized the voice didn’t belong to her masked man. In fact, the voice belonged to one of the grooms from the stable behind her house. “Yes?” she replied, trying hard not to sound too annoyed.
The groom held out a hand. “I’ll see to the horses,” he said.
Charity blinked, a sense of melancholy settling over her when she realized where she was. And it wasn’t on a velvet counterpane in her bedchamber with a masked man hovering over her.
“Very well,” she said as she took his proffered hand and stepped down from the carriage.
She was already in her house when she realized she had been guilty of possessing the very same sort of imagination Lord Lancaster claimed to suffer with.
Oh, no, she thought in a fit of despair.
After another moment, she allowed a long sigh and decided she might have to give Lord Lancaster another chance. At least until she knew exactly what he had imagined.
Chapter 19
A Viscount Imagines Much
Later that night
A note of apology, Marcus thought as a footman brought in the first course of dinner. I’ll write it as soon as dinner is done and then have a footman deliver it.
“What plans are you making for this evening?”
The query had Marcus blinking. “Plans?” he repeated, wondering how his daughter would guess that’s exactly what he was doing. Making plans.
Analise was seated to his right, looking luminescent after her ride in the park. Her yellow corded silk dinner gown, adorned with dainty embroidered flowers and gros grain ribbons fashioned into flowers along the neckline, fit her to perfection. She looked so much like her late mother, Marcus did a double-take.
The Charity of a Viscount Page 11
