His eyes widening in alarm, the groom nodded. “What with her ladyship yelling at him, I suppose he forgot.”
Once the groom had the reins firmly in hand, Marcus jumped down from the bench and hurried back to his own curricle. He stepped up and into the equipage, took his seat, and calmly took the reins from Charity’s gloved hands.
That is, once he was able to peel her fingers from their grip on the ribbons. If she hadn’t been wearing gloves, her white knuckles would have been apparent.
“Did that really just happen?” Marcus asked as he turned his attention to Charity. His manner betrayed his excitement. The adrenaline rush had his entire body humming and a grin lighting his face.
She blinked. And blinked again. “If you cannot discern from my wide eyes and pallid complexion that, yes, it did indeed happen, then you, my lord, are blind as well as deranged,” she whispered hoarsely.
Marcus furrowed a brow, well aware of the anger—or was that fear?—in her voice. His gaze raked over her entire body—she was shaking, and her lower lip was trembling as if she were about to cry. “I apologize, my lady. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. He wrapped his free arm around the back of her shoulders and attempted to console her, but her body was unyielding.
“Remove your arm, Lord Lancaster, or I shall scream as loudly as Lady Pettigrew was doing a moment ago.”
Marcus pulled his arm away as if he’d been burned. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I only meant to—”
“Take me back to the office, please. Or...” She considered where they were. “Or home,” she amended. “Home.”
Chapter 30
A Matchmaker is Undone
A few minutes before, just ahead in Oxford Street
“Something’s happening,” Elizabeth said as she glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes widened, and then her gloved hand gripped her husband’s arm. “A runaway team!”
George was managing the reins of a newly matched pair of greys. His phaeton, a rather conservative model in that it was black, had provided a comfortable ride until just the moment before, when he sensed more than saw a coach racing toward Oxford Street.
Directly at them.
He made sure his phaeton cleared the intersection with plenty of room to spare, but he knew whoever was behind him might not stop in time.
Lord Lancaster.
George pulled on the reins in an effort to slow down the spirited horses and then dared a glance back over his shoulder. Uttering a curse, he directed the horses to park at the curb. “Damnation. They’ll collide with something if they don’t stop,” he claimed, just then noticing that the town coach barreling into the intersection had no driver.
Elizabeth had both her hands covering her mouth, as if to hold in a scream. The older viscount’s curricle was directly behind them, although at a bit of a distance.
George wouldn’t forgive himself if Lord Lancaster and his passenger were hurt. He had been the one to suggest to Lancaster that he take Lady Wadsworth to the park for a ride. Elizabeth and George had been on the phaeton, waiting until Lord Lancaster emerged from the charity offices—either with the countess or without—so that George might discover if his attempts at matchmaking were proving fruitful or not.
Although it seemed as if events occurred in slow motion, Elizabeth was stunned when she saw Lord Lancaster mount the driver’s step of the runaway coach. Within moments, he had the team under control, the town coach coming to a stuttering halt halfway down the intersecting street. With the coach having cleared the intersection, Lancaster’s curricle, halted just shy of where the town coach had passed, held only Charity Wadsworth. The countess sat gripping the reins of the matched blacks, an expression of horror on her face.
“That was Lord Pettigrew’s coach,” George said, his brows furrowed. “But he’s not in town this week.”
“Which means Lady Pettigrew is in there,” Elizabeth murmured, swallowing hard. “Which would explain the screaming. Poor woman.” She had never felt sorry for the gossip monger in the past, but no one should have to undergo the terror the old woman had just experienced.
“She’ll be fine,” George replied, rather proud to have witnessed a fellow viscount stepping up to save the day.
“But what of Charity? She looks as if she’s seen a ghost,” Elizabeth remarked, her brow furrowed in worry.
George was about to step down from the phaeton, but Elizabeth placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you dare think to leave me alone with these horses,” she warned.
Hesitating, partly because he expected a young street urchin to hurry up and offer to hold the reins, George straightened on the bench. The spectacle of the runaway coach had everyone in Oxford Street gawking in the direction of where it had come to a stop. Some applauded as a groom raced down the street followed by an older gentleman who had been attempting to run for some distance in an effort to catch up to their equipage.
Another moment, and Lord Lancaster jogged back to his curricle. Elizabeth watched as he seemed to struggle to regain the reins from Charity.
“She’ll think him a hero,” George announced proudly.
Elizabeth shook her head, noting how Charity’s expression hadn’t changed with the arrival of her host. “I rather doubt that,” she murmured. Even from this distance, she could tell Charity was either angry that she had been left with the ribbons or scared to death.
Probably the latter.
George frowned. “If I had been the one to stop that team?” he started to say.
“I would be sleeping in the mistress suite for the rest of the week. Alone,” she interrupted.
Blinking, George furrowed both brows. “Do you dislike Lady Pettigrew so much?” he countered. “That you would prefer to see her injured?”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to blink. “I am barely acquainted with Lady Pettigrew,” she argued. “My reaction would be due to the fact that you could have been injured,” she explained.
“I hardly think that is likely. Had I been in a position to do so, I could have caught up to the coach and easily—”
“Been killed,” Elizabeth interrupted, her gloved hand moving to cover his lips.
George blinked. He thought to argue with her, but then thought better of it. Better he simply agree with her. “I love you,” he said, hoping to deflect her anger. When her expression didn’t change much, he decided kissing her might be a better tactic. He did so, removing her gloved hand from his face just before he took her mouth with his own.
After a few moments of stunned silence, Elizabeth finally opened her eyes and regarded her husband with a wan smile. “I know why you did that.”
“Because I love you,” George said, turning his attention to the horses. After a pause, he added, “And because I don’t want to end up like him.”
Elizabeth followed his line of sight, noting how the Lancaster curricle was pulling into Dean Street, heading south instead of straight towards Hyde Park. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “Follow them, darling. Please.”
Chapter 31
A Viscount Makes a Mistake
Meanwhile, back in the Lancaster curricle
Allowing an audible sigh, Marcus was aware of shouts coming from behind him, shouts filled with expletives. His equipage was blocking the street. He had the horses in motion in an instant and, at the next intersection, made for Westminster. He couldn’t help but notice how Charity studied the hand that had held the reins, her glove displaying a tear in the fabric. “I’ll have a replacement pair sent to your office on the morrow,” he said. “What size do you wear?”
“You will do no such thing,” she replied, her words clipped.
“But I am responsible for ruining them,” he countered. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, it’s not as if you can afford to replace them.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could sensor them. He, along with nearly every other aristocrat, knew Wadsworth—or apparently his man of business—had left his earldom in a shambles when it came to money.<
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Charity boggled at his comment. “How dare you?” she hissed. “How? How would you even know such a thing?”
Knowing full well he had made a mistake in the eyes of the countess—unintentionally, but a mistake none-the-less—in reining in the runaway horses, Marcus was overcome with sudden spitefulness. “Because Wadsworth was an ass. It’s no secret he was an irresponsible rake who spent all his coin on mistresses. Everyone knows, my lady. ”
He saw how his words cut her, but he went on. “Damn fool could have been spending his time with you. He could have spent every night of your marriage in your bed. But no. He was off with his mistresses and harlots—”
“Stop it,” she whispered.
“When I could have had you,” he went on, apparently not hearing her plea.
“Stop it.”
“He knew I wanted you. He knew from the time we were at university that I loved you. Do you think it made a difference?” he hissed. “Of course, not. It only made him more determined to see to it you would be his countess, just to spite me.”
Once again, his words were spoken before he realized he had said them aloud.
Charity’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Spite you?” she whispered. She had a thought she might faint—for real, this time—but she was getting quite enough air.
His tirade having ended, Marcus rolled his eyes and gave his head a shake. “We used to be the best of friends,” he murmured. “At Eton. And then, we got into a fight over... over you.” This last came out as a mere whisper.
“Your imagination is getting the better of you again,” she said, this time her words loud enough for him to hear.
“Is it?” he countered. “He wanted nothing to do with marriage.”
“He did his duty. As did I. Now stop and let me out of here,” Charity insisted, moving closer to the door. Thoughts of returning to Suffolk immediately came to mind. She would have Thompkins begin packing this evening. They could be on their way by noon on the morrow.
Marcus turned his gaze on her and saw her determination. Resigned to his fate with her, he had the team pull the curricle to the side of the road, but only after he determined that the Bostwick phaeton was directly behind them. It pulled on ahead and then parked in front, its passengers both turning to look at them in confusion.
Moving to get out of the curricle so he could assist her, Marcus was shocked when Charity simply let herself out of the equipage and hurried up to the phaeton. Despite the tight fit, she was soon perched alongside Elizabeth, their arms interlinked.
Meanwhile, George dared a glance back at Marcus, his expression conveying his concern before he turned around. As the phaeton pulled into traffic, Marcus, his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his hands and allowed a ragged sigh.
The awful memories of his time spent with Wadsworth had come crashing back at the worst possible moment. He hadn’t realized just how much anger he felt toward the earl. How much resentment he still felt over what had started as a mean-spirited jest and then spiraled into outright hatred.
All because Edmund, Earl of Wadsworth, had warned him that he would wed whomever Marcus hoped to court.
Why?
Because he could.
Or so he claimed.
Convinced there was nothing to worry about—Charity didn’t know Marcus existed, nor did Marcus believe Edmund’s claim that he would soon know her in the carnal sense. The girl was barely sixteen at that point, and she hadn’t yet had her come-out. Her older sister, Faith, did have hers that year, but Marcus didn’t attend the ball since he was still at university.
Before Wadsworth made his ridiculous claim, he hadn’t even been aware of Charity Seward. Barely knew her father, the Earl of Eversham, despite the two sharing the same political party, but then they were decades apart in age. He did, however, attend Faith’s come-out ball at the Eversham residence.
Making it a point to seek out the younger sister, Edmund ruined the poor girl and then insisted to Eversham that he had to marry her. Eversham agreed, if for no other reason than he could avoid an expensive come-out for her the following year.
Before Marcus knew what was happening, Charity Seward was betrothed to Edmund.
The wedding was the following summer. The heir was born seven months later, and the spare barely two years after that. Then Wadsworth took up with the mistress he had employed before he wed.
The one who gave birth to Marguerite.
Marcus closed his eyes and sighed again, remembering he had a daughter at home who was about to turn eighteen and might suffer the same fate as Charity if he didn’t keep her safe.
When his second son was old enough, he’d make sure the boy knew better than to ruin a young woman. He had already had the same discussion with his oldest son and been assured Andrew would never do such a thing.
Now Marcus almost wished he had been the one to ruin Charity Seward, for if he had, she would have been spared a loveless marriage.
Don’t be a fool, he thought just then. For he was pretty sure she would have despised him as much as she despised her late husband.
Or would she have?
Marcus blinked as he reconsidered the situation. Reconsidered what had happened—or almost happened—in the fripperies shop. He had been about to kiss her. The shopkeeper thought he was going to propose.
And he did neither!
What if Charity wanted him to kiss her? She seemed willing—until she fainted. Or pretended to.
Was that supposed to be a warning that she didn’t want him to kiss her? Or that she was trying to give him an out when the shopkeeper mentioned the marriage proposal?
He could consider alternatives for the rest of the day and night, but the answer wasn’t going to make itself known until he spoke with Charity.
But first, he had to buy her a pair of gloves.
Chapter 32
Failure on All Accounts
Meanwhile, in Oxford Street
George merged the phaeton into traffic and then did a quick turn around halfway to the next intersection. He took the turn onto Dean Street, surprised to discover the Lancaster curricle was pulled over to the curb. Evidence of a spirited discussion had him cursing under his breath.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked.
Sighing, George gave his head a shake. “I believe my efforts at matchmaking have failed.”
About to put voice to a protest—Elizabeth had no idea her husband engaged in such a past-time—she understood what he meant when Charity approached the phaeton.
“Might I trouble you for a ride to Belton Street?” the countess asked, her light voice at odds with what they had just witnessed.
“Of course,” George replied, even before Elizabeth could properly greet the countess. He was about to step down and assist Charity, but she had already bounded up the two tall steps and was seated next to Elizabeth before he could do so.
Despite Elizabeth’s curiosity, she didn’t ask what might have happened with Lord Lancaster, and Charity didn’t offer. She did mention the unfortunate incident with the town coach. “After all that excitement, I hardly thought I would be good company for a ride in the park,” she said, putting on a brave face.
“I admit to a bit of surprise that Lady Pettigrew didn’t faint,” Elizabeth replied. “I think her screams could be heard all the way to Rotten Row.” After a pause, she added, “I do hope she thanked Lord Lancaster for his assistance. Why, if he hadn’t done what he did, she might have been killed.”
Feeling less than charitable at that moment, Charity nearly made a comment she would regret, something along the lines of, Well deserved, don’t you agree?
She had no idea why she thought such a thing. No idea why she felt jealous of the old biddy whose gossip did so much damage. Lancaster would have done the same for her, had she been in such a situation.
Wouldn’t he?
Her attention dropped to her hands, and she turned the palms up at the same moment Elizabeth glanced in her direction.
; “You’re bleeding!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her words forcing George to take his eyes off the road for a moment to see what his wife was talking about. He had a handkerchief out of his pocket and into Elizabeth’s hand in a moment, and she quickly stripped the torn glove from Charity’s hand and wrapped it in the linen. “Whatever happened?”
Charity stared down at her hand as if she were seeing it for the first time. “It’s nothing, really. Lancaster left me with the reins when he went off to stop the coach,” she whispered. “I must have... I think I just gripped them too tightly.” She was sure the leather hadn’t done the damage. Her fingernails had poked through the threadbare fabric of her glove and dug into her palm. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I’ve never handled horses before,” she added in a meek voice.
“Oh, my lady, you have been frightened out of your wits,” Elizabeth murmured, tying together the corners of the handkerchief to make a bandage.
Charity nodded, remembering how her entire body had begun trembling the moment Lancaster jumped out of the curricle. Left alone in the middle of the street, with a pair of matched horses that had just come down from rearing up after nearly being bowled over, she had thought she would die at any moment. That the horses would bolt in all the excitement and take off at a run, and she would be helpless to stop them. She would be forced to scream like Lady Pettigrew and hope that some derring-do young man would recognize her plight and come to her rescue.
But she didn’t want to have to be rescued. She didn’t want to be put into a position where she would ever have to scream. She never wanted someone to have to come rescue her.
The Charity of a Viscount Page 19
