And she certainly didn’t want Marcus Batey thinking he loved her. Not when she hadn’t done anything to deserve the sentiment. Done nothing to encourage him.
“I’m afraid that’s true,” Charity admitted just then, to Elizabeth’s claim that she must have been frightened out of her wits. “I was frightened. Enough so that I never wish to be put in that situation again.”
Elizabeth furrowed a brow. “Lord Lancaster only did what he thought he must,” she murmured, but she felt George’s slight pinch on her arm. “But it was rather rude of him to leave you alone like that.”
The three simply sat in companionable silence for the next half-hour as the phaeton bounded south. When George delivered the widowed countess to her front door, he afforded her a bow. “Might I inquire what it was that had you taking your leave of Lancaster’s curricle, my lady?”
Charity regarded him with a combination of sadness and annoyance. “I really couldn’t say,” she finally responded, her gaze going to her bandaged hand. It wasn’t the ruined glove that had her so upset with Lord Lancaster, nor even his insistence at seeing to it a replacement was to be sent. She was sure a pair would be delivered on the morrow.
Perhaps it was because he had told her he loved her, when they were in the shop. Or perhaps it was because he made it clear everyone in the ton knew she had been married to a worthless man. An earl who had squandered his living—or allowed his man of business to do so—and his livelihood on whores and mistresses, drink and gambling. “I don’t know why it is I defend a rake when it would be so easy to simply agree that he was one,” she murmured. At George’s look of sudden confusion, she added, “I refer, of course, to my late husband.”
As George lifted her gloved hand to his lips, he noted how his handkerchief had been used as a bandage, blood stains dark red against the stark white linen. He knew that she spoke the truth. “Perhaps you defend him for the sake of your sons, my lady,” he suggested.
Startled at his simple response, Charity dipped a curtsy and bade him a good night. “I may not be at the office tomorrow morning,” she added, at the same moment the door opened.
Her butler appeared in the opening and then stepped back when George said, “Then I’ll let Elizabeth know you’ll be there in the afternoon.”
Before Charity could put voice to a protest—she had thought never to return to the office since she would be on her way to Suffolk—George was already bounding up and onto his phaeton, Elizabeth waving from where she sat next to him.
Dipping a curtsy, Charity entered her townhouse with her chin raised. By the time she made it to her bedchamber, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter 33
A Last-Minute Plea for Clemency
Later, at Wadsworth Hall, Westminster
As Charity expected, a pair of gloves was delivered to the house, but not the morning after. Instead, they arrived in the hands of Lord Lancaster, and did so only a half-hour after George Bennett-Jones had delivered her to her front door. She was in her bedchamber, dressing for dinner, when Beasely appeared at her door with the news.
“There is a Lord Lancaster paying a call, my lady,” the butler said as he held out a calling card. “He says there is something he forgot.”
Holding a curling iron, Thompkins eyed her mistress’s reflection in the dressing table mirror, noting the woman’s look of surprise. “Is he the one that did that to you, my lady?” she asked, her gaze directed at Charity’s newly-bandaged hand. The wound—or wounds, rather, three half-moon-shaped splits in her left palm—had stopped bleeding.
“Of course not,” Charity replied. “I was merely hanging onto the reins too tightly.” She redirected her attention to the butler. She was about to tell Beasley to say she wasn’t at home, but then decided she would see the viscount. “Could you see him to the parlor, please? I’ll be down in a moment.”
Her eyes boggling at this bit of news, Thompkins regarded her mistress a moment before saying, “But, my lady, I haven’t started repairing your hair.”
Charity gave her head a quick shake, noting that although her coiffure was a bit loose, it would do for the short time she would spend in the viscount’s company. “It’s fine. It’s not as if I’m hosting anyone for dinner this evening,” she replied. She stood up from the dressing table and moved to the japanned screen in the corner, determined to simply get dressed, meet the man, say to him what she must, and be done with it. Thompkins could have her things packed tonight, and they could be on their way to Suffolk in the morning.
A tremor of guilt passed through her when she thought of Mr. Weatherby, the valet, and his desire for a wife. She had promised she would see to a match for him, and she hadn’t yet found a suitable woman. Lancaster’s randy maid came to mind, and she remembered thinking Mary Baker might suit a man who wanted someone willing in the marriage bed. Perhaps she could make some arrangements in the morning. And then they would be able to leave for Suffolk.
Thompkins helped with the fastenings on the red satin gown. Trimmed in black lace, it was the only gown Charity still possessed with any black on it. Adding a pair of earrings—gold with garnet stones set in the shape of a flower—had the countess feeling like she had the night of the Attenborough ball—like her life was starting over and anything was possible.
Again.
“Do you like this man?” Thompkins asked, offering Charity a pair of black satin gloves.
The countess furrowed a brow as she considered the question. “I do, actually, but that’s not why he’s here. Is there a pair of gloves in red?” she asked, hoping to deflect the lady maid’s attention from her visitor.
The lady’s maid frowned. “You do?”
“He’s probably just brought me a pair of gloves. To replace the one that was ruined when I cut my hand,” she reasoned as she held up her newly bandaged hand. Thompkins already had Viscount Bostwick’s blood-stained handkerchief soaking in cold water. “He offered to replace the torn glove, and of course I said he couldn’t, but he is a stubborn man.”
Thompkins blinked before turning her gaze back onto the black gloves. “You don’t have any red satin gloves, my lady.”
Disappointed but not surprised, Charity quickly pulled on the black gloves, wincing when she saw her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Either black was not a good color with her complexion, or she was more sick of it than she thought. She stripped them from her arms and tossed them onto the bed. “I’ll go without this evening,” she murmured.
“Yes, my lady,” Thompkins replied as she watched the widow take her leave of the bedchamber. She glanced down to find the pair of red satin slippers still on the floor, which meant her ladyship was wearing only her stockings. Even before she could race after the widow, though, Charity apparently realized she wasn’t done dressing.
The countess reappeared in the doorway and allowed an impatient sigh. “Apparently, I have forgotten my shoes,” she said on a sigh, wondering what had her so addled. She was just going to meet Lord Lancaster and accept the pair of gloves he had to offer, because, well, she did need a new pair, and who would know but the two of them that he had purchased a pair on her behalf?
She allowed Thompkins to help with the slippers, gave a quick glance in the cheval mirror in the corner, and once again took her leave of her bedchamber.
As Charity made her way down the stairs from the second floor to the first floor, Beasely was leading Lord Lancaster up the stairs from the ground floor to the first floor. Of course the viscount looked up, his feet stopping on the landing as he stared up at her. From there, he didn’t move but rather afforded her a deep bow.
“My lady,” he said in a voice filled with awe.
Charity paused, wondering why her belly did a little flip at seeing him appear so awestruck. She had just seen him less than an hour ago! “Lancaster,” she acknowledged, when she had only one step to go. She couldn’t help but notice Beasely sneaking back down the stairs, and for a moment, she thought to call out for him to join the
m in the parlor.
But she was a grown woman. A widow. If she hadn’t wanted a word with the viscount—and she still wasn’t sure she did—she could have told Beasely she wasn’t accepting callers.
Marcus reached for her bare hand and kissed the back of it, his lips lingering a bit too long on the tender skin. Then his attention went to her bandaged hand and his shoulders seemed to give way. “Is it bad?” he asked as he took her other hand, his own warm hand where it held her wrist.
About to curl her fingers into a fist, Charity found she couldn’t—the bandage prevented her from doing so. Instead, she watched as he lowered his lips to the linen and left a kiss there.
She couldn’t help the frisson that shot up her arm, and she was sure he noticed. “It’s but a scratch,” she murmured. “I’ll be fine.”
Marcus stepped back so she could take the last step down, and he offered his arm. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he said as they passed over the parlor threshold. He shut the door behind them. “I owe you an apology and a pair of gloves.” He fished a flat, tissue-wrapped package from the inside of his top coat and offered it to her. “I know it’s not proper, but no one need know,” he murmured.
Charity gave a start, wondering if he had read her mind, given she had the same thought not five minutes ago. She took the package and placed it on a nearby sideboard. Daring a glance at Marcus before she unwrapped the tissue, she wasn’t surprised to find it contained a pair of white silk gloves. Almost an exact match for the damaged pair, they featured a small button and loop at the wrist her pair didn’t include. “They’re beautiful,” she said, thinking she could wear them on the trip to Suffolk. “Thank you.”
“I got them at the fripperies shop,” he replied. “It was there I realized how foolish I had been.”
“Foolish?” she repeated.
“Yes. Stupid, really, but we men frequently are,” he affirmed. He couldn’t help but notice how Charity had to suppress a grin just then. At least she couldn’t be too angry with him if she could find humor in what he had admitted. “In going after that runaway coach, I left you in a precarious position. I never even considered the horses might bolt. You could have been injured... far worse than you were,” he said as he reached for her bandaged hand. “I... don’t even know what possessed me to do such thing. Can you ever forgive me?”
Charity allowed him to hold her hand again as she considered his apology. He seemed so bereft, she thought he might cry.
“Did you do it because Lady Pettigrew was in that coach?” she asked.
Marcus frowned. “Who?” Although he briefly remembered the groom mentioning who was in the runaway coach, he hadn’t given it another thought once he rejoined Charity in his curricle. He also remembered hearing screaming, but he knew men could scream just as effectively as women if given the impetus.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Charity made a rather unladylike sound before a hand went to her hip. “Lady Pettigrew.”
Shaking his head, Marcus said, “I’m not familiar with the woman. Should I be?”
All the air seemed to go out of Charity just then, and Marcus stepped forward thinking she was about to faint. She held out a staying hand though, as if to keep him away. “She’s the very worst gossip.”
Marcus blinked. “Oh.” After a moment, he said, “Oh!” again, just as he reasoned why his rescue of the elderly lady would be seen by some as wasted effort.
“There are those who would have thought death by runaway coach too good an end for her,” Charity murmured, and then, when she realized how uncharitable her words sounded, she added, “Whatever am I saying?”
“That I was a fool to save her,” he offered. “But, I didn’t know who was in that coach. I just knew someone had to stop it. I was right there. I was close enough.” He paused and allowed a wan grin. “For a moment, I thought... I thought I might impress you with my derring-do.” He sighed, a long audible sigh that seemed to suggest it was time he give up.
“You did,” Charity said as she stepped toward him. “I didn’t think so at the time, of course. But... later. After I had a chance to think about it.” She stared up at him. “I suppose you’ve been thinking of nothing else since it happened.”
Marcus furrowed a brow and shook his head. “I’ve only been thinking of you,” he countered. “Of what we talked about, and the horrible things I said about Wadsworth—
“Well deserved, actually,” she interrupted.
“About our time in the shop, and how I was about to kiss you, and that damned shopkeeper...”
Forced to stop speaking when Charity’s lips were suddenly on his, Marcus placed a hand at her waist as if to steady himself.
It was a moment before he could return the kiss. A moment before he was aware that one of her hands had reached around his neck to pull him down while her bandaged one gripped his shoulder. Another before his arm went around her back and pulled her hard against the front of his body. And it was yet another before the two ended the first kiss and then started another.
They might have continued kissing there in the parlor for the rest of the night, but for Beasely’s quick knock at the door. He opened it before they could even react and announced dinner was served. Then his eyes widened before he quickly regained control of his facial expression.
His forehead pressed against Charity’s, Marcus had a mind to propose right there and then. She spoke first, though.
“I have to see to a wife for one of my clients.”
Marcus blinked. His eyes darted to one side before he said, “Don’t you have to do that for all of your clients?”
Charity nodded. “Yes. Except this one has very particular requirements. Ones that include a woman who has long, dark hair and who is willing in bed.”
Blinking again, Marcus said, “Oh?”
“I’ve found a woman who is more than willing, but she has her curls cut short. It’s quite the thing now to have short, curly hair,” she explained. “And I found a woman who wishes to marry, and she has very long hair, but she’s not...” She paused.
“Willing,” he finished for her. Then his eyes widened. “I know someone who would be perfect,” he said, thinking of the randy housemaid.
Charity grinned. “Your housemaid, Mary Baker, perhaps?”
“The very one,” he agreed, remembering that he had told the matchmaker about her the very first time he had visited her at the charity. “She needs a husband. She has long hair. It’s nearly black. And she is... willing.”
When Charity’s expression darkened, Marcus gave his head a shake. “Oh, not with me,” he assured her. “With the footmen. But... we’ve put a stop to it. The housekeeper, I mean. She gave her a warning, and told her she had to find a husband.”
“Did she now?” Charity murmured, her gaze dropping as if she were deep in thought. “When is Baker’s day off?”
Realizing he had an opportunity to impress the widow, Marcus said, “I can see to it she has whatever day off she needs to have off, if it helps to get her married.”
Charity angled her head and regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said finally. She allowed a sigh.
“Your dinner will be getting cold,” Marcus said, allowing a sigh. “And my daughter is expecting me for dinner.”
The mention of a daughter had Charity staring at him. He was so devoted to his children. “Of course,” she replied, rather surprised by the disappointment she experienced.
“May I see you tomorrow?” Marcus asked. “Collect you at the end of your day at the charity? Take you for that ride I promised you earlier?”
Angling her head, Charity narrowed her eyes. “So you can kiss me behind a hedgerow?” she guessed.
Marcus was about to agree but clamped his lips shut. After a moment, he asked, “Did you have someplace else in mind?”
Charity blinked several times but quickly recovered. “Well, there is a little spot near a park bench that’s rather secluded,” she replied, rather surpr
ised at how fast she sounded. Besides, if she could get Mr. Weatherby and Mary Baker married by noon, she would be halfway to Suffolk by four o’clock in the afternoon.
Which was just ridiculous to even consider. It would be at least a week before she learned the outcome of any possible match between those two.
“Sounds perfect,” Marcus murmured. He leaned over and bussed her on the forehead. “I’ll come to the charity at four o’clock,” he promised. He lifted her wounded hand to his lips and kissed the bandage. “I’ll be thinking healing thoughts,” he added before he placed the hand on his arm. He led her out of the parlor and down to the dining room. “My lady,” he said before giving her a bow and taking his leave.
Charity stood staring after him, long after the front door shut, and wondered what she had been thinking to allow him to kiss her.
Then she remembered she had been the one to initiate the kiss.
Oh, what have I done?
Chapter 34
A Daughter Knows Best
Later that night, at Stanton House
Marcus felt as if he were walking on air as he made his way into his townhouse. Harrison met him in the vestibule, greeting him before taking his hat and coat. Marcus held onto the package for Analise, wondering if he should give it to her during dinner or simply wait until tomorrow and bring it to the breakfast parlor.
“Your daughter has a caller, my lord,” Harrison said, arching a bushy gray eyebrow. “He is in the parlor.”
Not about to allow the butler to bait him when he was in such a good mood, Marcus merely allowed a nod. “Very well.” If the caller proved to be Christopher Carlington, Earl of Haddon, he would simply inform the earl he was to steer clear of Analise.
And if it wasn’t Haddon, then who could it be?
When he hurried up the steps, Marcus could hear Analise, and he grinned. Then he heard a familiar male voice and he frowned.
“Wessex?” he said as he entered the parlor. He had forgotten to leave behind the package containing Analise’s birthday gift and still held it beneath one elbow.
The Charity of a Viscount Page 20
