How Not to Chaperon a Lady--A sexy, funny Regency romance

by Virginia Heath

‘If, by that, you are alluding to the inescapable fact that this entire trip has been organised around my tour of the north, then I suppose you are right. But as for you being dragged from pillar to post and being left to twiddle your thumbs while I do my job, then I would remind you that your presence here was at your own instigation, Griff, because I certainly never invited you! You forced yourself on this trip and appointed yourself my chaperon without my consent.’

  ‘And I am sick to the back teeth of it and of you!’

  If he had struck her, he couldn’t have hurt her more. But she would rather die than let him see it, so instead squared her shoulders and stared at him down her nose. ‘Then it is just as well this trip is almost at an end then, isn’t it?’

  ‘Believe me, I am counting the days. Your spoiled, self-absorbed, reckless and scandalous behaviour would try the patience of a saint!’

  ‘Griff!’ Dorothy swatted his knee with her hand. ‘What on earth has got into you to be so horrid?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Dorothy, even you must have despaired of all the primping and simpering so she can outshine every other woman in the room. And all the sycophants she courts because she simply has to be the centre of attention? All the contrived flirting? All the eyelash batting? Aren’t you tired of always playing second fiddle to her? Because I certainly am. So tired and so very bored with the relentless superficiality of it all!’

  ‘You go too far, Griff!’ Dorothy was quaking with anger. It was such an unusual sight it distracted the siblings from Charity’s quivering lip. ‘I have never heard you sound so mean and spiteful! Poor Charity has done nothing wrong as far as I can see, and even if she had—which she most definitely hasn’t—she does not deserve to be spoken to like you just spoke to her. If our parents could hear you, they would be horrified. They brought you up to be a gentleman, Griffith Philpot—not a brute!’

  He opened his mouth to retaliate then clamped it shut as a rainbow of emotions skittered across his features, running the gamut from blind fury to appalled regret. When he finally did speak, his voice shook.

  ‘I am sorry, Charity...my sister is quite correct. My outburst was uncalled for and I am horrified by it. I had no right to take my bad mood out on you, and please believe me, I meant none of it. I swear it.’

  It made no difference. The damage was done. She had seen the stark truth in his eyes where it mattered the most. Despite everything, all the time they had spent getting to know one another, all the laughter and all the honesty, when push came to shove he still thought the worst of her and likely always would.

  ‘Of course, you didn’t mean it... I blame this carriage.’ Ever the peacemaker, Dorothy tried to pour oil on troubled waters by filling the painful silence. ‘We’ve all been cooped up in here for hours, and after all the excitement and bustle of the last few weeks, and all the strange beds, the crowds and the interminable journeys, we are all so tired it is no wonder that tempers have finally frayed. It is a miracle they haven’t frayed sooner really, isn’t it?’ She reached out to squeeze both their hands simultaneously. ‘And yet here we are, three grown adults, all behaving like squabbling children at the tiniest provocation.’ She forced a smile, one which became brittle when nobody else attempted to reciprocate. ‘It’ll be a blessing when we finally reach Sheffield as I think we could all do with a week of hearth and home again to restore things to an even keel once more.’

  Charity’s gut clenched in horror at the prospect. Another week would be pure torture now that she knew how he felt. Pure, unmitigated torture. How on earth was she supposed to survive it intact when she had always thought the world of him and he had always thought the worst of her? To him she was nought but a vain, selfish, thoughtless flirt. As shallow as a puddle and a danger to his sister’s morals.

  Was that what everyone really thought?

  No...surely not? If she forgot about the changeable and judgemental Griff for a moment, she had lots of friends. Eager suitors too. And piles of invitations. Invitations which wouldn’t have been sent if she were as awful a person as he had claimed.

  Her friend squeezed her paralysed fingers tighter. ‘I, for one, cannot wait for the next week. We shall have such fun exploring Sheffield together. The surrounding countryside is very pretty and there are many fine estates close by that we can all visit.’

  Somewhere from the deep recesses of her mind Charity remembered Lord Denby’s solemn promise of a house party at his estate and she grabbed it like driftwood after a shipwreck. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t spared him a thought in weeks, or hadn’t remembered before now that she had practically bullied the man into hosting her or that she had no real enthusiasm for it any more after the month she had had, because that begrudging, forgotten invitation allowed her to escape Griff at this precise moment.

  ‘I should have mentioned before—I shall only be staying the one night in Sheffield.’ She allowed herself one tiny moment of triumph at his stunned expression at this bombshell. ‘I have been invited to spend the week at the Duke and Duchess of Loughton’s ancestral residence in Nether Padley, which I believe is only an hour’s drive away.’

  ‘Denby’s place?’ The anger instantly swirled again in Griff’s eyes, hot and dangerous. ‘Out of the question! That certainly wasn’t agreed when I signed on for this debacle and I have far too much work to do at the factory to play chaperon again while you coo over your future duke and his magnificent emerald!’

  ‘That is just as well—because you are not invited.’ Even if the invitation included the rest of her party as it likely would for propriety’s sake, it would be a cold day in hell before she passed that information on to him. ‘Dorothy is, of course, and we will both be adequately chaperoned by Lord Denby’s mother and his married sister for the duration.’ Her friend blinked back at her warily, not at all pleased to have been tossed into the middle of the fight and being expected to pick sides. ‘So even if Dorothy doesn’t accompany me, I shall be well supervised, and you can get on with your precious work unencumbered with the chore of me.’

  ‘Your father put me in charge and I absolutely forbid it.’

  Charity scoffed, so disgusted by him she could barely stand to look at him. ‘And how will you stop me, Griff? Because I can assure you, I am as done with you as you are with me, and with me being so spoiled, self-absorbed and reckless it will take more than manacles and a dungeon to keep me in Sheffield against my will if you are there too.’

  * * *

  They rode the final hour in brittle silence and when they arrived, Griff slammed out of the carriage and stormed towards the house without as much as a backwards glance.

  ‘I really do not know what has come over him. My brother isn’t usually one for unreasonable displays of temper. Or any other frail human emotions for that matter.’ Dorothy frowned as he disappeared into the house. ‘Once he has calmed down, I shall talk with him and I am certain I shall be able to convince him to allow us all to visit Lord Denby’s together at some point this week. In the meantime, let us have some tea, shall we? It has been a dreadfully long and unnecessarily fraught day.’

  Charity didn’t have the strength to argue with her. She was still too stunned by Griff’s poisonous vitriol to string together enough of a sentence to explain that she couldn’t bear to be near him any longer. Couldn’t even bear to look at him. It hurt too much.

  However, until she was certain of the exact arrangements of the house party from Lord Denby, she was stuck here. For her friend’s sake, she mustered the facsimile of a smile as she stared up at the house which would be her prison in the meantime. ‘Tea would be lovely.’

  Inside, the Sheffield house mirrored the Philpots’ home in Bloomsbury, the expensive furnishings picked for comfort over style much like her own parents favoured, yet it lacked the homely touches of both. She supposed that was because this house wasn’t a home. It was a place Griff and his father stayed when here on business, a place to wine and
dine potential clients and the place where both men worked on their frequent trips away from London. Mrs Philpot and Dorothy rarely came here any more, so this house had clearly lost its heart and felt cold as a result. Or perhaps that was simply because she knew that he was in it somewhere and he had dragged the toxic atmosphere of the carriage in with him.

  ‘We shall freshen up before we take tea, Mrs Jackson.’ Dorothy smiled at the hovering housekeeper. ‘And shall have an early dinner too...at nine, I think. What do you think, Charity?’

  ‘As I am exhausted, an early dinner suits me perfectly as I dare say I shall be fast asleep by ten.’ Or more likely staring at the ceiling, wondering why and where things had gone so spectacularly wrong when she had thought that she and Griff understood one another better than they ever had. ‘Have there been any letters for me, Mrs Jackson?’ Please God let there be one from Lord Denby as she had given him this precise address and he had promised to write confirming all the arrangements had been made.

  The housekeeper acknowledged this with a curt nod but no hint of a smile. ‘There have, Miss Brookes. I shall bring them into the drawing room with your tea.’ As she felt her shoulders slump with relief at that welcome news, the housekeeper turned to Dorothy again. ‘I have taken the liberty of putting Miss Brookes in the blue room rather than the green as instructed by your brother, as we found a wasp’s nest in the eaves above it only this morning and I cannot guarantee all those angry, stinging devils are gone. I hope that is to your satisfaction, Miss Philpot?’

  Because Dorothy looked to her to answer, Charity shrugged. ‘It makes no difference to me where I sleep, Mrs Jackson. Thank you.’

  ‘Very good, miss.’ The po-faced woman bobbed a curtsy. ‘I shall have your trunks unpacked in there at once.

  ‘Oh, there is no need to unpack them.’ It wasn’t as if she were staying. If she had her way, right now she would be back in the carriage already and leaving Sheffield and Griff well behind. And perhaps, if she could finally convince Lord Denby that she was indeed the woman of his dreams as well as his desires, she could mentally leave Griff and all the hurt he had inflicted behind too. An unmistakably desperate and pathetic hope, but something positive to cling to. ‘Most of my trunks are filled with my stage costumes anyway, so please do not trouble yourself as my maid Lily will remove what I need.’

  The housekeeper received that information with a disapproving frown. Although whether that was because she disapproved of the fact that Charity had arrived with her own maid in tow or because she pranced around in costumes on the stage, she couldn’t say. If the woman was as judgemental as her horrid master, it was likely the latter. For some, having the audacity to perform in a theatre was akin to being devoid of all morals. ‘As you wish, Miss Brookes, Miss Philpot.’ Her small eyes were as steely as the grey under her austere cap. ‘The tea will be awaiting you in the drawing room in precisely fifteen minutes.’ Then she scowled. ‘If you girls dally upstairs any longer than that it will be too stewed to enjoy and I abhor waste.’

  ‘We shall be there in fifteen minutes, Mrs Jackson. I promise.’ They watched her leave. Only once she had disappeared from sight did Dorothy dare speak again. ‘Come on...let me show you your room’

  The blue room was lovely, the only issue was it was on the complete opposite side of the galleried landing to Dorothy’s bedchamber. With Lily’s help, Charity changed out of her hopelessly crumpled travelling dress into a fresh, cool muslin, washed her face, tidied her hair as best as she could in the time given and then dabbed some oil of roses on to her cheeks and lips to give her drawn face a subtle glow in an attempt to banish the sadness in her expression. If she had learned one thing from her family, it was to stand tall and proud in the face of derision. Let him think what he wanted, she would try not to care—but she would be damned before she allowed him to see that he had crushed her. With a final deep breath, she dashed out of the door and, to her horror, smack into Griff coming out of the adjacent bedroom.

  He reacted with a face like thunder as he brusquely held her at arm’s length. ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’ He glared at her trunks piled beyond her bedroom door. ‘I expressly told Mrs Jackson to put you in the green room next to Dottie.’

  ‘Wasps.’ As disgusted as she was with him, something odd and now wholly unwelcome still happened to her skin beneath his fingers. Uncovered, the exposed flesh on her upper arms seemed to tingle as her battered heart wept. ‘A nest.’

  She had also apparently lost the power to talk in sentences and she blamed the peculiar sensation of his big hands on her body for that too. That and the disconcerting knowledge that he would be sleeping next door to her. Annoyed at her own pathetic reaction, and the wounded tears which pricked ominously at her eyes, she stepped back, severing the contact and stared at him imperiously down her nose. ‘They found it in the eaves this morning and so the green room is out of bounds until Mrs Jackson is convinced all of the wasps are gone.’ Then, desperate to escape him and the odd effect he apparently still had on her despite his callous outburst, she spun on her heel. ‘If you will excuse me, there is tea in the drawing room and an enormous pile of correspondence awaiting my attention—all from people who have miraculously found something about me to like.’

  Thankfully, he didn’t respond, nor did he follow her downstairs, which was just as well as she didn’t trust herself not to explode like his stupid steam engine if he dared say another hateful word in her presence. Then it wouldn’t be his silly kite she stomped on, it would be his wretched head!

  She took several calming breaths before she entered the drawing room. There was no sign of Dorothy, but piled next to the promised tea, there was a month’s worth of correspondence. Still shaken, Charity frantically sifted through them all like a woman possessed until she finally found one emblazoned with Lord Denby’s elaborate sloping handwriting and then tore it open. While her eyes scanned the letter, the tears finally fell as all hope of any rescue died with each of his damning words.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Oh, my goodness, Griff! Oh. My. Goodness!’

  Dorothy’s breath hitched as she read the front of a stray letter her brother had found in the midst of his own mountain of correspondence which had awaited him in his study. When he had discovered it over an hour ago, he had been sorely tempted to continue with his pathetic plan to skip dinner and give it to his sister in the morning, but knew his blatant cowardice was unfair when that particular letter was the one which would mean the world to Dorothy and he really did need to heal the rift he had created with Charity.

  ‘It is from Captain Sinclair!’

  Dorothy beamed at her friend across the dining table while the servants cleared away their finished soup bowls, her joy at receiving the missive outweighing the awful atmosphere hanging like choking smog in the room since he had ventured into it only moments ago. An awful atmosphere which, he was only too aware, was all of his making. ‘I wonder what it says?’

  ‘Well, you could sit here guessing till the cows come home or you could simply open it.’ Charity’s tone was brusque and she still refused to acknowledge he existed as Griff risked sitting in his chair at the head of the table, her posture more rigid and her bearing more frigid than he had ever seen it.

  His fault again.

  He thoroughly deserved her cold shoulder. He still couldn’t quite believe how he had lashed out at her earlier. His mouth spewing acid because he was in utter turmoil, and in his irrational, jealous and frankly overwhelmed state he had blamed her for it. When being with her, gazing upon her or being incarcerated in a carriage opposite her, intoxicated by her perfume and her mere presence and knowing he could never have her had left him feeling wretched and wronged in equal measure.

  His outburst had caught him as much by surprise as it had her and he was heartily ashamed of his complete lack of reason and self-control. After giving himself a stiff talking to, Griff had now reclaimed both, or at lea
st enough reason and control that he could contain his emotions and behave like an adult. Yet he also knew not so far beneath the calm surface he was at great pains to project was a wounded animal. Heart bleeding and hopelessly filled with longing and regret which no amount of avoiding her was likely to change.

  So much for weaning himself off her!

  Since the night he had found her with Ackroyd he had been behaving like a man betrayed, when calm and reasoned Griff knew she hadn’t done anything wrong except be her normal, alluring, flirty self.

  However, something about that night had brought it all rampaging home and made him realise that the past few weeks of living cheek by jowl, of having her all to himself and savouring every single second of that closeness wasn’t how things would always be between them. It was a unique and transient moment in time. Brief and bittersweet. A particular set of circumstances that they would likely never share again, and which was doomed to end the second he returned her to her parents and her life in town.

  In the not so distant future he would have to watch her tread her own path, one that would wend itself in a completely different direction from his. From a distance he would have to watch her star soar, watch her fall in love. Marry. While his entire life would still stretch before him and it would be unbearable if he spent all those years anonymously hidden in the stalls, listening to her sing and still yearning, pathetically refusing to move on. That wouldn’t be fair, to her or him. That couldn’t be his curse. He shouldn’t and wouldn’t allow it.

  That had been why he had tried to extricate himself from her hold sooner. To ease the transition and prepare himself for the loss.

  Except it hadn’t been easy, it had been torture. The grief of it left him furious with himself for being so foolish as to fall in love with her in the first place. When he knew—knew!—their destinies were too different. As a result, when she had called him on his bad mood which refused to shift, then bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t broken anything precious to him, all that turbulent and futile anger had erupted like a volcano. Because she had inadvertently broken something precious.