Chapter 10
Charlotte passed a wretched night, tossing and beating her pillow, pretending she had the Earl of Wrotham under her fist. How dare he insult her, propose to her, then flee with that disgraceful suggestion that she contact him if needed. The fact that he had excited her as no other man ever had just made the whole episode worse.
At some point she dozed off and woke late into the morning, still weary but determined to be the perfect hostess. Her hopes for a dalliance with Wrotham might have crumbled, but she, nevertheless, had to carry on for her guests as if nothing was amiss. The house party had, however, lost some of its luster.
With her maid’s assistance, she managed to present a decent appearance. The freshness of her rose sprigged muslin—her favorite of the new post-mourning day gowns—helped boost her spirits. Her face told another story when she gazed in the mirror. She sighed.
“Rose, bring the Pear’s Bloom of Roses.” A little on her cheeks would hide the pallor brought on by the strains of the night. She usually disdained the use of cosmetics, but better a touch of the rouge than be thought pale from pining for someone.
Charlotte arrived in the cheery breakfast room, around haft past eleven o’clock, to find her cousin alone, sipping tea and spreading marmalade on toast. Not the best companion this morning. Jane could always wheedle information out of Charlotte no matter how hard she tried to withhold it. She braced herself for a battery of questions.
“Good morning, Jane.” Charlotte kissed the cheek that looked younger than her own and slid into the chair at the head of the table. “I see I have missed breakfast.”
“Good morning, my dear.” Jane eyed her face, then raised an eyebrow. “Yes, they’ve just put the things away, although I’m sure there’s still plenty in the kitchen.” She peered closer at Charlotte. “You’re certainly out of looks today. Did you not sleep well?”
Charlotte signaled a footman to bring her a plate. “I may have tossed and turned a bit,” she admitted. That much at least was true. “Worrying about the guests and today’s activities. Are you aware Alan Garrett left in the middle of the night?” Best get that piece of information out in the open. Her cousin either already knew or would find out shortly. “He was called to his uncle’s death bed.”
“Yes, I heard that while dressing this morning. Nichols had it from Fisk. Shame about his uncle, but I daresay it’s for the best in the long run.” Jane sipped her tea with an air of nonchalance.
“How so?” Charlotte took a piece of toast and began to butter it, listening carefully for her cousin’s point.
“I suspect his elevation to the title and the attendant responsibilities will steady the man. Make him less of a rakehell.” Jane cut her eyes at Charlotte, then back to her teacup.
“Lord, I will pray for that from this day forward. Perhaps then he will stop his unwanted attentions to me.” Charlotte finished with the butter and began to slather marmalade on the bread. She didn’t like to coat the jam so thickly, but she needed something to do with her hands. “Unfortunately, I’ve noticed that such behavior is a rare occurrence. They inherit their titles, more funds become available to them than they have ever seen before, and they go off on a spree of drinking, gambling, and whoring—”
“Charlotte!”
“Well, that’s what happens, isn’t it?” Charlotte turned a sour eye on her companion. “I have been married, Jane. I’ve seen Edgar at close range for years. Men gamble away all their inheritance before they know what’s what or take up with mistresses or some other type of bird of paradise.”
Of course, some men might take up with a discreet widow instead. Much better for a man’s purse in the long run, if she had her own money and would be content to simply share his bed. The Earl of Wrotham’s face came to mind, as darkly handsome as ever. No, she would not think of the wretched man this morning.
The footman laid her plate before her and she studied the eggs and kidneys with loathing. She’d be violently ill if she took a mouthful of that. Determinedly, she crunched into the sticky toast.
“Lord Wrotham seems to have weathered that storm successfully. He is very pointedly looking for a wife.”
The toast stuck halfway down Charlotte’s throat. Grasping her teacup, she sipped a mouthful, trying to make the gluey mass go down. She coughed, praying she would not finish the morning by casting up her accounts. A bit more struggle and the food continued on its way. Charlotte gulped her tea, then set the cup down with a vigorous clink. She wiped her tearing eyes with her napkin. “Why bring up Lord Wrotham? And how do you know he’s looking for a wife?” Her cousin certainly knew how to get a reaction from her.
“Most titled gentlemen his age are.” Jane sipped tea tranquilly, a slight smile on her lips. “He’s only been in ton circles for a year or two. Inherited his title from an uncle when he and his son were killed in a carriage accident. I’m sure you heard about that? The son was Lord Berkley.”
Charlotte vaguely recalled a tall, blond young man of that name from her come-out Season, so she nodded. She carefully turned the teacup around and around its saucer.
“And I know for a fact Wrotham was very taken with you at Almack’s. If only Mr. Garrett had not been so insistent.”
“May I remind you, I am not in the market for a husband, my dear?” Charlotte would swear her cousin rolled her eyes.
“Nonsense, Charlotte.”
“Nonsense? You yourself told me you would not marry again. Why should I?”
“Because you need to experience a real marriage.” Jane squeezed Charlotte’s hands. “You were married to an old brute who used you badly. You should marry a young man who will thoroughly woo you, bed you, and give you children. That’s what a woman needs.” She released Charlotte. “And if Lord Wrotham is not the perfect man to do it, I will eat my best bonnet.” Jane pursed her lips. “Perhaps my second-best bonnet. I do adore the cream straw with the blue trim. I would hate to have to eat that one.”
Charlotte burst out in giggles. “Jane, you are a wonder. Only you could annoy me to the point of distraction and then make me love you for it.” She had often marveled at the captivating way her cousin had always gotten her way with everyone, from the servants to her late husband.
“Now tell me,” Jane gave her an arch look, “just between us. If Lord Wrotham proposed, would you really say no?”
Charlotte went still, seeing the image of Wrotham’s dark eyes boring into her when he demanded that she marry him. Memory of the incredible heat their bodies had created pressed against each other sent a rush of warmth through her again.
“Charlotte?” Jane’s voice sounded a long way away. “Charlotte.”
With a gasp, she came to herself to find Jane peering at her, her brows puckered.
“Are you all right?” Jane grasped her hand and rubbed it. “You went quite pale and then your cheeks flushed. Have you taken a chill?”
“I did.”
“You’ve got a chill? My dear, you must go back to bed.” Jane had risen and was urging her to stand.
“No, I refused him. Wrotham. Last night.” Charlotte fanned her hot cheeks. Lord, if this happened each time she thought about the earl, she’d have to start wearing lighter clothing.
“He actually proposed? Last night?” Jane’s mouth had dropped open.
At last she had surprised her unflappable cousin.
“Yes. It’s quite the story. First, he accused me of being Alan Garrett’s lover, then he kissed me, then he asked me to marry him. Somehow I don’t think this is the behavior of a perfect gentleman.”
“Perhaps not,” Jane said, sipping her tea, her eyes still wide. “But you have to admit it is extremely dashing. Was he very disappointed when you turned him down?”
“Not half so much as when I suggested we have an affair instead.”
Jane dropped her cup. It rattled into the saucer without spilling a drop.
“Charlotte! You didn’t!”
“I did indeed. And I would have done it, but he simply refused to entertain the notion.” Charlotte adjusted her napkin. “He must wish to marry rather badly. I thought men generally jumped at the chance for a dalliance.”
“Generally they do.” Jane picked up her cup and shook her head. “One does wonder why he would insist on marriage on such short acquaintance. Perhaps he’s in love with you.”
Charlotte snorted. “Love at first sight, Jane? In Minerva novels only, I assure you. No, I’m not quite sure why only marriage will do for him where I am concerned, but should he persist, I will find out.”
“I will be very interested in what you discover. So, my dear,” the brisk Jane returned, “how do you propose to even your numbers now that Mr. Garrett has gone?’
The abrupt change of subject jarred Charlotte so thoroughly she knocked her hand against the teacup. It rattled alarmingly, almost turning over. “Drat. I had forgotten Mr. Garrett’s departure would make the party most uneven.”
“Yes, you are now down two gentlemen, Charlotte, for dinner and your outings, which will make for an awkward time of it for one of your guests. As hostess, you can stand to be unpartnered, but at least one of the ladies will likely be made to feel left out.” Jane poured more tea and dropped in two small lumps of sugar, all the while staring at Charlotte with an air of expectation. As if Jane hadn’t realized her invitation to Maria Wickley had caused the problem in the first place.
“I hadn’t thought about it yet,” she confessed, suddenly aware that she should have been thinking about the situation almost immediately. It wasn’t as though she’d never hosted a party before. Just never one where she had been completely distracted by the men in her life.
“Lord Wrotham is returning, is he not? He seemed to get on well with everyone last evening. And if he is absent, I simply don’t know what you shall do with only three men.”
Charlotte’s heart sped up at the mention of his name again. This would never do.
“Lord Wrotham hinted he had more important things to do than socialize with his new neighbors. That is why he did not stay last night. He said he had business to attend to this morning.” Charlotte comforted herself with the thought she’d spoken some snippet of truth, although he’d said nothing about being otherwise engaged this evening.
Jane flashed her a knowing look. “Indeed. It sounds as though he enjoyed himself immensely. I’ll wager he returns tonight. He dances divinely, but of course you know that. You seemed to take great pleasure in the set you shared.” A satisfied smile spread across her face. “In fact, you appeared quite enthralled when you looked at him. Are you sure you turned him down?”
Face now flaming, Charlotte stared down at her cold plate. “Yes. And if you doubt me, you may ask him yourself when he arrives tonight. If he arrives.” Best turn the tables before Jane could ask any more questions. “But then, what about you and Lord Sinclair? How have you been getting on?”
Jane’s narrowed eyes spoke volumes. “Robert and I have been friends for years, while I was married to Tark.” Her voice firmed and her gray eyes flashed. “And that is all we were.” She softened once more. “Now I believe he has developed a tendre for me. And I have encouraged him in it. This weekend, therefore, I think we will become better acquainted.”
Her voice softened as she returned to their previous topic. “So tell me, what do you plan to wear on the lovely outing you have planned for this afternoon?”
* * *
The village of Wrotham lay picturesquely nestled at the foot of the North Downs of Kent, only a mile from Lyttlefield Park. Why, therefore, had Charlotte only visited it once in the whole of the four weeks in which she’d been resident? Oh, she could give herself excuses aplenty. There had been so much to do and oversee at the Park that unless she deemed the need urgent, she’d vetoed any excursions in order to make sure the house and grounds were all in readiness for her guests. That meant, however, that planning an outing to the village had been done with almost no knowledge of the points that might be of interest to the company.
Charlotte managed to smile pleasantly at Georgie as she and Elizabeth chatted about the sights of the village as the carriage rumbled forward toward Wrotham. Then she went back to brooding, praying her ignorance of the village would not earn her the label of poor hostess. She had attended only one house party before her marriage and none thereafter, so she had little personal knowledge to guide her.
Her original hope had been that her guests would be so exhausted from their nighttime frolics that they would be content with a turn around her park and gardens. But Jane had assured her this was an error on her part. The ensuing discussion this morning had led to the hastily planned visit to Wrotham.
On her one trip into the village, Charlotte and Jane had visited a couple of shops looking for a cobbler to mend Charlotte’s riding boots, had peeked into St. George’s Church and been accosted by the rector, who welcomed them to the community, and had lunched in a private parlor at The Bull Inn and Posting House. Not a grand tour, but a start at least. Perhaps Mr. Micklefield, the pub owner, could suggest some other sights for their tour. Otherwise they would be returning to Lyttlefield in short order.
* * *
Nash downed his second pint, set his glass on the dark-stained plank table, and called for a third. “And another for you as well, Mr. Smith?”
The burly man in stained linens grinned and nodded quickly. “Aye, if you don’t mind, my lord. Smithing’s a hottish business come August, even with our weather these days.”
Nash nodded to Micklefield, who came at a run with more of the inn’s best ale. “I cannot imagine.” He shook his head and raised his glass. “You seem to take it in stride, however.”
Smith shrugged. “It’s in me blood, so to speak. You can’t deny what’s in yer blood.” Alfred Smith could trace his lineage all the way back to the tenth century in Wrotham, every generation producing at least one smith to carry on the family name and tradition.
It boggled Nash’s mind to think of so many hundreds of years of Smiths all in the same village. His family couldn’t be traced back half so far. And they certainly hadn’t remained in the same place nor taken the same occupation, though he had carried on in his father’s footsteps until the death of his uncle and cousin had thrown him into the business of estate management.
Nash grunted acknowledgment and sipped his ale. He’d come to like his role at Wrotham Hall more than he’d expected to. Although he’d never before planned for planting or harvesting or animal husbandry, he too had taken it all in his stride, read books and asked questions of the estate manager, and had gotten along fairly well last year. Surprisingly, he actually enjoyed the cyclical life, bound to the land. Perhaps this love of the land flowed in his blood, begun somewhere back along the line of St. Claires.
“So you’ve begun the preparations for the harvest home already, Mr. Smith? Last year’s celebration impressed me quite a lot. I’m looking forward to an even better one this year.” Nash leaned back in his chair, the memory of happy villagers clear in his mind. “Have you chosen your lord of the harvest yet?”
“Aye, we have. Michael Thorne’s the lord this year.” Smith’s smile split his face from ear to ear.
Nash winced inwardly. The lord of the harvest negotiated wages for the harvesters and Thorne had a reputation for being a sharp bargainer.
“You’ll be partin’ with a bit o’ brass this year, my lord, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“If Thorne lives up to his reputation, I’ve no doubt of it.” Nash chuckled ruefully.
The door to The Bull opened behind him, a loud chatter of many voices invading the otherwise quiet pub. Nash twisted around to see what the commotion was all about and froze as Lady John Tarkington, Lady Stephen, and Lady Cavendish, followed by the rest of the party from Lyttlefield, entered with the bright enthusiasm only ladies on a party excursion possessed.
Nash groaned. He’d not expected to meet the lady quite so soon after their tête-à-tête in her library last night. Especially while he was so hard pressed to know his mind about the woman. Just as he’d concluded he’d been mistaken about her, her obvious penchant for assignations had confirmed his fears.
Of course, if she had accepted his proposal in the heat of the moment, he wouldn’t have cared who she’d been seeking originally. Sheer folly, unless he could persuade her to marry him quickly and save her from her own baser nature. Or channel them only toward him. He closed his eyes as his blood rose at the thought of her warm, soft body pressed against him. At least he now knew she would warm his bed spectacularly. This unexpected and intense desire for her, however, might prove inconvenient while convincing her to marry him.
She turned toward the bar, and something in her graceful movement recalled the image of her lightly clad body and bare feet. Why he’d acted so rashly became perfectly clear. Thoughts of her lusting after another man had roused a jealous streak hitherto undiscovered. He’d wanted her for himself, plain and simple. And now most likely impossible if she truly meant her words last night. He turned back to Mr. Smith, who seemed to enjoy the parade of Quality.
“Have Thorne come see me on Monday, Mr. Smith. I doubt this harvest will be as good as last year’s with the cold weather we’ve had. We may need to postpone it for a bit, so I need to prepare Thorne and the harvesters for that possibility.”
“Aye, my lord. I’ll speak with Michael directly.” The smith rose, tipped his cap, and moved to the door just as Lord Brack and Georgie brought up the rear of the party.
Brack’s gaze swept the room, coming to light on Nash. “Ho, Wrotham!” He guided Georgie over to his table. “Didn’t expect to see you here after our late night.”
Nash rose immediately. “Lady Georgina. Brack.” He bowed and smiled. “How nice to see you once more.”
The young woman seemed less frightened of him than she had last night, when she could barely string two words together to greet him. “Lord Wrotham. It is a pleasure, to be sure.” She blushed, though Nash had no idea why. Perhaps a deep shyness afflicted her.
Micklefield hurried toward them. “My lord, my lady. Your party has settled in one of the private parlors. Would you care to join them?”
“Excellent,” Brack said, shepherding Georgie toward the doorway the innkeeper indicated. “Join us, Wrotham. We’d be delighted if you would.”
Every grain of sense Nash possessed screamed at him to decline. Coming face-to-face with Lady Cavendish would likely be disastrous on many fronts. A quick but respectful refusal and he could be on his way back out to the fields.
“Thank you, Brack. Much obliged.” Like a moth driven to seek the flame, he could not stay away from the woman. Hopefully, he would merely be singed and not immolated outright by her wrath.
He fell in line just behind Lady Georgina. If he walked in with another woman he could pretend interest in her was his major objective. Perhaps his lady would then think she had a rival. Women often did not perceive a man as desirable until another woman found him so.
That might be the key to his campaign to get Lady Cavendish to accept his suit. He meant to turn her head from thoughts of Alan Garrett and fix her attentions on him. And what better way to achieve that than a little harmless flirtation with another woman? He prayed Georgina could play the role. Now if only he could do his part justice, perhaps he’d win himself a wife.