Chapter 7
“Oh, my dear Lord.” Charlotte sighed and plopped onto the sofa beside her cousin, completely spent.
“So Lord Wrotham has accepted your invitation, Charlotte.” Jane sipped her tea, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. I believe he has a certain admiration for you, dear. He seems to have forgiven your rudeness at Almack’s.”
“I was not rude, Jane. Mr. Garrett was. Should I have made a scene instead? And Wrotham said he came only because Father asked him to.”
“Indeed.” Jane leaned closer to her. “And why, pray tell, would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Lord Wrotham said he’d received a letter from Father asking him to call on me.” Charlotte shook her head. Such behavior by her odious parent was baffling. “Father has not taken a smidgeon’s interest in me for six years. Then, the day after Almack’s, he appeared and invited himself to dinner. He spent two hours admonishing me about my behavior the night before and threatening to take a hand in my affairs if I became embroiled in a scandal.”
It had not been an idle threat. Given the opportunity and enough of an excuse, her father would find a way to take over her life again, she had no doubt. “Now he’s asking strangers to look after my welfare. Trying to rule my life again.” She would not brook his interference. Not this time.
“For once I am grateful not to have parents to interfere with my life.” Fanny smoothed her hands over her light blue mull gown. “It’s bad enough to have Theale forever questioning me.”
“Fanny, you should be thankful he’s not as high a stickler as some would be about his sisters-in-law.” Jane turned back to Charlotte, idly swirling the tea in her cup. “At least Wrotham seems to have forgiven you.” She chuckled to herself and sipped. “Most important because we are now neighbors and may be much in company.” A mischievous smile played over her face. “He’s a very eligible parti, you know.”
“I know, Jane. You have not ceased to remind me of that since the invitations went out.” Charlotte laughed. “He is almost good enough to make me throw away my resolve never to marry again.”
“Really, Charlotte.” Jane sniffed and jammed her cup down in the saucer with a vicious clink. “You should pitch that resolution into the middle of the lake. Lord Wrotham would be the perfect match for you.”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte remembered his deep blue eyes, the warmth that tingled through her whenever she touched him, and sighed. “I have already made my choice, Jane. I will not have men control me as they have in the past. Not even one who—” She bit back the words about Lord Wrotham’s startling revelation regarding his involvement with Edward. She would treasure that secret for herself alone a while longer.
“’Not even one who . . . ?” Jane leaned forward, all ears.
“Not even one who seems perfect on the surface.” Charlotte sipped her tea and leaned back, trying not to smile. Lord Wrotham might not be a man to marry, but he would certainly be one with whom she’d enjoy having a discreet affair. A thrill of excitement shot through her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. A vision arose of them together, tangled in the sheets, his strong arms around her, his heat pressed against her . . .
“Charlotte. Whatever is wrong?”
As if a shower of cold rainwater had doused her, Charlotte shivered as Jane’s face swam into view. “Wrong? Why would anything be wrong?” Drat. Had she said something whilst thinking of her and Lord Wrotham?
“Your face is splotched, as if you’ve got a fever. Are you well?”
Fever indeed.
“I am fine, little mother hen.” Charlotte felt her cheeks, which did seem quite warm. “I suppose the tea was a trifle too hot for me.”
“Tea. Yes, of course, that must be it.” Jane lifted her cup, scrutinizing Charlotte all the while.
“Charlotte,” Fanny broke in from her perch on the Queen Anne armchair opposite the sofa, her brows puckered. “Isn’t this the same furniture as in your town house? Sir Archibald’s town house? I know this is the chair you always sat in . . . and the sofa is the same.” She glanced around the room, her frown deepening. “It’s all the same.” Her gaze fell on the fireplace and she gasped. “Even the Adams mantel. You must be mad. It had to have cost a fortune to gather all the pieces.”
Charlotte laughed and patted Fanny’s hand. “No, it cost me only the transportation from London to Lyttlefield. These are the same pieces that were in the town house.”
“Dear God.” Fanny leaned forward, her face pale. “You stole them, Charlotte? What possessed you? Your rotter of a stepson will have you clapped in irons!”
Charlotte laughed and caressed the sofa’s beautiful floral upholstery. “Edgar may have some choice words to say to me, but he can do nothing. I was completely within my rights to take them. They are mine.” She surveyed her sweet revenge, fruit of a scheme begun before her marriage.
“You are looking at a master chess player, Fanny.” Jane nodded toward Charlotte. “She planned her strategy six years ago in her marriage settlement.”
“I had Father insist that anything—clothes, furniture, cattle—that I brought to the marriage would revert to me upon Sir Archibald’s death. Then I took a small inheritance from my grandmother and furnished everything in the London town house with the exception of Sir Archibald’s private office, library, and the master chamber. All the furniture, linens, bedclothes, my trousseau. Everything. Including my horse and carriage. When Edgar takes possession of the house, he’ll have one cracked leather chair, a desk, a library table, two straight-back chairs, and a rickety old bed.” A thrill of satisfaction washed through her every time she thought of the look on her stepson’s face when he realized he barely had a place to lay his head.
“Oh my dear.” Fanny’s peals of laughter warmed the room. “You are a genius, Charlotte. I will take care to stay on your good side.”
Fisk entered and announced, “Mrs. Wickley,” and gave way to a petite brunette, hardly old enough to be out of the schoolroom.
Charlotte rose, utterly at a loss. This person wasn’t on her guest list. Had Father sent her as well? She stepped toward the girl, who looked frightened as a mouse in a cat’s parlor.
To her surprise, Jane rose and swept toward the trembling young woman. “Maria! How delightful you could come. Charlotte, may I present Maria Wickley, the daughter-in-law of my cousin? Her husband was tragically another victim of Waterloo. A most sad story.”
She stared, aghast. This child a widow?
“Maria,” Jane continued, “this is Lady Cavendish, our hostess for the weekend. I promise she will take good care of you.”
Maria bobbed a curtsy and said in a small, high voice, “Thank you, my lady. You and Lady John are too kind to me.” She looked around with jerky movements of her head, as though frightened of something.
Jane embraced her friend and ushered her over to the sofa, leaving Charlotte gaping in the middle of the room. She shot an inquiring glance at Fanny, who shrugged and muttered, “What else would you expect from Jane?”
More than a little perturbed at this unexpected addition to the weekend, Charlotte nevertheless returned to the sofa, hoping to discover who her additional guest was and how she had come to be here.
“My dear, how well you are looking,” Jane crooned, patting the child’s hand. “The journey from Oxfordshire seems to have done you a world of good. I hope this weekend will be a pleasant diversion from your grief.”
“Thank you, Lady John.” The girl tore at the handkerchief in her lap. “You have been ever so kind.” She risked a glance toward Charlotte. Liquid brown eyes in a sweet, heart-shaped face would be lovely without their stricken appearance.
“And I must thank you properly, Lady Cavendish, for your invitation. I am sure such good company will help cheer me. I have been so sad this past year, since William died.” Maria twisted and tugged at the handkerchief so tightly, Charlotte feared she would tear it asunder. “My husband, my lady. Ensign William Wickley, of the 52nd Light Infantry. His commanding officer, Sir John Colborne, wrote to me that William fell during an advance that routed the French. His sacrifice helped turn the battle, he said.” She bit her lips and sighed. “But I do still miss him, you see.”
“William’s father is my cousin, Charlotte.” Jane took up the tale. “I visited him on my way back from Scotland and met Maria, who lives with his family now. Her family resides nearby and there had always been the understanding of a marriage between them.” She smiled. “To which the young couple agreed completely. But young Mr. Wickley felt it his patriotic duty to fight when Boney threatened once more. Their parents consented to their marriage being moved up several years so they could wed before he went off to war.”
“Several years? Then you were not out when you married?” She had been right about the girl still being in the schoolroom.
“Oh no, my lady.” Maria sighed. “I was only sixteen when we wed. I will soon be eighteen, although I will not of course have a come-out.”
Stunned, Charlotte could not help asking, “Were you married long, Mrs. Wickley?”
“A very short time, my lady. We wed in May, once the call for troops had gone out. He was gone within the week. I never saw him again.” One tear cascaded down her cheek and she dabbed it with the abused handkerchief.
“Such a tragic story, my dear.” Jane squeezed her hand. “Lord Byron should take you for his next subject.”
“My condolences, Mrs. Wickley.” Charlotte’s heart went out to the poor girl. “You are very welcome here at Lyttlefield. I hope we will be able to cheer you a little.” Another challenge for the hostess, but she believed she could cope. Except she now had an odd number of women that would throw her dinner placements askew.
Charlotte frowned. Such disorganization set her teeth on edge. Even with the inclusion of Lord Wrotham, they would be odd. She would need to relinquish her partner, it seemed, for the good of the party, although perhaps she might be able to secure him for one dance at least.
“Lord Sinclair, Lord Fernley, and Lord Brack.”
Fisk’s announcement sent a flurry of activity through the party. Charlotte rose to greet the gentlemen and make introductions. Jane moved to take Lord Sinclair’s arm. She had suggested him when George Abernathy had sent his regrets. She had just finished introducing Maria when Fisk returned to announce Elizabeth and Georgie.
“Jemmy, Jemmy!” With a squeal, Georgie launched herself at her brother. “How wonderful to see you again.”
They embraced, then Lord Brack stood back, laughing. “Georgina, you have not changed at all, my dear. Still the hoyden at heart.” He bussed her cheek. “I have missed you too.”
“And we shall have the whole of the weekend to catch up, my dear. But wait.” She beckoned Elizabeth, and Charlotte nudged her over. “You must meet my dearest friend.”
While Georgie performed that introduction, Charlotte surveyed the room. Fanny had engaged Lord Fernley in a conversation about his cattle, Jane, with Maria in tow, already flirted with Sinclair, and Georgie’s brother was explaining the workings of his curricle to Georgie and Elizabeth. She lacked only Lord Fernley’s cousin and the return of Lord Wrotham. Where the devil was Mr. Marsh?
She rang for Fisk and ordered more tea. The clock on the marble mantel struck four. Dinner at six left ample time for them to dress and mingle beforehand. She could, perhaps, relax a trifle.
As she sank gratefully onto the sofa, she could not help but be pleased with her efforts thus far. The busy room hummed with guests who seemed excited to be there. The two unexpected visitors had been handled to her satisfaction. Henry Marsh’s absence remained the sole thing marring the perfection of the house party. She sighed, determined not to fret.
Tea arrived and her guests seated themselves, still chatting avidly. Smiling, Charlotte poured, although she glanced at the clock more frequently than she should. It was now going on five. Soon the company would need to retire to dress for dinner. Well, if Mr. Marsh did not come, she would have to carry on as best she could with very odd numbers for dinner.
“Lord Fernley, I expected your cousin to arrive with you,” Charlotte said, setting her teacup in its saucer with a firm clink. “Do you suppose he has been detained in Town?”
Fernley had just taken a sip of his tea. He held up a finger, making a show of swallowing. His face had turned almost the same shocking red as his hair.
“Forgive me, my lady, I should have explained the moment I arrived, but I had just been renewing my acquaintance with this ravishing young creature.” He nodded toward Georgina, who turned scarlet and clutched her cup like a weapon. “So all other thoughts flew right out of my head. My cousin sends his regards and his regrets. A sudden turn in his business—he is a barrister, you see—and he was called to the bar for a most infamous case, you must have heard of it . . .”
Lord Fernley droned on as Charlotte sat, sick at heart. Only four gentlemen to six ladies. And she knew none of her neighbors well enough to call on for reinforcements. As hostess, she must be the one to give up her claim on the gentlemen. She’d be lucky to have two words with Lord Wrotham the entire time. The weekend that had held such promise now loomed like a gloomy cloud over her happiness.
“I do wish you had sent a note, Lord Fernley,” she said as he finally paused for breath. “I might have been able to invite another gentleman to round out the party.”
“My lady, do not fret yourself. I have managed to save the day.” Fernley beamed at her, revealing the frightening sight of large crooked teeth in a wide grin. “I persuaded a dear friend of mine to attend when he had already sent his regrets.”
Charlotte’s heart skipped a beat. That would leave her lacking only one gentleman. Perhaps the party wouldn’t be as gloomy for her after all. “Excellent, my lord. May I expect Lord Lathbury or Mr. Abernathy?
“Mr. Alan Garrett.” Fiske’s rumbling voice cut through the guests’ low chatter.
Charlotte jumped, her head jerking toward the tall man in the doorway. Attired in buff and blue, his curly hair in ringlets around his brow, he smiled brilliantly at her, his eyes sparkling in triumph.
“Mr. Garrett.” She rose on unsteady feet to greet him, her heart beating a tattoo in her chest. The mere thought of his hand on hers sent dread coursing through her and the room wavered.
“I have missed you, fair one,” he murmured in his deep, velvet voice as he brushed a kiss over her knuckles.
Her eyes closed and the sharp tang of his cologne assailed her senses. Not so strong this time, thank goodness. Still, she couldn’t wait for him to raise his head so she could withdraw her hand and step back.
“Has all of your little party assembled?” He glanced around the room, nodding to Lord Fernley.
“Yes, you are the last, but for Lord Wrotham, who will return for dinner.” Dear God. Wrotham would think she had invited Mr. Garrett. She would attach herself to Wrotham at dinner—he would be seated beside her—and inform him that this last-minute substitution was not of her making. “Do you know everyone here, Mr. Garrett?”
He scanned the drawing room until his gaze fell on Maria. “All but the young one there. Is she a daughter of Lady John?”
“A distant relation only.” Charlotte took his arm. “Pray, let me introduce you.” She led him toward the unsuspecting Maria. Mr. Garrett might focus his attentions on the young widow instead of her, but she doubted it. From the corner of her eye she caught the rake’s quick smile as he squeezed her arm. Yes, she doubted it very much indeed.
* * *
Dinner proved rather a victory for Charlotte. Lord Wrotham arrived in good time and established himself as an excellent addition to their party. He was previously acquainted with Lord Brack and Lord Sinclair, having attended a hunting party last autumn with the latter and a dinner party hosted by the former’s elder sister.
As a result, the dinner conversation touched on literature, politics, sports, and the Season past. Amazed to find Lord Wrotham, seated at her left, had a lively interest in poetry, Charlotte listened, rapt, while he talked of Byron’s The Corsair. Lord Sinclair, on her right, proclaimed himself a regular at Jackson’s and gave her a blow-by-blow account of his latest round, so stirring the women near him applauded when the final blow fell.
By the time she and the other ladies retired to the drawing room for tea, Charlotte genuinely looked forward to dancing with several partners at the evening’s entertainment. She had enjoyed herself more tonight than she had in years, despite her worry over Mr. Garrett’s presence. He had talked devotedly to Maria Wickley at dinner and so far had been a model guest. The evening, however, was young.
Once the gentlemen joined them, natural groupings seemed to arrange themselves. Georgie, Lord Brack, and Elizabeth appeared inseparable. Good for Elizabeth, although Georgina needed to push herself to converse with the others as well. Jane gathered Sinclair, Wrotham, Fanny, and Maria together, talking about gaming. And Garrett and Fernley were deep in a discussion about curricles.
“We can have dancing now, if you like,” Charlotte announced and sat down at the rosewood pianoforte to play “Miss Gayton’s Hornpipe.” Couples formed the set quickly, the pairings ending much as she expected, except Wrotham partnered Georgie and Garrett claimed Maria.
The energetic country dance that ensued put everyone in a playful mood. She followed it with the “Duke of Devonshire” and “Grimstock” before giving way to Elizabeth. Charlotte hurried to the refreshment table, seizing a glass of lemonade. While she drank, she looked around and discovered, to her dismay, Mr. Garrett the only unpartnered male. Drat the luck. With as good a grace as she could muster, she accepted him for the next dance, a set called “The Mercury,” a particular favorite of hers.
“You have been a lovely hostess, my dear.” Mr. Garrett met her in the middle and they sashayed down the line.
“Thank you, sir. The company seems to mix together well.” They circled round each other, closer than the dance called for. Waves of heat from his body assailed her.
“We should mix together well, Charlotte.”
His low words and the use of her first name sparked tension in her, putting her on alert.
“Shall I come to your room this evening?”
Charlotte’s foot came down on top of his and she stumbled. Her face must have turned bright red for heat seemed to burst from her cheeks. How dare the wretch propose such a thing in the middle of the drawing room? Of course that was his design. She could not upbraid him here without causing a scandal. Oh, yes, he was a rake through and through.
His strong arm steadied her and she shot him a scathing look. He grinned and winked at her, a most lecherous glint in his eyes. Well, she would put an end to those notions forthwith.
“You go too far, Mr. Garrett. I have neither given you permission to use my first name nor done anything to suggest I would be agreeable to such advances.”
“But my dear Charlotte, you most certainly have.” He grasped her hands and whirled her around. “That amorous interlude at Almack’s was all agreement, if I remember correctly.”
“You remember incorrectly, sir. I was not a willing partner in that bit of debauchery.”
“I recall you exactly, Charlotte. In my arms, pressed against me, my lips thrilling to the taste of you. I have wanted another taste for months.” He had pulled her close so those last words brushed her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “And I usually get what I want.”
They broke apart and the dance continued, although she moved mechanically through the rest of the steps. When at last he led her from the dance floor, she trembled in earnest and excused herself as quickly as she could.
She fled to the refreshment table once more, thankful for a moment’s respite to gather what remained of her wits. But oh, dear. Lord Wrotham appeared immediately to take possession of her, and the look on his face did not bode well for her. Naturally, he’d seen her little tête-à-tête with Mr. Garrett. The whole company had seen it unless they’d been struck blind. How could Lord Fernley have invited that rogue? She would have a few choice words for him shortly.
Lord Wrotham’s big, rough hand took hers, but instead of leading her back to the floor, he made his way to Elizabeth, speaking a word in her ear.
She laughed and nodded, then rearranged her sheets of music.
He pulled Charlotte onto the floor to stand in front of him. “I hope you will not be too scandalized by my request, my lady.” His eyes said he hoped she was, and a thrill ran from her head to her toes.
“I doubt you can shock me, my lord.” She raised her chin and stared straight into his coal-black eyes.
“We shall see.” He grasped her hands, the power in his a tangible thing. His touch spread delicious warmth throughout her body. They bowed and Elizabeth began a waltz.
Not exactly scandalous, yet a bold choice. The first figure moved easily, with little intimate contact. Then, in the second figure, his arms were supposed to embrace hers. Instead they reached all the way around her back until they touched. He pulled her closer to him, his lips pressed against her ear, and whispered, “And now, my lady? A waltz can be a scandalous dance if your partner is of a mind to make it so.” He pressed her tighter, almost indecently.
Yet she did not struggle. Could not. His big body against her—the hard strength of him leaving nothing for her to imagine—persuaded her that to fight him was futile. She would never be free. Never wanted to be.
They twirled in time to the music, yet the room faded until his face alone remained illuminated by the candlelight. “You never answered me, my lady.”
Had there been a question? She couldn’t remember.
He gazed into her face and leaned forward.
She stared, fascinated, as his lips drew near—
A discordant jangle stopped the music. She froze, then looked at Elizabeth, who hastily picked up the scattered sheets of music. “My pardon, ladies and gentlemen.” Her color high, she rose from the instrument and Georgina took her place and began a quick-paced mazurka.
Wrotham led Charlotte off the dance floor, and before she could protest, out the French windows to stand on the veranda.
She shook herself, trying to cool down in the slight chill of the evening breeze. Coming back to reality.
“Thank you for the dance, my lord.”
So much more than a dance. And a dangerous one at that, for in the few minutes of that waltz, everything else had ceased to exist: guests, music, ballroom. The man before her had been her whole world and she had reveled in it. Such a thing had never happened before.
Even now, the phantom touch of Wrotham’s arms embraced her, heating her to a fever pitch. An overwhelming desire arose to feel his lips on hers. Just once.
She looked up at him but couldn’t read his face in the faint light of the stars. Still, she understood his desires. His body had proclaimed them eagerly enough when they had danced. She’d been eager too, and now . . .
He stepped toward her, his eyes black and alive with passion. For her. She leaned forward—
Raucous laughter wafted through the French windows, wrenching her back to the present. Her guests required her attention. This was not the time. But soon . . .
Putting a hand out, she stumbled back and murmured in a shaky voice, “I must see to my other guests, my lord, if you will excuse me.”
She turned without a backward glance and fled to the house, completely unsure whether she required its safety or not.