Not Quite a Lady (9 page)

“My lady tells me she means to take charge of your house,” Lord Lithby said. “I advise you to have a care, sir. She looks dainty, but she will run roughshod over you if you let her.”

“I hope I am not as bad as all that!” said Lady Lithby with a laugh. “I only want to make a refuge for Mr. Carsington, as Charlotte said: a comfortable place to come to after his labors.”

“Your and his notions of what is comfortable are not likely to be the same,” said Lord Lithby. “Mr. Carsington is a man of science. I have not received the impression that he wishes, as we do, to entertain multitudes. Certainly he is not interested in following the latest fads and fashions.”

His genial grey gaze returned to Darius. “You must stand up for yourself, sir. Tell my lady plainly what you want.”

Don’t touch my house,
Darius wanted to say.

That wasn’t the politic answer, and even he knew better than to utter it.

“I merely wish to make the place habitable for the present,” he said. “At a later time, I shall consider beautifying it.”

“Clean and in order,” said Lord Lithby. “That’s all, Lizzie. Then let the man do his work, which is of somewhat greater importance, as you well know, than the latest fashion in curtains.”

As he spoke, Lady Charlotte joined them. Darius didn’t linger. He took a polite leave of them all and made his escape.

He couldn’t escape her.

She plagued him during the ride back to Altrincham. Along with the first mystery, he had another puzzle to wrestle with: the strange reaction to her drawing of the woman and infant…the odd expression he’d so briefly glimpsed in that beautiful face, an expression he hadn’t expected.

Grief?

And why not? he asked himself impatiently. She had been on the brink of womanhood when she lost her mother. Why should a picture of a mother and child not remind her of the loss, even many years later?

Dogs were known to pine when their master died. Sometimes the pets died of grief. Certain species of birds mourned their mates’ deaths and would not mate again.

Why shouldn’t a woman—of any age—continue to mourn the loss of her mother?

Still…

“Plague take her,” he muttered. “What the devil is it to me?”

Balked lust, obviously.

That neck. That bosom. That round, warm derrière. He could almost feel it still, pressed against his groin.

“Stop it,” he said. “Stop thinking about it. Nothing’s going to come of it. Virgin, remember? Put it—her—out of your mind.”

He couldn’t.

It was maddening. Beautiful and wellborn and rich and seven and twenty and
unwed
…

It was unnatural was what it was. That sort of thing ought to be against the law.

He turned his mind to the inn and its comfortable bed and the two willing maidservants, either or both of whom might join him in the comfortable bed.

And yet, in the end, he spent the night alone.

Eastham Hall, outskirts of Manchester
Evening of Sunday 16 June

Now that Colonel Morrell had returned from London, he spent his Sundays with his uncle, the Earl of Eastham, at the ancestral pile on the outskirts of Manchester.

He arrived in the morning in time to escort the cantankerous old man to church and did not leave until late in the evening or early on Monday morning.

Colonel Morrell didn’t do this out of affection. He’d always loathed his uncle. Lord Eastham’s only redeeming quality was the misogyny that had kept him from marrying. Thanks to his failure to produce a son, his eldest nephew, the colonel, would inherit an old title, several large properties, and heaps of money.

A year ago, Lord Eastham had decided that his nephew must give up active service abroad for an administrative post at home, in order to concentrate on finding a wife and filling his nursery. Without consulting the nephew, his lordship had used his considerable influence to arrange matters.

Though accustomed to taking orders, the colonel was not accustomed to having his life rearranged at the whim of an irascible civilian. He’d come back to England in a state of mind very close to homicidal. Then, one of the military superiors who’d connived with his uncle took him to a ball in London. There Colonel Morrell met Lady Charlotte Hayward.

This did not make the colonel hate his uncle any the less. It went a good way, however, in reconciling him to dawdling about England, bored witless, instead of doing what he’d been born to do.

Lady Charlotte was not boring. On the contrary, she was fascinating. He’d never seen anything like the way she managed men. He couldn’t stop watching her. How did she do it? Why did she do it? He saw instantly how useful such a wife could be to an ambitious soldier with limited experience of the Beau Monde. Unlike the typical eldest son of a nobleman, Colonel Morrell had not been groomed for the title. But she knew what to do, and she knew everybody. She would smooth his way into the highest reaches of civilian life. She would bring him into the exclusive heart of Fashionable Society.

Naturally, since she was beautiful, he looked forward to bedding her. But he looked forward quite as much to mastering a woman who had so effortlessly mastered so many men.

Since the colonel needed to spend his time near the elusive target, and since her family lived near to his own family’s old place, this brought him closer than he liked to his uncle, who lived not ten miles away from them.

However, the old wretch was a prodigious gossip, and Colonel Morrell was willing to sacrifice Sundays in order to learn everything he possibly could about everyone in Lady Charlotte’s sphere.

At present, the two men sat at dinner.

“The family is back at Lithby Hall, I hear,” Lord Eastham said. “I’d have thought you’d have the banns called by now. I don’t understand this shilly-shallying. You ain’t a bad looking fellow, you know. If she won’t have you, there’s plenty others not so finicky.”

Colonel Morrell was a fine-looking man. He was tall, dark, and well built. Moreover, his magnificent military bearing drew looks of envy from men and looks of admiration from women, even when he wore civilian attire.

His uncle swallowed some wine and frowned. “Better try for a young female, fresh from the schoolroom. Easier to train.”

Colonel Morrell didn’t want an easy-to-train girl. Where was the challenge in that? He wanted someone worth conquering.

He said, “Youthful good looks quickly fade. Intelligence, manners, and personality are of more lasting value, especially in one who will be Lady Eastham one day. I have never seen Lady Charlotte fail in cordiality or courtesy.”

Except for Friday night,
he thought.

“She’s amiable to other women, which is rare, as you well know, sir,” he went on. “She’s kind and attentive to the elderly and frail. She’s unfailingly cheerful and gracious. She always knows exactly what to say and do to put others at ease. If she’s ever out of temper, she conceals it so skillfully that it’s impossible to detect.”

And she rejects her many suitors so cleverly and courteously that they go away with no idea she’s done it,
he could have added but didn’t. He was quite sure he was the only one who understood what she was up to, and he intended to keep it that way.

He added, “Her temper is so mild and agreeable that I believe you would not at all mind having her under your roof, sir, even for long periods of time.”

If anyone could manage the overbearing old brute, it was Lady Charlotte. She could even manage Mrs. Badgely, who was as provoking as Lord Eastham: no mean feat.

“I need a wife who is sophisticated,” the colonel went on. “A young girl is not likely to be sophisticated, and I should have no notion how to make her so.”

Training Lady Charlotte would be much more interesting and worthwhile. She was accustomed to too much freedom—always dangerous for a woman—and she would not give it up easily. But Colonel Morrell had no worries in that regard. He’d dealt with the army’s spoiled aristocrats as well as the scum who filled the bottom ranks. He could deal with an overindulged young lady, no matter how clever she was. He had no doubt she’d be grateful. She was intelligent enough to appreciate the comfort of being looked after properly, of leaving all the care and worry and decision-making to him.

“If by sophisticated you mean old, I’ll agree,” said his uncle. “Should have been wed ages ago. Something wrong there, but it’s no use telling young men anything.” He drank, frowning. “Speaking of flies in the ointment, I hear Darius Carsington has moved in next door to them. I should watch out for him was I you. Them younger sons of Hargate’s have a knack for marrying fortunes.”

“Do they, indeed?” Colonel Morrell recalled the cozy scene he’d interrupted in the library. The unflappable Lady Charlotte had appeared flustered. That was not a good sign. “I met his two eldest sons during the Season, but I know next to nothing about the others. I daresay you do, sir.”

Of course his uncle knew, and he was happy to tell it and a great deal more. This, after all, was why Colonel Morrell spoiled an otherwise perfectly good Sunday.

His uncle talked, and he listened, noting every tidbit and putting it aside for future use.

On Sunday, after thinking it over, Darius decided to move into Beechwood House. While he could not mark his territory as animals did, he could place his belongings about at strategic points, to help the ladies remember whose house it was and what the rules were.

Lady Lithby wasted no time in setting to work. On Monday she and her stepdaughter arrived bright and early. She promptly sent the London servants back to Lady Hargate—to their obvious joy—and let loose hordes of local men and women, who swarmed over the house like an army of busy ants. They scrubbed, dusted, polished, repaired, and mended. They carried out a fair number of corpses, too, although these were mainly insects.

In spite of Chancery, someone had made sure the house was sealed. Someone must have let a cat patrol it regularly. It was dusty and musty and crumbling in certain places but it had not become home to much wildlife. Or, if it had been their home, the rodents and other small animals had the good sense to flee when Lady Lithby arrived.

While Darius did not flee, he did stay out of the way.

Until late on Friday afternoon.

He was at the home farm with his new land steward, Purchase, when his manservant Goodbody arrived, breathless and in a sweat.

To see the magnificently patient, quiet, all-but-invisible valet venture beyond the safety of the once formal gardens was amazing enough. That he’d obviously run most of the way was shocking.

“What’s happened?” Darius said. “Is the house afire? Or did the laundress put too much starch in my neckcloths?”

“Sir,” Goodbody gasped. “Your books.”

Darius felt a chill.

He had brought with him from London only the books he would need to consult immediately. He’d stored them in his bedroom, from which he’d banned everybody but Goodbody.

This was because Darius did not trust Lady Charlotte any farther than he could throw her. He could easily imagine a hundred torments she could inflict upon him, especially with the bulldog’s help.

Daisy seemed to be a well-trained and good-natured canine. Still, bulldogs, especially young ones, could be busy animals. With no rats to catch, she would find something to chew.

Had she sneaked—or been let—into his bedroom?

“What about the books?” he said very calmly.

“Several crates of them were delivered this morning,” said Goodbody. “I was not informed, sir, or I should have told you the instant they arrived. As it was, I only discovered it but a short time ago when I happened to pass the library. I saw that the crates had been opened, and Lady Charlotte was putting the books away.” He paused. “It was not my place to say anything to the lady, sir, but I was not sure whether you had informed her of your system.”

Darius had brought with him fewer than two dozen volumes. They had fit in one trunk.

“Crates of books,” he said, as a cold foreboding swept over him.

“Yes, sir. Judging by the number of them, it appears that your collection has arrived,” said Good body. “All of it.”

Darius’s collection comprised several hundred volumes. Many were rare, some irreplaceable.

“But I never sent for them,” he said. “I am sure I—Devil take it!” His mother. This was her doing.

Against his wishes, she had sent servants to ready Beechwood House. Those unwanted servants had returned to London early in the week. From them or her numerous correspondents she must have learned that Lady Lithby had taken charge of Beechwood House’s refurbishment.

Mother had simply decided to send his books after him.

Without consulting him.

As usual.

From the day he was born, practically, he’d had to assert himself—forcefully—or be pushed into the shadows or crushed by the formidable personalities about him. If he wasn’t on the spot to stand up to her, his mother would decide what was best for him.

Now his precious books were in the hands of a woman who had apparently decided that his life was lacking in trials and tribulations, and was determined to correct the deficiency.

He mounted his horse and galloped back to the house.

Chapter 5

Darius burst into the library, then stopped short.

Lady Charlotte stood halfway up a set of library steps, a book in her hand.

Dust and cobwebs clung to her. Her lacy cap must have been white once. It was grey now, and the hair it was meant to protect was escaping its confines, the blond tendrils sticking to the back of her neck. The strings of her apron dangled over her magnificent bottom, whose outline was tantalizingly visible, thanks to the undergarments clinging to her damp skin.

A small ball of dust had caught on the button of her footwear—those short boots that looked too fragile to be boots. He had no idea what they were called. All he knew was that they revealed the shape of her ankles, and he could see a bit of stocking when she reached up to push a book into place.

At his entrance, she gave him a quick glance before taking up a book from the top of the steps. “Is something wrong, Mr. Carsington?” she said. “Has the brewhouse caught fire? Or perhaps you have at last discovered where all those vast hordes of rats you promised us are hiding. Poor Daisy is bored.”