The Reluctant Marquess (4 page)

Lady Susan was an elderly widow whose aquiline nose made her appear most disapproving. Displaying the exquisite manners of the ton, she asked no questions of their sudden marriage, and whisked Charity off to be fitted for a wardrobe of stunning gowns and accessories. The modiste’s rooms were like an Aladdin’s cave filled with lustrous materials, furs, beads and feathers. Charity wandered about captivated. She picked up a garment that lay half-completed on a table. It was a nightgown of black lace. She could see her hand through the fabric, and the thought of wearing it made her blush. She had never countenanced such a thing. Her nightgowns were always high-necked and made of white lawn.

Arriving in Vauxhall, Robert drove along the flat barren lands past Lambeth Marshe. Squatting on a rise in the distance, its spires stark against the grey sky, sat the gloomy Jacobean mansion, Osborne Hall in a small park. It had been his Great Aunt Agatha’s family home. It was leased to a wealthy nabob, although why anyone would want to live in the drafty place was beyond him. As a child he’d been convinced it was haunted.

A few miles down the road he came to the clay pits near the river and pulled up his horses. He climbed down from the curricle, throwing the reins to a young lad in the yard. “Walk them and you’ll earn a shilling.”

The pottery factory was little more than a shed. And what was being produced was not up to Sir Josiah Wedgwood’s work, unfortunately. The standard of workmanship was poor. An apologetic manager showed him the ledgers which revealed very little profit. Robert left wondering what on earth he should do with it. He would have to carve up the lands. Selling land went against the grain with him and if he sold the business as it stood, he would get practically nothing for it. It was close to dusk when he left Vauxhall behind. He had been invited to watch a boxing bout between Big Ben Benjamin Brain and John Boone, taking place that evening in Bloomsbury. He thought of Charity and swiftly buried a twinge of guilt; it was a special event he simply could not miss. And why should he?

When Charity returned home, she found a package had arrived from the jeweler. She burned with curiosity waiting for Robert, but the last daylight hours passed without a sign of him. Arms folded, she walked the length of the room and back, several times, her heart sinking. Is this what I must get used to?

On one of her jaunts to examine the splendid paintings by mediaeval artists adorning the walls, she noticed one footman appeared to have a sore foot, for he favored it more than once when she passed him in the endless echoing corridor. “You have an injury?” she asked when next she came across him.

“My lady.” He gave a quick nod. He wasn’t a young man, his hair was quite grizzled.

“Perhaps you’d like a chair,” she suggested.

His gaze widened, and he swallowed. “Oh, no. Thank you, your ladyship.”

“Is it the gout?” she asked sympathetically. “My grandfather suffered from it.”

The footman glanced up and down the empty corridor. “I fear it is, Lady St Malin.”

“Grandfather swore by cold water immersion and powdered elm bark.” The footman cleared his throat.

“Did he, my lady?”

Charity nodded. “I shall ask the housekeeper if she has some.”

“That’s extremely kind of you, my lady.”

“I heard you called Barker. Is that your name?” He looked pleased. “Yes, my lady.”

Charity went in search of the housekeeper. The lady looked shocked when she entered the servants’ quarters. Mrs Graves stiffly admitted she had none to hand, but would send out for the elm bark immediately.

“Please don’t worry, Mrs Graves. I’ll purchase some when next I’m shopping.”

Charity left the woman speechlessly rising from a low curtsey and found her way back to her chamber to change for dinner. A house maid awaited her, who was so nervous she was of little help. In the end, Charity thanked her and attended to things herself as she was used to doing. Satisfied that she looked tidy, she found her way to the yellow salon as she’d been instructed. The scale of the room took her breath away.

Two massive crystal chandeliers hung from the high coffered ceiling and bronze silk covered walls were adorned with paintings and huge gilt mirrors. Robert sat waiting in a brocade chair beside the white marble fireplace.

He stood as she entered. He had changed for dinner.

“Have you been here long? Why didn’t you send word that you were home?” She bit the words off even as she spoke them, watching his eyes grow frosty.

“I had business to attend to. Come here, Charity.” He had opened the package and held a small box. He flipped it open with his thumb. An exquisite rose-cut diamond ring nestled in cream satin like a beautiful exotic flower. It was surrounded by nine smaller diamonds in an elaborate gold setting. There was a matching gold wedding band.

“My goodness.” The diamond in the ring was almost the size of a walnut. She had never seen anything quite so beautiful, but also terrifying. What if she lost it? She’d almost rather keep his signet ring.

He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it, blushing when her fingers trembled. He drew his signet ring off her finger and eased the rings on in its place.

“They fit perfectly,” Charity said with relief. Might he not kiss her and say something nice? He disliked poetry, but he needn’t be so coolly efficient.

“The engagement ring belonged to my uncle’s wife, the former marchioness. I guessed your size and had it altered. I selected the wedding ring to match it.”

“How clever of you.” She turned her hand this way and that. The diamond caught the candlelight and flashed like blue flame.

“Tell me more about your relations.” Charity did so want to know more about her new family. “Those living and dead.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” he said, his eyes shadowed. “In a few days when you are properly dressed, I’ll take you about town. There are many waiting to meet you.”

She swallowed. “There are?”

He nodded. “After dinner, I have engaged to visit my club with friends. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”

“Of course, Robert.” It wasn’t really a question.

After dinner, Robert excused himself and she wandered the library, another cavernous room filled with an enormous satinwood desk and deep leather chairs. She discovered a portrait of Robert hanging on the wall.

He stood by a gnarled oak in riding clothes, a crop in his hand looking young and unhappy. She crossed soft Axminster carpet patterned in rich burgundy and browns which reflected the painted ceiling, and climbed the iron stair to roam the many tiers of books. She selected an anthology of Shakespeare’s plays to read and retired early. Settled in bed, she found she couldn’t concentrate on As You Like It, even though it was a favorite, it reminded her too much of her father. She sniffed into her handkerchief and, after reading the same line several times, concluded she was too tired and put the book aside.

But once the candle was extinguished, she laid awake. Robert’s chamber was down the hall from hers. She heard him return just after the clock in the hall struck twelve. Less lonely now that he was home, she turned over and fell asleep.

Still caught up in the excitement of the evening’s entertainment, Robert paused outside Charity’s door. The boxing match had been a good one although it became rowdy when punters crowded the ring. After the surgeon had lanced the swelling around Brain’s eye, the heavyweight had gone on and beaten Boone soundly.

Robert was tempted to go in and set things straight between them. Once done, he could then concentrate on other matters, and need only visit her on occasion, until she was with child.

The prospect of Charity all sleepy and sweet-smelling with her hair down stirred his loins. He raised his hand to knock, then paused. It was late and waking her would not be politic, and the fact that she was an innocent deterred him. She was not like his mistress, he reminded himself. She would need more wooing than that.

While he deliberated he saw that no light shone out from the crack beneath the door. His clothes were soiled and no doubt he smelled bad from the dubious company he’d kept. He dropped his hand and continued on to his room.

Dressing before breakfast the next morning, Charity was informed that the first of her gowns had arrived. The modiste must have had her underlings working all through the night on it. Robert had paid the woman well to finish them quickly. She called the maid and tried it on, parading in front of the mirror. It was so fetching she couldn’t wait to show Robert.

She was gladdened to see Robert eyeing her approvingly, a smile stretching his mouth, after she appeared at the breakfast room door.

She swept confidently into the room, her new scooped-neck gown of a heavily quilted sage green silk with its ivory satin petticoat swishing about her elegant buckled shoes.

His gaze travelled to her hair, which her new French maid, Brigitte, had artfully tumbled into a pile of curls she called à la grecque. “You look quite charming.”

“Thank you.”

He returned to his newspaper as if he’d said enough. “I do like that color on you. My aunt has done well.”

“I chose this color,” Charity said acerbically. She had hoped for a little praise. She wasn’t unreasonable, but really!

“I commend your taste.” Choosing not to react or either completely unaware of her annoyance, he seized his knife and fork and attacked his breakfast, The Public Advertiser propped up on the table in front of him. “When will your new ball gown arrive?”

“In a few days.”

“We are to attend a ball Saturday next. I expect the king and queen to be there.”

Charity gasped.

His eyes returned to his paper. “I gather you have not met them before?”

She put her hands on her hips and tapped one toe. “Actually, they came for tea one summer.”

He glanced up with a grin.

“Of course I have not. What should I do when I’m presented?” As she sat down, he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

“Smile, and make sure you curtsey low.”

Her cheeks grew hot. “Of course, but what else is expected of me?”

“They know of our marriage. My uncle was a royal envoy and quite close to the royal family. They may wish to know more of yours. Just answer their questions. It won’t be that difficult.”

Not for you who were born to it! She bit her lip to keep herself from saying something she’d regret. “Very well.”

He smiled. “I’ll be there with you. Don’t worry.” He reached across and patted her hand. “You do look quite charming this morning.”

She propped her chin in her hand and studied him. His thick dusky lashes shadowed his cheek as he read the paper, and she liked how his dark hair curled back from his forehead. “What do you plan to do today?”

“I’m off to the races. I have a horse running.”

“How exciting. What is its name?”

“Mercury.”

“Does he have wings on his heels?”

A spark brightened his eyes. “I do hope so.” He pushed back his chair and rose.

“You won’t be here for dinner?”

“No. Forgive me; I have a dinner engagement with an old friend. I have been absent from London for some time and must catch up with acquaintances.”

Another night spent alone. Charity threw down her napkin.

“I daresay you’re bored,” he said eyeing her uneasily. “But we shall be so burdened with engagements soon you will wish for time alone, I promise you.”

Charity swallowed a retort, knowing whatever she said would sound querulous and unreasonable. He had given her so much and been very honest about what their relationship would be.

She roamed St Malin House, her silk house slippers echoing along the corridors. She found a portrait of her godfather which made him appear more austere than ever, a trait to be found in many relations, it seemed. She spent several hours studying the marble statues and the exquisite Limoges and Sèvres porcelain displayed in walnut cabinets. Further restless hours were spent wandering in and out of the house to walk in the manicured gardens or on the wide stone terrace. A footman insisted on opening the door for her each time, even though she told him she could manage quite well herself. After she implored him to leave it to her, a pained expression appeared on Hove’s face. The poor footman grew red in the cheeks, and she returned to her bedchamber.

A house full of servants was foreign to her. At home in Oxfordshire, the cook, Mrs Morrison and the two maids, Sarah and Vanessa were like family, they’d been with them so long. It had been very hard to see them off to new positions, along with Nanny and Jim, who did for them in the garden. While it was nice to have her every need met, almost before she thought of it, it was difficult to relax and be herself.

Two days later, another of her gowns arrived, which produced a flurry of excitement from Brigitte, but after holding the glamorous creation up to herself in the glass, Charity was quickly bored.

Brigitte folded her new nightgowns of white lawn. “I once worked for a lady who was the mistress of a duke.”

Charity idly turned the pages of the latest fashion magazine, pausing to admire a woman’s outfit much like a gentleman’s regimental coat worn with a waistcoat, skirt and cocked hat. She doubted she was tall enough to carry it off. “Did you?”

“Oui. You should have seen the nightgowns she wore.” Charity looked up. “Oh? What were they like?”

“You could see your hand through them. And the colours, mon dieu! Crimson and black with lots of lace.”

Charity’s interest was piqued. “Did the Duke visit her in her house?” Brigitte laughed.

“Tout à fait. He brought her diamond bracelets, champagne and filled her boudoir with red roses.”

Charity thrust the magazine away. “And how did she act with him?” Brigitte dropped the nightgown and began to sway her hips provocatively, moving around the room.

“She danced for him in her nightgown while he sat and watched and drank the champagne. Spellbound he was. She touched herself as she danced.” Brigitte waved her hand over various parts of her body. “Then poof, he would dismiss me.” She nodded sagely. “She knew how to please a man, that one.”

Charity’s cheeks heated. “My goodness.” Could she ever be that seductive? She could not imagine her mother behaving like that for the life of her. Why her father would have died of the apoplexy. But what would Robert do if she acted that way? Robert was nothing like her father.