The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (19 page)

She waited anxiously until she heard him come in, then hurried to greet him.

“I’ve heard that Robin hasn’t received any welcome news,” her father said. “But that doesn’t mean the outcome is bleak. I expect it will take time.”

Charity returned to her studio and gazed at his painting. Her vow not to become involved with Robin had shattered long ago. She should have been at his side through this ordeal, even if it meant giving up her art. She felt she’d failed him.

Chapter Twenty

Robin’s elation had faded along with his confidence as the carriage neared Tunbridge Wells. Baxendale’s letters to him had been encouraging, an endorsement of sorts. His last one mentioned that news had reached him of the doubt over Robin’s title. Without putting it in so many words, Charity’s father had hinted that Robin was welcome to press his suit whatever the outcome. Robin had taken notice of his hints on how to proceed. He’d come armed with a persuasive speech to convince Charity she should marry him. He needed to earn her trust; he’d not been as supportive of her art as he should have been. He’d been blindsided by Gunn. Should he be a duke, he could do much to ease the way for her, as he was now more confident in the role, but he could not do everything. And he was not about to lie to her. A duchess has many duties and responsibilities that would take much of her time. He leaned back and tapped his finger on the window ledge. It looked increasingly as if he’d be leaving Harwood Castle.

When the carriage stopped outside Robin’s old Tudor home, a lump formed in his throat. His tenant, Mr. Mason, hurried out. He rose from his bow. “So good of you to call in person, Your Grace.”

“It’s pleasant to return to one’s old home, sir.” Robin’s gaze roamed over the charming, ivy-covered, half-timbered building where he’d lived for most of his life: the stone Tudor arch over the front door, the oriel windows and ornate chimney pots. Memories crowded in. If he wasn’t the duke, could he come back here to live? He was hit by a wave of nostalgia and sadness for his father and mother, buried in the churchyard, but returning seemed an enormous step backward, and the possibility struck him hard when he was eager to tackle life and move on.

“I’m sorry about the stables, Your Grace,” Mason said, showing Robin into the drawing room.

“The stables?” Robin went to the window that overlooked that part of the property. He gasped at the sight of the blackened shell and the roof that had caved in.

“My letter must have arrived after you’d left, Your Grace.” Mason came to stand beside him. “A lightning strike after a prolonged dry spell caused it. Went up like Guy Fawkes’ bonfire. We were afraid the fire would spread to the trees and place the house in danger, but luckily the local fire fighters arrived to prevent it.”

Robin swung around to face him. “The horses?”

“Saved every one of them, Your Grace.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t have if the gypsies camping in the north field hadn’t come to help.”

“That was fortuitous, Mason,” Robin said, rubbing his brow. “The stables can be rebuilt, but the horses! I must thank the Romanies.”

“They’ve moved on, traveling south, Your Grace. They never stay long. Not bad people. At least, that lot aren’t.”

So they had paid him back in kind, Robin thought, enjoying a moment of warmth on an otherwise cold, bleak day.

****

While Charity worked at her bench, putting finishing touches to a miniature of the two babies who had been christened Thomas and Grace, Father came into the studio.

“A good likeness,” he commented, peering over her shoulder. “We are expecting a visitor this afternoon.”

She began to clean her brushes. “Oh? Who?”

“The Duke of Harwood.

She merely stared at him tongue-tied. She couldn’t quite believe it; she’d wanted this, every day and night since they’d left Northumberland, and now she felt ridiculously shy and nervous. “Robin is coming here?”

“He has business with his tenant this morning. He will be here at two o’clock. I am warning you in advance, Daughter, because I hope you will think carefully about your future.”

“My future, Father?” she asked, surprised by her father’s severe tone.

“I have watched you through this debacle. I know you care deeply for Robin.”

“Oh, Father. You don’t know—”

He held up his hand. “I have given up trying to force my daughters into marriage. I now have too many grey hairs and a concern for my health to do so. But you’re not a foolish young woman. You know he cares for you. Listen to what Harwood has to say.”

“I’m not sure that he does love me. At least not enough to accept me for who I am.”

“Then, perhaps, you should make an effort to change.”

She stiffened. “Have I been a disappointment to you, Father?”

He sighed. “You are my beloved daughter. I merely ask you to accept that you cannot have everything the way you want it. Compromise is needed in any relationship.”

“If Robin remains the Duke of Harwood, I’m not sure having me as his duchess would be fair to him. Anyway, he might not ask me to marry him again.”

“Again?” He frowned at her. “Is there something I don’t know?”

Charity could have pinched herself. “Robin had suggested that we should be married, but that was before he became a duke.”

He raised a brow. “Oh? It’s clear he still wants you to be his wife. And you are most fortunate that he does.”

Father went out the door, leaving her wondering how he’d come to that conclusion. Had he been corresponding with Robin? No, the notion was absurd.

At two o’clock, the ducal carriage arrived, and a liveried footman leapt down from the box to open the door. Charity watched from the window as an elegant man emerged and walked to the front door. His long, caped greatcoat of dark grey swirled around his legs as he removed his tall curly-brimmed beaver with a gloved hand, a gold-topped cane held in the other. Robin! Her heart began to beat very fast. Breathless, she hurried to the mirror to ensure her curls were in order. She had a tendency to poke them with the end of the paintbrush when she was working. Thankfully, this morning her mother’s maid had plaited and coiled Charity’s hair into a neat bun at the back of her head and coaxed soft curls to frame her face. She removed her apron and smoothed the skirts of her saffron-yellow-and-white-striped morning gown. Leaving the studio, she made her way to where voices sounded in the parlor.

Robin sat with her family. She hesitated at the threshold thinking it was a perfect tableau. Mother was happily describing her grandchildren with Mercy interrupting while Father nodded and smiled.

“Lady Charity.” Robin rose and made his bow. “You look extremely well.” His slow smile touched her heart.

“So do you.” Her hand trembled in his and she felt lightheaded.

“You have a dab of paint here, near your ear,” he said, his voice soft. He indicated the spot without touching her. “Rose pink? That is not from my portrait, I trust?”

She smiled and shook her head. Yearning for his touch, she located the spot with her fingers. How she’d missed the way his handsome mouth lifted in a smile and his grey eyes warmed when they searched hers. Even when they didn’t agree, he’d always made her feel special.

Mother stood with a glance at Mercy and Father. “I must go and see Cook.”

Father followed her. “I’d like to show you a book later, Harwood. I believe it’s in my study. I’ll go and find it.”

“Wolf is outside on the drive, looking most dejected,” Mercy said, taking her cue with admirable aplomb. “I’d best go out. He wants me to throw a ball to him.”

The door closed.

Robin and Charity smiled at each other.

“Shall we?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Shall we what?” Her gaze roamed his face while her mind refused to function.

His grin spread wider. “The portrait?”

“Oh, yes,” she said breathily. “Please come with me.”

She led him down the corridor, opened the door to her studio, and he stepped inside.

“This room is very cramped. I could offer you something bigger,” he said meaningfully.

Butterflies bashed at her stomach. “It’s small admittedly, but I make do.”

Charity raised the cloth covering his portrait on the easel. She was proud of her efforts but was unsure if he’d like it. “A few more touches are needed, as I’ve done most of it from memory.” She hoped that didn’t sound like an accusation.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t sit for you.”

She clenched her hands, watching his face as he studied it with his arms crossed. “It’s lush, Charity. The gleam of wood and leather, the old tomes, and Henry too!” His gaze met hers with a hint of amused tenderness. “One might suspect you painted this with some affection for your subject.”

She’d worried about his reaction, but this was hardly what she expected. She found herself tongue-tied, as the desire to throw herself into his arms became almost unbearable.

“The portrait is very fine. But you’ve flattered me.”

She hugged her arms. “I believe it’s an honest interpretation.”

Robin stroked a finger lightly over her cheek. “Then it’s how you see me,” he said softly.

His touch made her shiver with pleasure and unleashed something within her. “Robin,” she burst out, gripping his lapel, her heart too heavy to ignore the feelings flooding through her. “It’s because I love you.”

His eyes filled with incredulity and delight. “You love me?”

She swallowed, wishing he’d tell her he still wanted her. “I…I want to be your wife, I want children. I will give up my art if I have to. Although I don’t want to, you understand.” She sighed. “Do you want me, Robin?”

With a tender smile he pulled her into his arms. “Of course I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyes, and then pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Come and sit with me.” He took her arm and drew her to the sofa placed near the window. “Your father would have told you about another possible heir to the dukedom.”

She could hear the distress in his voice, even though he tried to hide it from her. “Yes. The news did reach us through a neighbor who had just returned from Northumberland.”

Robin slowly nodded his head. “I expect it has been cast far and wide by now.” He explained about the Frenchwoman and her son, and as she listened, she understood how worried he was, and how bitterly disappointed.

“When will you know?”

“My solicitor, Mr. Sprog, is in Paris. I’ve had a letter from him. He hasn’t been able find evidence to dispute her claim. I have to be patient, Charity. And I’m not good at that.”

It had to be a ruse. Robin was the Duke of Harwood in every sense. The thought that some boy of four should usurp him was unthinkable. “Oh, Robin, what an awful thing to have to go through.”

“I do have some compassion for the position Madame Florence finds herself in, if she’s really Charles’ wife,” he said briefly. “But I am somewhat in limbo until the matter is resolved. Now, we must talk about the future,” he said, his voice becoming firmer. “You will have to take a chance on me, Charity. I imagine that I’ll be the subject of gossip for years, whether I’m proved to be the duke or not.”

“As if I care about gossip.” She pressed her hands palms downward on the chair arms. “But you must be the duke, Robin. I can’t believe what this woman says is true.”

His eyes darkened. “Trouble is I believe her.”

She raised her brows. “But why? Isn’t she an actress?”

“At the time I considered her to be honest, Charity. No one is that good an actress.”

Her heart thumped with pity for him. “In the unlikely event it is true, would you come back to Tunbridge Wells?”

He raked his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I only know one thing.”

“What is that?” she whispered.

“I love you. I want you with me,” he said simply, his eyes searching hers. “And hope you will take a chance on the future with me.”

“Oh, Robin, of course I will…”

“Hear me out, Charity. I must say this before my feelings for you overwhelm me.”

She bit her lip and waited.

“I admit I was jealous of Gunn.” He winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “It made me want to keep you to myself. But no more, Charity. I would be proud to support you if you wish to continue painting portraits, especially as I intend to work on my manuscript again.”

A cry of relief broke from her lips. “I’ve known that I loved you since that day in the library when I was sketching you. Before you kissed me,” she admitted, her cheeks growing hot.

He clasped her hands tightly. “Why didn’t you tell me? Ah, I know.” He nodded with a rueful look. “I was an officious pain in the neck, wasn’t I?”

“And I was obstinate.”

“No, you knew what you wanted, and you were prepared to fight for it. I admire you so much for that. But even if you become a duchess, it will in no way prevent you from living your dream. You are familiar, of course, with the Duchess of Devonshire?”

She nodded, wondering where this was leading. “The duchess certainly lived life to the full.”

“I refer to her political campaigning, her large salon of impressive literary and political personages, and the novel she wrote.”