The Reluctant Marquess (5 page)

Charity took the carriage and did some shopping with the maid accompanying her. She had no one to shop for but herself and Robert. She picked up a silk robe for him and almost bought it, then decided it was too intimate. Since all his clothes were specially made, what could she find that he would actually treasure? She finally settled on a small enameled snuff box with a horse painted on it. She bought Lady Susan a Norwich shawl, Brigitte a pair of embroidered fingerless gloves which delighted her, and ribbons for herself. She found the elm bark powder and gave it to Barker who quite lost his voice in effusive thanks.

The days seemed to crawl by and their first official engagement grew closer. Charity was in a fever of excitement and nerves whenever she thought of it. Perhaps she’d feel better if she kept busy. What did people do in London? She might visit the famous sights, but a lady did not go about unescorted, and it would prove uninspiring without someone with whom to share it. Robert had said that after she’d met the Royal family, they would begin to receive callers, but this prospect only served to unnerve her further.

In her chamber, she took out her small knife and whittled the pieces of driftwood she’d brought with her. Her grandfather had been a sculptor, and taught her to carve things out of wood.

She had quite a display along her fireplace mantel already: a fox peered out from a bush; a rabbit sat, ears almost twitching; a wren rested on a branch. An hour later, she put the piece down.

It now bore a closer resemblance to a horse jumping a log. She wondered if she would ever gain the confidence to show Robert her work. She rather doubted it. Business had taken him to Vauxhall again. He seemed to have settled back into the life he led before they married. It didn’t seem likely he would visit her boudoir any time soon.

Saturday came, the night she would be presented to the king and queen. She had practiced her deep curtsey every day in readiness. Robert had joined her for dinner served at the dining table which seated some forty people. The meal progressed under the vigilant eye of the butler and two footmen.

She sought to draw Robert into conversation, wishing he didn’t always appear distracted or disinterested. “Did you achieve much in Vauxhall today, Robert?” she asked.

Robert took a helping of veal from a silver salver held by the footman. “It’s difficult, my uncle’s pottery business isn’t doing well, and I’ve employed a new manager. We are trying to think of ways to improve it before I sell it.”

“Does the factory make plates like these?” Glad to have something to talk about, Charity pointed to the handsome china plate in front of her, aware that many households still ate from pewter with wooden utensils and not the shining silver that adorned the table.

“No. But I don’t see why bone china is not a possibility.” Robert mused. “We have access to the materials, Kaolinite—that’s clay, close access to the slaughter houses for bone . . .. Hard though, to compete with Europe and China.” He lapsed into silence.

Feeling he would not welcome further discussion, Charity pushed food around her plate, her mind refusing to produce anything of note to gain his attention. She would have to read up on pottery.

“You are looking forward to this evening?”

“Oh! Um, yes, I suppose so.”

Her nerves increasing at the prospect of the evening ahead, Charity returned to her chamber to dress. Brigitte waited for her, standing by the mantel, studying her artwork. “I much admire the new piece you’ve carved, my lady,” she said. “It looks so lifelike.”

Charity felt absurdly pleased. “Thank you, Brigitte.” A wave of homesickness swept over her. Her life in Oxfordshire had been filled with warmth and love. Her father had always been there to lean on. She felt his loss even more keenly since she’d come here.

Brigitte had her bath ready. Charity relaxed in the perfumed water as the maid washed her back. She hoped Robert would find her beautiful tonight in her new gown. She longed for him to gaze at her with love, but doubted he ever would. With whom did he dine tonight? Might it be a mistress? She had heard that married men often had mistresses. She suspected Robert would be no different, but her heart plummeted at the thought. She would not allow it to spoil the evening, however. This was an extraordinary occasion; something she never dreamed would happen to her.

She stepped out of her bath and Brigitte wrapped her in a towel. Someone knocked at the door. “Good heavens, who is that? Fetch my robe.” Charity dropped the towel and was about to don the dressing gown that Brigitte held out when the door opened and Robert strode in. He froze.

“I beg your pardon.” His voice sounded oddly strained.

Swiveling, he returned to the door and seized the handle as Charity pulled on the robe. Without turning, he said, “I came to request you come to the salon when you are dressed. I have something for you.”

“I shall, my lord,” Charity said to the closed door, for he’d already left the room. Trembling, she turned to the mirror, finding herself flushed from her cheeks down to her breasts.

Charity sat on the chair to get her breath.

“Oh, my lady, did you see the look on his face? I don’t know why he didn’t come in. He obviously wanted to.” Brigitte giggled and put a hand to her mouth. “Sorry, my lady.”

“It’s all right, Brigitte,” Charity said. Had Robert wanted to come in? She wished she knew.

Brigitte assisted her into her shift, linen pannier and petticoats. A pale pink embroidered corset cinched in her diaphragm and made it hard to breathe. Her breasts were pushed up like twin moons. She stepped into a quilted petticoat.

The maid lightly powdered and combed Charity’s hair over a foundation, arranging side curls and a garniture of pearls and imitation roses to the tall creation. She sat still while her face was powdered with a hare’s foot, and lip rouge and color added to her mouth and cheeks.

“Now the gown, my lady, à la française,” Brigitte said in a breathy tone.

The green silk gown was brocaded in pink and gold roses with a flounce of lace at her elbows. She slipped on the shoes and raised her skirts to admire a matching green ribbed silk toe. Her breasts peeped above the neckline, rising and falling with each excited breath.

Charity gazed into the mirror. She barely recognized herself.

Brigitte picked up a fan painted with flowers. “And the fan, my lady. No lady is without one. You must flirt with it.”

“Flirt?”

“Like this.” Brigitte opened the fan, displaying a lovely painted rural scene and fluttered it before her face. “Like a coquette, oui?”

“I suppose so,” Charity said doubtfully.

“It is called the amorous flutter,” Brigitte said, warming to her theme. “There is also the angry flutter, like this.” She snapped it shut. “The modest miss, oui, like this? A merry lady, like this….”

She expertly twirled the fan.

“Oh stop,” Charity said, laughing. “I shall never feel comfortable doing any of that.”

“But that is the way of society ladies,” Brigitte said. “I learnt it in France from the Countess De Avignon.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll ease into it gradually.” Charity relented at the disappointed moue on Brigitte’s lips, and Brigitte immediately brightened, handing her the fan and her reticule.

She descended the marble staircase to the salon, gracefully, she hoped. Robert waited, resting an arm along the mantel, holding the bell shape of a brandy glass to his lips.

His eyes widened and he spluttered as the brandy went down the wrong way. She was gratified to see his gaze rove appreciatively from her head to her feet, lingering on her bosom in the low necked gown. His hot glance made her blush. When he could regain his voice, he said, “You look very lovely.”

She gave him a curtsey. “Thank you, Robert. So do you.”

He raised a brow, his lips curving into a smile. “Lovely?”

She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Fine-looking, I mean.”

He came towards her, his cream silk frock coat swinging gracefully above long, well-shaped legs encased in black small-clothes. A diamond sparkled in the lace folds at his throat.

High-heeled jeweled shoes made him very tall. He still wore the black arm-band in memory of his uncle. It was the first time she’d seen him in a white wig with his face powdered, and he wore a black patch at the corner of his well-shaped mouth.

Charity felt the strange heavy sensation in her stomach that was ever-present when he was near. She didn’t trust his restrained elegance. He reminded her of a panther held by fragile silken bonds. Never to be tamed.

He snapped open the lid of a velvet box. Nestled inside was a parure of diamonds, a breathtaking necklace, earrings, brooch and bracelet.

Charity put her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my!”

“Turn around, my dear.”

He removed the sparkling necklace from the box and placed the cold gems around her throat. She tamped down a shiver at the soft touch of his fingers on the nape of her neck. He handed her the box. “I’ll let you put the ear-bobs on yourself.”

Regretting that he did not do so, Charity went to the long gilt mirror near the table. She shook her head, and the diamonds swung from her ears, flashing in the light.

She laughed and leaned forward to touch them with a finger.

She pirouetted to show him. “What do you think?”

“Magnifique,” He chuckled at her high spirits and came to clasp the bracelet around her wrist. “The gown is perfect for you. I must write and thank my aunt.”

“Yes, would you? I bought her a shawl to thank her myself.” His eyes widened. “That was thoughtful.”

Charity opened her reticule. “I bought you something too.” He looked pleased. “You did?”

She handed him the snuff box wrapped in silver paper. “I cannot give you anything to equal this,” she said, placing her hand on the cold gems at her throat. “This is only a small thing.”

He pulled the silver paper away and studied the enameled box with the chestnut horse painted on the lid. “It’s charming, Charity.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you. I shall fill it with my special mixture.” He took a far grander silver box from his coat pocket and opened it, transferring its contents to the new one.

“Why, I do believe that was my godfather’s snuff box wasn’t it?” Charity walked close to look at it. “The one with the pig. I thought it so unusual when he first showed it to me.”

Robert stared at her, an odd expression in his eyes. “You remember this?”

“Yes. I think your uncle preferred pigs to people.”

“I do believe you are right.” He put his head back and laughed. She laughed too. It felt so good like they were friends. More like husband and wife. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. They left the room with her feeling slightly flat, wishing he had.

Brigitte waited in the foyer with her velvet cloak. Robert took it from her and placed the cloak around Charity’s shoulders, the fur tickling her chin. “Come, allow me to show you off to society,” he said coolly.

His voice was impersonal and brisk. He’d done it again! Backed away from the intimacy, and was aloof again, and the special moment they’d shared might never have happened. She watched his stiff back as they left the house, and she followed, wondering what might have provoked it.

Charity was pleased at his satisfaction, but she felt she’d become a possession, like this mausoleum of a house with its endless corridors and cold marble columns. Now that her interest in him had grown, would he ever really be interested in her?

As the carriage drove through the London streets, Charity asked Robert to tell her more about King George and Queen Charlotte.

“He’s a good king. He takes a prominent interest in the policies of the government, so much so he annoys his ministers on occasion.”

“Yes, but tell me what they are really like as people. One hears rumors, of course.”

“You mean his illness?” Robert smiled. “He is well at present.

They are good people and devoted to one another.” A gleam entered his eyes. “After all, they have fifteen children.”

Charity felt her cheeks heat and was glad the light in the carriage was dim. He looked at her differently since he’d seen her without her clothes. The expression in his blue eyes made her feel desired and womanly. She wanted to ask him how many children he would like to have, but found she couldn’t say the words. “Tell me more about the king,” she said hurriedly.

“He likes to dress as a farmer and live like one on occasion.”

“He sounds nice.”

Robert raised a brow. “Do you think everyone is nice?”

She made a moue with her mouth. “You’re not always nice, Robert.” She held her breath as he took her hand and pressed a kiss on her gloved palm.

“I’m sorry if that is so. You look very nice tonight. Quite delicious in fact.”

When he flirted, his frank gaze was highly disturbing.

Charity didn’t know how to respond. She turned to the window. “Oh look. The carriage is slowing. We must be here.”

“Indeed we are. Just when things were getting interesting,” Robert said enigmatically.

Why was he more enamored of her in the carriage? Why not in the bedchamber, she thought crossly.

The ball took place in a mansion north of the city, set in acres of formal gardens. Lanterns dressed the trees along the driveway of Fairgrove Hall, and braziers lit up the terraces. Their hostess, Lady Arabella Elphinstone, a fair-haired young widow, greeted them in the vestibule.

“Lady Arabella.” Robert kissed the lady’s fingers. “I’d like you to meet my bride, Lady St Malin.”

“Lady St Malin.” Lady Arabella curtseyed. “How charming you look.”

“As do you, Lady Arabella.” Charity caught the sharp expression of dislike in Lady Arabella’s eyes before she turned to give Robert a flirtatious, intimate smile.

“I had heard the rumor, St Malin, but I must say I did not believe it.” Lady Arabella spoke as if Charity wasn’t present. She opened her fan and fluttered it gracefully like a merry lady, just as Brigitte had demonstrated. “Your uncle was a peculiar man, was he not?” Although she spoke to Robert, her eyes were on Charity.

“Peculiar perhaps, if you aren’t in accordance with his opinions,” Charity said before Robert could answer.