The Reluctant Marquess (6 page)

Lady Arabella’s delicate brows rose. “Oh? And what opinions are they?”

“I believe he wasn’t fond of his own kind. He found some members of the aristocracy self-serving.” Charity opened and closed her fan with a snap.

Robert took Charity’s arm and drew her away. “You will meet with some opposition, Charity. You must learn to ignore it with grace. It doesn’t do to make enemies.”

Feeling socially inept and a little bit hurt, Charity longed to leave and the night had not even begun. “I’m not used to being insulted.”

“I’m sorry if you thought you were.”

“She looked at you as though she had a prior claim on you.”

He pulled his arm away. “What!”

“Does she?” Charity searched his eyes, but he looked away. Aware they were being watched, he tucked her arm back into his.

“A lady does not ask her husband such things.”

She raised a brow. “I only wish to learn the truth of things.” He stared down at her and his brows snapped together.

“Forget about the truth. In this town it is more important to learn discretion.”

“Then perhaps I shall not like it here.” She drew away from his arm, picked up her skirts to follow him into the crowd.

“Take my arm,” he said curtly, turning to her. “Do you want to cause gossip before we even begin?”

Her chin raised and her hand resting lightly on his arm, Charity entered the ballroom. He began to introduce her to those who crowded around offering their felicitations. The women curtseyed and studied Charity from beneath their lashes.

A few showed genuine warmth and were gracious in their praise, but many held back. She would have to prove herself to become one with them. The clever and often scandalous gossip she overheard made her wonder if she wanted to. Lady Sommerford’s new baby apparently wasn’t her husband’s, and there was conjecture that several men might have fathered it. It mattered not for he had his heir and a spare, and was quite taken with his new mistress.

The men and women flirted outrageously in the honeyed light of a thousand candles reflected in the mirrors adorning the walls. The air was close and humid, and different scents fought for ascendancy, not all of them pleasant. Ladies whispered behind their fans, their eyes full of laughter. A lady tucked a man’s note into her cleavage when her husband’s back was turned. Charity fanned herself too, not coquettishly, as Brigitte had suggested, but because she was afraid she would faint, not just from the heat but the shock of such an extravagant display.

The orchestra began to play.

“Bach. A favourite composer of the King,” Robert said bending low to speak in her ear.

Couples formed sets for a minuet, moving across the polished wooden floor in slow, ceremonious graceful movements.

Footmen traversed those standing and seated to watch, offering wine and dainty foods to the guests.

The jovial King George and the queen sat on straight-backed gilt chairs upholstered in crimson velvet, surrounded by six of their children. Charity was introduced, and the king peered at her nearsightedly. As Robert instructed, she performed a deep curtsey. When the queen smiled, Charity felt her nervousness slip away. Their questions were mercifully brief. They expressed genuine sadness at the marquess’ passing.

Their eldest son, the Prince of Wales kissed her hand, saying her husband was a lucky fellow. He was considered handsome and known for his charm, but she didn’t find the tall, bulky man with a florid complexion particularly attractive. At two and twenty, he was the same age as Charity, but he appeared much older, like an accomplished rake and his attentions made her feel uncomfortable.

As soon as he was able, Robert drew her away.

“I’m not sure I like the prince,” she said quietly into his ear.

“I’m relieved that you don’t,” he said shortly. He turned to greet someone at his elbow.

When he turned back to her she asked him why. “He’s been through several mistresses already. I don’t want him adding you to the list.”

She huffed. “As if I would. And I am married.”

“Married? The prince’s ladies most often are. Some cuckolded husbands are busy elsewhere. Some suffer in silence. Royalty live by different rules.” Robert glowered down at her. “Prince or no, I’m not one of those husbands who will turn a blind eye, Charity.”

Charity felt rather thrilled at the dangerous light in his eye. He said no more and began to introduce her to more people.

She would never remember all their names. They were polite to her face, no doubt because of her high rank, but a buzz of conversation followed her. The aged Duke of Allthrop raised his pince nez. “That’s the chit who married young St Malin? Did all right for herself,” he said loudly. His wife whispered in his ear. “What? Don’t hush me. Pretty little thing.” Charity moved hurriedly away, her cheeks burning.

She danced with Lord Branchford who seemed to gaze at a fixed point above her head. He trod heavily on her toes. “You are from the country, I believe, Lady St Malin.”

Charity sighed. “Oxfordshire is not so terribly far from London, my lord.”

“Ah, yes, but bucolic, eh? I have a hunting lodge in that area. We all withdraw to the country when the Season ends. I find it a bit of bore and short of the comforts one comes to expect.”

Charity was about to disagree, but she remembered Robert’s warning and merely smiled as he escorted her from the floor.

A handsome middle-aged couple approached them. The dainty woman smiled, but her partner, a heavy-set man scowled.

“Robert, why didn’t you inform us?” the lady asked, reaching up to touch his face.

Robert stepped back and bowed. “My bride, Lady St Malin,” he said stiffly. He turned to Charity, surprising her with the ridge of color on his cheekbones and the dark look in his eyes.

“Charity, I’d like you to meet Lord and Lady Charlesworth.”

“It is nice to meet you, my dear,” Lady Charlesworth said. “You did not invite us to the wedding, Robert.”

“It was done quickly and simply, in the country.”

Her eyes looked wistful. “Will you bring Lady St Malin to visit us soon?”

“Alas, we have many social engagements to fulfill, my lady.”

The lady’s pretty blue eyes filled with despair.

”I’m sure that is so.” Lord Charlesworth returned a cold bow and ushered his wife away.

“Who were those people, Robert?” Charity watched the lady dab at her eyes with a handkerchief as they left the room.

“My mother, and her second husband.” Robert’s fingers clutched her arm, and his cold, strained voice did not invite her to comment.

Charity’s eyes widened, and she felt a rush of sympathy for the woman. Ignoring the warning, she said, “Your mother? But you were so harsh. Why, I believe she was crying!”

Robert stared down at her, a fierce light in his eye. “Becoming my wife does not give you the right to question my behavior.”

Charity clamped her lips together to stop herself answering back. It was inconceivable that such a thing could happen between family members. What on earth might have happened to cause this dreadful rift? She meant to learn more of this by more subtle means. This new-found determination surprised her.

She took the floor only once with Robert. He danced well, and she would have liked to dance with him again, but he left her to the men crowding around her to gamble in one of the ante-rooms. Charity danced for hours. Her feet hurt in her new shoes, and the witty and salacious banter that swirled round her became exhausting. The Prince of Wales, who had left the ball along with his parents, was discussed at length.

Mrs Maria Anne Fitzherbert had given birth to a son most felt sure had been sired by the prince. The marriage ceremony which took place between the prince and Mrs Fitzherbert in ’85 was deemed illegal as the lady was Roman Catholic. Some offered the opinion that the prince knew full well the truth of it when he proposed. The baby, christened James Ord, was to be sent to be raised by Catholics in America.

Charity could hardly believe her ears, and indeed wished to cover them, as one witty man listed in very droll fashion all the women the prince had bedded before the tender age of one and twenty.

Charity sat to rest her aching feet, declining another glass of champagne. She hadn’t noticed how many glasses she’d drunk through the course of the evening. It would not do to appear drunk here, and although she’d never suffered such a fate, she felt that she was in danger of it.

When she could bear no more, she went in search of her husband. She found him at the card table. He looked up at her blankly as if he didn’t recognize her.

Charity quaked and lowered her gaze, saying, “I wish to go home, my lord.”

Robert threw down his cards. “I’m out.” He looked in a challenging fashion around the assembled group, and tossed a pile of coins into the mix of paper money and wagers in the center of the table. Shoving back his chair, he bowed to the men.

“Gentlemen. I shall have to wait until another evening to remove you of your funds.”

“Take care, St Malin. You may not win at home, either,” a red-haired man said. Their laughter followed Charity and Robert from the room.

Robert glowered as they sought out their hostess. “Don’t ever do that again,” he said in a fierce undertone.

He complimented Lady Arabella on the success of her ball.

She tilted her head and smiled at him flirtatiously, accepting his praise with grace while managing to completely ignore Charity.

Charity wanted to apologize for embarrassing him in the card room, but his rigid profile made her hold her tongue as they made their way to the front door.

“Bring out our coats and send for my carriage,” Robert told a footman.

While they waited, Charity yawned behind a gloved hand. As the fresh air hit her, she felt suddenly dizzy and gripped his arm when she stumbled over her feet.

Robert’s frown faded, and his eyes softened. “It’s been quite an evening, for you, hasn’t it?” He arranged her cape over her shoulders. Placing his hand lightly on her back, he escorted her to the entrance.

Charity felt weak with relief at having made it through the evening without disgracing herself or Robert. But it had taken its toll. She felt so exhausted, her knees trembled as she climbed the carriage steps.

They were driven through the dim London streets. Two link boys passed them, lighting the way for a sedan chair, for the streets were dark. Street lamps went out at eleven she had been told. Charity yawned again, her head spinning. She tried to count how many glasses of champagne she’d drunk during the course of the evening.

A town-crier called the hour. Only a few hours until dawn.

Robert quizzed her on the evening, whom she had met, and whom she had liked and disliked. She hoped she gave a rather droll description of Lord Branchford’s opinion of Oxford, pleased when she made Robert laugh. But her tongue felt thick and refused to form the words and she lapsed into silence. A swerve of the carriage threw her against him. His arm came round her shoulders to steady her, and he left it there. Her head drooped against his shoulder, and she rested, enjoying his clean, manly smell far more than those with whom she’d been dancing, where the heavy use of scent failed to disguise the rank smell of stale sweat. She was not used to staying up so late. The rhythmic clunk of the carriage wheels on the cobbles proved soporific, and her eyelids grew heavy.

She peeped up at his handsome profile in the half-dark. It was not done for a woman to show affection for her husband in public. She’d heard a woman at the ball criticize a wife for kissing her husband too demonstrably. In fact, it didn’t seem fashionable to love one’s husband at all. Affairs could be arranged if any of the gossip she’d overheard could be believed.

If it was discreet, few appeared to mind. She didn’t understand this world of the ton, and was not at all sure she wished to become part of it.

“It won’t happen to us,” she murmured.

Robert lowered his head to listen. “What was that?”

“Never,” she said emphatically, closing her eyes. She drifted off to the sound of his deep chuckle, relishing the squeeze he gave her.

Chapter Four

The carriage pulled up in Grosvenor Square.

Robert looked down at the small head that rested against his shoulder. Charity was sound asleep. The lamplight fell upon her cheek. He stroked her delicate skin with a finger and spoke her name. She didn’t stir. She was worn out, and rightly so. He felt a stab of guilt. She’d annoyed him asking about Arabella. Perhaps because she’d been right. He and Arabella had enjoyed a brief affair a year ago. He’d thrown Charity to the wolves and the vixens. He knew only too well how harsh the ton could be. She’d done remarkably well, though. Several friends had sought him out during the evening to offer their approval.

“I’ll carry Lady St Malin, Fielding,” he told the footman. He gathered her up, her soft body encased in corset, petticoats and skirts nestled against his chest as he walked up the steps and into the house. He realized how slight she was, how light in his arms.

When he reached her chamber, he found Brigitte waiting, dozing in a chair by the fire. “You may go.”

He laid Charity on the bed. Her eyes opened briefly then closed again. “Oh, thank you Robert. Too kind.” He could have left her there with her maid, yet he found he didn’t wish to. He wanted to see more than the brief glimpse he’d had of this young woman who was now joined to him for life.

She briefly opened heavy-lidded eyes as he turned her and unhooked her gown, stripping it and her petticoat off and throwing them over a chair.

He unlaced the strings of her pretty stays, then paused, suffering another twinge of guilt. It didn’t seem right to do this while she slept. But perhaps she knew and enjoyed his ministrations.

She murmured his name, and her delicious mouth widened in a smile.

His mouth hovered above hers. Aroused, his blood quickened. It brought him up short, and he drew away. This was not what he’d intended. Anastasia awaited him in her apartments. Yet he preferred to remain and make love to his wife. They would have to become lovers eventually, why not now? She had told him to wait, but a man couldn’t wait forever.

Robert gently shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Charity.”

She half sat up and opened her eyes, gazing at him. “What?” Her curls tumbled down in a glorious mass of sun-kissed locks.

“I am undressing you. Do you mind?”

“Thank you for putting me to bed, Robert. I’m so dreadfully weary.” She settled down in her shift and closed her eyes again.

She had been through so much in these past months, and was so trusting, lying there in his arms, almost naked. What he could see of her body was delightful, and the brief glimpse he’d had of creamy skin, honey curls and rose-tipped nipples when she’d stepped from her bath lingered tantalizingly in his mind. Her shift covered most of her slim legs. His fingers itched to raise it so that he might more thoroughly discover what lay beneath.

He denied himself, resolutely removing her pink satin garters. Then he rolled down her stockings, enjoying the view of her shapely legs, her skin soft against his hands. The rose water she used drifted tantalizingly in the air. He wanted to bury his nose in her skin and inhale deeply. Her full breasts pressed against the fine lawn, and it was all he could do not to cup a breast in his hand and thumb a perky nipple. But he wanted her awake, and agreeable.

“Charity?”

She opened an eye. “I’m afraid I’m in my cups, Robert.”

“Are you, sweetheart?”

He wouldn’t stoop so low as to make love to a woman worse for drink. Not unless invited. Regretfully, he pulled back the bed covers and settled her in the bed. Her long hair spilled over the pillow, and for a moment, he stood there gazing down at her, before tucking a small foot into place.

She curled up and gave a murmur of pleasure.

Robert felt a stab of regret as he drew the cover over her. “Goodnight.”

He poked at the fire and went to blow out the candles.

“Why, what’s this?” He picked up a small wooden carving and marveled at how finely wrought it was. What expertise would be required to produce such a thing? She’d shown him this piece of wood in Cornwall, likening it to a horse jumping a log, and now it was a work of some skill.

“You are an astonishing young woman,” he said softly, casting her a respectful glance where she slept deeply in the big bed.

More than enough room there for him too, and he was tempted to climb in beside her. Perhaps just to sleep and then later, what came naturally might occur. Half out of his coat, he hesitated, would she mind? He shrugged his coat back on. They’d got off to a bad start. No sense in risking an embarrassing rebuff.

Coward! He wasn’t sure what held him back. She was his wife after all, dammit!

He blew out the candles and left the room.

Hurrying downstairs, he pulled on his gloves and took his hat from a sleepy footman. Not wanting to have his own horses standing around he had given instructions earlier for a hackney, and saw that the carriage stood outside the front door. He would visit Anastasia, but the thought did not provide him with the usual enthusiasm.

Charity woke to the sun streaming in through the window. She rang for Brigitte, and the young woman hurried in with a tray. “I’ve brought you a sweet roll and a hot drink, my lady.” Placing it on the table beside the bed, she went to open the curtains.

Stretching, Charity yawned. She picked up the cup and sipped the rich, hot chocolate brew. “What time is it?”

“Ten of the clock, my lady.”

“That late?” Charity put down the roll half eaten. She threw back the covers and put on her slippers. “It looks like a lovely day.”

“It’s early for Londoners, my lady. They go to bed late and sleep very late indeed.”

“I suppose I shall grow used to it in time.” A wave of contentment warmed her. Last night she had braved the ton and come away relatively unscathed. Robert could not accuse her of disgracing his name. A small shaft of uneasiness remained when she couldn’t remember certain details of it.

She longed to see him, to make sure. “Has my husband breakfasted?”

“I believe he has, my lady. He left the house for the stables a little while ago.”

Charity tried to hide her disappointment. “Did he leave word if he would be in for luncheon?”

Brigitte helped Charity into her wrap. “I do not know, my lady. I could ask Hove.”

“Don’t bother. I believe I shall go to Hyde Park. I’ll wear my yellow walking dress, and the straw hat with the yellow and white striped ribbons and the daisies.”

“And primrose leather gloves, my lady?”

“No, the lilac I think.” Charity looked down at her shift. “I was so fatigued last night I must have dismissed you.” The niggling worry remained, had she drank too much champagne?

Brigitte held a hand to her mouth. She giggled. “You were so sleepy, his lordship dismissed me.”

Charity’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, of course he did, I’d forgotten.” Had he undressed her? She vaguely remembered him covering her before she fell asleep again. She gazed at the thin lawn. He must have seen much of her. Perhaps, all of her.

She quivered at the thought. Had he approved of what he saw?

He didn’t remain or try to wake her, so perhaps he hadn’t. She sighed. “He must have put you to bed before he left for another engagement,” Brigitte said shaking out the folds in the yellow gown.

Charity swung around to face her. The maid’s face was impassive. Servants knew far too much of what went on. They would know that she and Robert had not slept together. “I daresay he wished to return to continue his game of cards. So kind of him to escort me home when I became fatigued,” she said airily. Her heart sank, and she wanted to cry. There was only one explanation for him leaving the house at that hour. Robert had a mistress, she should have expected it, but it struck her to the core.

It was her fault. She was the one who had refused him his rights. What could she do?

“I shall go alone to the park, Brigitte,” she said to the maid. It hurt her that Brigitte appeared to relish telling her about Robert’s nocturnal habits.

“But my lady, should you go alone?”

“I prefer you to run an errand for me. I need some more of that scented bath soap.”

She turned her back on Brigitte’s moue of disappointment.

Robert cantered to the end of Rotten Row. He dismounted to await a friend who’d been delayed in conversation. He had not enjoyed his ride, for the previous night left a bad taste in his mouth. As soon as he walked into his mistress’s chambers, Anastasia had been in a pet at the lateness of the hour. He found he didn’t want to make love to her. Somehow, her slim body failed to provoke passion in him. Perhaps he was tired. He had had to placate her with a promise of a new bracelet and an evening at the music hall, something she delighted in but he found tedious.

Walking his horse, he watched a prettily dressed woman stroll along the path through the elms towards him. Her lacy white parasol shielded her face from the sun and from his view.

He waited, wishing her to raise it so he might admire her. Her gown was undoubtedly expensive yet she walked with no maid to accompany her. When she drew close, she pushed back her parasol, and her lips curved into a smile. Her eyes were a warm green.

Charity! Her loveliness and sweetness hit him like a blow from a boxing bout, causing a multitude of emotions to surge through him, as frustrated desire and the fear of being hurt mingled with the need to protect her.

“Good morning, Robert. I do hope you enjoyed your ride.”

Her flowery bonnet perched at an enchanting angle on her head and a honeyed curl rested on a shoulder.

He dismounted and kissed Charity’s fingers encased in lilac kid. “What on earth are you doing walking about the park without your maid?”

Her smile faltered. “I missed you at breakfast. I thought I’d come and see you. I sent her on an errand. I don’t see why Brigitte must accompany me everywhere.”

He ground his teeth wishing she wouldn’t look at him like that. It made him feel shabby, even though she had no knowledge of how he spent last night. “Weren’t you taught anything about the ways of the world in that country village you grew up in?” He knew his anger was unreasonable, and could almost see his uncle shaking his head in disappointment.

But there were pickpockets and loose screws to be found everywhere. A woman as deuced appealing as Charity wasn’t safe.

His horse whinnied at the approach of his friend, Southmore. “Damnation! It’s dangerous for you to go rambling about town on your own,” he said heatedly. “I must insist you do not do it again.”

Robert turned to the man waiting politely, mounted on his grey, silently witnessing what transpired between them.

“Lord Southmore, I’d like you to meet my wife Lady St Malin.” Charity curtseyed, looking flushed.

Robert watched Southmore remove his tall hat and smile sympathetically at his wife, damn his eyes, as he bowed from the saddle. “Lady St Malin. I’ve looked forward to meeting you. Do you enjoy London?”

She made an unconsciously enticing moue with her full lips, and Robert was struck by how natural and unaffected she was compared to the women he knew. “It’s busy and noisy. People are not on the whole as friendly as in the country. But despite its failings, I find it entertaining.” She flicked a reproving glance in Robert’s direction.

“I am totally in agreement with you. I hope we can have a coze on this very subject when we meet again this evening,” Lord Southmore said.

“I shall look forward to it, Lord Southmore.” Charity spoke with far too much feeling for Robert’s liking.

Robert tried to ignore Charity’s wounded expression. He was suspicious of Southmore’s overly-attentive attitude towards his wife. His cozy invitation rankled. Southmore looked far too elegant and polished on his Arab stallion. In his dedicated pursuit of pleasure he was known for fancying married women, but he would not enjoy a dalliance with Robert’s wife.

“I’ll walk with you to the corner, and return my horse to the stables,” Robert said to Charity. He nodded to Southmore and led his horse towards the park gates with Charity at his side.

They walked without speaking, for he found he couldn’t put words to his feelings. Not here in the street at any rate. And she didn’t attempt to conciliate him. Wouldn’t even look at him, dammit. When she was a few steps from the corner of their street, he said in a steely voice, “Go on home. I’ll speak to you there.”

Robert returned from the stables. In the vestibule, he handed Hove his hat and crop. He raced up the stairs and called for a bath. He had had time to think on his way home. He grappled to bring these changes to his life under his control. It was time to smooth things over. What better way could there be than by making love? Once he and Charity were properly man and wife, things would settle into their proper order. He hurriedly bathed and changed, then made his way to her chamber, finding it empty. He walked down the stairs, running his hands through his still damp hair.

“Where is Lady St Malin, Hove?”

“In the salon, Lord St Malin. It was very nice what my lady did for Barker, wasn’t it, my lord?”

Robert paused, one hand on the banister. “What was that, Hove?”

“Why, she went personally and purchased a powder for his ailment.”

“She did? That was kind.”

Hove’s face cracked into a rare smile. “Very kind indeed.”

Robert went thoughtfully up the stairs. His fascinating little wife proved to be thoughtful and kind as well as provocative and damned stubborn.

Charity stood by the tall arched window, the light turning her hair gold as she swung round to frown at him. “That was rude of you, Robert. You had no call to speak to me like that in front of Lord Southmore.”

“Southmore is not a man to be trusted.”

“He is your friend, is he not?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I approve of everything he does.” Robert walked to the table. “Would you like a sherry?”

“No, thank you.”

Robert dropped his hand and went to sit on the sofa.

He watched her walk around the room, her skirts swaying gracefully around her. “Come here.”

She remained where she was.

“Please?”