Charity tossed that statement over her shoulder at Aunt Cleo as she climbed out of the Huntwick coach and walked toward the town house steps. The rest of its occupants followed suit. Everyone stepped inside and surrendered their wraps.
“I think you do,” the old woman said.
Charity sighed. Too much had happened in too short a time for her to even muster the energy to be angry with her wily old relative. She eyed the stairs, contemplating hiding in her room to escape the conversation, but knew it would just be waiting another time. “I’m sure he’s a good man, and that he will make some very fortunate girl a lovely husband. But I’m not that girl.”
Cleo snorted and went into the front sitting room, her cane hitting the floor with more force than necessary to punctuate her next words. “You certainly looked like that girl after your little talk in the breakfast room.”
Charity sucked in her breath, her face draining of color.
They all sat down, Grace taking a seat next to her younger sister on a green-striped settee. “Aunt Cleo!” She shot her aunt an exasperated look and put an arm around her sibling’s shoulders. “Whether the events of the past two days have been wrong or right, they are water under the bridge and we’ll deal with them as a family. If Charity does not wish
to continue an acquaintance with the Marquess of Asheburton, she does not have to do so.”
Charity gave her a grateful smile.
“Well, if that’s the case and she doesn’t like the man, she shouldn’t come out of a private meeting with him looking like she’s been thoroughly kissed!”
Trevor laughed and then quickly tried to cover it with a cough. His wife glared at him.
“She’s right,” said Charity in a small voice. “He did kiss me. He kissed me and I liked it, and I
hate
that I liked it.”
Grace patted her knee. “You’ll find someone else you like to kiss.” She turned to her husband. “Won’t she?”
He looked startled at being addressed. “Oh, of course,” he agreed. “Although, I will point out that you weren’t very happy about kissing me, at first, and you have yet to find someone else.”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “
Yet
,” she said, warningly.
Trevor just grinned.
“I’d really just like to put it all behind me,” said Charity wearily. She stood. “I think I’ll go lie down for a bit. I didn’t sleep at all well last night.”
The assembled company watched her go. When she was out of earshot Cleo said, “I’ll take her to the Rutherfords’ ball with me tonight. Asheburton is probably still smarting from whatever Charity said to make him leave so abruptly, and will likely spend the evening playing cards, or whatever it is you men do when you can’t handle your women.”
Grace shook a finger at her. “Promise me you won’t interfere. I think we all need to stay out of this.”
Trevor snorted, making no attempt to hide his disbelief. “Since when did you learn what it means to not interfere? Your entire family thrives on interference.” He stopped
speaking when he saw his wife’s face darken. Realizing he might actually have gone too far, he tossed Cleo a jaunty salute, pressed a kiss on Grace’s cheek, and beat a wise and hasty retreat to his study.
Lachlan Kimball swept into the study at his cousin’s town house and headed straight for the well-stocked liquor cabinet. Above a sideboard laden with neat rows of crystal he upended a glass, found the decanter of brandy, and poured himself a generous helping. After a couple of rejuvenating swallows, he sat down on the edge of a burgundy leather upholstered club chair and considered the events of the morning.
The entire situation with the Ackerly twins had been a debacle from beginning to end. He should have listened to Sebastian’s warning about becoming involved with any of the sisters in that family. Taking another slow swallow, he leaned back. He had options. Entire ballrooms full of options. After all, London was positively teeming with marital prospects.
It was time, he decided, to just choose one of the more pleasant girls the mamas of the
ton
were continually parading past him like cattle. He would simply use the process of elimination. He’d dance and converse with them until he found one reasonably well spoken, not opposed to living in Scotland, and who, most importantly, utterly lacked a taste for drama.
He stood and walked to the desk. A stack of invitations to events taking place that evening sat neatly in the center, awaiting his perusal. He picked them up, perched a hip on the ornately carved edge of the two-hundred-year old piece of furniture, and fanned them out. After a moment’s trepidation he decided it didn’t really matter which he chose; he
doubted, after what had transpired between Charity and himself over the past twenty-four hours, that she would be in the mood to leave her sister’s home this evening. Choosing an invitation at random, he tossed the rest into the rubbish bin.
Just before he stood, his eyes fell on another piece of paper in the bin next to the desk. Struck by a sense of familiarity, he bent and plucked it out. It was the list of potential marital prospects he, Thorne, Hunt, and the Lloyd brothers had created the day he arrived in London. He scanned the list until he came to the last name: Lucinda Harcourt. He tried to remember what his friends had said about her but drew a complete blank. Fairly certain he’d remember any mention of bad qualities, he decided to take a chance. He jotted a quick note and then took it into the hall. His burly valet, Niles, was just coming down the stairs.
“Oh, good.” Lachlan handed him the folded note. “Would you have a footman deliver this note to . . .” He paused as he tried to remember the young lady’s name.
Niles glanced at the name Lachlan had written on the outside. “Lucinda Harcourt, my lord?”
The valet’s gravelly voice was just as rough as his appearance. Lachlan had first encountered him in one of the dark alleys of London, defending a woman of the streets from a group of drunken men bent on obtaining her services for free. He’d prepared to step in and help but soon realized it wouldn’t be necessary. While he watched, Niles broke one man’s jaw, another man’s collarbone, and several ribs on a third. The rest ran off, including the prostitute, leaving Niles abandoned to the young Marquess of Asheburton. Upon learning the honorable pugilist was out of work and homeless, Lachlan had taken him to Asheburton Keep and offered him a position as his valet, despite his lack of experience.
“Milord?”
Startled out of his memories, Lachlan stared blankly at his valet before recalling the topic at hand. The servant had unfolded the missive and read it without asking permission. “Oh. Yes. Her.”
Niles offered him a long look and then grinned, his craggy face splitting oddly as he did. “Do you mind me asking why you’re taking a girl you don’t know to one of your fancy parties? Did that lassie you were after toss you over?”
Lachlan just turned toward the stairs, clapping the valet on the shoulder. “I don’t mind you
asking
,” he said, and then offered nothing further.
Niles watched his master go, glanced down at the note in his hand, and headed off in search of a footman. He hoped the marquess managed to find a wife soon so they could get back to Scotland. Although the city had once been his home, London, with its noises and smells and lack of room to breathe was not at
all
to his liking anymore.
Eighteen
It
took Lachlan less than five minutes in Lucinda Harcourt’s company to recall precisely how his cousin had described her:
A complete henwit. Attractive, but no substance
.
She certainly was attractive. Seated across from him in the coach beside her silent duenna, she was the picture of quiet, pale blonde sophistication. Her hair was elegantly coiffed, her gown exquisitely crafted, her beauty of the sort that soothed one’s eyes and brought a smile to one’s face. Then she opened her mouth and attempted to follow a conversational lead. Within seconds, it become evident she had the intellectual capacity of a porcelain figurine. Even when he suggested the weather was unusually balmy, she’d blinked in confusion and asked, “You mean outside?”
By the third vapid response, Lachlan simply nodded and gave up. After they arrived at the ball and she began to socialize she would surely manage to become interesting.
He hoped.
Cleo frowned and watched Charity smile and sweetly decline yet another request to dance. She was beginning to think talking her niece into an evening out in an effort to help her forget the events of the morning was a mistake. Although from all outward appearances Charity appeared to be having a marvelous time, Cleo knew her well enough to see her smile was forced and overly bright, and that it did not reach her eyes.
She sighed and peered around, hoping to spot Amanda Lloyd or some of Charity’s other young friends; standing about with an elderly aunt wasn’t going to put the sparkle back in the girl’s eyes. But she saw nobody with whom Charity had become friendly in Town, so she decided it was likely best to call it a night.
She’d just laid a hand on Charity’s arm when her eyes fell upon a couple at the top of the stairs. She sucked in a shocked breath.
Charity glanced over in surprise. “What is it, Aunt Cleo?” The older lady’s sudden pallor and stunned expression caused her to follow the direction of her stare, and she felt the blood drain from her own face. The Marquess of Asheburton was descending the ornately carved staircase, and he had a young woman on his arm.
“Who is
that?
” she hissed.
Startled, Cleo dragged her gaze from the unexpected arrivals, glanced at her niece and then smiled. The withdrawn young woman she’d brought to the ball was gone, replaced by vintage Charity, full of life, brimming with energy, ready to spit fire.
“Oh, that?” Cleo feigned innocence. “That is the Marquess of Asheburton.”
Charity narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.
“Oh! You meant the girl with him, of course. Silly of me. Of course you know Asheburton,” stalled Cleo. “Rather well, I believe,” she added. Slanting a glance at her niece, she noted the girl’s visible impatience and reluctantly acquiesced. “Her name is Lucinda Harcourt, and it’s her third season out. Her parents are modest landowners and have some connection with the Earl of Tallimon, who has apparently spent a pretty penny sponsoring and outfitting the girl each Season.”
“She’s really quite beautiful,” said Charity thoughtfully.
“Yes. She is.” Cleo watched her closely. “They make a rather nice couple, don’t they?”
Charity looked away. “They do, at that. Will you excuse me a moment, Aunt? I think I’ll go freshen up a bit.” She snatched a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and swept off without awaiting any response.
Cleo followed her niece’s progress, a path leading her right in front of the main staircase. She glided under the nose of Lachlan Kimball without giving the slightest indication that she knew he was there. Had she been able to do so without calling attention to herself, Cleo would have clapped her hands with pride at the girl’s performance. Instead, she watched Lachlan nearly miss the last step down into the ballroom as he caught sight of Charity’s distinctive strawberry blonde head. Cleo stifled a laugh, thunked her cane on the floor in satisfaction, and turned to go find her friends.
Charity reached the ladies retiring room, in which she found herself blissfully alone. She looked down at the glass of champagne in her hand, then tilted back her head and drank it in three long swallows. Done, she set the glass on a table and turned to face herself in the mirror. The young lady in the reflection gazed back with a serene expression, which was puzzling; apparently she felt a good deal angrier than she looked.
Charity turned, paced a few steps back, and then closed her eyes, but that was no good either. She recalled the way he’d looked while casually descending the ornate staircase, his dark good looks a perfect foil for the stunning, sophisticated blonde on his arm. Charity’s stomach clenched into a tight little knot of—
Of what?
Of
nothing
, she decided firmly. Resolute, she reopened her eyes, spun around, and faced her reflection again.
He had a lot of nerve, kissing and holding her the way he had just that morning, when he had to have known he’d be spending the evening with another woman entirely. Well, the wretch could just enjoy himself with whomever he pleased, she decided. And she would do precisely the same. She tossed her reflection a bright, brittle smile, and ventured from the retiring room back out into the crowd.
The next two hours flew by; Charity laughed through them. She flirted, she danced, and not once did she so much as glance in Lachlan Kimball’s direction. Cleo watched both parties in delight, although much of her focus was on Lachlan. The man quite literally resembled a thundercloud. Lucinda Harcourt clung to his arm, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was paying no attention to her, toting him from group to group, chattering away like a brainless magpie, unable to see past her own frivolous existence and note the developing storm.
The dowager glanced at Charity again, who was accepting yet another glass of champagne from one of her many admirers. Cleo watched with satisfaction for a few minutes before glancing away, but when she looked back, she gasped and nearly jumped out of her skin. The Marquess of Asheburton was standing right in front of her, without his date, his expression positively murderous. “How long, my lady, do you intend to allow this?”
Cleo straightened her shoulders and eyed him with icy regality. “Allow what, my lord?”
“Charity’s behavior.”
The dowager raised disdainful brows. “Just what business is it of yours? She appears to be having a grand time, doing exactly what all the other young ladies of her class do
at such events. She’s dancing, my lord, and socializing, and enjoying a great popularity.”
“She’s drinking, Lady Egerton. She’s drinking quite a bit. It’s not normal behavior for Charity. Perhaps, as her relative and chaperone, you would have noted it if you hadn’t been so busy watching me.”