Chapter 4
Chapter Four
JAMES PLACE, LONDON - JUNE 6, 1814
CHARLOTTE
“Could I have peppermint tea this morning, Imogen?” I begged pathetically between my early and midmorning reckonings with the recently repurposed milk pail.
“Of course, my lady.” She scurried off with more enthusiasm than she usually had for her work. Sensitive stomach, that one.
My head pounded in irritation with each retch. Last night had been a disaster. Not only had I failed to secure a suitor but I had driven a man from the club in terror.
A knock signaled the arrival of Mrs. Courtland, not Imogen, with the tea tray.
“She didn’t have the constitution for it?” I asked, self-deprecation dripping from my pores along with the sweat.
“Not this morning, my lady. I take it things did not go as you hoped last night?”
“Lord, does everyone know?” I asked, pathetic whining in my tone.
“Of course not. It is but a woman’s intuition,” she insisted as she crouched beside me. I’d half fallen out of bed in my effort to reach the pail in time and it had been easier to simply remain on the floor. At some point, I’d propped myself against the wall, and the cool plaster was soothing against my back.
“Intuition and requests for peppermint and ginger tea?”
“That as well,” she agreed with a smile, running her fingers through my sweat-dampened curls, tugging them back from where they clung to my face.
“I need a husband, Mrs. C.” It was a pathetic, indisputable sort of statement, but it was a relief to acknowledge the obvious.
“You’ll find him. Someone kind, but strong enough to endure your mouth, and smart as you—smarter maybe.” Her lips pressed together in something between a smile and a frown.
“Such a man could only be fictional. And, at present, my only requirement is alive.”
“What happened last night? Surely there was someone?”
“There was, or I thought there was. I’d never met him before. The Earl of Champaign. Do you know of him?”
“I do not, my lady. I can make inquiries, though, if you think it worthwhile.”
“It is certainly a wasted effort. But he is my only option at present. Be discreet, would you?”
“Of course.”
My stomach gave a disgruntled lurch, and I took a quick sip of the tea. It settled for the first time in hours and I drank deep.
Mrs. C was a miracle worker.
It was the effort of a few hours at the market to discover the mysterious earl who had recently returned to Berkeley Square. And to recover the intelligence that he was set to return to the country in but a day’s time.
Apparently, he was the talk of the neighborhood. Lord Champaign had arrived in town for the first time in years only a few days previously, refused all visitors, and paid no calls. He was causing quite the stir and more than a few offenses. It certainly did not bode well for my scheme, but I was out of options.
After testing the strength of the lacings on my stays, Imogen helped me into the loosest gown I owned, a cream, floral thing with pleats at the front. I had never been particularly fond of it, and today was no exception, but it did the job credibly enough. Unfortunately, in the harsh light of day, my secrets were less easily concealed.
The entire ride, I fretted over how I might explain my impertinence. And then, once he accepted the explanation, how I might seduce him. And while I did that, how I was to hide the growing curve of my belly. I had no plan, and no time to form one, and no hope.
I arrived outside a bright red door, bold against the tan brick facade of the house, with no better scheme than the one I set off with. Seduce him. Somehow.
At my knock, the door opened to reveal a footman, quite young but well liveried. His astonishment at my arrival was plain in his dropped jaw and stammer. He was a pimply, bespectacled young man, and his gaping mouth revealed a chipped front tooth. He showed me into a well-furnished drawing room with a quiet plea to remain.
Youthful, feminine touches filled the room, and not an insignificant number of them. Powder-blue upholstery with gold accents covered the furnishings and curtains. The walls were painted a muted yellow with delicate blue flowers added near the ceiling. Lord Champaign had been very clear that he had no wife, but his drawing room disagreed.
My insides attempted rebellion at the thought. If he had lied about his marital status, my only prospect was well and truly gone. Surely Mrs. C’s intelligence would have included a wife.
Afternoon sun streamed through the window, baking the chair I shifted to and fro on. It was too hot and my situation too tenuous. I could not cast up my accounts in the ficus beside me. It was unladylike, unbecoming of a future wife—and the scent was not conducive to a seduction.
Harsh whispers spilled in from the hall, an argument if the tone was any indication, but distant enough that I could not make out the words.
Abruptly, the drawing room door flew open and a servant stepped through. A tall, incredibly thin fellow of perhaps thirty with perfectly coiffed red curls.
“Apologies, my lady. It can be quite warm in this room in the afternoon. I will just close the curtains for you. Lord Champaign will be in shortly, he was just finishing some things in his study.”
“Thank you,” I replied, striving to hide the confusion in my tone. It mixed with relief at the intelligence that Lord Champaign would at least see me.
The man drew the floral curtains closed, casting the room into a darkness far more substantial than I had anticipated given the hour. But that was good, better for seduction.
Task completed, he busied himself lighting candles on the far side of the room. A few of them topped the mantel above the unlit fireplace. He found a few more on the bookshelves that crowded the brick hearth and lit them as well. The effect was a romantic glow. A convenient perfection.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable over here, my lady? In the light?” He gestured toward a settee facing the fireplace. Even better. Why had I chosen a chair in the first place? Settees were much better for seduction—surely.
I settled as indicated and the servant slipped silently out of the room. One minute became five and staring at the candlelight grew tedious.
Eventually, I could stand it no longer and rose, approaching one of the bookshelves. Lord Champaign, or whoever had furnished this room, had exceptional taste. Everything from Homer to Sidney, Shakespeare to that authoress I liked lined the shelf. I pulled one, then two tomes out. All were well cared for, regardless of age, but clearly read. The spines cracked and the corners were worn, but no pages were bent.
“I must admit, I never thought to meet you again.” The honeyed tenor of Lord Champaign rang from behind me. I spun, hand pressed to my racing heart.
He was even taller than I remembered, looming over me and half cast in shadow. His chin bore a full day’s growth, adding to the angular, sharp picture he presented.
After nodding toward the settee, he took a seat himself, leaving the left side free for me. This was proving to be easier than I’d expected. I placed myself beside him, back straight and gown pulled away from my belly, hand glued to my knee to keep it that way.
“My lord. I trust you are well?” I began.
“Better than last night.” He spoke into the fireplace. The corner of his mouth fixed in a crooked, wry sort of smile.
“May I—that is...”
“It had nothing to do with you. Do not worry yourself over it.”
“All right…”
“I apologize for the rudeness of my leave taking. I was feeling unwell. May I ask what brought you to my drawing room?” Curiosity tinged his voice but not enough for him to turn to face me.
“Well, I enjoyed our conversation and dance, and I was worried after your abrupt departure.”
A laugh escaped him, a single burst, sharp and bitter. “Of course.”
“I did and I was.” I sounded pathetic even to my ears. Somewhere in the last few sentences, I’d lost any ground gained by the flickering candlelight and lengthy furnishing. His tone wasn’t at all receptive to a seduction and I hadn’t the slightest notion of how to change that.
“Even before I left you standing there, I was coarse and unrefined.” He continued to direct his speech into the cold coals. An overgrown lock of hair flopped down in front of his eye, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all. “I do not mean to be, of course. But it has been many years since I was in polite company. Even longer since I was in the company of a young lady. I’m out of practice.”
“I was not offended.”
His answering laugh was cold. “Why are you truly here?”
With the kind of bravery that could only be born from desperation, I lifted a hand. Tentatively, I reached forward to brush the wayward strand of dark golden hair away from his face.
He gasped and caught my wrist in midair. His grasp was cool, firm, and unyielding and so, so big . Somehow even bigger than his hand seemed the night before. Where did he find gloves large enough to fit? Though, I suppose he had not the night before.
“My lord?” I breathed, my heart racing. I had pushed too hard and too fast. My plan, what little of it there was, balanced on the edge of a knife.
“The truth. Now.” His words stung with anger and a slate note. But still he wouldn’t face me.
“I enjoyed our time to?—”
“I said the truth. You are trying to seduce me. Why?”
“I beg your pardon?” I was all bluster.
Even that accusation hadn’t been enough to catch his eye.
“You are attempting a seduction. Why— Oh. Oh… You are her.” His fingers loosened and I yanked my hand free.
“I beg your pardon?” I repeated, inane. It was the only question available to me that didn’t include curses.
He knew. He had heard. Word of my condition had reached Surrey. My stomach swirled again dangerously.
“You are with child.” He said it simply, plainly, as if it weren’t the ruination of every dream I had ever had. And even that earth-shattering statement was not enough to earn his gaze.
“Look at me!” I demanded, a knot of frustration catching in my throat. “If you’re going to have me bodily tossed out, you should at least look at me.”
Still, his chin never moved, his gaze did not flick to mine. “Were you hoping I would marry you?” he asked, dipping his head to contemplate the hand in his lap.
There was no point in withholding the truth. As it was, he would surely throw me out when he regained his senses.
I sighed, a dramatic, pathetic sound. “Yes. And yes.” It was difficult to force the words out through my pinhole throat.
My life, such as I knew it, was over.
“Do you know the father?”
I couldn’t help the responding eye roll. “Yes.”
“He was the one spouting off at the club last night?”
“Mr. Wesley Parker.” He nodded, face still carefully studying the fireplace.
“You could have asked. It would have been much easier than whatever this sham was,” he muttered.
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“You could have asked me,” he repeated slowly, his tone mirroring the astonishment I felt.
“Truly?” I breathed. “I could have waltzed in here and spun you a story about a man that left me with child and is not only refusing to take responsibility but is actively spreading lies about me to the entire ton . I could have begged you to wed me, to save me and the parasite growing inside from utter ruination and destitution.”
“Yes.” He paused before continuing. “You do not wish to marry me, of course, so I will spare you.”
“I do not—no, I rather think marriage would solve a great many of my problems.”
“And cause you a great many more. At least marriage to me. You should know that now. I’m not… I was not a good husband to my late wife. And I’m not what I once was.”
The speech was a great many words and none of them an outright denial. The intelligence that he was a widower barely registered among the astonishing implications. He couldn’t be suggesting…
“You—that was not a no.”
“It was a warning. You should not ask. Or throw yourself at me. You do not understand what you’re asking for.” His voice was thin and brittle, and his eyes remained fixed on his hand.
“You would consider it?”
“I— You do not wish to marry me,” he repeated. My heart leapt, again, it was still not a denial. He could insist until he grew old and gray that I did not want to marry him . That could not make it so.
“I do not believe you grasp the precariousness of my situation, sir.”
“Nor you mine.” His tone dipped into something low and graveled, nearly a growl.
“So explain it to me.” It would take more than his whiskey-smooth voice raked over the coals to scare me away when there was even the barest hope he would agree.
With a great heaving sigh, he dragged long fingers through his hair. And then, slowly, as if he was afraid I would startle, he turned to face me. The candlelight, once so romantic, caught the right side of his face for the first time.
Air vanished from the room as I took in the sight of him.