Chapter 9
9
C harity sat at the library’s writing table, reading a letter from Julia, while Modesty sat with her legs stretched out on the settee, reading correspondence of her own, which had come wrapped in a parcel. The lass held up a metal box. “Mama sent us some of Cook’s drinking chocolate to help my ankle mend faster.”
Everyone in the MacGalloway family loved Cook’s chocolate, especially during the winter months. “That was very thoughtful of her.” Charity looked up from her letter. “What else does Mama have to say?”
“Let us see…” Modesty scanned the parchment. “She and Grace have been making care baskets for the soldiers’ hospital, and knitting mittens and hats. Mama says it is a good lesson in philanthropy for my sister and is important for all ladies of means to understand. It is our duty to exercise benevolence to those in need.”
“Agreed, and that is why we have come to Huntly Manor and opened its doors to ladies who have nowhere else to turn.”
“My lady, would you have a moment?” asked Miss Fletcher, as she swept into the library with a duster in hand.
“Always,” Charity replied with a smile. “And please do tell me you’ve finally interviewed a suitable housekeeper.” Since Agnes Fletcher had been so critical about all the women they had interviewed for the post, Charity had opted to let the baron’s daughter find the candidate herself.
“Well, that’s exactly what I came in to discuss.” Miss Fletcher stopped short, pursing her lips and giving Charity what appeared to be a disapproving once-over. After all, Charity had been the recipient of innumerable assessments from her sister Grace. She knew a disapproving expression when she saw one. “Trousers again, my lady?”
Charity rather liked the freedom her brother’s pants afforded her, and though she would never admit it to a soul, she particularly like the way Mr. Mansfield looked at her when she wore them. She shrugged. “I’ve promised Modesty that I will look after her pony.”
“But Gerrard ought to be doing that.”
“Och, nay,” The lass complained, bless her heart. “The laddie needs to be handled by a female, the stablemaster at Stack Castle said so, and he’s the one who bred Albert—was right in the stall when the mare birthed him.”
As her frown deepened, Miss Fletcher fanned her face. “My word, the topics of conversation I hear in this house are enough to make me reach for the smelling salts.”
Charity put her letter aside and addressed their interim housekeeper. “You were saying you came in to discuss the candidates?”
“I have, and after meeting with at least a dozen women who think they have the qualifications to take care of a manse such as Huntly Manor, I have come to the decision that there is only one person qualified to take on the responsibility.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Charity said, clapping her hands. “You’ve found someone at last. Please, what is her name? When does she start?”
The woman curtsied. “Mrs. Agnes Fletcher at your service. Of course I’ve taken on the mantle of missus, since all housekeepers adopt such a title.”
“You?” Charity tapped her lips, pondering the possibilities.
The woman appeared to be glowing. “I’ve already moved my things to the housekeeper’s rooms below stairs. The accommodations are quite comfortable, and if you believe me worthy, I do think I will earn my keep.”
“Undoubtedly you are worthy. But you are born of nobility. Your father is—was a baron for heaven’s sake.”
“That very well may be, but I intend to do this and put my best foot forward as it were. Besides, I rather enjoy running a household. The post of housekeeper suits me.”
“If it is truly what you want, then I say congratulations. I, too, can think of no one more qualified than you, Mrs. Fletcher.”
At the sound of her new name, Agnes stood a bit taller, taking in a deep breath. “Thank you. And now that we have that bit of business tucked away, I feel it is incumbent upon me to inform you that Miss Jacoby has gone to town again —always going to church, that one.”
Modesty fluffed a pillow behind her back. “Didna ye ken? She’s infatuated with the vicar.”
“Is she now?” asked Charity. “Mayhap we ought to invite him to dinner?”
“I think that’s a horrible idea,” said the new, very opinionated housekeeper.
“Not at all.” Charity pushed to her feet just in time to see the butcher’s cart turn into the drive. She did her best not to smile while the familiar soap bubbles erupted in her stomach. “And while we’re at it, we ought to invite Mr. Mansfield and his sister.”
“If you’re planning to open your doors to the townsfolk, you might as well have a private ball and invite all of Brixham.”
Such a notion had merit and Charity arched her eyebrows. “Should we?”
“Yes,” said Modesty.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Fletcher insisted. “I was being sarcastic.”
“I don’t know—how else are the ladies of the household expected to meet prospective husbands?”
“Who wants to meet a husband?” asked Mrs. Fletcher. “I’m a spinster and will always be a spinster. I gave up on the marriage mart years ago.”
“That may well be, but Miss Hatch, Miss Jacoby, and Miss Satchwell are still in their primes. Surely they have not yet given up hope.”
“And dunna forget you will be going to London for the Season soon,” said Modesty. Of course, Charity’s youngest sister had to be the voice of wisdom.
“Perhaps there isna time to plan a ball, but we could have a soiree of sorts.” Charity pretended to notice the approaching carriage for the first time as she gestured out the window. “Oh, look, there’s Mr. Mansfield with Kitty. I’ll wager he’ll ken whom we might invite to a wee soiree.”
Mrs. Fletcher turned on her heel and headed out the door. “Lord save us.”
“Will I be able to dance?” asked Modesty.
Charity gave her sister a forlorn sigh. “I doubt the doctor will give you leave to do any dancing before we must leave for London.”
The lass crossed her arms and scrunched her face like an angry hen. “Ballocks.”
“I beg your pardon? Still your vulgar tongue. Such language is not acceptable in any MacGalloway household, whether Mama is in residence or not.” Charity stole a glance at the door to ensure Mrs. Fletcher didn’t march back in and issue her resignation. “Apologize at once, or I’ll be forced to send Kitty home with her brother.”
Modesty leaned in, batting her ridiculously long eyelashes. “And miss your rendezvous with him?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I overheard Miss Satchwell telling Miss Hatch that she saw you in the arbor with Mr. Mansfield. I ken he’s giving you boxing lessons. And you are lecturing me about what Mama will tolerate? If she finds out you are keeping company with the local butcher, she’ll never allow you to return to Huntly.”
Charity turned away while her face burned. What else had Ester seen? And why the devil was she gossiping about it? “I’m learning to protect myself is all. You may recall that Julia did the same and?—”
“When she was pretending to be a man,” Modesty sniped.
“That matters not a whit.”
The door to the library opened and Willaby stepped inside. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Miss Mansfield is here for her lesson with Lady Modesty.”
Charity rolled her hand through the air. “Show her in of course.” As soon as the butler left, she strode to her sister’s side and lowered her voice. “Understand this, I will not tolerate vulgar language in a household under my oversight. Mr. Mansfield has been so kind as to give me a wee bit of instruction in defending myself against London’s scoundrels, in exchange for his sister’s reading lessons?—”
Modesty threw up her hands. “I canna believe it. I’m doing the work and you’re reaping the benefits?”
“ You are enjoying the company of a friend.”
“Hello,” came a youthful voice from the doorway.
Charity straightened immediately. “Kitty, how lovely to see you!” she said far too exuberantly.
Harry paced around the inside of the arbor, and every time he passed the archway, he searched the gardens for any sign of Her Ladyship. Though it didn’t help that an eight-foot hedge blocked his view. They had been meeting there for over a fortnight, and she had always been waiting for him when he arrived. Had something happened at the house? Cook hadn’t mentioned anything amiss earlier when Harry had made the meat delivery. And as usual, Kitty had been ushered through the door without hesitation.
On his third time around the circumference of the arbor, he stopped and threw a few practice jabs. When Lady Charity had first suggested he give her boxing lessons, he’d thought the idea absurd, but now two weeks later, he looked forward to their sessions, not because of the kisses at the end, at least not entirely. He’d be a fool not to enjoy stealing moments to hold such a woman in his arms. However, teaching her how to spar made him think of maneuvers he hadn’t considered before, and he was convinced the work they were doing molded him into a better fighter.
“It looks as if you’ve started the lesson without me,” said the woman herself, arriving beneath the archway.
Harry lowered his fists to his sides. “I was surprised not to see you already here. Is all well?”
“Not certain.” She brushed an auburn curl away from her face as she walked toward him, those unignorable hips swaying. Yes, today she was wearing those snugly fitting trousers again. “I was late because I’ve been looking for Miss Satchwell, but she’s not in her chamber and not in the barn.”
“She’s out riding,” he said, pulling her close and giving her a hug. “I saw her when I came in.”
Charity returned his embrace but didn’t linger like she’d been doing of late. With a loud sigh, she returned to the archway and searched outside. “Where?”
Harry moved behind her, gently sliding his hands up and down the enticing curve of her hips while he once again glanced along the hedge from end to end. “In the south paddock. Looked as if she were planning to ride along the bluff—well away from here.”
“That may be, but henceforth we’d best know where she is at all times. My sister overheard the lass telling Miss Hatch that you’ve been giving me boxing lessons.”
“Oh, fie.”
“‘Oh, fie’ is right.” She turned and placed her palm over his heart. “From what I can tell, she hasna found out about your kissing lessons as of yet.”
“Perhaps we ought to give it a rest for a time.”
“But I dunna want to give it a rest. I’ve enjoyed our sessions ever so much. But what of you? Would you prefer to walk away and pretend this…” She gestured between them. “…never happened?”
His heart lodged in his throat. These lessons with Charity MacGalloway had become something of an obsession—made him want to rise early and whistle throughout the day. “Absolutely not. But?—”
“Say it. There must be no secrets between us.”
No matter how much he adored their lessons, he knew they would be ending. Not only that, they’d both been dabbling with peril. “Mayhap there ought to be.”
A crease formed between her brows. “Why, may I ask?”
No matter how much it slayed him, he must speak the truth. “Because we are of two different worlds. Whatever this is that has been happening between us cannot last.”
“How can you say that?” she asked, fingering the collar of her enormous shirt and shifting her gaze away.
“Think on it. We both are well aware that soon you will be attending balls and all manner of social events, being paraded across London as one of the darlings of the ton .”
Charity huffed and sat on one of the benches encircling the arbor’s interior. “Have you forgotten I have already had a Season? And it was horrible.”
“What was so awful about it? You are delightful. What wife-seeking nobleman wouldn’t fall in love with you as soon as he looked into those starry blue eyes of yours?” As he spoke, he was sure his heart squeezed into the size of a walnut. He didn’t want this summer to end either, but it was an inevitable fact that the sun would set and rise again every day until she stepped into her fancy carriage and rode away for good.
She crossed her ankles as well as her arms, sitting very much like a lady, but too tempting to resist, given her present attire. “Believe me, I have looked many a gentleman in the eye, and nary a one has been swept away by my beauty, or lack of it.”
He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Never demean yourself in such a way. You are the loveliest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I’ll face anyone who doubts me.”
As her pink tongue tapped her upper lip, she smoothed her fingers along his upper arms, making the muscles flex throughout his entire body. “Call them into the ring, will you?”
Unable to help himself, he drew her into his arms and held her fast against his chest. Why was it this woman who’d laid claim to his heart? Why did she make him feel whole, wanted…dare he think, loved ? “If that’s what it takes. Anyone would have to be blind not to see you for the beauty you possess, both within and without.”
With Charity’s sigh, her body molded against his as if it were the missing piece of a puzzle—one he had been searching for all his life. “I have no choice. I must go to London, but I will not enjoy a single moment of it.”
God save him, he loved her mettle. If only they did have a future together, but alas, he must be happy with these stolen moments. “You mean to turn up your nose to all the flowers and all the sonnets written in your honor?”
She rested her head on his chest. “Please, I am a provincial Scottish woman, and every member of the ton whispers about my ineptitude behind my back.”
He slid his fingers around her neck. “Catty women, I’ll wager.”
“Aye, well those same lassies have a way of spilling their poison into the ears of unsuspecting suitors.”
“Do you know what I think?” he asked, arching away.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“Your Season was cut short because your father passed away, and you have not had a proper chance to impress those who matter. Did you not say the family went back to Scotland afterward?”
“We did, though we returned to London for a brief interlude until…”
“Your brother fell in love with Lady Julia, and then you were all whisked to the north again for the wedding.”
Charity twirled out of his arms and raised her fists, obviously wanting to start the lesson. “That may verra well be, but mark me, I am not looking forward to the miserable Season my mother is planning, and I do not intend to be paraded in front of all the eligible dandies like a trussed goose.”
“No?” he asked, stepping in and offering his palms as sparring targets. “Is that not what young ladies do?”
“Not this young lady.” Charity struck his hands with a left and right. “I’ll have you know, I am planning to do my duty, attend whatever affairs my mother sees fit to schedule for me. Then as soon as the Season is over, I will hasten back here and resume my responsibilities as lady of the manor.”
“And your brother is amenable to your plan?”
Charity dropped her hands and grazed her teeth over her bottom lip. “I havena exactly told him about it as of yet.”
“But you think he will be agreeable?”
“He ought to be, providing I havena accepted a proposal by the end of the Season.”
Harry’s walnut-sized heart lodged in his throat. “I imagine you’ll have dozens of proposals.”
“I may receive more than one, but I didna say receive, I said accepted .”
Was there any chance whatsoever of continuing? Of more? “And if you return to the manor, what then? What of…”
“Our boxing lessons?”
“Yes,” he croaked, desiring so much more than lessons, so much more than kissing as well.
Charity lunged, wielding an invisible parasol and aiming it at the walnut. “Well, a lady must ken how to fend off scoundrels, mustn’t she?”
Dear God, when he looked into those enormous blues, he desperately wanted to believe the pair of them could have a future together. Lord knew he’d wait a decade if he must. Sooner or later if she chose to play the spinster card, her family might approve of a lowly butcher’s suit. Would they not? Of course, they’d not even consider such a possibility while she was in her prime, but someday.
Heaven help him, he wanted to make love to her more than life’s blood, but in no way would he demean her by acting on his desires. As Harry pulled her into his arms and imparted a slow, deliberate, and impassioned kiss, he knew they didn’t have a chance in Hell of being together, but he damned-well intended to make the most of the time that remained until her family whisked the woman to London.
“Are you planning to attend the fight?” he asked, his voice barely audible, his knees growing boneless as she slipped her hands around his back. He’d already told her not to go, but this woman had proven more than once that she had a mind of her own.
“I wouldna miss it.”
He ought to be angry, but her admission made him want to thump his chest and sing. “You should not go. It is too much of a risk.”
“You canna keep me away.”
“Then promise you’ll have one of the footmen accompany you inside, as well as Miss Satchwell.”
“Verra well, if it will make you happy.”
Charity pulled him closer, her acceptance of him refreshing, her enthusiasm intoxicating. And as their lips met, silenced was the needling voice at the back of his mind—the continually insisting that a butcher had no right to kiss this woman.