Chapter Two
Charity slipped back into the house, and up to her rooms, asking a maid she passed on the way to have a breakfast tray sent up for her.
She simply could not face the idea of a breakfast room full of people, not after her embarrassing morning encounter.
All of the other young ladies she had seen here were beautiful, polished, perfectly presented, and seemingly accomplished – everything she was not.
Especially now, with pulled threads on her pelisse skirts, and her bonnet askew.
She would hide away for the morning, perhaps work on the bonnet decoration she was making, and only go down in the afternoon, when she had changed, and made herself as presentable as possible.
In her rooms, she set the basket down on the small escritoire set near the window of the little parlour, and went into her dressing room.
Maggie was there, carefully pressing each of Charity’s gowns, mending small imperfections, and hanging them on the hooks along the wall, so that they might be ready when Charity needed them.
They had only arrived here the previous night, so Maggie still had a lot of unpacking to do.
“Maggie, I’d like to change please. I think that I managed to prevent my hems becoming mud stained, but… I’m terribly sorry, I’ve managed to snag threads on this pelisse, which will need to be mended.”
The maid looked up, her expression momentarily fearful, until her eyes came to rest on the front of Charity’s garments – then her face cleared.
“There’s no need to apologise, my Lady – I can fix pulled threads like that easily. Which gown would you like to change into?”
Charity felt a surge of relief – Maggie had enough to do, caring for both Charity and her mother, without her life being made harder by Charity’s carelessness.
“The blue one, I think. And… can you please fix my hair? I… I got it caught on a hedge.”
Maggie smiled at her, half laughing.
“Did you get the feather you were trying to reach, my Lady? For that’s the only reason I can think of for you to get tangled in a hedge.”
Charity nodded, returning the girl’s smile, and submitted to Maggie’s efficient attentions to her attire.
Twenty minutes later, wearing the blue gown, and with her hair pinned neatly back into a pile of coils on her head, Charity sat at the escritoire, and carefully unpacked her gatherings from the morning’s walk.
The white feather was, truly, magnificent.
It was large, and none of the fine threads which comprised it had been misaligned. It was absolutely perfect to be the final part of the bonnet decoration she had been making.
But the image which came to her mind as she touched it was not that decoration, but instead, the deep brown eyes of the man who had gathered it for her.
She stared out of the window at the fields below, where they ran in a long rolling moor towards the sea, and despite her intention to forget about the sensation of being held in a man’s arms, she relived that moment, over and over, in her thoughts.
And came to a startling realisation.
She hadn’t, not for one moment, felt frightened by him. Nor had she found him disturbing in any way – well, except for the way that his hands around her had made her heart beat faster. And that was not a bad kind of disturbing…
Apart from her father, she could not remember any other man who had not made her feel either frightened or disturbed.
A half choked-off sob escaped her. Of course, the first man she discovered who she found even vaguely interesting, and non-threatening, had to be a Duke – a Duke surrounded by other young women, all far more suitable to be his bride than Charity ever could be.
*****
It was mid-afternoon, and Rafe knew that he could avoid it no longer – he would have to go down to the parlour, and take tea with his guests.
Which meant engaging in conversation with all of the young women present.
If he tried to isolate himself with the few of his men friends who were here, his mother was just as like to simply march into their conversation, and remove him from it by some thin excuse.
He sighed, and called for his valet – if he must do it, he had best look as presentable as possible.
Half an hour later, as well presented as if he was about to attend a London soiree, he went downstairs.
He could hear the murmur of conversation before he was half way down – a susurrus of female voices.
He paused just outside the parlour door, taking a steadying breath, and considered, just for moment, turning, and leaving the house.
He did not do it, of course, for he had given his mother his vow, and somehow, he would stay true to it.
He opened the door and went in. The conversation immediately hushed, and all eyes turned in his direction.
He felt, in that instant, like a stallion in the ring at Tattersall’s, being eyed by potential buyers.
It was not a pleasant sensation. His mother came to him, her expression making it clear, subtly, that she thought he should have made his appearance rather sooner.
“Oakmoor – do come and let me introduce you to some of our guests whom you have not yet become acquainted with.”
“Of course, Mother.”
The Duchess led him across the room, and Rafe carefully studied the people present, all without actually looking too directly at anyone.
Various young ladies watched him, some with considerably more hope in their expressions than others. He had met most of them yesterday, but a few had arrived very late, and had not been down to the breakfast room before he had retreated to his rooms.
There were, he had to admit, some quite stunningly beautiful young women here – but still, they all seemed rather artificial – too studied, as if they had no life outside of being decorative.
Unbidden, the face of the young woman he had collided with on the lane came back to him – a face beautiful because it was genuine and unaffected.
It had been, he realised now, a quite remarkable meeting, for she had made no attempt to simper at him, had not taken advantage, at all, of being in his arms for those few moments.
He doubted that almost any woman in this room would have been so reticent.
They reached a cluster of people who stood near the large bay window which overlooked the gardens, and his mother came to a stop.
“Ladies… if I may interrupt your conversation to perform introductions…”
They turned at her voice, their conversation dying away.
There were seven women – three older, and likely the mothers of the younger ones, and four younger, two of whom looked so alike that there was no doubt of their kinship.
One of the older women spoke, addressing his mother, but eyeing him curiously.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Ladies, I would like to make known to you my son, the Duke of Oakmoor, your host for this party. Oakmoor, I present to you the Countess of Chilwinth and her daughter, Lady Anne Brooks; the Baroness Delfanning and her daughters Miss Woodfield and Miss Penelope Woodfield; and the Marchioness of Warkworth, and her daughter Lady Charity Pemberton.”
There were curtsies, and many murmurs of greeting, but Rafe was barely aware of any of it.
He was, instead, frozen in place, his eyes locked on those of the last lady introduced - wide violet toned eyes which he had last looked into that very morning, in a frosty country lane, from far closer than was proper.
That wealth of deep red curls had been tamed, and pinned into artful coils on her head, but no other artifice had been applied to her.
Which was more than he could say for the other three young women.
So, now he knew her name – which only made her the more intriguing, for he would have expected a Marquess’ daughter to be like all of the others.
Instead, her gown was quite plain, if of excellent quality, the colour in her lips and cheeks was natural, and her expression held more of fear and trepidation than of simpering obsequiousness.
What was she afraid of? Rafe had never thought himself particularly fierce in mien and that morning, in the lane, whilst she had seemed embarrassed, he had seen no sign of fear.
Silence fell, lengthened and, seemingly at the same moment, Rafe and the girl before him recognised that fact.
He tore his eyes away from hers, even as her face assumed a bland and polite smile.
“I am delighted to meet all of you, ladies. I hope that you will enjoy your stay at Oakmoor Chase this Christmas Season.”
The artificial ones all seemed to speak at once, assuring him in an effusive manner that they would. But the response which struck him most strongly came from Lady Charity – a response spoken so softly that he would not have heard it had not she been the closest to him at the time.
“I hope so too…”
He caught her eyes again, and she flushed, looking away, as if embarrassed that he had heard.
As his mother led him away from them to the other set of late arrivals to whom he had not yet been introduced, his mind stayed with Lady Charity.
He had the strangest feeling that she had spoken honestly with those words, had simply answered him, without stopping to consider exactly what to say or do.
Intriguing… absolutely intriguing – for it implied that she had spoken honestly, rather than concocting a response which she thought was what he would want to hear.
The novelty of such a response was immense.
He was soon introduced to another two young ladies and their parents, before his mother released him to circulate amongst the guests himself.
Obedient to what he had promised her, he made certain to speak to each of the eligible young women in the room – but he also made certain that he spent no more time with any one than any other. He would not give them grounds for hope of his interest.