The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(10)
From this position she could see him more clearly, see the shadows lining his eyes and jaw, even see the clench of his jaw as Lady Someone-or-other turned to pat his hand. Something twinged in her chest. How awful for him to have lost a beloved wife and much-wanted child. How awful to be forced to grieve so publicly. Moisture clogged her throat, filled her eyes.
“Charlotte! Stop staring!”
But Mama’s whispered recrimination could not force her gaze away. Poor man. He wore almost a haunted look. Hunting through her reticule, she found the black-edged handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
At that moment, the duke shifted, head turning as if he finally deigned to acknowledge the watching crowd. Something cold stole through her soul at the expression his face wore, as if he knew the reason the church was packed today and was contemptuous of the sudden increase in congregants. Shame bade her to avert her eyes, when she realized his gaze had landed on her.
The darkness in his eyes sent coldness up her spine, yet heat to the back of her eyes. Poor, poor man. Caught between wondering whether to deflect her look and pretend she hadn’t been staring, or whether to continue her perusal, she felt a tear trickle down her cheek.
The narrowed eyes widened, the heavy brows lifted.
“Charlotte!”
Mama’s pinch on her arm snapped her attention away, as if a spell had broken. Feeling a little dazed, she returned to study the front of the church, forcing her heart and mind to steady, to still. Inhaling deeply, she focused on the altar, which lacked much of the ornamentation or the beautiful stained glass windows that made visiting Westminster Abbey preferable to this much smaller, newer church.
As the minister moved to the pulpit and praised the congregation for their attendance at such a difficult time, a quiver of embarrassment trembled through her. How sad to think people attended services more for gossip than for instruction. And she … was no better. An urgency to leave swelled within, to leave this farce of worship, even if Mama would have an apoplectic fit.
The organ began the first hymn, prompting the congregation to stand. As she mouthed the words the restlessness gradually abated. Just because Mama might insist they attend today from motives other than worshipping God did not mean Charlotte need follow. The minister prayed, and her heart rippled with something deep, and she resolved not to be like one of today’s shallow spectators.
And she’d begin by praying for the man across the aisle whose soul seemed as dark as his clothes.
William barely heard a word intoned by the minister, so conscious was he of what was being left unsaid. He went through the motions mechanically: Stand. Sing. Sit. Kneel. Sit. Listen. Try not to yawn. Stand. Sing. Sit. Pray.
His skin prickled at the eyes of the ton staring at his back. He knew what they said. Knew their gossip. Knew he was being mocked in the clubs, the cuckolded Duke of Hartington with the baseborn child—gossip mitigated only by the fact that Wrotham had fled the country, as he’d promised.
His throat clamped. While he could barely stand to think of the misbegotten child’s antecedents, justice demanded he not hold her parents’ sins against her. That and Jensen’s pleas had transformed his initial reaction to something less dramatic, permitting the child to stay in the room farthest from him, where he wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t see it. The wet-nurse his wife had previously engaged had been installed there, too, and Jensen assured him all was well. But he had yet to see her. Couldn’t bear to see her, reminder as she was of his wife’s failings—and his own.
God?
Silence.
His lips twisted. Even here in church, God seemed so very far away.
As he mouthed along to the last hymn, William found himself bracing for the crush of people. He nearly hadn’t come today, but the knowledge his absence would result in all the more gossip had kept him to his regular practice.
The minister prayed, then released the congregation with a blessing: “Go forth into the world in peace, holding fast to that which is good. Strengthen the fainthearted, support the weak, help the afflicted, honor everyone. Love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit, and the blessing of the Lord be amongst you, both now and forevermore.”
“Amen.”
His voice agreed, even though his heart doubted. How could he hold to what was good, how could he rejoice in the power of the Holy Spirit, how could he help anyone?
He was the one needing strengthening; he was the one afflicted. The next few days would be torture; the last three had been hell. So many decisions to be made, decisions pertaining not just to the funeral of his wife, but also to closing up the London town house, travel arrangements for the procession back to Hartwell Abbey, let alone all the arrangements required for the child. And then there were the visits, visits from the well-meaning, from the undertakers, the reverend, even the occasional call from the few who considered themselves his friends.
He’d barely slept since Thursday, the fog menacing the corners of his mind gradually massing, until reason and clarity of thought, so long his friends, seemed impossibly far away. At times he felt nearly dizzy with the weight of it all. Jensen urged him to rest, but he could not. Too much churned inside, begging release.
“Hartington?”
He blinked. Forced the whirring thoughts to slow. Forced his head to turn.
“May I say how sorry we were to hear of your loss?”
William forced himself to nod. Who was that? Remembering names had always been Pamela’s forte. He joined the recessional, following in the wake of the reverend. If he hurried his escape, there would be fewer people to talk to.