The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(11)

“Duke?”

Good manners halted his steps, bade him turn, stay.

“May we offer our condolences.”

People could offer all the condolences they liked; it didn’t mean he believed them. Their eyes were too hard, glinting with latent amusement as they stored up their encounter for the latest on-dit, their mouths speaking sympathetic nothings while he searched their faces for anything of true compassion.

Not that he deserved compassion. He’d never been able to effectively hide his hatred of his wife’s affairs, never been able to shrug off infidelity as so many others seemed able. His marriage vows had meant something, hence his devastation when he’d realized how little they’d meant to the woman he’d promised his life to. Yet despite the pain she had put him through, in these darkest hours of the past few days, her death had made him realize that underneath his anger, he’d never really given up every vestige of hope.

Not really.

Yes, perhaps he’d treated her unwisely—some would say badly—and didn’t deserve people’s compassion. But some twisted, bitter corner of his heart desired pity anyway.

It seemed the only ones who truly showed sympathy were those he barely knew. Hawkesbury’s new wife, accompanying the earl on his visit of condolence yesterday, had seemed to hold something like sympathy in her glistening-eyed expression and soft words, her husband’s words seeming more heartfelt than trite …

“Hartington?”

His attention jerked back to the present, the jostling crowd, the slightly plump marquess standing before him. They exchanged bows. “Exeter.”

“Dreadful business, this.”

“Yes.”

The marchioness stepped forward, her black bombazine marking her as in mourning, though her face wore no ravages of grief. “Pamela was such a beauty. I still remember her come-out …”

As she gabbled on in reminisces he did not share, he fought the curl of his lip. Yes, his wife had been a beauty, some would say a nonpareil, but that was the problem. If she hadn’t been so lovely, men would have paid her less heed, her head would not have been so easily turned, her feet would not have strayed …

“I don’t believe you have met our daughter.” She drew forth a young lady, similarly dark clothed, who’d been laughing with a tall, handsome gentleman standing behind her mother.

Breath whooshed from his chest. Her.

“Charlotte, meet His Grace, the Duke of Hartington.”

The light in the young face drained away, replaced by a startled look in those wide eyes. She curtsied.

“Lady Charlotte,” he managed to rasp.

Her gaze connected with his, blue eyes, as clear as the spring sky, holding him prisoner.

Like hers had once done.

He schooled his expression to neutral, but perhaps hadn’t successfully wiped away all thought of his wife, as he noticed the pink lips falling open a fraction. “Duke.”

A shaft of sunlight highlighted the faintest trail of saltwater on her cheek. His heart thudded. She at least did not seem to find his situation pathetically amusing, seemed rather to regard him with sympathy, just as the Hawkesburys had done.

But … truly? Desiring pity from a schoolgirl? What measure of fool had he become?

He nodded, made his excuses before moving swiftly through the throng to where his recently promoted coachman, Barrack, waited with his carriage and matched grays. He hurried inside, the door was closed, and within seconds they were away.

He leaned back, sagging against the squabs, closing his eyes as hooves clattered on cobblestones. The dim interior gave him precious moments to think.

Still so much to do.

So much to arrange.

Thank God it was Sunday; the house might be a little quieter than usual.

But the day of rest would not prove a respite for the servants, many of whom would travel back to Northamptonshire with him tomorrow. His man of business would follow in a few days, once the banks had been sorted. But Hapgood was trustworthy, as faithful in his parents’ day as he’d proved in William’s own.

Another pang squeezed his heart. Thank God his parents hadn’t lived to see the mess he’d made of their line. Hadn’t seen the young lady they’d selected as his bride years ago become the talk of society, nor he become society’s joke. Despite the thorny past, he missed them. Their deaths had come too soon, although he couldn’t but be glad they’d been spared such opened eyes.

His thoughts turned to Hartwell Abbey. His home all his life. His haven. His escape.

Perhaps now, as they neared the end of this session of Parliament, he could escape. Now that he wasn’t expected to grace social functions he had no care for, nor attend the events his wife had insisted they appear at which inevitably turned into a mockery of marriage, he could finally invest in what he’d always wanted: Hartwell’s experimental farm.

Hope flickered in his heart, tempering the heaviness of past days. Yes, one day soon he could devote his full attention to something he’d always dreamed. Surely recent progress in agricultural practices that had transformed the countryside and villages could be helped by the methods he and his men had labored over. He drew in a deep breath. He’d always had money. Now he had time. The ability to focus.

“Your Grace?”

He shook off the reverie, descended the carriage’s step, and eyed the hatchment on the door, the mourning wreath marking a death, then strode up the shallow steps and entered the house.