The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(14)

“What people?”

Her mother refused to meet her eyes, glancing away, her smile widening as she nodded to a small party approaching them. “Oh, hello Amelia! How is Lady Anne? I trust she’s recovered from her cold? No? Such a shame it should happen during her first season. I’ve always been so fortunate to be in the pink of health myself, and as for dear sweet Charlotte here, I cannot remember the last time she was ill. Well, lovely chatting with you, as always.”

Mama’s clasp on her arm tightened, and her smile seemed brittle as they hastened decorously back to their party. Lord Markham glanced up from his conversation with Henry, offering a quick smile that she returned.

“Charlotte!” Mama whispered.

She fought a sigh, and moved to stand near where Father was speaking to the earl and Lavinia. Yes, she would heed Mama’s advice, but surely it was only polite to acknowledge a friendly gesture!

“And if you would be so good as to pass on our good wishes to Hartington when you next see him.”

Her attention snagged. The man with the black brows and darker soul?

“Of course, sir,” Lord Hawkesbury was saying. “He seems improved in spirits of late.”

“Well, of course. Without that treacherous millstone around his neck—”

“Ahem!” The earl raised his brows at Father before turning to her. “How are you, Lady Charlotte?”

Disquiet swirled within. What millstone did they refer to? Why did they hush when she drew near? What were they hiding? Oh, why did people think her such a child?

“Charlotte?” Lavinia placed a hand on her arm. “Are you quite well?”

Charlotte nodded, forcing her lips up. She would not let talk of that man spoil her evening. “Of course!”

“Then shall we see the fireworks?”

“Oh, yes!”

Within minutes they had moved to the part of the park offering the best vantage of the fireworks, so Henry assured. Here the trees were a little farther back, offering a clearer view, something the swelling crowds seemed aware of also, as they drew closer, their anticipation palpable.

Boom! Rockets soared skywards, bursting into golden stars.

She clapped her hands. “Oh, it is enchanting!”

Lord Markham, who had somehow managed to secure a position beside her, smiled down into her eyes. “I agree.”

But his eyes were not on the sky show, being fixed on her instead. She was thankful for the darkness, as another blush heated her cheeks.

She forced her attention heavenward, as the yellow and orange starbursts continued to illuminate the sky, conscious of his nearness, of his delightful sandalwood aroma, of the delicious thrill to have a man she admired admire her in return.

“I wish you great joy for your birthday,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. “And for the year ahead.”

Shivers rippled up her spine, her heart swelling with thankfulness for this most wonderful evening—this most wonderful man!—and she pleaded for God to continue to open the doors that would bless her future.



Hartwell Abbey, Northamptonshire


William studied the fields of rippling green. “The barley held up well over winter.”

“That it has, Your Grace. Not too many losses this year.” Mr. Hapgood bobbed his head.

“So you think the new seeds worked?”

“That I do, sir. That, and the addition of the fertilizer you created.”

A flicker of pride swelled in his chest. So perhaps he could get some things right.

“And the shallow drilling?”

“They be your fields, sir”—this was said with a sidelong glance at William—“but yes, best to be avoided from now on, I be thinking.”

William nodded, thankful once again that this man, estate manager extraordinaire, held the practices of his father and grandfather loosely. While some might consider that gentlemen had no right to be farmers, he’d never understood how a landlord could be satisfied with owning farms that yielded less than maximum productivity. Increasing rent was one thing, but surely knowing the people dependent on the land—his tenants, his villagers—would not go hungry was of greater importance. And if it meant people scorned his “loss of gentility,” as Pamela had so often derided his scientific and agricultural experiments, then so be it. Surely he should care more for his people’s welfare than his reputation.

Further discussion between them ceased with the arrival of a servant. “Your Grace, you are needed back at the Abbey. Lord and Lady Clarkson have arrived.”

Pamela’s parents. His heart sank. Acknowledging his obligation to Hapgood he turned and strolled back to the house. It would not do to make the viscount and his wife wait too long, but neither would he hurry back like an errant schoolboy, for what would doubtless lead to another fiery encounter.

His thoughts turned to their last meeting, the day of Pamela’s burial. Lady Clarkson’s sobs had haunted him almost as much as his memories of that terrible night. His heart had grown cold toward his wife long ago, but something in the way her mother had carried on, careless of observers, had touched his soul and made him wish he’d been a better husband, so Pamela had not felt the need to stray. But regrets were like dead seeds: useless things.

When he entered the hall, Jensen hurried forward, eyeing his mud-spattered clothes. “Your Grace, perhaps you might wish to change?”