The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(18)
He shook his head. “You are aware that, for all these visits, Father will never countenance Markham as a potential son-in-law.”
“What? Of course he will.”
The frustration in his eyes now layered with something more like pity. “You’re actually serious about him.”
“Of course I am! He is kind, handsome, charming, and titled.”
“He’s also heavily mortgaged and, Lottie, I hate to say this, but Markham is hardly the type of man to refrain from enjoying the favors of other ladies.”
She gasped.
“I’m sorry if I shock you, but you cannot be so naive as to think our parents would permit you to marry anyone less than an earl.”
“But I don’t want to marry an earl! I want to marry him!”
“Charlotte! Calm yourself.”
“Now you sound like Mama.”
He shook his head. “I’d be doing you a great disservice to allow you to continue in this infatuation.”
“It’s not an infatuation! He feels the same way, too.”
His brows pushed together. “The same way as what, precisely?”
“He … he holds me in regard.”
“He’s said that?”
“Of course!” She frowned. Wait. Had he? Or had she said that? He must if he wanted to visit her in Devon! She shook away the uncertainty. “This is none of your business, anyway.”
“Where the family reputation is concerned, it is my business, Charlotte.”
“How dare you?”
“Keep your voice down, unless you want Mama in here.” He leaned close. “Have you already forgotten the scandal surrounding Pamela Hartington? The duchess has been dead for weeks, but still the gossip doesn’t die. I cannot allow my sister to conduct herself in a manner conducive to wagging tongues.”
She bit back the anger, forced in a deep breath, let it out on a sigh. “Henry.” Relief at her sufficiently calm tone helped her smile. “Truly, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I’ve done nothing improper.” He opened his mouth to speak so she hurried on. “Neither has Lord Markham. He is a gentleman, someone I have come to admire, and yes, I enjoy his company very much. I wish you could trust me.”
“I trust you.”
“Just not him? Then we shall need to prove ourselves, won’t we?” She hopped off the bed, moved to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Mama.”
“Why?”
“Because I want her to know how much of a gentleman he has been.”
“I don’t think that wise—”
“Thank you, brother dear, but you have shared enough of your opinions for the moment.”
“This is a mistake!” he called, as she walked down the hall.
No, it wasn’t, she thought. A mistake would be letting her parents continue in the misapprehension that she planned to give up her friendship with her handsome lord for a future with a man she had yet to meet.
Marry someone she did not love? Why, the idea was ludicrous!
Hartwell Abbey
“And how are you keeping, sir?”
“Well, thank you, Lady Hawkesbury.”
She nodded, the afternoon light streaming through the drawing-room window, the Gothic glass highlighting copper strands in her hair. “And how do you fill your days?”
William mentioned something of his agricultural and scientific interests and his hopes for the asylum at Bethlem before returning the question. As she and her husband answered, he thought on the past fortnight since his last visitors had left in such high dudgeon.
The days had slid past slowly, counted by sunrises, the exact measurements of barley, and the hushed murmurings of his servants whenever he passed. He’d never noticed just how cavernous the Abbey felt, how empty it seemed. During his brief, tumultuous marriage, Pamela had never been content with just his company, and the house had been filled with guests, some of whom he met for the first time on their arrival. He hadn’t minded at first, had initially thought she too would see the Abbey’s beautiful, historic features and grow to love Hartwell as he did. Just hadn’t counted on her appreciating certain historic elements far more than others.
Lavinia glanced around at the pointed arches, ornate ceiling frescos, the aged tapestries lining the wall. “This is such a lovely building, with many ancient tales, I’m sure.”
He told her something of the Abbey’s history. Like many an abbey claimed by Henry VIII, Hartwell had its share of secrets: concealed passages, hidden rooms, tunnels that linked the cellars and stables. The medieval features of an age of hidden priests had fascinated him as a boy, had led to many a game of hiding with his sister.
He didn’t tell his guests how the secret passages had apparently also held appeal to his wife, as a way of ensuring her exit from her bedchamber to that of her paramour. Jensen had first alerted him to his wife’s indiscretions at William’s ancestral home. He had not believed his ears, until one night’s silent watching had given proof of her infidelity, and he’d been forced to believe his eyes. Then he’d been forced to dismiss his coachman Rogerson for helping the duchess in her immoral activities.
Strange. Remembering such things did not sting the same anymore. Perhaps he was growing too accustomed to the lifestyle of those who’d populated the Abbey hundreds of years ago. Surrounded by others, yet rarely talking, content instead to fill his days with nature, with contemplation—albeit of scientific pursuits—finding comfort for his sins from the Bible. He was content. Wasn’t he? Or did God want something more from him? More for him? Hope flickered, dwindled.