The Captivating Lady Charlotte (Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace #2)(9)
“Sometimes when a body relaxes …”
He shuddered. His wife was now but a body?
“And we can pull them more freely …”
Ignoring the gory details, he focused on the silent child, before the reason for her existence rose again. His wife. Wrotham. That night. He shuddered. “Take her away.”
“But—”
“I said take her away!”
And before any of them could see the moisture leaking from his eyes, he strode away, slamming the door to his bedchamber, where he could weep in solitude.
For of course the babe would be a girl.
Not an heir.
Not even a child he could call his own.
CHAPTER FOUR
Exeter House, Grosvenor Square
Three days later
“OF COURSE SHE must go.”
“But Mama—”
“Charlotte, please do not interrupt. Your father and I agree it would be impolite not to attend.”
Charlotte glanced at her father, whose face wore signs of impatience, not agreement.
“Oh, hurry up, child. We cannot be late. Half of London will be there.”
“But why?”
“Because she is—I mean, was a duchess!”
“But why must I go? I’ve never even met either of them.”
“Something to be thankful for, if the rumors are true,” Henry murmured, adjusting his black gloves in the doorway.
“I beg your pardon?” At the shake of his head, she looked to her mother. “How do you know the duke will even be there?”
“Because he always attends services. Now, this is not the time for idle speculation, Charlotte. Get yourself ready, and be downstairs in ten minutes.”
Charlotte bit back an unladylike retort sure to get her into more trouble and motioned to Ellen to continue her ministrations. Wiry strength lay in the older woman’s hands.
Within minutes she was downstairs, dressed in black crêpe, a small veil on her head. A short time later they were travelling in the landau to St. George’s, the site of today’s service, the regular Sunday time of communion sure to be packed with those wishing to pay their respects. How terrible an event to have occurred, on the very night of her ball, to have such sadness so close to where she’d spent the happiest evening of her life.
She studied her black gloves. Why did Mama want her to attend today? Their church attendance was sporadic at best. And with Mama’s insistence on Charlotte’s appearance, then releasing Ellen to ensure Charlotte’s best looks, it almost seemed as though she wished Charlotte to make a positive impression. Surely she did not wish Charlotte to secure a grieving widower, even if he were a duke. Mama wouldn’t, would she?
“Charlotte? Stop frowning.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She exchanged glances with Henry, then turned her attention outside. Spring had brought a flush of flowers, and the bright green new leaves were very pretty. Her spirits surged. Lord Markham, so assiduous in his attentions since the ball three nights ago, calling every afternoon, might even be amenable to taking her on a drive. “Do you think we could soon go and see Richmond Park? I’m sure it would be quite lovely at this time of year.”
Mama’s brow puckered. “Why you must suggest such a thing on such a sad day I do not know.”
“But it’s not as though we’re sad, is it? You yourself said only yesterday we scarcely knew—”
“Charlotte, that’s enough!”
“Yes, Mama.”
Charlotte returned her attention to outside the carriage, which even now was slowing, no doubt due to the crush of vehicles the closer they drew to Hanover Square.
Minutes later they were being escorted to their box near the front, a box for which Papa paid a large sum each year, even if he rarely attended, and when he did, always complained of the condescending attitude of the minister.
Charlotte looked around her. Whilst not strictly a funeral, the number of black bombazine adorned congregants gave heavy suggestion of mourners. She smiled at Lord Fanshawe, seated across the aisle, which he acknowledged with a nod and grin.
“Charlotte, it is impolitic to acknowledge a young man in church.”
“Yes, Mama.”
It seemed impolitic to acknowledge a young man anywhere. Mama had been less than pleased with the post-ball visits from so many gentlemen she deemed minor conquests. Approval for Saturday’s visit to Hyde Park with Lord Markham had been hard won, granted only by Henry’s reluctant attendance. Never mind. They’d had a wonderful hour, and getting to know her brother’s friend a little more had only deepened her attraction. He was such a handsome, charming man, always so amusing. Conversation with him always left her thrilled, wanting more …
The murmur of the congregants suddenly hushed, broken by a whispered, “The duke!”
Charlotte carefully peeked over her shoulder, working to make her movements as discreet as possible and not draw Mama’s ire, as the man walked slowly down the center aisle. She eyed him curiously. Thin, not above medium height nor particularly handsome, he was dressed smartly, though completely in black, right down to his black neckcloth. The most notable feature of his face were the dark, dark eyes above which rested thick dark brows, which seemed a little incongruous with the lighter brown hair. No, he would never be generally held attractive. His head was held stiffly, as if he were aware of the crowds watching him. He was stopped by someone—she squinted, the Duke of Sutherland?—before moving to enter the box across the aisle and one row in front.