Martha Barwood
Regency Romance Author
The Duke's Deliverance
Chapter One- Chapter Two – Chapter Three
Chapter One
The sun faded across the horizon as a crisp, March air bit through the wool trousers of Christopher Adlington, the Duke of Alenwood. His coattails hung fashionably low, but even his refined clothing was no match for a cold evening.
Christopher brushed the thick black hair from his forehead and held out his hand to assist his mother, Dowager Duchess Amelia, and his cousin, Louisa, as they followed him out of the carriage that had brought them to what many assured them would be the most impressive party of the Season. Then again, they all made such a claim and, for Christopher, they all fell short. At least, all but one party. But that was quite some time ago and it only brought him pain to remember it.
Lady Amelia gripped his arm, her gloves pressing into his coat. She led him up the stairs and he remembered his days of boyhood, being led by her. Once more, she was making every effort to lead him and train him in the way she wished for him to go.
“You must be certain to secure a wife this season, Christopher. I know it is painful to think about such thing. I know you shall fight me vehemently. I even know that you may think I am cruel for suggesting it. But you must,” she insisted, her grey eyes searching the crowd with resolve, as if she might conjure a wife from amongst the mass of people.
“Aunt Amelia, you cannot possibly believe he will simply set it all aside like that?” Louisa began. But before she could make a case in Christopher’s favor, their hostess drew near to greet them.
“Ah, Your Grace. You are very welcome. And Your Grace,’’ she said to the Dowager, “a delight to see you as always, and you, Lady Barlow,” purred Lady Wycliffe, gliding her way toward them.
Christopher stiffened against the hum of guests, the men in their coats, the ladies in their silk gowns, the laughter and frivolity which surrounded him. It scraped against his nerves and guilt welled up within his chest, thinking of the melodic voice that was missing amidst the crowd.
Eleanor should have been there.
A surge of panic left Christopher searching for a way out. He wanted to go home, to rush back to Alenwood Manor where he could bury himself in the hothouse among the rare orchids. In the greenery, he found a quiet order so opposite from this loud, expectant chaos.
“Certainly, Lady Wycliffe. I would be delighted to take tea this week,” his mother said, her fingers gripping him back to attention.
As Lady Wycliffe turned to greet other guests, Christopher dutifully followed his mother nearer to the ballroom, accepting that he was unlikely to escape. Within minutes, Louisa was off with friends and being invited to dance by gentlemen.
“You see?” his mother asked, nodding toward the pianoforte.
Two young ladies stood by the instrument as another gently ran her fingers along the top, as if tempted to play in spite of the musicians at the far end of the room. The young women laughed together and fluttered their fans.
“Fill your dance card, my boy. They are all beautiful, you cannot deny,” she said with urgency.
True. He couldn’t deny it. They were beautiful. And it meant nothing to him at all.
“Mother, please,” he said in a low tone, his jaw clenching, his fingers trembling as he adjusted his cravat.
Eleanor’s face flashed before his stormy grey eyes. Her reluctant smile as he urged her to go for a ride. A ride that would change everything. His guilt in that moment collided with his duty. Christopher felt himself retreating into himself, yet he nodded stiffly in acquiescence to his mother. He understood that she only wanted what was best for him. If only she understood that the best was to let him live without this pressure.
If only he could undo the past.
***
Charlotte Everleigh took a deep breath, smoothing the front of her dress as she stepped down from the creaking carriage. Her willowy figure straightened and her hazel eyes focused on the imposing estate before her. Unlike her own family’s home, it was in pristine condition.
Her mother, Lady Belinda, fussed over her own pastel gown, smoothing the worn muslin with nervous hands. Charlotte’s father, Lord Percival followed them from the coach, his patched frayed coat sagging and his eyes fixed downward. She’d seen his confidence plummet of late as their family’s debt grew into a silent shadow. Despite the custom, he trailed behind his wife and daughter. Her brother, Miles, awkwardly looked from their father to his sister and mother before taking the lead and walking in front.
As they entered the estate, Lady Wycliffe’s eyes caught them. Charlotte saw her stiffen with a polite smile, but narrowed gaze. She flicked her eyes up and down their attire so quickly that Charlotte wondered if she had imagined it altogether.
“You must gain his attention,” Lady Belinda whispered in Charlotte’s ear, taking hold of her arm with a subtle desperation.
“Mother?” Charlotte asked, her voice nearing a squeak.
“You know it must happen, Charlotte. Lord Archibald is most certainly here this evening and you must engage his regard,” she insisted.
Charlotte’s stomach twisted and she stared above the din of guests with defiance. She dreaded the feel of Lord Archibald’s coarse hands, the resistance settling firm within her. That man was grotesque. There were other young women who were hungry enough for power and wealth that they would seek his affections, but Charlotte could never want anything for herself so much.
And yet…she understood the situation they were in. It was not just for Charlotte. It was for her family and the pride of their entire ancestry. With a forced poise, she stepped forward into the hall. Certainly, she longed to return home to sketch the primrose she’d found that day, blooming along the edge of the property that had been in her family for generations. The property they were now at risk of losing.
Her sketches and their subjects were freedom. This was a gilded cage. She moved into the hall, trying to slide past the wealthy elites who crowded her path, but with so many people, she accidentally bumped one or two along the way, murmuring apologies and receiving pitied glances in reply.
Near the back of the hall, she saw the overstuffed face of Lord Archibald. It seemed he was regaling a selection of men and women with some story or other. He was known for his stories—although Charlotte had often imagined they were mostly made up to make him appear more important than he really was.
Despite his riches, he was the last man in the world she would ever wish to marry.
“Charlotte, my dear?” her mother prodded, urging her further into the hall.
Charlotte’s gaze swept across the room, but it stopped suddenly on a figure far to the right, near another doorway. His eyes appeared somewhat void, quite detached. There was something about the black-haired gentleman that led her to feel he understood the world beyond this frivolity. Perhaps it was the disinterested expression, or the way his mind appeared occupied by something more. Maybe she was just wishing there was someone else in the room who felt as she did.
As if sensing her gaze, the man turned his face directly toward hers and their eyes locked in a moment that sent a spark through Charlotte’s frame. For the briefest of seconds, she worried that she had been caught in eyeing him, that she would be considered forward or improper. But it instantly melted away when she saw the look in his own eye. It mirrored her unease. In many ways, it appeared as though he, too, didn’t belong in a room filled with matchmaking mothers and carefree gentry.
The connection held longer than it ought to have, and as Charlotte’s heart began to quicken, she noted just how attractive he was. With a sturdy build, broad shoulders, and a confident posture which betrayed no arrogance, he allowed the look to linger as well.
“Come, dear,” Lady Belinda insisted, ushering Charlotte from behind.
She hadn’t even noticed that her mother had followed her to the ballroom, but in a moment of confusion, she was led away from the single breath of peace she had felt all evening. The man was suddenly out of view, swallowed by the clamor and chaos of the room.
***
At least it was a little quieter in the drawing room.
Christopher stood near a towering window that overlooked the dark garden. The moon was high overhead and cast a glow that left him wondering if he might be able to sneak out and look through the greenery.
“Indeed, Lord Trenegle. I would love to dance the quadrille,” said a voice from behind.
Christopher glanced over his shoulder as a young woman passed, clearly delighted by the offer of a dance she had just received. A charming gentleman scribbled on her card and the hum of voices and subtle flirtations continued.
“It ought to have been you,” his mother said, coming up beside him as the others passed.
“Me? What do you mean, Mother?” Christopher asked.
“It ought to have been you asking for that young lady’s card. Dancing the quadrille. Enjoying the evening,” she said. “There are so many wonderful things in life when one has an ideal
partner. And although I know you believe you shall never find happiness again, I assure you that you will. There are a great number of lovely young women in the world. You cannot expect them all to fall short.”
“It is not that I have no expectation of other women, Mother. It is simply that I care not to know them. Not when my heart still belongs to another,” he said.
“Christopher…” she said, trailing off. He heard the mutual tones of sympathy and frustration. But he could not pretend he wanted to dance when he simply detested the idea.
“I should never have come this evening,” he said. Guilt surged in his chest. He couldn’t make his mother happy, but if he were even so much as to dance with another woman, it would be a betrayal to Eleanor’s memory.
Unwittingly, her broken form flashed in his mind. The way she lay on the ground at such a strange angle, lifeless eyes staring up at the clouds. Christopher clenched his fists behind his back. This was all a torture.
“Ah, Christopher. I mused whether you might have taken your leave,” said a resounding voice as it entered the drawing room.
Christopher turned and gave a small, but genuine smile. Lord Timothy Radford, his dearest friend, could nearly always brighten his spirits.
“Your Grace, what a pleasure to see you. As always, you look positively striking,” Timothy said, kissing the back of the Dowager Duchess’ hand in his charming way.
“Goodness, Timothy. Such a delightful rogue,” Amelia chuckled.
“Only when I find someone worth charming, Your Grace,” he replied with a youthful grin.
Christopher couldn’t help but find relief in his friend’s presence and the way he managed to lighten the mood. The interruption from his mother’s meddling was most welcome.
“And you, my friend? Dodging the marriage mart, I see?” Timothy asked, clapping Christopher on the back and gesturing toward a group of six debutantes, laughing and talking freely.
At this, Christopher had to force a smile. He took a glass of champagne from a servant passing by as his unease deepened. Despite Timothy’s warmth, he still felt the chain of his mother’s expectation.
“Aunt Amelia—oh, Lord Radford, good evening!” Louisa greeted. He gave her a polite nod, but otherwise allowed Louise to turn back to her aunt. “Aunt Amelia, Lord Belmond has asked to dance, and I agreed, but Elizabeth Warden has her eyes set on him and I fear she may be angry with me if I dance with him when he has not yet asked her this evening.”
Christopher and Timothy glanced at one another, both slightly amused by the dramas of the younger women that evening as they desperately sought the attentions of a man.
The Dowager and Louisa prattled on for a time and Christopher stepped aside with Timothy and they made their way out of the drawing room. Timothy was returning to the hall and Christopher joined him as they discussed business and the political situation at hand.
Suddenly, dread filled Christopher afresh. From the corner of his eye, he spied a figure.
Lord Frederick Langley. Miss Susan and Miss Faye followed, their polished presence drawing the eyes of many in the room. The gentlemen looked to the striking women and many of the debutantes in the room swooned when they noted Lord Frederick. But to Christopher, it was all a farce.
Would Frederick ever really let go of the past? Or did he and Christopher share the same fate?
Chapter Two
Three Years Ago
“Yes, yes. Of course, dear. Any man would be thrilled to show off such a prize. A hunt like that? How magnificent,” Frederick laughed, his blue eyes shining as he walked beside Eleanor St. Clair.
Christopher noted how Eleanor’s hair shone gold in the sun as the three made their way through the gardens of Alenwood. It was a bright afternoon and he’d been asked to show off some of his rare plants.
Frederick continued his tale of victory from his latest hunt and Christopher was content to be quiet beside them for a time. Frederick looked delighted.
Until Eleanor’s gaze turned to Christopher. Her gentle smile conveyed her choice. Christopher knew it in his heart, although he had no desire to hurt his friend.
But it was too late. Frederick had seen the look as well. His own face hardened. Envy flashed in his eyes and he took a step back. And it was a look Christopher would never forget.
“Would you like to see the orchids?” Christopher asked, trying to bring the topic back to the gardens.
“I think I have seen enough for one day,” Frederick said in a clipped manner.
“But I am sure they are beautiful,” Eleanor said, clearly realizing she was the cause of the sudden discomfort.
Frederick’s eyes narrowed briefly.
“Sometimes we expect beauty only to find disappointment,” he said, the bitterness dripping from his lips.
It was a day that would change the course of Christopher’s life forever.
***
Across the room, Frederick met Christopher’s eyes. He nodded, coolly, with an expression that hinted at that old betrayal. As always, malice subtly lurked behind those heavy-lidded, blue eyes.
Christopher’s chest tightened and he tried to take a calm, deep breath without expressing his discomfort. Frederick looked away and greeted others, the two ladies following behind. Guilt and wariness mingled within Christopher, knowing that he would have to avoid his old friend, now turned foe. It was never a joy to see him at events, but there was little that could be done to prevent it. They were often invited to the same parties.
“Christopher,” his mother urged him, tugging at his arm.
“Yes, Mother?”
“Miss Grayson does not have a partner for the dance,” she said, gesturing to the shy blonde in her lavender silk gown.
The young lady curtsied awkwardly, hardly meeting Christopher’s eyes. She was pretty, and Christopher appreciated that her shyness likely meant he would not have to push for conversation beyond the polite greetings.
“Miss Grayson,” he said, forcing himself to remain polite and not beg his mother to leave him alone. “Would you care to dance?”
“Indeed, Your Grace,” she replied with a trembling smile.
Christopher bowed and led her to the dance floor as a new tune struck.
“You dance very well, Your Grace” Miss Grayson said in a practiced manner.
“As do you,” he replied. Christopher knew he was anything but graceful in his steps. He was precise, but stiff.
“And it is a lovely evening,” she said, nervously chattering. “The chandeliers are particularly lovely. Lady Wycliffe has excellent taste.”
Once more, it was the expected thing to say. One had to compliment their host and Miss Grayson understood her duty. Christopher nodded his agreement as his feet led them both in the steps of the dance.
Although he detested the socializing, the banter, and the expectations of a ball, he did not hate the order of movement that was expected in the steps of the dances. Order meant much to him. Whether in a dance or in nature.
The order within plants and botany was, perhaps, of greatest interest. Eleanor had always humored him and listened to his discoveries about the rare plants in his hothouse, even though he knew it was not of any great interest to her.
For a moment, Christopher was able to push aside thoughts of the woman he’d loved and think only on the rare orchids that he had been tending over the previous year. Although it was brief, and although Miss Grayson’s chatter was still humming in the background, Eleanor’s ghost was drifting into retreat.
***
“Looks delicious, does it not?” Lady Belinda asked, eyeing the refreshment table.
Charlotte gave a wan smile. She knew her mother missed treats such as these, wishing their family were still in such a position to enjoy this luxury.
“Goodness, why did you not choose another comb?” she asked Charlotte, suddenly. With trembling fingers, Lady Belinda fixed the comb in Charlotte’s hair, trying to hide the tarnished silver behind Charlotte’s auburn locks.
“We had none,” Charlotte replied with a shrug.
“You mustn’t do that with your shoulders. And straighten your back. Lord Archibald is just beyond Sir Hugh and you must smile and charm him as best you can. You know that our survival is dependent upon this match,” she insisted, her voice desperate and raw in light of their circumstances.
Charlotte’s jaw clenched, she twisted her hands, the anger welled within her chest and rose to her throat, burning and fierce. She couldn’t believe that it had come to this. She didn’t want to be her family’s only hope. And she grieved that the hope came only with her marrying that awful man.
She wanted to go home. She wanted to return to her sketches, to run free each day and collect the wildflowers that she might capture their beauty on paper. She wanted to enjoy life and enjoy beauty. A marriage to Lord Archibald could never provide that.
Freedom was slipping away under her mother’s insistence. It coiled within Charlotte’s breast, the malevolent smirk, the coarse hands, the shrill voice of Lord Archibald. His pride, his haughtiness, his unwavering resolve to possess a woman rather than to cherish her.
Lord Archibald lumbered over in that moment, a repulsive smile spreading across his face. He bowed, gruffly, and took her petite hand in his meaty fist.
“Ah, Lady Charlotte. I am certainly glad to see you. It has been three days since you visited my London home. And surely, you would love to join me in Kent to see the estate,” he said, his voice drowning out the music.
She smiled politely, not knowing what to say.
“Lord Archibald, we should be delighted, shouldn’t we, Charlotte?” her mother prodded.
“Yes…indeed,” she replied with a contrived half-smile.
“And what of the quadrille? I am sure you have saved room for me on your dance card,” he said, leering further, making Charlotte feel somehow exposed.
“She has, Lord Archibald,” Lady Belinda responded quickly.
Without another word, Lord Archibald gripped Charlotte’s hand to the point that she felt bruised. The music began and so did their steps. Charlotte moved tensely, feeling the weight of his eyes. Whenever they came together, his wine-soaked breath hovered, choking her. Nausea lurched in her gut, thinking that she may have no choice but to accept a future with this horrible man.
“You are a lovely cut of a woman,” he said, coarsely. Although he had not spoken with any sort of vivid language, Charlotte knew that he was speaking of her figure, crossing the boundary she would have expected had he not indulged in the spirits available that evening.
At first, she did not speak, but she caught her mother’s eye a moment later. Charlotte’s own hazel eyes darted between her mother and the man who was staring her down with an unpleasant eagerness. She knew she had to say something in turn.
“Thank you, Lord Archibald,” was all she could manage. Still, he appeared to think this was an encouragement.
To imagine that her parents expected a match! Charlotte would have to live the remainder of her life with this horrid beast of a man! How could she possibly bear it?
They drew near to Miles, who was dancing with a lovely young woman. Charlotte had seen her before and was trying to recall her name. Louisa, was it? They appeared to be having a lovely time. The young woman was speaking freely and Charlotte saw a shy grin on her brother’s face. It made her happy to see him enjoying the partner with whom he danced. But it was so different to what Charlotte was experiencing.
“You must surely know that I am looking forward to furthering our courtship,” Lord Archibald said, his voice sounding stuffy.
“Courtship? Are you certain that is your desire?” she asked, politely but hoping he didn’t mean it.
Lord Archibald didn’t have a chance to answer. The music came to an end and the dancers clapped and laughed and began to step away from the dance floor or find their next partner. Lord Archibald was looking toward the musicians and Charlotte took the opportunity to slide away unnoticed.
“Charlotte!” her mother hissed from the edge of the dance floor.
“Mother?”
“Goodness, you shall be the death of me. Of us all. Or…or perhaps just of our family name. Regardless, you have made it abundantly clear that you care nothing for the importance of this evening and of your match with Lord Archibald,” her mother said.
Charlotte’s shoulders drooped. She knew that she had a duty, but that didn’t make it any easier. Her mother had to understand. She, too, had been young once. It was awful to imagine that Charlotte was doomed to a marriage wherein love was absent. But it was far, far worse to imagine that she might have to marry an overgrown, red-faced creature of pride and insensibility.
“Mother, I have done all I am able. I was perfectly well-behaved during the dance. I maintained propriety even when he did not,” she said.
For a moment, her mother’s eyes widened in horror at the thought of the man being improper. But she quickly hardened.
“You appeared displeased to be dancing with him. You must smile more, Charlotte. This man loves you and wishes to make you his wife. The least you can do is refrain from expressing evident disgust when he speaks to you,” her mother said.
“I thought I hid my disgust very well,” Charlotte replied in a low voice.
“Oh!” Lady Belinda spluttered. “I did not mean literally that you were disgusted. For how can you be? He is an excellent match. I meant only that…that you ought not to look as though you have so little respect for him.”
“Mother, you know exactly how I feel on the matter of my impending doom,” Charlotte said, recognizing that she was, perhaps, being a little more dramatic than she would have liked. She was an obedient daughter, but that didn’t stop her from confessing to her mother what a horrible sacrifice this match would be. Even if she had no choice, and even if she chose to submit, it didn’t undo the fact that she disliked the man.
“Doom? The only calamity I can envision is the one we shall encounter if you do not win the favour of Lord Archibald. We may find ourselves reduced to the status of beggars or, Heaven forbid, languishing in a debtor’s gaol. That, my dear daughter, is doom. And that is precisely why you must show greater encouragement toward Lord Archibald. Woo him as you would have a man woo you, my dear,” Lady Belinda said, as though it were the final word.
Charlotte took a deep breath. Was there really nothing more she could do?
***
“Dinner is served,” announced the butler, as all the guests made their way to a long table. Christopher sat beside his mother. She was sipping her wine with a little more relish than she generally did, but it actually made him smile for a moment. She was occupied by her gossip with another woman, but a gentleman sat between them and they could not discuss it any further.
“Well, that won’t do at all. Did you hear what the Ton said? Miss Wainsbrough, the heiress, is worth more than thirty thousand pounds, and she is betrothed to marry a physician. Her uncle does not approve. Still, she insists. And he has said that he would not stop her from receiving her birthright even she does defy him. Can you imagine? Refusing to obey the desires of a man who practically raised her?” the Dowager went on.
Christopher eyed his mother for a moment, not sure what to say, for it mattered little to him.
“Oh, really, Christopher,” she continued, frustrated. “You might at least have some interest. After all, Miss Wainsbrough is a fine young woman. She ought to marry someone of her station or better. And yet, she is choosing a man who makes little more than eighty pounds a year as he prefers to work in the country with the poor who cannot even afford to pay him.”
“I would think such a thing is considered admirable, rather than a reason to disqualify him from the betrothal,” Christopher noted.
His mother dismissed his remarks with a wave of her hand.
“No, my dear. You know what it is like in society. It simply does not work that way. It is important for a man to lead his wife even in wealth. She ought to look for someone of a higher rank, at the very least. Someone like you,” she said.
“Far be it from me to invade true love where it already stands,” he replied.
“Very well, very well,” she said in frustration. “But there must be someone. What about Miss Grayson? She is quite lovely, is she not?”
“Indeed, she is. However, I think we are not quite a match. There would be no conversation between us. She tries to overcome her shyness with something to say, but it comes out only as the societal platitudes that are expected,” he said.
“What of it? That is all any young woman is allowed to speak. Societal platitudes are simply the norm in English society,” she refuted.
As his mother continued her urging that he should find a wife and that this was an ideal evening to begin looking, he noticed the woman from earlier in the evening once more. She was right across the table from him, seated next to that awful, sweaty Lord Archibald and a woman on the other side who appeared to be her mother. He also saw Louisa sitting next to a young man who had to be that woman’s brother, for he looked quite like the masculine version of the young lady and their mother.
Louisa was quite clearly enjoying the conversation and Christopher was beginning to wonder if there might be a true interest there. He could hear them speaking about a recent concert that had taken place in London the week before. Apparently they had attended on the same evening.
“Who is that young man?” Christopher asked his mother. While he was interested for Louisa’s sake, he was also curious about the young lady across from him.
“Ah, Lord Miles Everleigh. His father is the Earl of Evesdale,” she noted, with a twinge of gossip in her tone.
“Evesdale?”
“Yes, I am sure you know all about their recent situation,” she said.
Christopher didn’t respond. He knew nothing of their situation, but it didn’t matter to him. He had no desire for further gossip or the sharing of unnecessary details. If his mother was not concerned about the young man communicating with Louisa, then the situation could not be anything too dire. Besides, although he noticed the young woman, it meant nothing. It wasn’t as though he wished to know her better or to be involved in any way in the family’s circumstance.
Still, his eyes lingered on her for a moment. She held such poise beneath the looming and, nearly wicked gaze of Lord Archibald. Christopher couldn’t help but admire her fortitude. She truly was a beautiful young woman. She twisted her hands in discomfort for just a moment, but quickly straightened her back and resumed the appearance of calm.
Guilt warred within Christopher for having noticed her. There was a strange pull in his chest as he eyed her.
His mother continued to speak, but her words faded as Christopher sat with his fork lazily in his hand, hovering over the plate that was presented before him.
The room was filled with chatter, but it was heavy with the unspoken.
Had he really come to this? Could he actually notice another woman? Was he ready to betray the memory of all that he held dear?
Chapter Three
Christopher coughed as he made his way down the busy street. It had been two days since the suffocation of the ball and he much preferred the suffocation of the coal smoke that thickly permeated the air. It was punctured here and there by the faintly sweet scent of spring blooms.
The Dowager had insisted that he should join Louisa and her, and while the day of shopping for calico and the purchasing of ribbons meant nothing to him, he was glad to be out for a short time before he would return home to his orchids and other lovely plants. It was rare that he would leave home, but it gave him a chance to see the flowers and trees that grew away from Alenwood Manor.
His mother had looped her arm through his earlier as they browsed a perfume shop, but Christopher had managed to slip away while the two women were occupied. He needed a moment away from his mother. As dearly as he loved her, there were times when he needed a break from her pushing.
She would not stop trying to lift his spirits. She constantly wanted to make him feel happier and brighter.
It was not as though he enjoyed being sad or enjoyed feeling grief. Rather, Christopher would have loved nothing more than to show joy and have peace in his heart. He longed to seek happiness. But his guilt would allow no such thing. And the only solace he could find was amongst his plants.
The urge to flee back to Alenwood Manor arose, suddenly finding all the noise of the carriages and the shouts of hawking peddlers to dig into his nerves. The sounds were overcome by the gentle whisper of Eleanor’s voice.
“Why couldn’t you save me?” she seemed to ask him. The weight of failure pressed in upon him.
“Christopher, strange to see you out and about,” said another voice, entirely different.
He looked to his left and saw Timothy coming toward him. His ruddy cheeks flushed with warmth as he clapped Christopher on the shoulder.
“Are you alone or just enjoying the view?” he asked, nodding to the debutantes across the street. “Avoiding them, I expect, rather.”
Christopher managed a thin smile. He knew that Timothy was not trying to be cruel. He didn’t understand the ache in Christopher’s chest.
“I suppose you know me well enough,” Christopher said in reply.
“Ah, well, it’s not such a big thing, Christopher. If you have no desire to marry right away, you may as well avoid them. For myself, I am a great appreciator of marriage and of the young ladies who enter into it,” Timothy replied with his booming laugh.
Timothy was easy to be around. His camaraderie tugged at Christopher, giving him a lifeline. He wanted to grasp at it, to enjoy the boom of life as his friend did. But he was still frightened of what might come. He was grateful, yet full of dread that he might allow someone close to him again, only to lose her.
***
Charlotte flipped the pages of a book about plants native to India. The weather was fine as she stood beside the bookseller’s stall on the very busy street. Her mother was only a few steps away, hovering as usual, and adjusting her bonnet.
“You know that we cannot afford for you to purchase every book that takes your fancy,” he mother reminded her.
“Yes, Mother, I know. I simply wanted to look through it,” she replied.
“Miles, I often think your sister expects a great deal more than we can offer. Now, if she were to marry…and to marry a wealthy man who could afford her all the books in the world, that would be an ideal situation for us all,” Lady Belinda said with a sigh.
Miles nodded absently, knowing that his mother would soon be on his case for finding an heiress if he wasn’t careful to remind her about the importance of his studies.
“That one looks like the drawing you did last week,” he said, pointing to an image in the book Charlotte held.
“If only…” she replied with a smile. “I do wish that I could capture a flower so lovely as this on a page.”
“You mustn’t diminish your skill, Charlotte. Your precision and excellence are unmatched,” he praised.
Charlotte grinned at him with appreciation.
“Well, I do not think you care so much about the beauty of flowers as you did about that young woman you danced with the other night at the ball. And sat beside at dinner. Have Mother and Father pressed you no further on marriage? Or are they still willing to allow you to study so that you might not meet the same misfortunes as the rest of the family?” Charlotte asked.
“I hardly think they even noticed I was speaking with someone,” he replied. “Although, I will say, she was lovely enough that I might be willing to set aside my studies for an hour or two if I could pay a call.”
“Truly? Tell me about her. She was beautiful, but what was it that so fascinated you?”
“Her name is Lady Louisa Barlow. She has such optimism, such brightness,” he said, dreamily.
“I am glad you have found someone you enjoyed. Shall you pay a call?” Charlotte asked.
“I may. But I should like to speak with her family first. She is staying with her cousin and aunt at the moment,” he said.
Charlotte was happy for her brother, although she wished that she, too, could consider making a match that was born out of admiration. Defiance churned in her belly as she thought of Lord Archibald’s hands. The cage forged by her parents was unbearable.
She remembered that other man, the one whose eyes met hers. He had sat across from her at the dinner table and, once or twice, she thought she had noticed him looking her way, but any time she glanced up at him, he shifted. Perhaps she had imagined it. But he was so handsome and there had been that moment, early in the evening. She had been certain then that he had noticed her. But maybe that, too, was coincidence. After all, if he’d had any real interest, he would have spoken to her or asked for a dance.
As if conjured by her memory, Charlotte gasped when she saw the very same man across the street with his friend. And, to her great shock, his eyes met hers in the same moment.
Pulse quickening and hands slightly shaking, Charlotte closed the book in her hands. Her mother was eager to move on and Charlotte was now full of a mix of curiosity and unrest.
A cry pierced the air and Charlotte craned her neck, along with the rest of the shoppers in the street. A carriage careened around the corner and a huddle of women dove out of the way just in time. Black horses reared, hooves pounding, reins snapping.
The coachman yelled and barrels tumbled free from the carriage. The lot of them came rolling directly for the handsome gentleman just across the street.
Horror flooded Charlotte and she dropped the book.
“No!” she cried out, desperately trying to warn him.
Charlotte pushed boldly through the throng, inadvertently jostling the gentlemen aside, as the man was soon to be overthrown and seemed only just to have noticed it. With a moment to spare, Charlotte threw herself into his chest, pushing him aside so that he crashed to the cobblestones below.
Charlotte landed atop him, but, mercifully, the barrels just missed them and smashed into a lantern-stand instead, splintering the wood.
Screams arose again at the sight, with women gasping in horror and men rushing to offer assistance.
But Charlotte’s eyes locked with the man’s as she pushed herself aside, knowing how improper it all appeared.
The man’s gentle hands gripped her waist as they looked to one another. She saw the gratitude, the lingering fear of what had nearly happened, and she thought she recognized attraction on his part as well.
Warmth seeped into her chest. She couldn’t have let him die. Whomever he was, whatever it was that drew her to him, she couldn’t let him die. She knew it now more than ever as she stood there looking into his stunned grey eyes.
***
Christopher gritted his teeth and pain seared through his chest as he forced himself up from the cobblestones. He already felt the bruises forming.
His eyes met the young woman’s hazel gaze, wide with worry and something softer. Despite the ache he felt all over, he steadied himself and stood, offering a hand to help her up. Her fingers trembled as they clasped his hand.
“Your gown…” he said, softly, noting that it was streaked with dirt. Still, their hands were clasped and he hardly noticed that he hadn’t let go. “Thank you. You saved me.”
“I couldn’t let you fall,” she replied, quietly.
His chest tightened. He hadn’t felt this gratitude, or interest of any kind, since Eleanor. Guilt clawed at him and he remembered her broken body. He didn’t deserve this kindness. And yet, this young woman’s courage cut through his darkness. A fragile connection was forming amid the wreckage of their surrounding, and of his pain.
“Christopher!” cried a voice, breaking the connection.
He turned to see his mother rushing from the perfume shop down the street. Louisa trailed behind. Panic was evident in his mother’s face and voice.
“Christopher! Good gracious. What happened? Are you all right? What has happened? Are you hurt?” the Dowager asked, examining him and clutching his arm.
“I am perfectly all right, Mother,” he replied, noting her own fear as a mirror to his own buried dread of loss.
The woman he had assumed to be the mother of this young lady appeared from the crowd and clutched her daughter’s elbow.
“Charlotte! Think of propriety!” she hissed, furiously noting the incident. “This might as well be your ruin!”
She pulled the young woman, Charlotte, away from Christopher.
Timothy stepped forward, equally discomforted by the scene.
“As you can all see, the Duke of Alenwood is perfectly well. You may all now disperse,” Timothy said in a firm, authoritative tone. His eyes were sharp as he scanned the chaos and Christopher was grateful that the people appeared to obey, making their way back to the shops they had come from.
“The coach is coming,” his mother said quickly, waving for the coachman. “We must make haste for Alenwood Manor and send for the physician.”
“Mother, your grip hurts worse than the fall,” Christopher insisted.
He looked back to the young woman, whose eyes lingered on him as her mother dragged her away. He very nearly called for them to stop so that he might thank her further.
But within moments, they were around the corner and had disappeared out of sight.
