The Reluctant Marquess (10 page)

“That is for me to decide.”

Could this be the same man who made love to her so tenderly? The hero and lover of her dreams? His expression was closed, and he turned away from her with a dismissive gesture, as if she meant nothing to him. As if ... he wanted to be gone.

“I want so much from this marriage, Robert,” she said urgently. “That’s why I tried to make amends between your mother and you.”

“You should not have taken such a thing upon yourself.”

“No, it seems not,” she said, clutching the sheet to her chest. “You may be disappointed in me for trying. But I am equally disappointed in you. You’ve behaved badly too.” He whirled around. “I beg your pardon?”

Charity gasped. “You ... you cannot forgive others their mistakes, but you are quite happy with your own conduct!”

She swallowed. “You are ... spoiled and you are ...” She groped for words as anger and distress threatened to close her throat.

“Pompous!”

Robert’s face blanched white. “I believe I’ll retire to my dressing room,” he said. “You are welcome to remain here if you wish.”

He threw open the door and left the room, closing it behind him. With a sob, Charity pulled on her gown and gathered up the tattered remains of the expensive nightgown. She walked out into the shadowy corridor and tiptoed back to her bedchamber, sniffing back tears. On reaching it, she climbed into her bed and sobbed into the pillow. Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone to see his mother, but the anguish of living as they had when she loved him, was something she couldn’t bear. Robert was right though.

She thought she had the power to set all things to rights and make him happy again. She had desperately wanted to be part of his family, as well as having a family of her own. How mistaken she’d been. Now her dreams had turned to ashes. She wiped her eyes on the corner of the sheet and gulped. The feeling of Robert’s body on hers, so strong and yet so tender, she would dream of for the rest of her life, for surely he would never make love to her again.

Chapter Seven

Two weeks passed in strained silence, their argument never mentioned. Charity met Robert for dinner every evening, and he escorted her to social events. He did just what she demanded of him, complimenting her gown and remaining by her side for most of the evening. It was as if they performed for an audience, and then went their separate ways, he to his friends at the club, her to her new friends at card parties and the like. She had never wished for this shabby pretense and railed against it. But what could she do? She could hardly try seducing him again, having failed so miserably before. The thought of a rebuff was too painful to contemplate.

By the third week, she feared she would explode and do something outrageous, just to gain his attention and make him look at her as if he really saw her.

They attended a soiree, and Charity found, despite her low spirits or perhaps because of them, she warmed at the sight of what had become familiar and friendly faces in the crowd.

“My, that’s a pretty gown you’re wearing.” Mrs Summerton, a newly married woman of a similar age came eagerly to greet her.

“Where did your dressmaker find such exquisite silk damask?”

Charity smoothed the folds of the elaborate gold damask gown. She felt quite grand with two feathers in her piled-up hair. “Paris, I believe,” she said with a smile.

“But of course!” Mrs Summerton cried.

Mr Summerton raised Charity’s hand to his lips. “A pleasure to see you, Lady St Malin.” He smiled apologetically. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to talk fripperies with my wife.” He took Robert’s arm, and they strolled off, deep in conversation. A reference to the horse races drifted back with the tangy odor of snuff.

Charity looked after them. This would all be so wonderful if things were right between her and Robert. She sighed as Lady Langden, who had become a firm friend, approached. She would no doubt wish to discuss the latest scandals and on-dits, and Charity would listen politely, her lips remaining firmly closed.

As Charity wandered the ballroom on Lady Langden’s arm, she saw a small crowd had gathered at the door, around a tall, fair young woman.

“Who is that lady?” she asked.

“That’s Mrs Marchant.” Amelia Langden’s brows rose. “Formerly Millicent Burrowdale.”

The young woman, wearing a fashionable, sheer muslin chemise dress, which clung and revealed much of her excellent figure, emerged from the crowd on her husband’s arm. He was considerably shorter than his wife, and stout, his waistcoat straining over his stomach.

Charity watched as Millicent approached Robert and playfully tapped his arm with her fan. He bowed, spoke briefly to them both and moved on. “She’s very beautiful, and she knows Robert.” Charity suffered a rush of jealousy that heated her cheeks.

Amelia tugged on her arm, turning her in another direction. “Let’s sit over there.”

They took a glass of champagne from a waiter and settled on two gilt chairs beside a potted rhododendron.

“You will probably hear this at some point,” Amelia said. “Robert once asked for Millicent’s hand. Her father, who’d made his money in trade, rejected his offer. It was judged absurd at the time, but her husband is fabulously wealthy.”

“So that is she.”

“Oh, you know about it.” Amelia looked a bit disappointed, before recovering herself. “That’s all in the past, of course. He shows no interest in her now.”

“How do you know?” Charity gazed in the woman’s direction, as a weight settled over her heart. Robert had been desperately in love with Millicent. Was he still?

“He didn’t look back at her. You can always tell by that.”

“Can you?”

“Indeed.” Amelia nodded sagely. “If a man is interested he can’t resist another peek. She’s a bit of a thin stick if you ask me. And stupid. Fancy choosing that common little man over Robert.” She patted Charity’s arm. “Besides, Robert is obsessed with you.”

Charity forced herself to smile. “How kind you are.”

“Here comes your handsome husband now. I wouldn’t mention that you know of this, my dear.”

Charity rose as Robert came to claim her for a dance. She endured his formal manner during the quadrille, but when he escorted her from the floor and left her to go the gaming tables, she watched him to see if he glanced back at her. She felt a little comforted when, pausing at the door of the antechamber, he did.

But then the thought crossed her mind that he might have been checking to see she behaved appropriately.

During the following weeks, invitation upon invitation flowed in. More gowns were ordered, more hats and shoes, reticules, cloaks and gloves than one body could wish for. A rainbow of colours and textures, silks and satins and nets filled her clothes press. It should have been a delight. Yet it wasn’t.

When alone, the air crackled with unexpressed resentment, and she and Robert hardly said a word to each other. He had not visited her chamber again. At night, she lay awake tossing and turning and yearning for his touch. She surreptitiously studied his handsome face over the dining table, wanting to rush and kiss him, to climb onto his lap and put her head against his shoulder, to feel the pounding of his heart, and know he loved and desired her. Robert did not, and now her angry words could never be retracted. He barely looked at her. He was flawlessly polite and courteous and gave a wife little reason to complain, even coming home early most of the nights he spent with his friends. She knew, for she waited and listened for his tread outside of the door.

One evening, as she lay with her candle alight, he paused at her door, and she held her breath, biting her lip to stop herself from calling out to him. A moment later, she heard his footsteps continue down the passage to his chamber.

He remained remote from her, and she feared if she made a plea for something more he would turn away, and things would grow even worse.

Charity had no redress; she couldn’t defend her actions. She had no one to turn to for advice. She considered seeking out his mother, but didn’t dare, and that left her with the uncomfortably guilty knowledge that she failed in her promise to visit her.

She began to feel even more distressed and alone than she had after her parents had died.

At a dance on Thursday evening, she heard herself being described as a charming young matron, and her marriage held up as a shining example to some poor young woman in her first Season. If they only knew!

The musicians in the minstrel gallery began to tune their instruments, and Robert, dressed in black knee-breeches, white cravat, and chapeau bras, the required evening clothes for Almacks, or Willis’s Rooms as it was now known, claimed her for a dance. He came to the dance under sufferance expressing a dislike for the place; the way one was forced to dress, the terrible food and nothing decent to drink. “Thin bread and butter? Plain cake and tea? No wonder most go to The Pantheon!” He took her hand casting a glance in the direction of the gaming rooms, and she sighed.

The evening should have been wonderful, especially when the Duchess of Devonshire spent time with her. The lovely, vivacious and intelligent woman was delightful company, with an impressive knowledge of literature. They chatted about books and plays for over an hour and she expressed the desire to talk to Charity again soon.

On the way home in the carriage, Robert broke into her thoughts. “I’ve arranged for your portrait to be painted.”

“Oh?” Charity felt too low to take much interest in such things. “Who is the artist?”

“Sir Thomas Gainsborough.”

“My goodness.” She felt the heat flood up her neck to her face. “He painted the Duchess of Devonshire’s portrait. Would he wish to paint me?”

“And why not?”

“Oh, because…”

He sighed heavily. “You are a marchioness, Charity. Have you forgotten?”

“No, Robert, I have had no opportunity to forget.” His eyes glowered at her.

“What does that mean?”

Feeling terribly ungrateful, she gave him a smile. “Nothing, I’m sorry.” He paused, studying her. “We are to visit his studio tomorrow.”

“So soon?” She swallowed. “What will I wear?”

“Wear the pale green.”

“Pale green? Oh, the morning gown of apple green?”

“Yes, that’s the one. And the black hat with the wide brim. I’ll take the emeralds out of the safe, if he requires them.”

Charity began to feel more like an ornament than ever. “If you wish.”

Sir Thomas Gainsborough lived in Pall Mall in the unusual red brick and stone building, Schomberg House.

“Nefarious dealings go on next door,” Robert commented almost to himself as he and Charity crossed the footpath to the front door.

Charity’s eyes widened. “What sort of dealings?”

He felt unsure whether to tell her and wished he hadn’t spoken. “A house of ill-repute,” he finally said. “Is that all?”

He held the door open for her to enter the vestibule, annoyed that she wasn’t impressed or shocked by such a revelation. “They are said to charge barren couples quite a lot of money to assist them in their quest for a child. With the use of special beds.”

“Oh.” Charity bit her lip. She put her head down and continued walking.

Bemused, Robert wondered how an innocent comment could stir up a veritable nest of unspoken feelings. “It mainly serves as a brothel offering no end of delights,” he added striding to catch up with her. His somewhat callous remark was an endeavor to guide their conversation in a safer direction. But it only served to make him recall the night of passion they had shared. A glance in Charity’s direction confirmed she was thinking of something similar, for her footsteps had faltered, and her eyelid’s looked heavy as she flicked her bottom lip with her tongue. He suffered a strong urge to draw her into that dark corner and kiss her. He found himself seriously considering it, and far more. Raising her skirts and…

He took her arm.

“Charity?”

“Yes?”

A door opened at the end of the corridor and a servant poked his head out. “Please come in, Lord and Lady St Malin.”

Robert took off his hat and held it somewhere near his groin. “Shall we go in, my dear?”

Charity nodded her eyes a little vague.

Robert introduced Charity to the famous artist, a dark-eyed gentleman well into middle-age. He studied her with a critical painter’s eye, which obviously made her uncomfortable.

“Come and sit in the light.” Sir Thomas led her over to a chair. The studio smelled heavily of oil paint, varnish and turpentine. Brushes of all sizes and pungent oil paints were spread over a large table. Canvasses were propped around the walls and a blank one perched on an easel. Finished works graced the walls, exquisitely rendered. Charity turned to gaze at him imploringly.

He frowned and folded his arms. Would she never accept her new position in life?

The artist took Charity’s chin in his hand and turned her head this way and that. “You’ll make a splendid subject,” he said smiling. “But not in this gown.”

Charity’s eyes widened. “What would you have me wear?”

“I’d like to see you in rich topaz, which will pick out those warm lights in your eyes and hair. Do you have something suitable?”

“No. I’ve never worn that color.”

His sandy brows rose. “Well, you should.”

“I believe you have a Norwich shawl in something similar, don’t you, my love?” Robert interjected.

“The one with the border of acorns? Yes, I’d forgotten it.” She turned to the artist. “Would that do?”

“Splendidly.” He glanced around the room at the books piled high on tables and urns of flowers. “I have an idea for the portrait. We’ll talk tomorrow. Wear a white gown and bring the shawl. And that hat, I particularly like the feathers.” He massaged his gnarled fingers as if in preparation. “We’ll begin straight after luncheon.”

Charity curtsied. “Thank you, Sir Thomas.”

Sir Thomas turned to Robert. “No need for you to come, my lord. Having one’s portrait painted is a long tedious business, as you know.”

Robert was surprised to find he was disappointed. Perhaps his interest in art was increasing with age.

As they returned to the carriage, he nodded his head towards the wing of the building where the brothel was situated. “Just be careful who you speak to here.”

She raised her brows. “Do you think they might kidnap me, or invite me to join them?”

He stared at her, tamping down the rush of passion that found its way to his loins. “I don’t think that’s funny.”

She picked up her skirts. “That’s not surprising. You have little sense of humor.”

“I believe I have an excellent sense of humor,” he said hotly. “You’ve lost it somewhere, Robert,”

They stood in the street glaring at each other.

Charity shook her head. “Oh for goodness sake, Robert. Let’s go home.” She crossed to the carriage and held out her hand for his assistance.

Robert eyed her derrière as he helped her into the carriage.

His fingers curled into his palm as he suffered an overwhelming desire to smack it. Her derrière, like a perfect peach was hidden by so many folds of material he doubted she’d feel it. Better that he do it when she was naked and stretched over his lap. He swallowed and almost cursed out loud. “I believe I remember the very morning I lost it,” he said, settling on the seat beside her.

Her eyes widened. “Lost what?”

“My sense of humor.”

“Oh.” Charity turned to stare out of the window.