“You
were
in a carriage alone with him,” her mother pointed out.
Graeme
took a step back, beginning to feel as though he’d been thrust into the lead role in a Cheltenham tragedy without studying his lines. Perhaps he should have made his escape when Miss Medford had suggested. But he’d never been a coward, nor the sort to abandon someone in trouble. And Miss Medford was simply too compelling. Even the threat of family introductions, made under highly suspicious circumstances, had not been enough for his instinct of self-preservation to kick in.
“Do not try to fool me, Charity,” Lady Medford said
. “I am not so old as to have forgotten the type of antics young people sometimes get up to. The sort they regret later.”
Miss Medford plunked a hand on her hip
. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. If you are so in doubt, why do you not simply call for the physician to examine me? He will assure you I am unharmed.
Again
.”
Graeme
reached up and felt his jaw. Still closed. Good lord—what kind of young woman was he dealing with that her family distrusted her to the point of needing a physician’s word over her own? And, apparently, not for the first time.
Of course,
Miss Medford’s willingness to submit to an exam suggested truth to her claim of innocence. Which then begged the question—what on God’s green earth had an innocent been doing at the Wicked Baron’s ball? His head started to spin.
“Come now, Mother
.” The young duchess, Miss Medford’s sister, spoke up once more on her behalf. “I’m certain Charity meant no harm. She was reasonable enough to accept a ride home when it became clear the evening’s entertainment was not, perhaps, what she’d hoped or expected. Would you have rather she’d stayed?”
“I’d have rather she’d had the sense not to go in the first place,” Lady Medford retorted
. She heaved a sigh. “But, failing that, I suppose you are right.” Adopting a more pleasant tone, she asked, “So, Lord Maxwell, what is it that brings you to London? Your accent and title, unless I’m mistaken, mark you as a Scot.”
Graeme debated the wisdom of answe
ring honestly. Well, why the hell not? The evening couldn’t get any stranger. “Actually,” he replied, “I came to London to look for a wife.”
“Oh, my word
.” Miss Medford closed her eyes briefly, then opened them and rounded on her mother. “Do
not
get any ideas.”
Graeme rocked back on his heels, beginning to enjoy himself.
He’d only spoken the truth. He
had
come to London to look for a wife.
He was, of course, quite certain that
Miss Charity Medford did not fit the bill. A wife ought to be nurturing, submissive and controllable. Charity was…not.
Though ravishing and
sensual, the chit obviously had a wild streak that ran deep. Hardly an ideal attribute for a dutiful wife, let alone a suitable mother for his young ward.
He’d had plenty of time on the journey south to consider the sort of woman he might court
—and who might be convinced to spend the majority of each year in the Scottish highlands he called home. A young widow, perhaps, or simply someone less…beautiful than Charity Medford. Not ugly, of course. Just…
less
. Miss Medford, he suspected, had all of London at her feet. She didn’t need him.
Except
that she had, tonight.
It was probably too much to hope
for a repeat occurrence. If only he could take his eyes off her.
“Brandy?” the duke asked him
congenially.
Miss Medford looked between the two men, her parted lips
—lips he longed to taste again—registering her disbelief. “Not two minutes ago you considered dueling, and now you’re inviting him for a drink?”
The duke tipped his head
. “If Lord Maxwell is truly the chivalrous gentleman you so fiercely purport him to be, it seems the least I can do.”
“You’re actually
enjoying
this,” she accused.
“Fine brandy, my loved ones gathered together
…what’s not to enjoy?”
Graeme bit back a laugh, though he noticed the redheaded duchess was not
so successful in stifling her merriment. With the tension of moments before diffused, even Lady Medford’s features relaxed.
Miss Medford
, however, threw up her hands. “I must be too exhausted to think clearly, for this all seems absurd to me. Since I cannot be as witty and amusing as the rest of you, I fear I must excuse myself. I wish you all a good night.”
Graeme watched her go, disappointed
. She’d left the door open, and the soft sway of her hips held his gaze long enough that he saw the way she paused, her whole demeanor drooping as she reached the staircase leading, he presumed, to the family quarters. Whatever else she was hiding, he believed one thing she’d said. Miss Charity Medford was indeed very, very tired.
As
for the rest, Graeme was not a man to let a mystery go unsolved. Nor was he—normally—one to make snap decisions.
He hoped he wouldn’t regret the one he made now
. After all, he knew only three key facts about Miss Medford. One, she was unmarried. Two, she came from respectable family. Third, and perhaps most importantly, he knew from those brief moments in the dark tonight that he’d never again be able to touch another woman without wondering “
what if
?”
Everything after number three
was a matter of detail.
“I must be on my way as well
,” he informed those remaining in the room. “It was a pleasure to meet all of you, as well as the charming—if unconventional—Miss Medford.”
“Lord Maxwell,” Lady Medford said, “you have my sincere apology if my daughter’s
…situation…inconvenienced you this evening.”
“No inconvenience,” he assured her, already moving toward the door
. Better to leave before things got awkward again. They would need time to digest his next words. “Scotland is home to quite a few unconventional people. I hope Miss Medford will like it. I rather think I’m going to marry her.”
Chapter 4
:
In which the word “rather” is analyzed and found lacking.
“I
rather
think I’m going to marry her?” Charity echoed, popping off her bed. “
That
was his proposal?”
She’d already dropped off into a dreamless slumber when her door had burst open and her sister, brimming with news, had shaken her awake
. She blinked and shook her head, certain the effects of that evening’s heavily-laced punch were still fogging her mind.
Elizabeth
bounced on the balls of her feet. “I don’t know that it technically counts as a proposal, given that it was uttered more in the form of an announcement than a request. We could hardly ask for clarification, either, as he made this proclamation on his way out the door. This Lord Maxwell may actually share your proclivity for drama.”
“Heaven help us both, then. I barely know the man. It’s not as though he asked me, either,” she muttered. “He could at least have asked permission.” She sank back down on the bed.
“I suppose it’s a statement of intention, at any rate
. Honorable intention,” her sister squeezed her hand consolingly.
Charity hated the concern in her sister’s eyes
. “’I rather think’ is hardly a solid foundation on which to rely,” she scoffed. “For example, if I were to say ‘I rather think I shall cut my hair off short,’ it doesn’t mean I am actually committed to doing so.”
“
You needn’t be upset. No one has agreed to anything yet. After all, you even said you’d only known Lord Maxwell for two hours. Surely he intends to court you before making a formal proposal.”
“I have no idea what he intends,” Charity admitted
, tugging at her hair. Why
was
she so upset? The man was gallant. Sensual. From what little she knew, straightforward. She could do far worse.
“Do you want him to court you
? After all, why not? He is quite handsome. And an
earl
.”
“Don’t let Alex hear you saying that,” Charity mustered the energy to tease
. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” She scrubbed at her face with her hands, willing her fuzzy brain to
think
. If only she could think.
Finally Elizabeth took pity on her. “
Never mind this all for now. Get some sleep, sister dear. You really do look like you need it. We can put our heads together in the morning. I’m sure things will appear more clearly then.”
“Right,” Charity mumbled
. “How am I supposed to sleep now?”
Elizabeth gave her a small smile
. “Rest, then, at least. Worrying won’t help.”
“Right,” Charity repeated
.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” Elizabeth promised
. “I
should
make you face Mother alone, but I won’t.”
“
You’re the best. Really.”
Elizabeth chuckled
. “Of course. That’s what sisters are for.”
In spite of Charity’s protest that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, her body had other plans
. By the time Elizabeth closed the door behind her, the foggy entrails of slumber were already curling through her mind, pulling her back under.
“We need a plan
.” Lady Medford looked around the breakfast room expectantly, as though by announcing the obvious, she’d done her part.
The room’s other occupants
—Charity and Elizabeth, the latter of whom had arrived early and was gently bouncing her young son on her lap—straightened.
The few hours’ sleep had done wonders
for Charity. For the first time in days, she felt awake. And only too aware of her precarious situation. Perhaps, though she was loathe to admit it, her behavior
had
gotten somewhat out of hand. She clasped her hands on her lap to keep them from trembling, and managed to look her mother in the eye. “I know it is too late to apologize, Mother. At any moment, some enterprising acquaintance of yours will decide the hour is decent enough to come break the news of my scandalous behavior.”
Her mother pursed her lips
. “What would you have me say to them? Deny you were even at that horrible masquerade?” She harrumphed. “I do wish I could simply look away and let you deal with your own troubles. But you live under my roof, and I’d like to keep what’s left of our family’s dignity intact.”
Charity shot a quick look at her sister, who was being uncharacteristically quiet
. They both knew the Medford family would have very little “dignity” left if it hadn’t been for Elizabeth’s marriage to the duke.
Elizabeth had had a brush or two with scandal
s of her own before marrying Alex. Not to mention their father’s inauspicious death and empty coffers. So, Charity rationalized, her own escapades were simply following in the family footsteps.
“I accept
responsibility for my actions,” Charity stated.
Her mother waved a hand
. “That is well and good, but it does not help us now. Is there any chance the woman who saw you might be uncertain as to your identity?”
“She called me by name,” Charity admitted
in a low voice. “And then I ran. Even if she had not been certain, my reaction must have confirmed my identity.”
“Oh, Charity,” Elizabeth said sympathetically.
“So people will know you were there.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up
. “But they do not know
why
she was there. All we really need is a good reason.”
“I cannot think of any legitimate reason an innocent would attend such an event,” Lady Medford stated.
Charity ignored her mother’s unhelpful response. “What are you thinking?” she prompted her sister.
“
The gossips always love a good story. Most of them are not above embellishing any
ondit
they find lackluster. All we must do is beat them at their own game. Think creatively. We could say you came looking for me…that you needed to speak with me, something urgent, and were afraid that if you showed up to the Wicked Baron’s masquerade as yourself, meaning without a costume, you would not have been allowed in.”
“Which is likely true
.” She
had
been invited, but there was a difference between showing up as a young lady of society and showing up in a mysterious costume…no one would think twice about the latter.
Lady Medford nodded
. “Oh, I see. Yes, that just may work. Better yet. Say she came looking for
me.
I am a widow of measurable years, not a duchess and young mother. My presence at such a masquerade, though still not desirable,” she glared meaningfully at Charity, “would be little cause for talk.”
“Lovely
. So I came looking for you,” Charity said. For the life of her, she could not imagine her persnickety mother deigning—let alone desiring—to attend the Wicked Baron’s masquerade. “Why? Oh. Wait. I have it. What if little Noah had suddenly spiked a fever, and you were terribly afraid, Elizabeth, and even though Alex would of course have summoned a physician, you wanted our mother at your side?”
Elizabeth pursed her lips
. “I’m not sure I like using my son in such schemes, but I suppose it does no harm. He will never even know. We can say the fever came and went suddenly, but gave us a scare. You would have borrowed the costume from me, of course.”
“Were you seen dancing
? Or partaking in…whatever else it is that people partake in at that debauched event?” Lady Medford asked.
Charity hesitated
. “Even if I was, I doubt it is cause for worry. I suspect very few guests will retain more than a hazy memory of the night’s events.”
There was not much more to be said about that.
“Very well. We shall all stay true to that story, should the topic come up,” their mother decided. “Next. The Stowells’ picnic is tomorrow. It is critical you attend, looking for all the world as though you are the most innocent creature ever to have lived.”
Charity’s mother’s tone bespoke her doubt that her daughter could actually pull off such a
feat. “You must stay right by my side, dutiful and doting. Wear something pale, with ribbons.”
“And you’ll be b
y my side, as well,” Elizabeth put in. “I wish I could offer up Alex’s side, but he plans to leave on the morrow for business on the coast.” She sighed. “Maybe I could talk him into postponing the trip. With his backing, no one would dare to give you the cut direct.”
Charity shook her head slowly
. “He has already done more than his share in supporting this family.” It was true. He’d stood by Elizabeth when society had scorned her, declaring her not only acceptable, but
desirable
. So much so that he’d offered up what he’d never offered up before—his hand in marriage. Then he’d subsidized their mother, paying for the town house where she and Charity now lived. And finally there was the matter of Charity’s own dowry, provided by the duke. The money might mean little to him, but Charity didn’t want to be any further in his debt.
“
Besides, it’s awfully early in the Season for an outdoor picnic. Perhaps it would be best if I went nowhere for a while. Laid low.”
“That would only confirm your guilt in the eyes of society,” Lady Medford told her
. “Never fear. The weather would not dare to insult Lady Stowell by failing to cooperate on the day of her event. She insists on holding it earlier and earlier each year, so that no one else dares attempt to supplant her picnic as the first of the Season.”
Charity swallowed, knowing it was true
—hiding away would not solve things. There really was no easy way out of this.
“Besides,” her mother continued, “I have it on good authority that a certain Scottish nobleman has
also been invited to the picnic.” She arched her brows meaningfully. “I realize he has not formally declared his intentions, but it would be in your best interests, Charity, to convince him—subtly, of course—to do so very soon.”
“You want me to marry Lord Maxwell?”
“Is there a reason he would not make a good match?”
“Nooo
…” Charity said slowly. The Scot had been most chivalrous—except, perhaps, those brief moments during the shadow play at the masquerade. In those moments she’d been no better, welcoming his touch, sinking into it, hungering for more. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
“Charity?”
A smile played at her lips as she shook off the sensual haze that seemed to come over her at the mere thought of Lord Maxwell. “No, there is no reason to think Lord Maxwell would not make a fine match.”
Except for her fears about marriage
. How could she share a man’s bed, night after night? Unless she discovered a means to keep the terrors subdued, he secret was sure to slip out. She prayed Lord Maxwell would engage her in a leisurely courtship. It would save her reputation, and give her time to come up with a plan.
“We are in agreement, then
.” Lady Medford sounded satisfied, but stern. “Charity, I do not mean to sound dire, but you must know—Lord Maxwell may be your last, best chance.”
Charity was spared the indignity of having to reply to
that
remark when a tap at the door interrupted their conversation. The butler cracked the door. “Lady Medford, you have a caller.” His usually expressionless face bore only the faintest trace of disapproval that someone would dare to call at such an early hour.
Lady Medford rose, he mouth pressing into an unflatteringly tight line before she threw her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and schooled her features into an expression of cultured pleasantry and marched toward the front room.
Charity met her sister’s eye, her heart hammering against her breast bone. There could be no question as to the purpose of this call. The moment of truth had arrived. She prayed their story would hold up.
Charity was not enjoying herself, in spite of the balmy spring afternoon that lent itself perfectly to picnicking
. It seemed her mother had been correct—even the weather bowed in obedience to Lady Stowell’s determination to host the first picnic of the Season.
She glanced around at the other guests, most of whom would not deign to speak with her, and stifled a sigh
. Somewhere along the perimeter of the property, her guards stood watch. Ostensibly, they were discreet enough not to interfere with her life. But she hadn’t missed the plain black carriage, now so very familiar, that followed them here. Nor could she shake the feeling of being watched.
In fact, there was no question she was being watched
. Nearly every guest at the picnic was watching her. Waiting for the moment she slipped up, Charity supposed, though what awful deed they expected of her, she couldn’t guess. The only difference between them and the watchers she feared most was their intent. The picnic guests would destroy her reputation. The others would destroy her life.