The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (17 page)

Charity gazed in the mirror to find a flushed, startled face staring back at her as she tidied her hair. She removed her apron, smoothed her olive-green morning gown, and hurried to the parlor.

Lord Gunn sat with her mother. His craggy face broke into a smile as he rose to make his bow. “Lady Charity, how good to see you again.”

“A pleasant surprise, Lord Gunn. What brings you to Tunbridge Wells?”

“I’m journeying south. Forgive me for calling so precipitately.” He removed a paper from his pocket. “I wanted you to have this article, which has appeared in a Scottish broadsheet. ’Tis a warm appraisal of your work.”

“How very kind of you.” She took the newspaper piece from him. “I shall enjoy reading it.” She motioned to a chair. “Please sit. Mama, have you arranged for refreshments for Lord Gunn?”

“Your mama has kindly offered, but I won’t stay long,” Lord Gunn replied before her mother could speak. “I wonder if we might have a word together, alone. If you will excuse us, Lady Baxendale.”

“But of course, Lord Gunn.” Mama obligingly rose and exited the room but left the door ajar.

With two strides, Lord Gunn reached the door and closed it. He returned to the sofa where Charity sat. He sank down on his knee on the carpet before her and took her hand in his broad one. “Lady Charity, you’ve been constantly on ma mind since you came to ma home. I find I’ve formed tender feelings for you. Might I hope that you would consider becoming ma wife?”

Charity lost her breath. For several moments, she could only stare at him. “But Lord Gunn, we’ve spent so little time together. How could you be sure?”

“I know my own mind and heart. I wish to know what is in yours.”

She fluttered her hands at him, wishing he’d rise. “Please be seated, Lord Gunn.”

Instead of returning to his chair, he sat beside her on the sofa, disturbingly close. “I await your words with a hopeful heart, dear lady.”

His hand rested on his broad thigh a whisker from hers. She wanted to move away but was pressed against the sofa arm. “I am immensely flattered, but I have no intention of marrying for years. My work…”

He turned, his shoulder touching hers, and took her hand again, holding it against his chest. “As ma wife you would continue your work,” he assured her emphatically.

At his words, she forgot to withdraw her hand and stared at him. “You would allow your wife to paint portraits? Men’s portraits?”

He smiled. “Any work you do must be conducted with my chaperone, to ensure no scandal attached itself to you. Otherwise, I should need to brush up on my dueling skills.”

Withdrawing her hand, she shook her head with a laugh.

His eyes gleamed. “We would spend each Season in London. You could paint while we are there. When in Scotland, we would find many other things to occupy us.”

If he were as good as his word, her life might not be so unpleasant, but she couldn’t accept him. To be removed so far from home and rarely see her sisters and their children would be insupportable. It was bad enough that they saw so little of Hope. Charity sought the words for a polite refusal. Gunn offered her what Robin could not, the freedom to paint and be herself. Even so, she found she wasn’t tempted. This man was too bold, too outspoken; she wouldn’t be comfortable with someone like him. Moreover, she wasn’t in love with him. Even so close to Gunn on the sofa, it was Robin she thought of, Robin she loved, heaven help her.

“I am very flattered by your proposal, Lord Gunn. I could not consider such a dramatic change in my life. My sister has given birth to twins, and she is not yet entirely well.”

“Och!” He nodded his big head. “I am sorry to have called at such a difficult time.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “It was good of you to bring me the newspaper article. I shall enjoy reading it.”

Gunn rose with a sigh. “I am disappointed, naturally, Lady Charity. Vera sorry indeed. Might I hope that, in the future, you might change your mind?”

Charity stood. “It would be unfair of me to give you that impression.”

The door opened. Her father entered dressed in his riding clothes. “Lord Gunn, this is a surprise.”

“Glad to see you looking well, Baxendale,” Gunn said. “Passing through Tunbridge Wells and took the opportunity to give your daughter an Edinburgh newspaper’s pleasing account of ma portrait.”

“Good of you. Might I offer you a dram to warm you on your way?”

“Tempting, thank you, but I don’t wish to keep the horses waiting.”

Gunn turned to Charity. “If you have a change of heart, you have only to write to me.” He made his bow and left the room. Moments later, his carriage rolled down the driveway.

How very like Gunn
, she thought with a smile.
To race inside whilst the horses waited and toss a proposal in my lap
.

Father raised his eyebrows. “I doubt that’s why he came.”

“He proposed, Father. And I have refused him.”

“He didn’t feel obliged to ask me first? The Scots are a different breed to the English. I’m not surprised you refused him. Harwood has been on your mind, daughter, since we came home. I hope you made it perfectly clear to Gunn that you would never marry him. He’s not a man to give up easily.”

“I believe I did.”

Father nodded and left the room.

With a shake of her head, she returned to her studio. A handsome pair of grey eyes fringed with thick black lashes greeted her from the painting on the easel. Every night when she laid her head on the pillow, she relived how Robin’s demanding lips had sought hers, as if he hoped to change her mind with one kiss. And it seemed her emotions had whirled and skidded ever since.

When Charity joined the family at luncheon, Mama gazed at her. “Were you even a little tempted to marry Gunn, Charity?”

“Not even a little, Mama.”

“He would not be my choice. I’d find him so very large and exhausting. And I’m glad you aren’t being whisked off to Scotland.”

Mercy joined them at the table. “I saw Gunn as he was leaving. He said I shall be one of the prettiest debutantes next Season. He has promised to dance with me at my first ball.”

Father banged down his wine glass, spilling wine over the cloth. “The devil he will!”

“Baxendale!” Mama dabbed at the stain with her napkin. “Your language!” Mama frowned at Mercy. “I dislike the way you always manage to be out of doors when a gentleman is leaving, Mercy. One might think it is not a coincidence.”

Father buttered a roll. “Ran into Brandreth while I was out. The marquess is a happy man. Not only has his brother, Vaughn, settled down admirably and his wife has produced twins, Lavinia is in a delicate condition.”

“Chaloner’s wife is having a baby?” Charity asked with a rush of pleasure. “That is wonderful news.” She should alter the marchioness’ portrait to reflect her happiness. She’d made no secret of wanting another child. It seemed the season for family births. Perhaps Hope would be next, and Honor wished for more children.

“We shall be aunts once more,” Mercy said.

“Well, not precisely, dearest, for Lavinia is Edward and Vaughn’s sister-in-law,” Charity said. “But if you wish to make yourself an honorary aunt, I’m sure Lavinia will be delighted.”

“I love being an aunt.” Mercy grinned. “Do you not, Charity?”

Charity agreed. However, being an aunt seemed like having one’s nose pressed up against the window of another family’s house and wishing that family was theirs.

****

The footman brought Robin a letter from Lord Baxendale. Surprised, Robin leaned back in the wing chair by the fire, Henry at his feet, and slit the paper open with his paperknife. Baxendale didn’t mince words. He stated baldly that Lord Gunn had offered for Charity’s hand, and although she’d refused him, he believed he should alert Robin to the possibly of the Scot returning in an attempt to persuade her.

Gunn has offered her the world
, Baxendale wrote.
Her own studio in London and his permission for her to continue with her art. My daughter would never consider his proposal while her sister, Faith, has not yet returned to full health
.
But Faith improves with each day that passes, and Charity has expressed her desire to have children of her own.

On reading the letter through again, what lay between the lines became clear to him. Apart from the fact that Baxendale preferred him to Gunn, he was hinting at what Robin must do to match the Scot’s proposal. Was Baxendale so sure that was all it would take?
Gunn has a surfeit of charm
, Baxendale had added. Robin frowned. Did he think that was what Robin lacked? He stared into the glowing coals in the hearth as he rubbed Henry’s silky ears. If he was honest with himself, he had become intense of late and, perhaps, had lost some of his sense of humor, which would not appeal to Charity.

Robin tossed down the letter. He supposed the burdens that came from his new position in life could have changed him. Damn it all. He rose to stalk across the carpet. He wanted to once more be the man who had enjoyed quiet pastimes such as working on his manuscript, which now gathered dust on the shelf. Was there any reason why he couldn’t? The unequivocal answer came to him as swift as an arrow. He could, if he had Charity beside him. There was no other lady he’d met who’d want the man who preferred quiet reflection, or indeed expect it of him. Even Kitty saw him only as a powerful duke; she would not understand the man he really was.

The next day, while Robin made notes in his journal, his butler entered the library. “A lady has called, Your Grace. She insists on seeing you.”

Robin looked up. “She
insists
?”

“Says she’s the Marchioness of Alstone, Your Grace,” Franklin said in a pained voice, gripping his hands together. “And that she’ll remain outside until you agree to see her, no matter how long it takes. A small child is with her. She is very voluble. And French.” Franklin gave him a dark look.

The Marchioness?
Robin rose to his feet. “Bring the lady to the salon.”

Some minutes later, Franklin, struggling to maintain his composure, showed the lady into the room.

The petite, pretty woman who entered was younger than Robin expected. Perhaps in her early twenties, she held the hand of a small, dark-haired boy.

For a moment, Robin lost his manners as he struggled to make sense of it. Could this woman be his cousin’s wife? Charles had spent several months in France before he died. “How do you do,” he finally said. “Your name, madame?”

“Florence.”

“Please be seated, Madame Florence.” He turned to the butler, who seemed rooted to the spot. “Franklin, order tea.”

“May I have coffee?” she asked in heavily accented English. “Charles will take milk.” She sat on the sofa with the boy, who clutched his mother’s skirts and stared at Robin with round black eyes.

“I imagine you’re surprised, Your Grace,” she said, lapsing into French as a flush spread over her cheeks. “I would have come sooner, for my husband urged me to do so, but Charles left me with very little money, and my son has been ill.”

“Could you not have written to advise me of your marriage?” Robin asked, wondering if she was literate. Why hadn’t his cousin advised his father?

Her dark eyes flashed. “There was so little time. Charles grew ill so quickly. I wrote to the duke but received no word. So I decided to come in person.” Her eyes grew tender when she looked down at her son. “As you see, Charles is the image of his father.”

He imagined his uncle would have been too ill to take note of it. Had his secretary dismissed it as a ruse? Robin had to admit the boy did look enough like his cousin to consider it possible. He sank back in the chair. “I’d like to learn more. How did this…marriage…come about?”

Her dark eyes challenged him as she spoke in rapid French. “I am an actress. I had a very small part in Molière’s comedy,
Tartuffe
. Charles came to see it.” Her eyes warmed as if with the memory. “He followed me down the street and told me he hadn’t been long in Paris. He was lonely. His wife had just died in childbirth. A very sad man, after leaving his life in England, but he did intend to return and honor his obligations. He pursued me, and we had a liaison. When I was with child, he married me. But by then Charles was very ill with the smallpox. He did not live long enough either to see his son or to make reparation for us.”

She shrugged her slim shoulders. “Illness claimed my
père
and
mère
before I met Charles, and I had no one to turn to. I was forced to continue my work in the theatre to pay for the roof over our heads.” She reached into her reticule. “I have brought this document as proof of our marriage.”

Robin rose and took it from her. An actress would be good at deceit, he imagined. He had no idea if the marriage certificate was authentic, but if it was, this boy was indisputably his uncle’s heir.

“How old is your son?”

“Charles is four years old.”

The timing was right. Robin took a deep breath. “Where are you staying, Madame Florence?”

“At an inn on the toll road.”

She wore a simple black dress, and the boy’s clothes were faded and patched. “You are welcome to stay here,” Robin said as the tea tray was brought in.

Her dark eyes brightened. “I should be most grateful.”