The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (2 page)

And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.”

Charity giggled. “You’re quoting Pope? I should have changed my dress.” She leapt over a cowpat. “Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t. I’m thankful I wore my half boots. I might have known you’d have me up to my ankles in mud.”

He chuckled as he helped her over a stile. “How fond you are of exaggeration.” He took her hand and pulled her along. “There’s a good crop of blackberries along the river. That’s what attracts them.”

As they approached, Robin’s grip on her hand tightened. “Listen, do you hear it?”

“Yes, I do. A beautiful fluting weela-wee-ooo.”

“That’s it!” He smiled down at her, his eyes alight. “It’s unmistakable. And there is the bird himself.” His voice lifted as he pointed. Fluttering around a golden elm, the bird was almost impossible to pick out, until it rose into the sky.

“How splendid!” Charity’s gaze followed the flight of the little yellow bird until it disappeared. “I wonder if it will appear with its mate in the spring.”

“I shan’t be here to see it,” Robin said, his voice gruff.

“No. But if I see them, I’ll write and tell you. I’ll even send you drawings of their hatchlings.”

His eyes held a sheen of purpose as he took her hands. “Come with me to Northumberland, Charity. I can get a special license. We could marry before I leave.”

Startled, she pulled away. “Surely you jest?”

“I’m entirely serious. I have need of a wife, and I rather think we’d suit.”

Charity breathed deeply. Her spirits had been soaring with the bird, and now disquiet marred the moment. Robin had moved beyond her. Marriage to him went against everything she’d hoped for herself. If she were the wife of a man of his stature, society would make demands on her she would find difficult to meet. Her career would be at an end. And worse, she saw no sign that he loved her. “Shouldn’t love come into the equation?” she asked in an effort to dissuade him.

He looked surprised. “Love will come in time. We share many interests and a similar sense of humor.”

“Why me? You will have your pick of beautiful debutantes and be rushed off your feet at Almacks.”

His gaze swept over her. “You sell yourself short, Charity. You’re an earl’s daughter. Intelligent and good company. Not such a poor choice in my opinion.”

He was so close she breathed in his masculine smell. It was warm in the sun, and the grass tickled her ankles. His smoky grey eyes searched hers. “Can you give the matter some consideration? I feel such a marriage would suit both of us.”

She couldn’t marry him for reasons that were difficult to put into words. “Robin, I need years to establish myself in the art world. I believe I told you that ages ago.” And she had, in an effort to stop herself falling in love with him. She stepped back, attempting to regain her composure, and almost trod in a rabbit hole.

He grabbed her arm to steady her and sent more unsettling feelings racing through her. “My sister, Louise, used to say the same. You were only sixteen then. Who takes notice of the capricious ramblings of a green girl?”

She should thank him for that comment. It served to steady her. She firmed her mouth and glared at him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been capricious. And I never ramble.”

He removed his hat and ran his hand through his curly hair, which the sunshine embellished with glossy golden lights. “I apologize, Charity. That was unforgivable. I knew you hated the idea of embarking on a London Season, but as you’re soon to turn eighteen, I thought you’d come to change your mind about marriage. And I suppose I hoped you’d begun to like having me around.”

“But I do enjoy your company.”

She fiddled with a button on her cream linen spencer, her cheeks hot, and managed to meet his steady gaze. He had a perfect right to ask her. But he didn’t love her. Nor did he say he was overwhelmed by her beauty. Well he wouldn’t because she was too tall to be beautiful. What people called a “long Meg.” At least the cool manner in which he’d proposed made it easy for her to refuse him. She sighed and swallowed the lump of regret blocking her throat. Their friendship would now be at an end. She would miss him.

“I’m sorry, Robin. I like you better than any man I’ve met, but I don’t wish to marry, not for years.” She turned and headed back to the carriage.

“I suppose it’s just as well that I didn’t approach your father first then?”

She looked horrified. “Oh no, Robin. You wouldn’t would you? You know Father wouldn’t listen to my excuses.”

He cast her an ironic glance. “Have no fear, Charity. I have no need to stoop to such low tactics to gain a wife.”

“No, of course you don’t. I am probably the only woman in England who would refuse you.”

He followed along beside her in silence. Had she hurt him? She would hate to do that.

When they seated themselves in the carriage, Robin released the reins and guided the horses back to the road. “You may wake up one morning and discover you want more from life than art.” He tightened his jaw. “And I hope you’re not in your dotage when that happens.”

“My goodness. I never suspected you had a yen for melodrama,” she said, hoping to return to the lighthearted banter they usually enjoyed.

He backed up the horses.

“Where are we going?”

“I had planned to take you for tea at the Walks,” he said. “Although it wouldn’t do to provoke gossip now, would it? And I find I require something stronger.”

“I’m sure Father has a good supply of spirits.” Charity eyed him anxiously. Father must never learn of this. If he knew she’d refused a duke, he’d suffer the apoplexy.

****

Two days later, after a bout of rain cleared, Robin rode across the meadow toward the river in search of the elusive bird. He’d escaped the house after Charity’s refusal had brought him lower than he’d thought possible.

As he approached the river, a small, dark-haired figure popped out from behind a tree. Spooked, Robin’s horse reared, and it took Robin a moment to calm him. When he looked up again, the boy had backed away, his dark eyes filled with terror, his face smeared with blackberry juice.

“Don’t be frightened.” He was one of the nomadic gypsies from a nearby camp and young to be about on his own. Robin dismounted, but the boy turned to run toward the river.

Robin decided not to pursue the matter. He was about to remount and ride home when he heard a cry.

The riverbank, softened by the recent deluge, had given way, and the boy had fallen into the fast-flowing water.

Tearing off his coat, Robin ran to the river. He pulled off his boots and dived in. The shock of the cold water almost robbed him of breath. When he broke the surface, he frantically searched for the boy, not confident he would find him afloat, but then saw his head bobbing, his arms flailing. Robin quickly reached him. The boy’s cold body shivered in his hands. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

The tide grabbed them and swept them along as Robin fought to keep their heads above water.

The river narrowed. Raising the boy’s chin, Robin kicked out toward the bank. Once he could feel the river bottom beneath his feet, he hauled the boy onto the grass. The lad, who couldn’t be more than seven years old, flopped down, coughing. He edged away from Robin, his dark eyes wide with fear.

“I’m Robin. What’s your name?” he asked, chilled to the bone by his wet linen shirt, leather breeches, and soaked stockings.

“Lash,” the boy whispered after a moment.

“Would you like to ride on my horse, Lash? I’ll take you home.”

Lucca cast an appraising glance at Robin’s chestnut stallion, who tore at the grass a few yards away. He nodded his head shyly.

They walked along in silence to where Robin had discarded his clothing. He wrapped his coat around the boy then sat to pull on his boots. When he placed the boy on the horse, Lash gripped the mane, looking very much at home. Robin swung up behind him and walked the horse over the uneven ground as a cool breeze swirled around them, plastering his wet shirt to his chest. When they reached the road, he nudged the horse into a canter. The boy leaned over the horse’s neck, obviously enjoying the ride.

The Roma gypsy camp lay a half-mile away on Robin’s land. He spotted smoke rising through trees and trotted his horse along the lane. Entering through a break in the paddock fence, he rode closer to a group of vardos drawn in a circle. Cobs and livestock were penned beneath a stand of elms. The gypsies were clustered around a fire where something cooked in a large pot. They saw him, and the men stood, arms folded, scowling. The women rounded up the small children and herded them to the vardos.

“Lash!” A woman separated from the group of women and hurried toward him.

“He is your child?” Robin dismounted and lifted the boy down.

The boy shrugged off Robin’s coat and ran to her. He clung to her dark skirts.

“Your lad fell into the river.” Robin didn’t expect thanks. These people were proud and mistrustful, perhaps with good reason. They were seldom friendly or grateful for any help.

Her black eyes raked Robin from his wet hair to his boots then settled on his chest as he donned his coat. She showed her teeth in a smile as she swayed closer. Her skirts, adorned with coins, molded to her legs as she walked. “I am beholden to ye, sire, and must repay you.”

“There’s no need,” Robin said, surprised. She was attractive in an earthy and exotic fashion. So different to the women he knew, especially Charity, who would never move her hips in that fashion and hint at so much. Pity.

“I will tell your fortune. Should you like that? You need not grease my palm with silver.”

“Thank you. But I would prefer my future to come as a surprise.”

She coiled a lock of her waist-length, black hair around her fingers exposing a gold hoop dangling from her ear. “It may be to your advantage to learn of it.”

It would not be to his advantage to have the men after him. They guarded their women fiercely. Robin shook his head. “As tempted as I am, I must decline. Look after your boy. The river bank is dangerous after the rain, and your lad is very keen on blackberries.”

She nodded with a flash of her black eyes.

Robin mounted and rode away, aware of the rise in the men’s voices behind him and the black gazes on his back. Gypsies could be a damned nuisance to landholders, traveling the land selling goods and horses, but they did live by a certain code. His bailiff arrested any poachers in his woods, but these gypsies only stole to feed their families and he had no trouble with that. They were popular at the village fair every year, selling their goods and telling fortunes.

Arriving home, he strode into the house. An unpleasant squelching sound emanated from his boots. His butler, Franklin, stared at him open mouthed.

“Fell afoul of the river, Franklin.” Robin raced up the stairs to change his clothes. He planned a more sedate afternoon in his library.

An hour later, after he’d changed and settled at his desk, a knock sounded at the library door.

“Come.”

Robin’s butler entered. “A footman has just brought news from Harwood Castle, my lord.”

Rising slowly from the chair where he’d been studying a book of drawings, he took the letter, his chest tight, and seized his pearl-handled paperknife, slicing it open and quickly scanning it. Closing his eyes briefly, he moaned softly under his breath.

“My uncle has passed away, Franklin.”

Franklin bowed low. “I am indeed sorry, Your Grace.”

Your Grace! As his legs were in danger of giving way, Robin sat again and stared blindly at the wide mahogany desk where his manuscript and reference books were spread out. Uncle Robert and his son, Charles, gone without issue. What a dashed sad business. They’d never been close, but he still felt hollow. Well, that was that. He was now the Duke of Harwood, something he’d never wished for. He hated pomp and circumstance. He would be expected to marry in St Margaret’s Westminster and mix with royalty. Not to mention having to sit in the House of Lords and accept the responsibilities of a huge estate and a multitude of properties and investments. Robin hadn’t been raised to take on such an exalted position. His father, the 3rd Viscount Stanberry, had lived his life quietly and modestly in this manor house. There’d been little question of Robin inheriting the dukedom, especially after Charles married and his bride fell pregnant. It seemed likely sons would follow. But fate took a hand when Charles’s bride died in childbirth, and broken-hearted, he’d gone abroad and died of smallpox in France, several months later.

Robin sighed and took out a sheet of bond to write a reply to his uncle’s man of business. He’d hoped to have married Charity before this. Her pragmatic nature and her strength of character would have been of enormous help to him. Not to mention the rest of her attractions. Could he have done a better job of persuading her? Thrown himself at her feet and declared an undying love? He didn’t believe she’d fall for that, not with the sort of friendship they enjoyed. Though he wished he’d done more. Had he given up too easily, let pride and hurt defeat him? She’d made it plain that she wanted to pursue her art, and he supposed he’d have to accept it. But a kernel of hope lingered, that she might change her mind, especially if her dreams failed to be realized. While he applauded her talent, he was more familiar with the ways of the world than she. It was one thing to paint family portraits, and the odd neighbor’s, another for a woman to become a well-known, sought-after artist. He would continue to correspond, not only because he would miss her and enjoy her letters but also to see if his suit might have a better chance in the future.