Chapter 7

Chapter

Seven

B esides the required greetings one gave a steward in the morning, Charlotte kept her mouth sealed and her thoughts carefully guarded as they rode together through the bustling London streets toward Hyde Park. The rhythmic clatter of carts and carriages echoed around them, mingling with the soft murmur of passersby going about their day. The air was crisp with a faint breeze, carrying the scent of damp cobblestones and early autumn leaves.

Lord Anson sat atop his horse just ahead, patiently awaiting her arrival. She took a moment to adjust her seat and, despite the chill in the air, felt a quiet warmth from within. She was thankful for her gray wool stockings, protecting her legs from the cold, yet the real source of her distraction was the man riding a short distance behind her. Mr. Richards's presence was like an unspoken weight, a steady awareness that made the air between them feel charged.

Though she kept her eyes on the road ahead, she couldn't help but feel the subtle tension building, the kind that arose not from words but from the quiet closeness of two people who, despite propriety, could not ignore the currents stirring between them.

Her blue riding habit was the height of fashion. Although Mr. Richards had not said a word about her appearance, she had caught him admiring her ensemble—a blue habit with a tailored coat accentuating her figure. With its gold trimming and brass buttons, she appeared regal and military in style. Not to mention, her cocked hat with a plume of black feathers matched perfectly.

"Lord Anson, thank you for inviting me to ride," she said sweetly as they joined the viscount. His lordship's welcoming smile lifted hers, even though she knew she was using the poor man to make Mr. Richards ghastly jealous.

And surely he would be. Their conversation last evening had been different from many others they'd shared. There had been a palpable tension in the air she could not explain away as anything but need.

His lordship picked up her gloved hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. "The pleasure is all mine in having you here. Shall we stroll along the Row? There are several paths leading off into the park that are all quite lovely."

"Please, lead the way." Charlotte followed him and adjusted her seat. Riding sidesaddle while wearing stays was never comfortable, and she must pretend the reed in her stays wasn't cutting into her stomach.

They moved away from Mr. Richards, who followed discreetly, and yet Charlotte could feel his eyes boring into her. The urge to turn around and catch him watching her was overwhelming, but she dared not.

She didn't want him to know how much under his spell she'd become, and she didn't want Lord Anson to detect her interest in her father's steward. The last thing she wished for was for Mr. Richards to lose his employment. She might never see him again.

That was a horror not worth thinking about.

"I thought we might get to know one another a little better. Talk of our likes and dislikes. I know you're aware I wish for you to be my wife, and since you want me to court you, I think this is the best way forward. Do you not agree?"

"Oh, I do agree, my lord. Talking of one's interests is always a good objective when learning what others like and dislike. What would you like to discuss in particular? What would you like to know?" she asked.

He watched her momentarily as their horses ambled along at a slow pace. "Well, do you paint or play the pianoforte? Or do you enjoy anything other than horse riding?"

"Well, I think that is more than one question." She laughed, thinking about his inquiry. "I enjoy horse riding most of all, even though my hand is still terribly sore. I fell off my horse some weeks ago and broke my finger. Did you hear?"

"I did hear, and I'm sorry for your pain."

Charlotte nodded, hearing the sincerity in his tone, and yet still, nothing he said evoked the reactions she encountered whenever she was around Mr. Richards.

"I don't play the piano often, even though I can play very well. I paint reasonably enough, and Papa has one of my paintings of my late cat in his study."

"How clever you are. But then, The Graces are spoken of highly, so it does not surprise me that you're accomplished."

"Yes, of course." Accomplished and perfectly prepared to be a society wife. As much as she loved balls and parties and flirtations with handsome men such as Lord Anson, there was only one man she wished to marry, and he was, at this very moment, following them at a discreet distance, not taking part in the conversation at all.

Even though he must be privy to it. How boring for the man.

"And you, my lord? What do you enjoy when you're not in society for the Season?"

"Well," he looked ahead, a small frown between his brows, "I enjoy hunting at my estate in Kent, fishing, and riding. I also play the piano. Perhaps we can play side by side and see if you enjoy such a situation."

"Perhaps." She grinned, not wanting to do anything of the kind. If today's ride had taught her anything, it was that she was not interested in Lord Anson, and she needed to set him free so he could court another.

She couldn't go on using him in this way. It wasn't in her nature to be cruel or unkind, and this felt wrong and underhanded.

Just then, a scream alerted them to a young girl on a pony, her father desperately trying to control the animal, which seemed determined to run off.

Before Charlotte could tell Lord Anson to do something—to help—Mr. Richards was galloping toward the young girl, whose pony was now in a full bolt across the park, with the little girl barely holding on while her father ran after them in desperation.

Charlotte couldn't take her eyes off the child, praying she wouldn't let go, hoping she could hold on to the reins and saddle as best she could. A fall from a horse, or even a tiny pony, could end in devastating consequences, far worse than her broken finger.

Mr. Richards caught up to the pony on his much-more-significant and faster mount, reached for the reins, and guided his horse while trying to control the small, frightened pony.

With her heart in her throat, Charlotte watched, relief rushing through her when she noted their speed slowing before the pony was pulled into a trot and stopped.

The little girl jumped down and moved away from the pony, spotting her father and running toward him instead. Mr. Richards walked the pony back to the father, and for several minutes, they spoke. Even from where Charlotte sat, she could see the relief and gratitude the man had for the assistance of Mr. Richards.

"Well, your groom is a hero. It's good that the stable staff are skilled riders, especially when something untoward like this occurs."

Charlotte looked up at Lord Anson, debating the meaning behind his words and if she should correct him as to who Mr. Richards was. "Are you saying you wouldn't have raced after the child? Are you not a good rider, my lord?"

"Oh, I am an excellent rider, my lady. But what occurred was not my business, and I worry that my intervention might have made the horse even more fearful. Your groom was lucky in this instance. The girl would have eventually pulled the horse to a stop, and no harm would have come to pass."

"And if she had not? What if the child had fallen and broken her neck? What if she had died before us all? Would you still say you should avoid such situations and not offer assistance?"

"Now, now, Lady Charlotte, there's no need to be so defensive. But I stand by what I said. I would not like to make any situation worse," Lord Anson replied with a casual shrug, his tone so detached it was almost dismissive.

Charlotte blinked, stunned by his indifference. The contrast between the two men could not have been clearer. While Mr. Richards had leaped into action without hesitation, risking everything to save a terrified child, Lord Anson seemed content to remain an idle spectator, unwilling to intervene. His words, meant to reassure, only highlighted his lack of empathy, and Charlotte's heart sank.

He just had made the situation worse—tenfold—by declaring his unwillingness to help in a moment of need, a stark reminder of his apathy.

The man, as handsome, titled, and wealthy as he was, had no compassion for others, and she could not stomach such a lack in one's character.

Mr. Richards, however, was quite the opposite. Now, he would be even more challenging to view objectively. How could she not see him in a heroic and romantic light?

She just needed to make him see her that way too.