Chapter 2

It was not in his normal way to engage socially. It wasn’t that he didn’t like people. He liked them just fine on a one-to-one basis, especially if they didn’t talk a lot of nonsense. But in a room full of them, everyone talking at once, with a dozen different conversations bouncing around about him, it all just felt too much. But he would persevere. He would do so because he finally had the chance he’d been waiting for. Seven long years it had taken. And really, who had ever heard of a betrothal that lasted seven years?

If her aged and decrepit uncle had been in a better frame of mind and better physical condition, the man ought to have done something about it. Of course, given the fact that the fellow might well have walked to primary school with the Apostles, the slip could be understood somewhat, if not overlooked entirely. Though, he supposed it would be bad form to complain about the very thing that now offered him his golden opportunity. Especially when he had waited so very long for this chance. Because it had taken seven years. And in those seven years, from his great distance, he’d watched Miss Charlotte Mulberry shine. Oh, and she did. She did, indeed shine.

His first impression of her had been, while accurate, a pale glimmer of how wonderful she truly was. With her golden hair and sunny disposition, she positively glowed. He never saw her that she did not offer a warm smile to every person she passed, no matter how low or high they might be or of any particular temperament. There was a warmth and peacefulness about her that seemed to put others around her at ease. She’d certainly always had that effect on him. Always kind and considerate, always pleasant, and always just out of his reach—because she’d been promised to another.

It was wrong of him, perhaps, to rejoice in her disappointment. But he did. Not because he wished for her to be unhappy, but because it presented an opportunity for him to make his case, to show her that perhaps her former betrothed was not the only gentleman to whom she could be happily wed.

“Miss Mulberry,” he said, as she neared him. “Might I offer to escort you and your uncle in my carriage?”

She smiled and it was like the sun peeking from behind clouds. “Oh, you are too kind, my lord. My uncle, I fear, will not join us for the festivities. I shall see him settled at home with his tea and a warm blanket, and then I shall make the trek to Mrs. Barrington’s on my own. It isn’t far at all.”

“I will walk with you.” Immediately, he knew he should have phrased it as a question.

She blinked in surprise, and her smile appeared a bit forced. “Oh that’s hardly necessary. You really are too kind. I’m certain you’ve much better things to do with your time!”

Ethan was positively stumped. How could he let her know that it wasn’t kindness motivating him without being inappropriate? But then he needn’t have worried. Her uncle took care of the matter for him. Appropriateness be damned.

“Good lord, girl! If a gentleman offers to walk a pretty girl somewhere, he’s not doing so to be kind! He’s doing so because she’s a blasted pretty girl! I can make my own tea and I don’t need a blanket. Walk with his lordship to the Barringtons’ and if that wretched Arliss is there, punch him in the nose… her, too, the cat. Can’t say it’d make her face any more or less pinched.”

With that, Miss Mulberry’s cantankerous uncle shuffled away, leaving them standing there in the churchyard—a blush staining her cheeks while he fought back a grin. He’d never had any opinion about her uncle one way or another, but now he decided he liked the old man very much. His forthright expression of his opinion of the Cranfords was spot on.

“I beg your pardon, my lord. My uncle is quite outspoken,” Miss Mulberry said, clearly at a loss as to how she might recover from the embarrassment of her uncle’s behavior.

“And correct. On all counts,” he said, offering her his arm.

She smiled at him then, all the worry and embarrassment simply lifting from her lovely face. Though that fetching blush remained stubbornly in her cheeks. “Then I should be most pleased to accept, my lord. Most pleased, indeed.”

Ethan took a second to appreciate the simple pleasure of her touch, innocent as it was when she placed her hand on his arm. Then they set off down the lane, following the procession of others who were leaving the church to gather at Mrs. Barrington’s for her impromptu soiree. And the entire time, he steadfastly ignored the stunned gazes of their neighbors and acquaintances who were simply agog at what they were seeing.

He knew what they called him. The Moody Marquess. They weren’t wrong. He was moody. Mostly because he’d been secretly in love with a woman who was engaged to be married to a vulgar little toad of a man for the past seven years. Well, that and he distinctly disliked crowds. Courtesy of his station, he did not have the option not to attend social at least some social events, loathsome as he found them. That degree of discomfort would put anyone in a mood. Out of sorts about it or not, he’d not squander this chance. Finally, he would be able to show her that he was more than a curmudgeon, more than a cantankerous, ill-tempered bore.

“It is remarkably fine weather today, isn’t it? I know the air is still a bit chilled, but the sunshine is such a welcome reprieve from all the gloom we’ve had of late,” she remarked.

“Yes. Indeed, it is.” And that was the sum total of what he had to contribute to the conversation. Struggling for something, for anything to add, for more words to fill the silence, he continued, “Sunny days are always preferable.”

And that was how they completed their walk to Mrs. Barrington’s. Talking about the weather. It was not an auspicious beginning.

Charlotte thought it remarkably kind of the Marquess to pay such particular attention to her. Truly, it was a thoughtful gesture in light of all that had occurred. The conversation was hardly sparkling, but then, as he rarely conversed with anyone, that was not unusual. He’d certainly uttered more words to her on that day than in all of the seven years of their acquaintance. It begged the question of why? Why was he so taciturn and reticent to speak? Why was he willing to speak to her when he spoke as little as possible to everyone else? The answer came to her in a flash of understanding that did nothing to improve her outlook at all.

It was impossible for her to imagine it was anything other than a generous gesture on his part to make her seem less of a pariah or object of pity. She was embroiled in a scandal, after all, even if that scandal was entirely of another’s making. Not everyone would be so understanding or so willing to risk being associated with her. His station permitted him to care a bit less what others thought of him and also what they thought of her.

The only thing worse, in a society obsessed with marriage, than being a jilt, was to be the jilted. Or doubly off-putting, to be a jilted spinster. For surely she now qualified as such. At twenty-five, she was on the shelf by anyone’s standards. Not such a catastrophe when a wedding had been in the distant offing, but now… discarded. Passed over for another. Charlotte was only too well aware of how that made her appear.

Those thoughts made her quite sad. And angry.

Charlotte wasn’t at all used to being angry, so she simply set them aside. After all, Arliss had begun courting her when she was only eighteen. He’d proposed only a short time after, but stated they would not wed until he could adequately provide for her. So he’d spent much of his time devoted to his many business affairs as he worked to amass the sort of wealth that might permit them to have a small estate. Of course, he clearly had not been working all the time or he wouldn’t have found himself in a position to pay court to yet another woman. That was what stung the most. He’d courted his new bride and all the while, she’d been lucky to get even one letter every fortnight and possibly, if she were lucky, he might come back to Ambleside from Birmingham once every two months.

Either way, it did not signify. He was now married to another. She was firmly on the shelf, and even the most curmudgeonly of curmudgeons saw her as being worthy of his pity. She wanted to say something to him, to show how much she appreciated that he was taking such pains to make her appear less a pariah in their small community. But before she could open her mouth to utter a word, a loud whoop sounded from one of the young men running ahead of them.

“We’re going to play trucco!” the young man shouted back at them. “Are you up for a game, Miss Charlotte? My lord?”

“I don’t think so, Albert,” Charlotte denied softly. She was an excellent trucco player, but if Arliss and his bride were in attendance, they would no doubt be playing because he simply adored the game. Though he did tend to be a very sore loser when she routed him.

“Do you not enjoy trucco?”

“I do,” she admitted. “But it is very likely that Mr. Cranford will play and thus Mrs. Cranford will play and… things are awkward enough.”

“For them. They did wrong. If you want to play then play.”

“Everyone will whisper,” she said.

“Will they not whisper when you avoid an activity you normally enjoy?”

Of course, they would. By trying to avoid awkwardness she was only making the existing awkwardness more apparent.

“It could be an enjoyable way to pass the afternoon,” she observed. “Do you play?”

“I can. I rarely do, but I can,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Will you join me then?”

He nodded.

“Thank you, my lord. I cannot tell you how fortunate I feel to have you at my side as I navigate these very treacherous waters,” she admitted, looking ahead at the gaggle of guests walking in groups along the lane. “I cannot fathom how to behave in this situation. How could one know?”

“Miss Mulberry,” he said, then paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Do not allow the possibility of another’s presence to deter you from the things you want…I speak from experience and from regret.”

Charlotte turned to look at him. There was something in his demeanor that was quite different from how it normally was. Often, the Marquess would go through entire social gatherings without speaking a single word to anyone. Most people thought him quite proud or ill tempered. He had always been pleasant to her, if somewhat taciturn. But on that day, he was positively verbose. “For a man who rarely speaks to people, you seem to be quite the expert on them.” It wasn’t a jibe so much as an observation. “Oh, dear. That sounded very impolite. It was not my intent. I’m merely curious.”

“It is easier to listen and learn when my own voice is not filling the space,” he replied. “Play the game, Miss Mulberry. Play it and I promise that you will have an enjoyable afternoon. I will not rest until I make it so.”

What a very strange day it was turning out to be! “Then we shall play trucco, my lord.”