CHAPTER EIGHT

Charlotte was in heaven.

The books around her were the greatest collection of poems she had ever seen. She could not think to pick only three and had been extolling the virtues of Wordsworth for almost two full minutes before she realized that the duke had not spoken for some time.

For Colin’s part he was captivated by Lady Wentworth and could not think of a happier coincidence than happening upon her today. She looked very lovely in a light muslin dress, her eyes coming alive in a unique way around the subject she so loved. Poetry was clearly her passion; she was excited by everything. He rather pitied Lord Preston; she already had five books under her arm.

“Have you read Thomas Moore, your Grace?” she asked.

“I confess I have not.”

“It is not for everyone, but I found it quite beautiful. ‘T’is the last rose of summer’ is just wonderful. I highly recommend his Irish Melodies, and they even have Felicia Hamen here! Oh, I have wanted to read her book for an age.”

The duke laughed. “Lady Wentworth, you appear to have seven volumes instead of three.”

She looked down at them, and the look of disappointment was almost comical. He felt a wave of deep affection for her and made the decision before he had even realized what he would say.

“I am afraid I shall have to purchase those Lord Preston cannot,” he said firmly. “He did tell you to think of his purse after all, but I do not believe I can bear to see you put them back now.”

He held out his hands for the books, and she looked at him in utter amazement.

Charlotte could not believe her eyes. The duke had transformed into an entirely new man in a matter of seconds. His face had lost all of its severity, a slight smile kicking up at the corner of his mouth. To anyone who did not know the nature of their discussion, he might have looked as though he was smirking, but she knew he was not. He looked happy; that was the difference, and she realized in their brief meetings, he had looked profoundly sad.

“You would buy them for me, your Grace? I could not possibly ask you to do that. I am happy to put them on my father’s account.”

“Not at all. I would be delighted to do so. I have been educated in the great poets of our time and have a new reading list to add to my ever-growing literary education. Come, I insist.”

He took four of the volumes from her hands, and as she felt his fingers brush her own a spark of connection erupted between them that took her by surprise.

Their eyes locked and held for an endless moment just as Sarah bustled through the shelves toward them with a meaningful look and stood between them in a most pointed fashion.

“His Grace has offered to purchase me some poems, Miss Gilmore,” Charlotte said hurriedly, seeing the light in her companion’s eye grow brighter as she looked between them.

“That is most kind, Your Grace,” Sarah said evenly.

The duke gave the same slight smile. “I have not had the pleasure of purchasing a gift for another in a long while. It would be my honour to do so now.”

Charlotte followed him back to the main entryway of the shop, where Malcolm and Lady Ludlow were still talking animatedly. Malcolm was explaining why he hated The Mysteries of Udolpho and Lady Ludlow was explaining why he was wrong; they appeared to be having a wonderful time disagreeing with one another.

Despite numerous protestations from Malcolm, the duke purchased the books with little fanfare. He even had them wrapped for her. Malcolm gave Charlotte a meaningful glare, and she felt heat rise up her neck, cursing her easy blushes.

In truth, the gesture of the books meant more to her than she could possibly say, and she tried hard to conceal her feelings from everyone around her.

***

After the bookshop, as they were now a group of four, Sarah agreed to meet Charlotte later as she had some errands to run in town.

That was how Charlotte found herself at Gunter’s with Lady Ludlow, the duke, and Malcolm, all enjoying an ice together at one of the tables within the shop. The day had grown incredibly hot, and they were all grateful for the cold refreshment.

“I simply cannot understand how you dislike Emily,” Elizabeth was saying to Malcolm, still speaking about Ann Radcliff’s Udolpho with mock irritation.

“My favourite character is Madame Cheron,” Malcolm said impishly.

“For shame! You cannot mean it.”

Malcolm laughed heartily. “I can indeed. She is far more interesting. Whatever possessed her to marry Montoni in the first place is the real mystery.”

“It is no mystery at all, she does it to gain social standing and is heartless with it.”

“Now, now,” Colin said quickly as Elizabeth looked ready to launch herself across the table to defend her favourite heroine. “Perhaps we should change the subject before you come to blows.”

It was evident to Charlotte that a more likely outcome was for Lord Preston to propose to Lady Ludlow on the spot. The interest on his side was obvious, but Elizabeth’s own view was more difficult to read. The Ludlows were very good at hiding their feelings from view.

Charlotte’s eyes were incessantly drawn to Gunter’s all around them, and Colin found himself smiling at her admiration.

“It is a rather remarkable establishment, is it not?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said. The bright storefront and colourful display were a stark change from the rest of the street. The majority of the shops were drab by comparison. “I have never seen a cake of that size,” she said, looking at the enormous wedding cake that was displayed in the shop window.

“Nor have I. However would one eat it?”

“Slowly,” Lady Wentworth replied. “And in stages.”

Colin laughed. The sound surprising him so much that he tried to mask it with a cough. He could not remember the last time he had laughed or smiled so much, and when he caught Elizabeth’s gaze, she was smiling broadly, too.

“You must see Harding’s if you like Gunter’s, Lady Wentworth,” Elizabeth said as she finished the last of her dessert. “It is not quite as large, but an excellent confectionery.”

Charlotte dabbed her lips with a napkin. She liked Elizabeth immensely already. “I shall certainly make a note of it,” she replied. She was just about to inquire further when a familiar figure appeared nearby.

“Your Grace! How wonderful to see you.”

The party turned to see Lady Norwell and Lady Lavinia Norwell approaching them. Once again, Charlotte observed that the two women were similarly dressed in pale pink, with what appeared to be matching hats. It was a strange ensemble, as though the mother was reaching to remain as similar to the daughter as she could.

Their familiar cold smiles were firmly in place, and Charlotte put down her ice, her appetite suddenly leaving her as they arrived at their table. They were two of the most insufferable women she had ever met.

“Lady Norwell, Lady Lavinia,” the duke said as he and Malcolm rose to greet the ladies. Charlotte and Elizabeth exchanged a glance that held a thousand words within it. It was clear the appearance of the Norwells was no less welcome to Elizabeth, and at that moment, a sense of intense solidarity bloomed between the two women.

Lavinia’s eyes were fixed on Charlotte for only a few seconds, but she communicated all she needed to within that time. It was very clear that to Lavinia, a woman freshly returned to society had no right to be sitting with the Duke of Lindenbrook.

The temperature around the table had dropped several degrees upon their arrival. Charlotte was gratified to note that the duke seemed incomparably different around the two women. His back was straighter, his manner far more clipped and formal than it had been. Charlotte could not help but feel happy to see it.

Across the table, Elizabeth had also noticed the shift in Colin. When he wasn’t speaking politely to the Norwells, his eyes would glance incessantly toward Lady Wentworth, his manner brisk and to the point. He barely spared Lavinia Norwell a glance, which seemed to irritate her greatly.

“Lady Lavinia, I hope I will see you at Pembrooke’s ball in a few days’ time?” Elizabeth said lightly, trying to dispel the obvious tension that had appeared at the table.

“Of course,” Lavinia said archly. “It will be the talk of the season, no doubt. Miss Pembrooke’s balls are always exceedingly diverting.”

“Oh, I am so pleased,” Elizabeth lied, finishing her ice and glancing at Colin.

Charlotte listened as the conversation continued; the stilted nature of it palpably different from the easy manner in which they had all been speaking before.

Now that her mind had been dragged back to the judgment of high society by the Norwells, she could not settle her thoughts. They were driven time and again to her impending promenade with the Earl of Kenthurst the following day. If anyone saw them together, their connection would be cemented in the eyes of the ton for all to see.

I cannot bear the thought of being so tied to the man. Am I not permitted to make my own choices?

She felt suffocated by expectation and responsibility. It had been so easy to convince herself that she had some kind of rapport with the duke, but he was likely merely being polite for the sake of appearances. Even the books he had bought for her could have meant nothing. Perhaps it was a gesture he extended to many people if he believed them to be enamoured of a particular topic. Surely, any hope that they would manifest a real attachment was slim at best.

I was wrong to entertain it, she thought sadly. I have allowed my mind to run away with me in my desperation to be free of Lord Kilby.

She glanced up to find the duke’s eyes upon her, and for an instant, she saw her own conflict mirrored in his expression.

For Colin’s part, he did not like the way that the Norwell’s had affected Lady Wentworth. He wished to intervene, to somehow stand between them and force the women to leave them in peace. But he knew it was impossible. The protectiveness he felt in Lady Wentworth’s presence was increasingly surprising to him. He had been so detached from any connection for so long, even to his own mother and father, that to feel something so fragile forming between them was an alarming but pleasant thing.

Yet, when he thought of the ledgers waiting at home and the precarious position that he found himself in it seemed hopeless. He would give anything to retrieve the gentle rapport that had been built between them throughout the day. He had not had such an enjoyable afternoon for a very long while.

The arrival of the Norwells quickly dispersed the group as Elizabeth, and Lord Preston seemed just as eager to depart as Lady Wentworth did.

Charlotte felt a pang of loss as Colin bowed to her and walked away by his cousin’s side. She noticed as he departed that Elizabeth’s eyes lingered on Malcolm’s for a fraction longer than was proper, and she felt her heart leap for him. Despite her own sorry situation, Malcolm was her dearest friend and ally, and she longed to see him happy.

As she turned away, she could not help admonishing herself for her fanciful thoughts about the duke. Yet as she climbed into the coach beside Malcolm, she clutched the books all the more tightly, fancying that within them, she could feel the lingering warmth of the duke’s gaze and that quiet peace she had found in his presence.