The Duke's Christmas Vow: Regency Romance Page 2
Her father was far older than her mother, and an invalid – if she did not marry before he died, she was not at all sure what would become of them.
Yet… most men frightened her, in one way or another. Some were overbearing, arrogant and domineering, others were foppish, strange in their habits, and quite disturbingly odd. She needed to find a man who was not only someone she could countenance spending time with, but one who would not mind the near vanishing smallness of her dowry, and one who might help support her mother, when her father’s inevitable death arrived and his title, as well as all but a few properties, went to her uncle.
She turned, and made her way back in the direction of the house, finding another three feathers along the way, and determinedly set her mind to forgetting all about being held in the Duke’s arms.
*****
The breakfast room was full. He felt as if his mother had invited every unmarried woman in the ton to this House Party.
They fluttered about, all watching for any chance to place themselves in his path. Their mothers and fathers watched them, hopeful. The other men who attended – mainly brothers of the women, and a few who were actually his friends – watched the women, attempting, he suspected, to ascertain which ones Rafe wasn’t interested in, so that they might consider them for themselves.
It made eating a peaceful breakfast an impossibility. There was no way to eat even something so simple as toast and marmalade, and still carry on vaguely polite conversation. So he said as little as possible – let them think him rude – and escaped to his study as soon as he could, despite the glare his mother gave him as he left the breakfast room.
Chapter Two
Charity slipped back into the house, and up to her rooms, asking a maid she passed on the way to have a breakfast tray sent up for her. She simply could not face the idea of a breakfast room full of people, not after her embarrassing morning encounter. All of the other young ladies she had seen here were beautiful, polished, perfectly presented, and seemingly accomplished – everything she was not. Especially now, with pulled threads on her pelisse skirts, and her bonnet askew.
She would hide away for the morning, perhaps work on the bonnet decoration she was making, and only go down in the afternoon, when she had changed, and made herself as presentable as possible. In her rooms, she set the basket down on the small escritoire set near the window of the little parlour, and went into her dressing room. Maggie was there, carefully pressing each of Charity’s gowns, mending small imperfections, and hanging them on the hooks along the wall, so that they might be ready when Charity needed them. They had only arrived here the previous night, so Maggie still had a lot of unpacking to do.
“Maggie, I’d like to change please. I think that I managed to prevent my hems becoming mud stained, but… I’m terribly sorry, I’ve managed to snag threads on this pelisse, which will need to be mended.”
The maid looked up, her expression momentarily fearful, until her eyes came to rest on the front of Charity’s garments – then her face cleared.
“There’s no need to apologise, my Lady – I can fix pulled threads like that easily. Which gown would you like to change into?”
Charity felt a surge of relief – Maggie had enough to do, caring for both Charity and her mother, without her life being made harder by Charity’s carelessness.
“The blue one, I think. And… can you please fix my hair? I… I got it caught on a hedge.”
Maggie smiled at her, half laughing.
“Did you get the feather you were trying to reach, my Lady? For that’s the only reason I can think of for you to get tangled in a hedge.”
Charity nodded, returning the girl’s smile, and submitted to Maggie’s efficient attentions to her attire.
Twenty minutes later, wearing the blue gown, and with her hair pinned neatly back into a pile of coils on her head, Charity sat at the escritoire, and carefully unpacked her gatherings from the morning’s walk.
The white feather was, truly, magnificent.
It was large, and none of the fine threads which comprised it had been misaligned. It was absolutely perfect to be the final part of the bonnet decoration she had been making.
But the image which came to her mind as she touched it was not that decoration, but instead, the deep brown eyes of the man who had gathered it for her. She stared out of the window at the fields below, where they ran in a long rolling moor towards the sea, and despite her intention to forget about the sensation of being held in a man’s arms, she relived that moment, over and over, in her thoughts.
And came to a startling realisation.
She hadn’t, not for one moment, felt frightened by him. Nor had she found him disturbing in any way – well, except for the way that his hands around her had made her heart beat faster. And that was not a bad kind of disturbing…
Apart from her father, she could not remember any other man who had not made her feel either frightened or disturbed. A half choked-off sob escaped her. Of course, the first man she discovered who she found even vaguely interesting, and non-threatening, had to be a Duke – a Duke surrounded by other young women, all far more suitable to be his bride than Charity ever could be.
*****
It was mid-afternoon, and Rafe knew that he could avoid it no longer – he would have to go down to the parlour, and take tea with his guests. Which meant engaging in conversation with all of the young women present. If he tried to isolate himself with the few of his men friends who were here, his mother was just as like to simply march into their conversation, and remove him from it by some thin excuse. He sighed, and called for his valet – if he must do it, he had best look as presentable as possible.
Half an hour later, as well presented as if he was about to attend a London soiree, he went downstairs. He could hear the murmur of conversation before he was half way down – a susurrus of female voices. He paused just outside the parlour door, taking a steadying breath, and considered, just for moment, turning, and leaving the house. He did not do it, of course, for he had given his mother his vow, and somehow, he would stay true to it.
He opened the door and went in. The conversation immediately hushed, and all eyes turned in his direction. He felt, in that instant, like a stallion in the ring at Tattersall’s, being eyed by potential buyers. It was not a pleasant sensation. His mother came to him, her expression making it clear, subtly, that she thought he should have made his appearance rather sooner.
“Oakmoor – do come and let me introduce you to some of our guests whom you have not yet become acquainted with.”
“Of course, Mother.”
The Duchess led him across the room, and Rafe carefully studied the people present, all without actually looking too directly at anyone. Various young ladies watched him, some with considerably more hope in their expressions than others. He had met most of them yesterday, but a few had arrived very late, and had not been down to the breakfast room before he had retreated to his rooms.
There were, he had to admit, some quite stunningly beautiful young women here – but still, they all seemed rather artificial – too studied, as if they had no life outside of being decorative.
Unbidden, the face of the young woman he had collided with on the lane came back to him – a face beautiful because it was genuine and unaffected.
It had been, he realised now, a quite remarkable meeting, for she had made no attempt to simper at him, had not taken advantage, at all, of being in his arms for those few moments. He doubted that almost any woman in this room would have been so reticent.
They reached a cluster of people who stood near the large bay window which overlooked the gardens, and his mother came to a stop.
“Ladies… if I may interrupt your conversation to perform introductions…”
They turned at her voice, their conversation dying away. There were seven women – three older, and likely the mothers of the younger ones, and four younger, two of whom looked so alike that there was no doubt of their kinship.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Ladies, I would like to make known to you my son, the Duke of Oakmoor, your host for this party. Oakmoor, I present to you the Countess of Chilwinth and her daughter, Lady Anne Brooks; the Baroness Delfanning and her daughters Miss Woodfield and Miss Penelope Woodfield; and the Marchioness of Warkworth, and her daughter Lady Charity Pemberton.”
There were curtsies, and many murmurs of greeting, but Rafe was barely aware of any of it. He was, instead, frozen in place, his eyes locked on those of the last lady introduced - wide violet toned eyes which he had last looked into that very morning, in a frosty country lane, from far closer than was proper. That wealth of deep red curls had been tamed, and pinned into artful coils on her head, but no other artifice had been applied to her.
Which was more than he could say for the other three young women. So, now he knew her name – which only made her the more intriguing, for he would have expected a Marquess’ daughter to be like all of the others. Instead, her gown was quite plain, if of excellent quality, the colour in her lips and cheeks was natural, and her expression held more of fear and trepidation than of simpering obsequiousness.
What was she afraid of? Rafe had never thought himself particularly fierce in mien and that morning, in the lane, whilst she had seemed embarrassed, he had seen no sign of fear. Silence fell, lengthened and, seemingly at the same moment, Rafe and the girl before him recognised that fact. He tore his eyes away from hers, even as her face assumed a bland and polite smile.
“I am delighted to meet all of you, ladies. I hope that you will enjoy your stay at Oakmoor Chase this Christmas Season.”
The artificial ones all seemed to speak at once, assuring him in an effusive manner that they would. But the response which struck him most strongly came from Lady Charity – a response spoken so softly that he would not have heard it had not she been the closest to him at the time.
“I hope so too…”
He caught her eyes again, and she flushed, looking away, as if embarrassed that he had heard. As his mother led him away from them to the other set of late arrivals to whom he had not yet been introduced, his mind stayed with Lady Charity. He had the strangest feeling that she had spoken honestly with those words, had simply answered him, without stopping to consider exactly what to say or do. Intriguing… absolutely intriguing – for it implied that she had spoken honestly, rather than concocting a response which she thought was what he would want to hear. The novelty of such a response was immense.
He was soon introduced to another two young ladies and their parents, before his mother released him to circulate amongst the guests himself. Obedient to what he had promised her, he made certain to speak to each of the eligible young women in the room – but he also made certain that he spent no more time with any one than any other. He would not give them grounds for hope of his interest.
He found himself, without having intended to, tracking where in the room Lady Charity was. She had barely moved from near the bay window, and did not appear to be involved in any of the conversations around her. He almost laughed as he realised that, in that moment, he envied her – if he had been able to avoid conversation, he would have done so.
Perhaps later, he might find a chance to speak with her, to discover if she was truly as different as she seemed – and, if he could, to discover what that expression of apparent fear had been about.
*****
When the Duchess had performed the introductions, Charity had wished, for a moment, that the floor might open up and swallow her. Fear had filled her – fear that he might remark on their early morning meeting, revealing that she had been out unchaperoned, or that he might treat her with disdain.
When neither thing happened, and she had instead found her gaze locked to his, she had been hard pressed to look away, even as the silence extended. She did not understand what she saw in his expression – he studied her, as if she was a puzzle that he needed to unravel. She only hoped that the other young women present had not noticed that moment between them.
He had looked away at the same moment she had, and made polite conversation, ending with that hope that they would enjoy their stay at Oakmoor Chase. She had responded automatically, without pausing to think first, and then horrified embarrassment had filled her when she had realised what she had done, and that he had actually heard her! He had met her eyes again, and she had braced herself for an expression of scorn, but instead had seen only curiosity in that gaze, before she had looked down.
Now, as he moved around the room, talking to everyone, but to no one for very long, she could not help but watch him. Blessedly, the other women near her became caught up in various conversations, including her mother, and Charity was able to simply sit on the bay window seat and sip at her tea, without needing to deal with the exhausting process of polite conversation. Exhausting because it required her to weigh every word before she spoke, lest she blurt out something blunt and inappropriate.
Not far from her, Lady Anne Brooks and the Misses Woodfield were talking to each other quietly, their voices coming clearly to Charity where she sat.
“Have you heard what is being said about this house party, Miss Woodfield?”
Lady Anne’s voice was lowered in that manner which people used when discussing things secret or scandalous.
“What is being said, Lady Anne?”
Miss Woodfield leant close to Lady Anne, her eyes alight, and her sister pressed closer too.
“It is rumoured that the Duke has made a vow to choose a woman to be his bride – from those present at this very party!”
“Oh! Then… perhaps there is some pattern to who has been invited? For we seem an interesting mix of people – some from the first stare of fashionable society, and some who are far less commonly seen about in London. Do you think… do you think that the Duke has already considered others, and come to a narrowed range of choices? That perhaps we are here because we are strong contenders to be his Duchess?”
“That is an exciting thought, Miss Woodfield, is it not?”
“It is. Although… given the… variety… of those present, if that is the case, then the Duke has remarkably… eclectic taste in women!”
“You are correct there. I must say, there are some people here whom I would not have expected… but perhaps they are here so that his gentlemen friends will have young ladies to consider as well?”
“Possibly…”
They moved off at that point, going to stand near the fire, and Charity was left alone to consider what she had heard. Above her, across the top of the bay window, a string of tiny Christmas bells hung, twined with ribbon and sprigs of holly. Every so often, the movement of the air in the room caused them to ring softly, as they did at that moment.
Charity looked up, and smiled when she saw the holly – it reminded her of that morning, of the huge hedges of it, and the feather… and the Duke.
The Duke, who might be specifically intending to choose a bride in the next week, from amongst the women here. If she had thought her mother’s hope was improbable before, now Charity knew it to be so unlikely as to be laughable. The chance of Charity attracting the Duke’s courtship was vanishingly small.
She studied all of the young women present, sipping her tea, and pretending to be completely at ease.
They were uniformly beautiful – more so than she – and their appearance was polished to perfection. They wore gowns from the best modistes, jewels from the most skilled goldsmiths, and delicate bejewelled slippers. They conversed with perfect ease, about the inconsequential nothings which comprised polite discussion, and moved elegantly. No doubt they also played the pianoforte to perfection, painted exquisite watercolours of boring subjects, and embroidered such fine stitches that one would need a quizzing glass to see them properly.
Charity was not even one of those things – except perhaps for the quality of her sewing –
but her stitches were done on prosaic things like repairing her gowns, or stitching the feathers onto a headdress, not on pointless but pretty handkerchiefs and the like. She sipped her tea again, and watched as the Duke moved to yet another cluster of young ladies, always smiling, and obviously at ease joining them in speaking of polite nothings.
No matter what her mother hoped for, Charity had best resign herself to invisibility, and be thankful for it. There was not the slightest possibility of the Duke being interested in her, especially not after the manner of their first meeting.
Chapter Three
“Well Rafael, what do you think of them? These are the last of the young ladies of the ton who might be remotely suitable. After you decided against so many during the Season, and then again in Bath in autumn, I despaired of finding enough respectable young women to invite for this house party. Now you must fulfil your vow, and chose one of them.”
Rafe regarded his mother with a rueful smile.
“I know that I gave my word… but…”
“I warned you not to take that vow lightly. If none of them strike you strongly, you must simply choose the one who annoys you least, and have done with it.”
Rafe winced at her words, trying to imagine living with the young women he had been speaking to that day. Although he had been as even handed as he possibly could with how much time he spent with each, they had all been attempting to manipulate things to get more time with him.
Not all.
The thought slipped into his mind, unbidden. There was one young woman who had made no attempt to get close to him. One young woman whose face bore no artifice, and whose deep violet eyes were imprinted on his memory.
He shook his head – perhaps she was simply trying a different tactic, attempting to interest him by not forcing herself upon him. If that was the tactic, then she was at least partially succeeding, he thought, a little chagrined. But it was only the third day of this house party – there was still a week and a half to go before Christmas, before he would be forced to choose. Surely, in that time, he could determine enough of the character of each of the ladies who were present, to be able to choose?