Annie Burrows - Four Regency Rogues

‘And different battles to fight,’ she said with a smile.

He laughed. ‘Battles I shall win, Miss Cartwright.’

She did not answer because they had arrived at the gates of the Hall. He halted and turned towards her, doffing his hat. ‘Here we must part. Good day to you, Miss Cartwright. I will let you know what I can discover about the deaf teacher.’ He sprang into the saddle before she could reply and cantered up the weed-infested drive.

‘We shall see,’ she murmured to herself, as she continued on her way. ‘We shall see.’

Lady Brandon, full of self-importance, delivered Charlotte’s invitation to her soirée herself two days later and was taken aback when Charlotte said she did not think she would go. ‘What have you against the man?’ her ladyship asked.

Charlotte was certainly not going to tell her. ‘I find him top-lofty in the extreme.’

‘Goodness, he has a right to be proud. He is an Earl, after all. I found him very civil and he has such an amiable manner. When we called on the Countess to ask her what she thought about a little soirée in his honour, his lordship arrived while we were there and he was politeness itself…’

‘Who is “we”?’

‘Lady Gilford, Mrs Trent and I. We asked him directly and, though the Countess declined on account of being in mourning, he was pleased to accept. You know, if he manages to come about, he will be the catch of the year. It will be amusing to watch all the mamas buzzing round him, trying to catch his eye.’

Charlotte smiled to herself. She had no doubt that Lady Brandon herself was one such mama. Poor Martha would be pushed and pulled and goaded to make herself agreeable to his lordship. It would be interesting to see how successful she would be.

‘You will come, won’t you?’ her ladyship went on. ‘If you do not, people will gossip and that would look ill, do you not think?’

Charlotte considered this for a moment and decided that gossip about why she was not pleased to see Roland Temple come home was something she could do without. ‘I suppose you could be right. Very well, I will come.’

Her ladyship clapped her hands. ‘Good. I want the occasion to be perfect. I want everyone to say it could never be bettered.’

‘I thought it was only to be a simple soirée.’

‘Oh, we can do better than that. Now I must leave you, I have much to do to have everything ready in time. I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.’ And with that she took her leave.

Charlotte spent some time considering what to wear and finally decided on her brand-new gown. It was amber, deeper than gold, but not quite brown, with a rounded neckline and puffed sleeves and finished with coffee-coloured lace at the hem and a matching ribbon under her bust.

On the evening of the soirée, Meg, her maid, discreetly powdered Charlotte’s face to subdue the tan, and dressed her hair in a Grecian style which even the usually modest Charlotte agreed made her look well. She had a drawer full of expensive jewellery which she never wore, but tonight she picked out a pearl necklace given to her by her papa on her twenty-first birthday. Taking up a matching silk shawl, a chicken-skin fan and a small beaded reticule, she went downstairs and out to her carriage.

The affair at Scofield Place, put about as a simple soirée, had grown out of all proportion. Anyone who was anyone in the county had been invited and had accepted. The food, produced by outside caterers, was sumptuous and would have fed a poor family for a year, if its taste were to run to the rare dishes, rich sauces and exotic fruits that weighed down the table in the wainscoted dining room. There were flowers and an orchestra and hired footmen in livery.

Lady Brandon, clad in a full-skirted gown of burgundy taffeta, which made her look rounder than ever, took both Charlotte’s hands and looked her up and down. ‘My dear, you look lovely. I would never have attempted that colour myself, but I do declare it becomes you.’ Sir Gordon, in a black superfine evening coat and matching breeches with white stockings, made her a bow and said she looked very well.

There was a huge crush in the large drawing room, stripped of its carpet and furniture, where an orchestra played for dancing, though that could hardly be heard above the noise of conversation as friend greeted friend and everyone enquired of everyone else if the Earl had arrived.

‘I was right,’ Lady Brandon told Charlotte triumphantly. ‘The Earl is like to be the catch of the season. Just look at Dorothea Manton preening herself like a peacock, as if she were not already well and truly on the shelf, and if Mrs Barnard thinks he will take any notice of her plain Jane, then she is a greater fribble than I took her for. Why, our Martha has a better chance of being noticed than any of them.’

Charlotte did not think these comments required an answer; besides, she was too busy looking round herself. If his lordship were looking for a bride with a good dowry, then he was unlikely to find her here. Dorothea Manton’s parents were well bred, it was true, but like many aristocrats, they lived outside their means. Faith Trent’s dowry would certainly not suffice if the point of the exercise was to refurbish Amerleigh Hall. The same could be said of almost everyone else in the room. Charlotte smiled to herself; she was the only one with sufficient resources and she was the only one who would not drop the handkerchief for him. She became aware that the murmur of voices had died and everyone was looking towards the door, where Roland Temple, Earl of Amerleigh, had just arrived.

He stood inches taller than any other man present, dressed in a black evening suit, relieved by a pale blue embroidered waistcoat and snowy white cravat, skilfully tied. His dark curls had been trimmed into the latest windswept style and barely touched the high collar of his coat. Unlike the other men in the room, he wore no jewellery, but he did not need it. No one could deny he had a commanding presence and there was a concerted sigh from the ladies. His physical attraction was so strong and his character so compelling, he could, if she were the susceptible kind, make Charlotte go weak at the knees and forget they were mortal enemies.

Lady Brandon hurried to greet him and proceeded to lead him round the room, introducing him to those he had not met before and reminding him of others he might have remembered from his boyhood. He bowed and smiled and passed on to the next, convinced that everyone who was anyone in Shropshire must surely be crammed into the room in all their finery for his benefit and he wished it were otherwise. If they had been giving him a true welcome, he would not have minded, but he knew most of it was curiosity to see if he would do something outrageous and confirm their worst fears. And if he did not, if he turned out to be perfectly abstemious and polite, then every mama of an unattached female would work herself silly to have her daughter noticed.

He smiled quirkily as he bowed over Dorothea Gilford’s hand, which made that poor child blush to the roots of her mousy hair. And it was not as if the smile was directed at her, but his own stupidity for allowing himself to become a party to it. He moved on quickly to the next group, noticing that the next in line was Miss Cartwright. So used to seeing and picturing the hoyden, he was completely taken aback by her changed appearance and for a moment could not pay attention to Lady Brandon. Pulling himself together, he murmured a greeting to the couple to whom he was being introduced and then moved on to Charlotte. Standing before her, he was obliged to amend his original perception of her—she was not plain at all. Here was a beautiful woman with the figure of a goddess. Even her wild hair had been tamed. He swept her a flourishing bow. ‘Good evening, Miss Cartwright.’