A Hero to Hold Read online

  “Except you held the position she wanted—that of Haliday’s wife.” Jane’s voice was low and fierce, like a gamekeeper confronted with a rabid animal. “She considered you her enemy. Nothing else explains the horrible things she did.”

  All too clearly, Charlotte remembered the day Jane brought her Lady Garret’s novel. Hand trembling, Jane had extended the book. Charlotte knew from her friend’s pale face and tear-bright eyes that, however unlikely, the publication held misery.

  “You must read it,” Jane had said. “Lady Garret is gifting copies to her acquaintances. She wrote it herself, had it printed and bound.” Her face twisted. “Please forgive me, Charlotte. I can’t bear for you to know, but I can’t bear for you to not know. Many are using discretion in their conversation, but the book is being discussed at every gathering. It’s being taken for thinly veiled truth about you, Haliday, and Lady Garret. The wife in the novel—you—is heinous, Charlotte.”

  The physical descriptions of the three characters in the book matched Lady Garret, Haliday, and Charlotte herself. Suddenly Haliday’s late nights, previously explained as evenings he’d spent deep in card play, seemed suspect. Charlotte had actually seen her husband and Lady Garret at dinner parties and soirees, heads close together.

  “She ruined your reputation and made you an object of ridicule,” Jane said, drawing Charlotte’s attention back to the present.

  “She did,” Charlotte agreed, “because most people believed her novel to be true.”

  She gripped the hand Jane extended. “They wanted to believe it because I’m not one of them. I’m just the daughter of Matthew Shelby, a common tradesman who became one of the wealthiest men in England.” She gave Jane’s hand a squeeze and let it drop. “Why did I forget that the blame for what occurred didn’t rest solely on Lady Garret and Haliday? Why did I think I could come back and I wouldn’t be watched and pointed at?” All evening, she’d been the target of suspicious eyes and subtle and not-so-subtle expressions that ranged from cautious to annoyed.

  “Because it’s been eighteen months since that footpad shot and killed Haliday,” Jane said, “two years since that witch created a scandal and placed you at the center. If they pointed, it’s because you’ve just returned. It’s your first appearance in society. The scrutiny will die down. I don’t know why Lady Garret came after you tonight, but rumor has it she has a new lover.” Jane planted her hands on her hips. “You’re Haliday’s widow and a viscountess, and you’ve every right to engage in society entertainments.”

  Her friend appeared so outraged and righteous delivering her defense, Charlotte would have hugged Jane if they’d been more private. She wanted to think Jane was right, too, that the stir she had caused was sparked due to surprise at her appearance and not disdain. She had received several invitations, after all.

  “I stood up to her,” she announced, and if she’d said it to anyone but Jane she would have been embarrassed by the pride in her voice.

  A huge smile lit her friend’s face. “Oh, I’m so glad. Please tell me you outdid her.”

  “Oh, yes. I got the better of her.” Though Charlotte hadn’t flustered Vivian Garret as much as she herself had been taken aback by the stranger’s kiss.

  Etherton entered the room, and he, Jane and Charlotte moved as a trio to the doors. Should she ask him if he knew the identity of the gentleman in the alcove? Charlotte wondered, and curiosity consumed her. Who was he? Would she end up looking for him everywhere she went?

  No. It was better to put the stranger from her mind. He was one more person who found her scandalous. Otherwise he’d have come after her.

  It was raining. Footmen waited outside with open umbrellas, ready to escort them to their carriage. Etherton snatched an umbrella from one of them and moved close to his wife. Hand to her waist, he guided her to the coach. Charlotte followed, a second footman keeping her dry but getting wet himself.

  They didn’t tarry getting inside. Etherton boarded last and took the rear-facing seat. He peered outside as the carriage began to move.

  “I’m glad we left early. I’d rather my men and horses be warm and dry rather than standing in the rain.”

  “You’d have made an excellent army officer,” Jane replied, a light, teasing note in her voice.

  Each streetlight they passed lit the coach’s interior for a few seconds—enough to make out Jane, and Etherton, who smiled at her. “Good officers don’t worry about rain, dearest, except to the extent it affects engaging the enemy.” He leaned toward his wife, appearing to study her. “You’ve collected a few raindrops.”

  He slid Jane’s spectacles from her face and drew a snowy handkerchief from his coat. After polishing the lenses, he slowly slid the eyeglasses back onto her. His thumb stroked down his wife’s cheek and across her lower lip before he leaned back.

  Though there wasn’t enough light to see Jane’s color, and though eight years had passed and four children born since Jane became Lady Etherton, Charlotte knew her friend would be flushed. During Charlotte’s absence they’d exchanged letters, and Jane’s love for Etherton had diminished not one iota. It was good to see them together, to see small expressions of the deep, abiding love her best friend and husband shared. Few were so lucky. Charlotte’s ill-fated choice had proved her luckless, but she took solace knowing that Jane was one of the fortunate few.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Vivian Garret leaned against the ballroom wall and applied her fan, hoping to lessen the uncomfortable warmth her rage had stoked. The confrontation with Lady Haliday hadn’t gone at all as planned. She’d wanted to upset the woman. Instead, she was the one struggling to catch her breath and still the awful churning in her stomach. Her last association with Lady Haliday had ended with her fearing for her sanity, too. What if those dark thoughts took hold again?

  An icy chill slithered up Vivian’s spine, twined down her arms, and turned her fingertips tingly. Devil take it all. She wanted to go home.

  As if conjured from the very air, her escort, Stephen Endsley, Earl of Radcliffe, appeared before Vivian and swept her into the swirl of dancing couples.

  “I believe you promised this waltz to me.”

  He knew very well she hadn’t, but she didn’t have the verve required for their usual repartee. At least she needn’t think of her footwork with Radcliffe partnering her. He was as masterful on the dance floor as he was in the bedroom, and the distraction he afforded allowed her to prevail over her turbulent emotions. What might her life have been like if she’d married a man like this instead of Garret, who, though seventy-eight years of age, had still managed to initiate her to the duties of a wife?

  She nearly stumbled as Radcliffe negotiated a complicated turn. He pulled her close until she regained her footing then stiffened his arms to place an acceptable distance between them. The way he towered head and shoulders above her, he could probably pick her up off her feet if he had a mind to. It amused her now, to think she’d once wondered if the difference in their sizes would affect their lovemaking.

  “Should I be insulted? Your thoughts seem to be elsewhere.”

  He didn’t like her preoccupied. Perhaps a partial truth would appease him. “I just encountered Lady Haliday.” She stared at his blinding-white shirt. The fingers at her waist tightened.

  “Vivian.”

  Startled by his familiar address, she looked up, registered his frown, then realized he’d spoken too softly to be heard by others. No one but Radcliffe had ever looked at her with that possessive gleam. Part of her reveled in it, while another part wanted to extinguish that dazzling glimmer.

  “Did she upset you? Would you rather leave?”

  His voice had deepened. Did he know that particular timbre made her weaken and forget everything but him? That he rarely used it outside the bedroom? His eyes narrowed and made warmth swirl low inside her. She wanted to press against him. Wanted to taste the skin that rose above his collar.

  “You could make me forget my distress, my lord.” Much be
tter to concentrate on Radcliffe and put away all thoughts of Charlotte Haliday and their secret connection.

  The hint of a smile curved up the corner of the earl’s mouth. He gripped her elbow and pulled her aside to the edge of the dance floor, placed her hand atop his forearm and headed for the door.

  It was so like him to not even wait for the end of the waltz. She’d wanted Radcliffe because of his wealth, and he hadn’t disappointed; tonight she wore his most recent gift, the yellow diamonds. She’d had to take his compelling, domineering character as well, which was something she still grappled with.

  As much as he excited her, she hated the power he exerted so effortlessly. Her overbearing father had doled out a surfeit of iron-fisted control, and when she’d left his heartless household she vowed she’d never again be under a man’s thumb. Neither Garret, her husband, nor Haliday, her lover, had been able to employ masculine influence over her, but more and more Radcliffe enthralled her. His influence was altogether different than her father’s, but it was no less commanding.

  They reached the vestibule, and with a few concise words Radcliffe ordered his carriage and their cloaks. He strode forward, thrust his head into the cold air, and seemed to inspect the rainy night.

  Vivian shivered. She couldn’t be falling in love with him. Even considering such an impossibility made her sizzle with alarm. The feeling that accosted her when she was with him…it couldn’t be anything more than a manifestation of desire. She wouldn’t let it be anything more than that, because loving Radcliffe would only result in a broken heart. It would take a unique lady to hold his regard. Vivian might maintain her own household, be a daughter and a widow of barons, but she was far from the special woman Radcliffe would consider as a potential spouse. And even if Vivian were that woman, his pride would never accept someone whose name had once been bandied about in society.

  Radcliffe’s coach pulled up. The warm softness of her velvet cloak enveloped Vivian as the earl settled it upon her shoulders. Briefly, his hand swept down her spine and pressed against the small of her back.

  She glanced up and found his questioning brown eyes fixed upon her. He bent his head and she caught the scent of starch, fine tobacco and bay rum.

  “Would my company be more welcome another evening?”

  His breath against her ear sent heat shuddering through her. She moistened her lips. “No. You’re welcome tonight.”

  He lifted his chin and wordlessly directed her out the door. Footmen stepped up, umbrellas held aloft. Tonight, Radcliffe would drive away Vivian’s dark thoughts. She’d think about how to solve the problem of Charlotte Haliday tomorrow.

  #

  Charlotte arrived at Lindley Square and went up to her bedroom. Employing the usual cheerful efficiency, her maid Rebecca had her in a night-rail within minutes, wrapped with a shawl, covered with a warm throw, and ensconced on the chaise lounge.

  “Here’s your chocolate, then, my lady,” Rebecca said, extending the tray upon which sat a steaming mug.

  Charlotte took the cup of sweet chocolate and wrapped her hands around its sides. “You’d best get to your own bed now, Rebecca.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The maid moved to the door and bobbed a curtsy. The blonde curls protruding from under the ruffled edge of her cap bounced with the dip of her head. “Goodnight, my lady.”

  Once the door closed, Charlotte set her chocolate aside, stood, and pulled her shawl tight. As her feet left the protection of the woolen rug and made contact with the cold boards of the oak floor, she rose onto her toes. She walked on them the rest of the way to the ornately carved mahogany chest, knelt, and slowly raised the lid. She’d wrapped the object of her search in an old petticoat and hidden it at the very bottom.

  Pushing her hand under folded garments, Charlotte burrowed through silk and lace until her seeking fingers touched the hard edge of a book cover. She jerked back as if she’d been pinched but then grasped the thing, pulled it to the surface and peeled the petticoat away. That hated little book of Lady Garret’s.

  Retreating to her chaise, every sense homed in on her repulsive burden and no longer caring about the chill floor, Charlotte sat, curled her legs up beside her and tugged her gown over her feet. She dragged a fingertip over the rich green fabric cover, opened the book, and stared at the title page:

  A Marriage Most Awkward: a novel by Lady G_____.

  How many hours she’d spent, thinking of all the lies, laid low by the pain. Then she’d finally accepted she’d given her heart to a man who never existed.

  Haliday’s infidelity was just the first in a series of life-altering discoveries. He didn’t love her. Never had. He’d wanted her for his wife, but it had been her father’s deep pockets and her status as heiress he’d loved. The one thing he’d wanted from her was a son, and once Charlotte knew about Lady Garret he preferred not to pretend at an affection he didn’t feel. He also didn’t care that she subsequently found sex with him abhorrent.

  She hadn’t needed to ask him how he felt, actually. When she confronted him with the novel, he’d bluntly explained the state of their marriage. When she asked why his mistress had gone to such effort to expose their private lives, he’d shrugged. When she persisted and asked why the woman told vicious lies in order to manipulate society and destroy the good opinions people held of her, he’d smiled a little. Said Lady Garret was a complicated and fascinating woman. When he’d finished explaining it all, Charlotte understood betrayal. In the place her heart belonged, a cold, hard, achy lump now resided.

  After eighteen months in the country, living in the dower house at Hazelton Park, Charlotte had thought society would have forgotten the scandal—or at least stopped caring. She’d half expected Lady Garret to ignore her completely. But, no. Even after all her hard-learned lessons, Charlotte had let naïveté rule her.

  Well, no more.

  She rewrapped the book, pulling the gauzy white fabric tight around it. She’d never understood why she kept the revolting thing, but now she knew. It made her strong. The chest, this book sitting at its bottom, existed to remind her. Do not grow complacent. Do not leave yourself open to hurt. Do not forget.

  Happiness is fragile.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For two days Charlotte debated whether to tell Jane about the kiss.

  Her plan to forget the stranger wasn’t working. Both days she’d been spurred from sleep by images of glinting blue eyes and firm lips. That impulsive kiss had released something locked up since the early days of her marriage. Charlotte didn’t like it. She didn’t want this warm, curling anticipation that unfurled each time she thought—or dreamed—of her stranger.

  She finally decided her feelings were too confused to share, even with Jane. A visit with her friend would be a welcome distraction, though. And she needed her intelligent friend’s help.

  Following their usual practice, Charlotte sent a note and then went to Jane’s at eleven o’clock, ensuring they wouldn’t be interrupted by other callers. Just being in Jane’s private sitting room made Charlotte feel better. The room connected with Jane and Phillip’s boudoirs and contained two cushioned chairs and ottomans, a settee, several small tables, and a small desk.

  In a pale blue gown trimmed with cream lace, her light brown hair arranged in a high, braided knot, Jane looked stylish and confident. She and Charlotte took the facing cushioned chairs and grinned at each other.

  “It’s so good to have you back,” Jane said. “I missed you horribly. Have you reconnected with anyone, now everyone knows you’re in London?”

  “I’ve had several invitations to dinner parties and soirees, but very few callers.”

  Jane frowned. “I’m sure it’s the pompous, critical ones who are avoiding you. Just like those pretentious girls at school.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “It is the same as at the ball. I sense most people are curious to see how I’m faring. My title makes me an acceptable guest at an entertainment, but I suspect most ladies aren’t eager to resume a more perso
nal association. I can think of no other reason to not have callers.”

  A flash of pain twisted Jane’s face before she firmed her lips and squared her shoulders. “That can’t be it. They’re all just embarrassed at the way they treated you. Once they see how sincere and delightful you are, you’ll be deluged with callers.”

  Charlotte didn’t bother to remind Jane how that had never happened during the four years of her marriage. She had Jane’s friendship, though. And remaining a parvenu upstart didn’t bother Charlotte so much except for the unfairness of those judgmental opinions about her. She’d done nothing wrong. She’d planned to have children, to be a fine hostess, to support charities. She wanted a fulfilling life. Last night she’d done needlework and listened to the tick of the mantel clock.

  During the past eighteen-month mourning period she’d gathered her tattered self and sorted through her hurt and confusion. At Hazelton Park she’d read, taken long walks, and worked in the garden. Eventually the stubborn streak that had kept her head high during the worst of Lady Garret’s campaign nudged her to return to London. Her pride had brought her back; a compulsion to stare them all down and the desire to lead an active, rewarding life overrode her remaining humiliation and pain. The one thing Haliday had always admired about her was her pride. He’d said she held herself like a princess royal.

  “Jane…?”

  Her friend’s head tilted, and the space between her brows creased. “Yes?”

  “I don’t care if they don’t want to associate with me. The only thing I miss having is respect. I deserve respect.”

  Jane’s lips pressed together, and she nodded. She looked sympathetic and unsurprised.

  “I’ve nothing here to keep me occupied,” Charlotte continued. “I was content at Hazelton Park, but you know I love the city. I have as much right to music and art and diversions as any other lady.”

  “You deserve to enjoy yourself,” Jane agreed.

  Charlotte fingered the teardrop of jet that dangled from her earlobe and glanced at the row of jet buttons adorning her gray pleated bodice. “I’m in half-mourning now. I can be out in public and attend social functions, although something smaller than a ball for my social entrée would probably have been wiser. But I hate pretending, and I’m sure everyone knows I’m merely following proper etiquette.”