“What was for pudding?” he demanded of her.
“Strawberry tart,” Charlotte responded. “It was delicious.”
Not looking at him, his father said, “Get me some, will you, Charlie?”
Wishing the familiar nickname didn’t make him sound like a little boy, Charles pressed the bell by the door to summon a servant.
At last, his father came farther into the room and took the winged chair by the fire.
“Actually we were discussing family names,” Charlotte said.
“So I heard. And Charlie was lying to you. He isn’t Charles Jeffrey Jeffcoat. How absurd!”
“Oh!” Charlotte turned her big brown eyes upon Charles wonderingly. She probably thought him a bald-faced liar.
“I was only trying to be funny,” he confessed, feeling foolish. “Our family name is Lambeth.” There was nothing amusing about that.
“Charles Jeffrey Lambeth, The Viscount Jeffcoat,” she said, putting it all together.
Oddly, Charles hoped she liked his long designation. He flicked her a smile, which she returned.
“One day — probably sooner rather than later — to be the Earl of Bentley,” his father added, “but, of course, you knew that.”
Charles rolled his eyes at the slight insult, practically calling her a title hunter, but Charlotte didn’t appear to take offense. Instead, she walked around the chair to stand by the glowing coals and face his father.
“Do you admire the writing of Mr. Ainsworth?” Charlotte asked.
Charles expected his father to jump up at once at realizing his own atrocious discourtesy. Instead, he leaned his head back and laid blame elsewhere.
“I’m terribly sorry. My son is remiss in having just the one comfortable chair, and I took it like a dunce. We are so unused to visitors.” He rounded on his son. “Charlie, bring your desk chair around here for me. Then the young lady can have this comfy one.”
“That’s quite all right, my lord,” Charlotte began, but stopped when Charles did as his father commanded and got the two of them settled. He was left to ask a footman for dessert as well as for another chair, deciding to remedy the lack and place another wingback chair by the fireplace soon. Perhaps that would bring his father in more often for a chat.
In any case, he was astounded to hear Charlotte and his father fall into an easy conversation. Every time the earl became prickly, she said something to soothe him until the dessert arrived, which his father tucked into with glee. Naturally, the earl confessed a preference for older works from Homer to Shakespeare, barely allowing Voltaire and Goethe as worth reading.
“Everything else is just drivel, including that Ainsworth,” he nodded toward the books she held.
“Oh, I enjoy them tremendously,” Charlotte said good naturedly, retrieving her wine glass from the small table. “I also like Swift or Defoe for a diverting adventure.”
“Bah,” his father said, but his tone was pleasant. Then he glanced at his son and back at Charlotte. “If you’re not a doxy, why are you here?”
“Father!” Charles was ready to trounce him. It was beyond the pale to make a guest feel unwelcome. His father who could act with all due decorum in Parliament was undoubtedly being rude for sport.
Before he could say more, the earl added, “I suspect you didn’t come over merely to eat our food and borrow some books, but to secure yourself a titled husband as your sister did.”
Chapter Eight
Charles watched Charlotte’s cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. He felt her mortification down to his own toes.
“Father, that was rude. Miss Rare-Foure came to ask my legal advice, and you owe her an apology.”
“Do I?” the earl asked, taking the dessert plate off the table where he’d set it aside. Saying nothing more, instead he took the last bite of tart and chewed happily.
Clearly, he knew he’d said something inflammatory and was enjoying himself anyway. Sometimes lately, his father descended into a childlike state of willfulness, but Charles thought it was more likely due to increased isolation, and thus a lack of need for the practice of civility, than due to any loss of his mental faculties.
“No, it’s all right,” Charlotte said. “Naturally, your father is confused.”
Charles nearly laughed out loud as her words had mirrored his thoughts, coming up with the opposite conclusion — or, at least, pretending to, in order to excuse the earl’s outrageous behavior.
