Page 38 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

He put a hand up to stop her protest. “Having friends she could grieve with, who were experiencing the same loss as she, proved a godsend, not only for Georgie, but for all you ladies, I suspect. She is so miserable in town with the Kirkpatricks. Your calls and at homes during her mourning were the highlight of her week. She wrote to me, you see, even though Father forbade it. She was so lonely until she met Eliza . . . Mrs. Easton. And through her, your little circle.”

He glanced back at Georgie again. “I must say I am particularly grateful to Wrotham for his attentions to her. And thankful he’ll be at this evening’s party as well. Father might well approve of an offer from someone as steady and well-established. It would be a good match for everyone all around.”

“Not everyone.” Charlotte gasped, appalled that the words had slipped out. Brack peered at her oddly.

“You disagree, Lady Cavendish? Are you acquainted with Lord Wrotham?”

Charlotte took a deep breath to compose herself. She wanted to say neither too much nor too little. “I fear I do not know him well. I know few particulars of his life other than what I gleaned last evening. He seems fond of dancing.” Of course she could not broach their encounter in the library to Brack. Or his rescue of Edward.

Her companion looked thoughtful. “I will make inquiries when I return to London. If Georgie has a genuine interest in the earl, I must make sure everything is as it seems. He appears an amiable gentleman, but one must be certain.”

“Very wise, my lord.” Charlotte relaxed a trifle and continued her sedate stroll, although her stomach still lurched uncomfortably. It must have been the drink that upset her. She firmly squelched any thoughts to the contrary. The encounter with the earl last night, as wonderfully arousing as it might have been, would not do. He desired a wife. Even Jane had said so. And Charlotte’s resolve held firm: marriage was not for her.

Brack opened the thick oak door of the church and Charlotte passed into the cool, dim interior. She turned to walk down the central aisle of the nave toward the brighter light near the pulpit. Once there, the windows in the northeast transept drew her attention. Beautiful stained glass illustrating scenes from the life of Christ in jeweled tones calmed her flustered nerves. The window depicting the adoration of the Virgin called to her especially. The brilliant Della Robbia blue robe, ruby red throne, emerald hangings all glowed, the sunshine appearing to light it from within. Unearthly beauty that sent an aura of peace through her.

“This window dates from the fifteenth century. A generous donation by the then-major landowner, Thomas Wrotham.”

Like a dash of cold water, the deep baritone voice sent a shiver down Charlotte’s back. She turned to Lord Wrotham, her momentary peace fled. He stood smiling at her, Georgina and Elizabeth on either side of him.

“An ancestor of yours, my lord?” She tried to keep her emotions at bay, but the sight of him with her two friends sent a frisson of hurt through her, irrational though it might be. She had no designs on the earl. So why did his attentions to other ladies bother her?

“Alas, no.” When he chuckled, the blue of his eyes deepened. “Our title only dates back to the sixteen hundreds and the family name is St. Claire. The Wrothams were here from the beginning. Richard de Wrotham gave his name to the village and parish in 964.” The impudent man had the audacity to wink at her. “It is rumored he is here still.”

“Whatever do you mean, Lord Wrotham?” Georgina cocked her head prettily to the side.

He widened his eyes innocently. “Come with me and find out, Lady Georgina. If you dare.”

Elizabeth glanced from Wrotham’s mischievous face to Georgina’s eager one and put a hand on her friend’s arm. “I think I heard your brother call to you just now, Georgie.”

“You did? I didn’t hear—”

“I’m certain I did. You were likely distracted by Lord Wrotham’s explanation. Come. He’s there in the narthex.” With a long-suffering glance at Charlotte, she shepherded Georgie back down the center aisle.

Wrotham turned to her with a wicked smile. “Do you dare, my lady?”

He was teasing her unmercifully, reminding her about their encounter. Well, she’d be hanged if she’d let him get the better of her. “Of course I do, my lord. ‘Lay on, Mac-Duff. ’”

“And damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold! enough!’” He finished the quote with a wry twist to his mouth and started down the near aisle, Charlotte following close behind. About halfway down, he stopped. Making a sweeping gesture up and down, he proclaimed, “This is the north aisle. Thomas Wrotham is buried somewhere along here, according to the rector. No one knows precisely where.” Close to her ear, in a deep voice that shook her to her core, he whispered, “Perhaps beneath our very feet.”

Gooseflesh pimpled her arms and neck. Charlotte couldn’t help a slight squeal as she danced backward, imagining a phantom rose before her eyes. She had never enjoyed ghost tales and avoided contact with any ghostly places at all costs. She sidled toward Wrotham and the protection his solid frame provided. His arm went around her and her shudders stopped.

“Not to worry, my lady,” he said, his voice normal once more, with a touch of amusement. “Spirits seem to rest well here in Wrotham. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve heard of no local hauntings.” He steered her toward a side door, then turned to address the company, scattered throughout the church.

“If anyone would like to see the clock tower, please follow me. The stone staircase that spirals upward is narrow and steep, with only a rope to hold on to. But if you care to ascend, there is a fine prospect from the top.”

Wrotham paused, eying her. “Are you game, Lady Cavendish? The climb is nigh vertical and the way extremely close.” He grasped her hand and held it.

Charlotte looked at Georgina and Elizabeth, who had moved away from Lord Brack to stand with Jane. Georgie sent a glance to the earl, as if weighing her choices. In the end, she turned back to Jane and began to talk in a low voice.

“Of course I am, my lord. As you said earlier, it is my village too. I should be familiar with all its sights and eccentricities, should I not?” She could not resist adding, “Next time I may not be so fortunate as to find you available to guide me.”

“But I told you, my lady, if you are ever in need I am close at hand.” His voice became a liquid whisper in her ear. “And I mean what I say.”

Charlotte froze. The church melted away until she stood half clothed with this man in the library. A deep desire to throw herself into his arms welled up inside her.

Madness. She squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the strings of her reticule. A breath. She must take a breath. The man was merely flirting with her, as he had been with the other ladies in the party all afternoon. Nothing more than that. After her adamant declaration this morning, he could not still be considering her as a prospective wife.

She dragged air into her lungs, determined to hide her disturbing feelings from him. With great effort, she managed to gesture easily toward the clock tower door. “Please, lead the way, my lord. I am eager to see what delights await us at the top.”