Page 46 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“Did Lord Wrotham ask anything else?”

Georgina began brushing her hair, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes. “He did ask if you’d been up to London yet.”

Hmmm. He was still interested in her. Interested, perhaps, in who she would see in London. Part of Charlotte thrilled to the idea that he was still attracted to her. Yet her mind insisted nothing could come of an affaire de coeur between them. The best thing to do was put him out of her mind and try to move on. If she set her cap for another man and let Wrotham know about it, hopefully he would take the hint, put her out of his mind, and pay his attentions to Georgie instead.

That dinner party and the ensuing conversation had been two weeks ago. As soon as Lord Kersey’s letter had arrived, she’d begun to plan for a rendezvous.

He would call on her at the Marquess of Theale’s London home, where she would be staying with Jane. They obviously could have no assignation there. Perhaps his town house would be more discreet. Or they could go to an inn outside Town. Outside of a country house, she had no idea where people usually went to conduct illicit affairs. The problem with being innocent was a lack of knowledge about so many very important things.

Since she’d emerged in June, she’d lived from one exciting event to another: the Almack ball, the move to Kent, her house party, Lord Wrotham’s proposal. The culmination would be this chance for the physical intimacy she’d been denied with Edward so many years ago.

Charlotte folded the letter and put it in her escritoire once more, thoughtful. If the new earl had indeed turned over a new leaf, as Jane suggested, then he might also be in search of a wife rather than a mistress. Who would have thought it so difficult to find a man who wanted a night of passion without it being followed by an offer of marriage? She’d believed men were in dire dread of being leg-shackled. That they considered widows safe women with whom to indulge their passionate natures. She had obviously not found those particular gentlemen. Except for Fernley, who disgusted her. Was there no middle ground when it came to taking a lover?

Charlotte stood, wandered over to the window, and gazed down the driveway, playing with the small locket at her throat. Only two miles to Wrotham Hall. It might as well be a thousand.

Worse, she had to admit she missed Lord Wrotham’s company. She had come to admire him for so many more reasons than just his physical attributes. His intelligence attracted her more than she would have suspected. Conversations with him had never been dull and often she had to focus, as much as in a game of chess, to stay abreast of his wit. His interest in his land and its people too had struck a deep chord with her. With the harvest finally approaching, she hoped she could work half so well with the tenants as he. The only area where he had not succeeded was with the capture of the robbers, who still plagued the countryside. Still, given time and his determined nature, she had faith that Wrotham would triumph there as well. Truly a man to be admired.

Unfortunately, no matter how much she esteemed Wrotham, she still refused to agree to marry him. The horrors of her first marriage made her value her hard-won freedom too much to consider relinquishing it.

So Alan—she’d best learn to use his first name now—remained her best choice if she simply wanted a dalliance. He had agreed to call on her and that was a start. She must set Rose to begin packing for her departure. If only she could as easily set herself to the task of seducing her rake.

* * *

Almost a week later, on her first night in London, Charlotte made ready for bed in the comfortable chamber allotted her at the Marquess of Theale’s town house. She and Jane had had a long, comfortable coze to catch each other up and her cousin had just risen to retire when she grasped Charlotte’s hand and asked, “Why do you not wish to marry, Charlotte?”

Charlotte sank onto the bed, amazed at the question, which came from nowhere. They had just been talking about Lady Havercourt’s invitation to dine tomorrow evening, certainly nothing to do with marriage. Once the question sank in, Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. Why did she have to keep answering that question?

“You have had a declaration from one of the most eligible men in England.” Jane gave her arm a shake. “Why did you not accept him?”

“Other than the fact that I have no wish to marry?” The hair on the nape of Charlotte’s neck rose.

Jane shrugged. “I do not believe that. I think you are afraid to risk being hurt again. Mind, you have every right to be wary. Between your father and Sir Archibald, you have had a miserable life. However, as bad as it has been, it will be that much more wonderful if you find the right man. I can assure you, Wrotham’s interest in you is genuine. I’d wager my fortune on it. You should have seen his face that night at Almack’s. He looked ready to throttle Lord Kersey for stealing you away.”

“I have been married.” Charlotte sniffed and stared into Jane’s narrowed eyes. “It is not an experience I wish to repeat.”

“You were married to a man much older than you who may not have been kind, but—”

“He was definitely not kind, Jane.” Charlotte twisted her handkerchief. Perhaps, at last, she needed to explain how horrible her life had been to her cousin, to make her understand why she feared losing her independence so much. It was a tale she had told no one.

“Sir Archibald made the five years of our marriage a living hell for me, Jane. I don’t know if he was under orders from Father or if he simply hated me from the moment we wed. From the beginning, he would insult me at dinner, whether we had guests or not. He would tell me I had no intelligence, no grace, no manners. That I was ugly. That I never did anything right.”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay. She refused to cry over his insults any more. “He kept me buried at a cottage in Itchingfield most of the year, a small property with only one servant. I had little allowance for clothing and I had to be frugal just to eat and stay warm.” She fisted her hands, then slowly unclenched them. “All the while he kicked up his heels here in London. He and Edgar. I was brought to Town only when it suited him, when he needed a hostess for some political dinner or party. I’m not sure which I despised more, the lonely months in the country or the loathsome weeks in his company.”

As she spoke, Jane’s face had paled. She swallowed several times and clutched her throat. “My dear! I had no idea . . .” She grabbed Charlotte into her arms, tears trickling down her cheeks, falling onto Charlotte’s back. “Why did you not tell me?”

“I told no one.” Charlotte sniffed and blinked back tears. “No one knew, unless Sir Archibald told someone, which is unlikely.”

Jane sat back. “Was he . . . did he ever physically harm you?”

“No, he never struck me.” She kept her eyes on her lap. “He never touched me at all.”

“What?” Her cousin’s eyes rounded. “You mean he never once came to your bedchamber?”

Charlotte shook her head. She still thanked God every night for that. “I don’t think he was capable. To my knowledge, he never dallied with anyone else either.”

Jane sniffed. “He may have been very discreet. If you were so often in the country, you may not have known of it.”

“Humph.” Charlotte snorted. “Do you think Edgar wouldn’t have known? The slightest thing he could have said to hurt me, he would have shouted it gleefully—in the most public place possible.”