Miss Charity's Case, page 10
Charity did not restrain her laughter as she listened to Thyra’s light chatter. There was nothing malicious in it as in Leatrice’s. It was a delight to be able to speak freely, instead of fearing every word might be repeated and twisted.
“I took the liberty of ordering tea for us in the small sitting room,” Thyra said as they walked along a corridor that was decorated with portraits edged by gilt frames. “I am not at home to anyone else today, so we can have the chance to get to know each other better. A party prevents one from speaking one’s mind. Oliver finds my reticence at social occasions amusing, for he knows how I treasure airing my opinions. I suspect you are of the same ilk.”
“A parson’s daughter must learn to keep her tongue between her teeth.”
Thyra grimaced again. “Then I must be grateful for the circumstances of my birth. The ton has learned they have no choice but to tolerate my ways.”
Charity laughed. Thyra Estes was a delicious change from the close confines that threatened to strangle her.
The sitting room was of generous proportions. From its ceiling, which was inlaid with plaster medallions and vines painted a stark white, to its gracious furniture, arranged before a fireplace topped by a mirror, the room was splendid. A thick carpet of an Oriental design was woven with shades of red and gold and a whimsy of pink and green. Gold silk sheathing the walls matched the candelabra on the tables.
Thyra sat on a settee upholstered in the same pink as the ribbons in her golden hair. Motioning to a japanned chair next to her, she said, “Sit here, so we can talk with ease.”
Charity found the chair, with its cane seat, to be more comfortable than any in her great-aunt’s house, and she guessed that many had sat in it before her. This grand room seemed somehow as cozy as the parlor in the parsonage in Bridgeton.
A maid brought in the tea. The tray was set on the satinwood table, dimming its golden sheen. Thyra lifted the top of the painted porcelain teapot and checked the tea.
“A few minutes more,” she said with a smile. “Would you like a sweetmeat?” She held out a crystal dish by its stem that was as fancily turned as a wine goblet.
Charity took one of the pieces of fruit glittering with crystallized sugar. As she savored its candied flavor, she listened to Thyra.
“Tomorrow evening’s party at the Aftons’ house on the other side of the square,” Thyra said as she poured, “is one of the most important of the Season.”
“Lady Eloise would most likely take umbrage with that.” Charity accepted the cup Thyra held out to her. “She sent her regrets to Lady Afton, for we shall be attending the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden tomorrow evening. Lady Eloise owns to a secret delight in the plays of William Shakespeare, and she is repining to see the performance of The Merchant of Venice.”
Thyra sighed and leaned back against the rounded arms of the settee while she lifted her cup to her lips. “That is a shame, for I had hoped you could help me make the evening less dreary.”
“Dreary? I thought you said it was a party of the first order.”
“For the young maidens who parade themselves before eligible men.” Her smile brightened her eyes. “It is our fortune, dear Charity, that we are past the age for such antics.”
Charity lowered her cup to her lap and shook her head. “Not according to my great-aunt. She is determined both my sister and I should wed highly. Her insistence on the issue prevents any affection from growing between us, for I have no wish to choose my husband simply for the sake of the title he possesses.”
“But you are interested in marriage?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are like me!” Thyra put her cup on the table and smiled. “I was sure you were a girl of rare intelligence when you did not flinch when Oliver asked you to waltz.” Closing her eyes, she whispered, “How I wish I could dance a single waltz with dear Myles Hambleton!”
“Oliver mentioned you wished a better friendship with the Duke of Rimsbury.”
Thyra arched one golden brow, then selected a sweetmeat. “You already are proving to be a friend, Charity, for you speak kindly. I suspect Oliver, with his usual candor, told you I am quite foolishly besotted with Myles.”
“He did not put it exactly that way.”
“But close.”
“Yes, close.”
Thyra laughed again. “How he lambastes me for wasting my youth dangling after a man who has no interest in me! But if I showed my true feelings, many would think me a desperate fortune hunter.”
“How could anyone believe that when they see this magnificent house?”
“Rimsbury Court would dwarf this.”
“And it is probably as cold and drafty as a church cellar.”
“Mayhap.” She stirred her tea without tasting it. “Do understand, Charity. I am beguiled by the man, not his title. Another duke once turned his eye on me, but he was not my dear Myles. I daresay I would wish to wed him if he were a lowly lad working in the scullery.” Her laugh swept aside her fervor. “Alas, my guardian would not think of me wedding so far beneath my own place in life.”
“Guardian?” Charity was baffled. “Who?”
“I thought you knew Oliver was appointed to be my guardian by my father before his death three years ago. Everyone looked askance that my father would select a reputed rakehell to guard both me and my inheritance, but,” she added as she waved her hands to encompass the glorious room, “you can see Oliver has tended to both quite well.”
Fitting all the facts together in her mind, Charity said, “That is why so many people assume you shall wed Oliver.”
“They think he is wise enough to take advantage of the situation.”
“But neither of you wish that.”
“So he has told you that he finds me a shameless baggage, has he?” Thyra laughed as Charity’s cheeks burned. “Do not blush. He means it only as a term of affection. Oliver finds it hard to speak what is in his heart. We care deeply for each other, for we grew up together.”
“But then why does he do nothing to assist you in having that waltz with the Duke of Rimsbury?”
“I want more than a waltz.” She sighed. “If I could convince Myles Hambleton to wed me, my life would be filled with endless joy.” She dimpled. “But he is like you, Charity. He has vowed not to wed. I have heard his heart was broken several years ago, and he refuses to allow that to happen again.”
Charity took a hasty drink of her tea. Did Thyra have any idea how close she was to the truth? Softly she said, “If he is so set on this course, Thyra, you might be wise to consider the attentions of your other suitors.”
“I have no other suitors.” She poured herself more tea. “Everyone believes I intend to wed Oliver, but who wishes to marry a man she thinks of as a brother?”
“Does the duke believe that as well?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, her smile fading. “He must know Oliver has no interest in marrying. Oliver is too busy with his shipping company and his other pursuits. It takes him out of the country so often, and now, with the cessation of war in Europe, no doubt he shall be absent even more.”
Charity lowered her cup, biting back curiosity. Thyra’s words brought Joyce’s warning too quickly to mind. What pursuits might be keeping Oliver busy? Certainly he was not heart-smitten if he was using Thyra to hide his true intentions. But what could those intentions be? She wondered why she had not asked herself this before. She had asked, but Oliver had deflected her questions with wit or a sweet caress.
A deep voice from below in the foyer followed the sound of the door closing. Charity sat straighter when a manservant appeared in the doorway.
As elegantly appointed as his surroundings, he was serene. “Lord Blackburn, my lady.”
Oliver strode into Thyra’s sitting room with the ease of a man who knew he was welcome. Things were going better than he had dared to hope on every front save one. Even that might not be a lost cause. It was grand to be back in London. Not for the Season, but down at the docks where he could do the work he loved and where he had gained the respect of those around him. He repaid favors quickly and had gained a reputation for avenging on any injury to the Blackburn Line as swiftly. It was the only reputation which mattered to him.
“Thyra, how lovely you look for a shameless baggage!” he said, as he crossed the room to where she sat on the settee that accented her comeliness. “As always, I should say, if I were much of a gentleman.” He bent to kiss her cheek, but paused as his gaze was caught by wide eyes.
Charity! A flash of some emotion he could not decipher fled through her eyes, gone behind the mask she wore when she wanted no one to guess her thoughts. By Jove, she was an enticing creature. He should have resisted the temptation to taste her lips, for now he hungered for another sample.
When he first had seen this red-haired vixen at The King’s Heart Inn, he had been intrigued. The discovery of her name had added to his interest, but she must not guess that. And she was beautiful! He allowed his eyes the pleasure of admiring her nose that might be tilted a bit too much. Boldly, his gaze swept along the smooth column of her throat and the curves suggested by the modest bodice of her lilac gown.
“See, Charity,” Thyra said, laughing, “I told you he calls me a shameless baggage.”
“And worse.” He smiled at Charity. “I should not have supposed I would not be your sole caller this afternoon.”
Thyra patted the cushion next to her. “Sit with us, Oliver. You have arrived at the perfect time.”
Although he doubted if Charity shared Thyra’s enthusiastic appraisal, he obeyed. Charity’s cool smile did not waver, and he could sense her uneasiness. He wondered what pap about him her great-aunt had been filling her head with now. He should be grateful to the old tough. He needed Charity cluttering up his life no more than she needed him in hers.
He took the cup Thyra handed him, but did not raise it to his lips. He detested tea and avoided it whenever he could, which was seldom, for protocol invariably included the consumption of this mud-colored and, in his opinion, mud-tasting beverage.
“I had not heard you were back from grassville, Charity,” Oliver said as he watched Thyra refill her cup.
“We returned a few days ago.” Her gray eyes met his as she asked, “And you?”
“Only today.”
“But I heard you left for Town the day after Lord Glynnford’s assembly.”
“I left for a voyage.”
“Was it successful?”
He laughed. “More than I had hoped. You should come down to the docks, Charity. I would be delighted to give you a tour of one of the line’s ships.”
Thyra shuddered. “I doubt if she wishes to see one of those hideous, odorous ships of yours.”
“Is that so?”
Charity smiled. “I would enjoy seeing one of your ships, Oliver.” She paused as Thyra was called to the door by the footman.
“It is nothing,” Thyra assured them. “I shall be back as soon as I check what is disturbing Andrew.”
Oliver chuckled as he set his cup on the tray. “Do not look so distressed, Charity. Thyra is always suffering some crisis or another here.” He locked his fingers together around the knee of his white pantaloons. “So you would like to see one of my ships?”
“Very much.” She smiled at her own fervor. Standing, she walked to the window overlooking the square. “I have long imagined how wondrous it must be to be free and sail with the winds wherever they flow.”
“Nothing is more splendid, although the work I do now is not glorious.”
She turned and gasped when she discovered he stood directly behind her. Taking a step back to keep a decent distance between them, she was enveloped in the gold drapes surrounding the windows. “What work do you do?”
“The Blackburn Shipping Line is an onerous master, even to the one who should be mastering it.” He reached past her to finger the curtains, bringing them forward so the fine velvet brushed her face. “I am quite caught up in the repair of one of the ships. It was damaged during its last voyage to the continent.”
“What happened?”
He leaned toward her as he whispered, “It was attacked by one of Boney’s ships.”
“Napoleon?” she gasped. “You sail warships?”
“Not intentionally.” He lifted a curl from her shoulder and twisted it around his finger. “The ship was unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Can you salvage her?” Charity asked. “Or is the damage too extensive?”
“The ship can be repaired, I believe.” His thumb traced her jaw as he murmured, “I did not expect you to be interested in such a subject.”
She stared up at him. Each breath pressed against her bodice as she tried to subdue the thrill uncoiling within her at his touch. Was this a game? To speak of such mundane matters while he captivated her with tantalizing caresses? She did not know the rules of this game, so she must put an end to it.
Edging away, she sat on the seat in front of the window. “This was not the first time Papa’s parish bordered the sea. I grew up within the range of the seawind.”
“Was your father, by chance, Reverend Clarence Stuart?”
“Yes, but, do you know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
The heat of humiliation scorched her cheeks. If Oliver had heard of her father’s shame, then it was only a matter of time before it was known throughout the Polite World.
“His passing was a tragic loss,” Oliver continued, sitting next to her. “I hope they can find someone to carry on his work.”
“The elders have procured a fine minister to replace him.” She started to stand, knowing the danger of sitting together in view of anyone who might pass by on the square.
His arm clamped around her shoulders. “A parson?”
“Whom else would they have chosen but a parson?”
The lines in his forehead smoothed. “Who else, indeed? So you and your sister never helped him with his work?”
“Of course, we helped.”
“And?”
She stared at him. Again she had the peculiar feeling she failed to understand what he was truly saying. When his fingers stroked her bare arm, she could not keep her voice from softening, “I served as my papa’s hostess and oversaw all the church functions a parson’s wife usually would tend to.”
“Did you now?”
“What do you find so amusing?” Charity demanded with sudden heat when she heard the tint of laughter in his voice. “Joyce and I tried to make our father’s work easier.”
Oliver said, “Yours must have been an unusual household. A country parson who teaches his daughters the manners of the ton and how to waltz.”
“We were a happy family.”
“No doubt.” His smile returned. “And are you happy now, Charity?”
“Papa is dead, and—”
“I mean now?” He turned her against his chest as his other arm enfolded her to him.
With a gasp, she pulled away and leaped to her feet. “Oliver, we shouldn’t! Not here where …” She waved toward the window.
He set himself on his feet. Stroking her shoulders, he closed the distance between them. “Mayhap we should go down to the docks and my ship. Think of it, Charity. I could give you a tour belowdecks where no one would take note of us while I got to know you better.”
“Better? What do you mean?”
“Need you ask?” His lips brushed the curve of her neck. She shivered with unquenchable delight as he whispered, “No one would see me do that.” The devilish twinkle returned to his eyes. “Or this.”
He swept her to him as his mouth claimed hers. The firm length of his legs pressed through her skirt, urging her to mold herself to him. She gasped as he boldly deepened his kiss until her breath strained with his. Her sister was right. He was dangerous. He was …
Charity jerked herself out of his arms. Shaking her head, she whispered, “We should not—That is, I mean—”
“Do you like my kisses, Charity?” he asked, not letting her slip past him.
“I should not be kissing you.” She wrapped her arms around herself to keep her fingers from rising to brush the strand of dark hair back from his incredible eyes. “It is not right to be here alone with you.”
“And the parson’s daughter always does the thing Society demands?” His voice grew hard. “Is that the lesson your father taught you? To do what others tell you is right without question?”
“Oliver, that is not fair.”
“I did not intend it to be. The truth is seldom fair. That is why others’ rules do not always fit our lives.” He seized her shoulders and pulled her to him. “It is not fair I cannot kiss you when I wish it so very, very much. And you do as well.”
His lips contained all his frustration as they pressed against hers. She stiffened, then melted into his arms. She might be able to bamblusterate her sister or her great-aunt or the rest of the ton, but she could not deceive herself. She wanted to be enclosed in his embrace. Slowly her arms rose to his shoulders. When she touched him, his kiss grew more gentle, but no less demanding.
“All set. I—Oh, my!”
Charity stared in consternation at Thyra, whose cheeks were coloring as brightly as Charity’s own. When Oliver chuckled, he put his arm around Charity’s shoulders. He did not let her shrug it off.
“Thyra, your timing is atrocious, as usual,” he said.
The blonde recovered her composure. Her smile lessened the sting of her retort. “I see yours is as fine as usual.”
“Now, don’t give Charity the wrong idea.”
“I would say you have given her all the right ideas already.”
Charity relaxed and smiled. Their gentle teasing bespoke the deep friendship Thyra had described. This more than anything was a testament that Oliver was not as evil as rumor named him. “Dissuading Oliver from a course of action seems a futile exercise.”
“Have you settled your crisis?” Oliver asked, guiding Charity back to the settee.
“It was nothing but a small fire.” Thyra touched the pot. “Drat, the tea is cool, and I doubt if the kitchen will be able to brew more until the smoke is gone.”
