The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (6 page)

“I am, Your Grace. Very much.” She turned to look at her mother where she sat observing them.

Robin had danced with several debutantes during the evening. Pretty, some of them, but not one interested him enough to seek more of their company. He knew it was unfair to expect any to challenge him. Debutantes were constrained by their circumstances, at least until marriage allowed them the freedom to express themselves. He gazed down at the dark head of glossy curls. Would Kitty ever break free of those tight strings? He imagined Lady Boothby would never quite let her control of her daughter slip.

When the dance ended, he escorted Kitty back to her mother. The man who married Kitty would have to take on Lady Boothby as well. He supposed that in itself would be a challenge. If he could get past Kitty’s shyness, perhaps he’d discover an interesting person with opinions of her own. He would endeavor to tease her out if they had a moment alone in the garden.

Whatever Francis said, Robin would have to marry. It wasn’t healthy for a man to go too long without feminine companionship, and he wasn’t inclined to take a mistress. He’d known men who complicated their lives when they became too fond of a mistress, or the mistress became too fond of them, and then came the messy and distressing attempts to part. All very well to expect one to play the game, but emotions weren’t so simple. The previous evening, when the supper and card parties ended in the early hours of the morning and the guests had retired, Robin knew of some who went in search of the bedchamber of a new love interest, either that or one of longstanding. He wasn’t a prude; it didn’t bother him that such things went on. Lady Nash, a charming widow, had invited him to join her in her bedchamber after the ball. He’d been tempted but, oddly, to do so seemed deceitful, although whom he was deceiving remained unclear. If it were Charity, she would never know, and he doubted she would care. Despite Charity’s youth and inexperience, her view of life was never narrow and puritanical.

Robin joined Francis Bellamy, who stood with a group of friends discussing their successes or failures at cards the previous evening. While the inevitable subject of horses took over the conversation, Robin looked across the ballroom at Lady Nash, who offered him a discreet smile. He felt sure none of them would let such an opportunity slip by, and most likely, some were planning just such an end to the evening.

Was he not free to indulge in a discreet liaison with a woman who also had no ties? Robin had not accepted, but neither had he declined her enticing offer.

Chapter Six

Scotland

When Charity first saw Craighead Castle appear through the trees, she found herself in agreement with Lord Gunn. As he’d promised, the late afternoon sun did turn the stone of the western wall to honey. Apart from that patch of warmth, however, the castle lay in shadow, a grim stone edifice adorned with turrets and crow-stepped gables, overlooking a restless, grey sea.

The carriage stopped, and she abandoned her warm rug to step from the Baxendales’ snug vehicle, where the coal box had kept her feet reasonably warm. Shivering, more with anticipation than cold, she blinked into the icy, salt-tinged air. Mama hurried across the gravel in a scarlet, fur-trimmed wool pelisse, a spot of bright color as she bundled their father indoors.

A footman led them into a stone-flagged baronial hall, its walls covered in an awe-inspiring array of crossed swords, weapons, and armor, evidence of a warring past. In silence, they gravitated toward the roaring fire in the mammoth stone hearth, which greeted Charity with a welcome blast of heat.

Above them, Gunn stalked down the winding stone staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time. The thought that the man never did anything by halves made her uneasy.

Mercy nudged her arm. “He’s wearing his kilt.”

“Hush,” Charity murmured.

The tartan of blues and greens swirled around his bare legs. His calves reminded her of oak trees. Like the rest of him, they were sturdy and well muscled.

Gunn greeted her parents in his distinctive voice.

Mama removed the warm scarf from Father’s neck. “We look forward to enjoying your hospitality, Lord Gunn, but first the earl must rest.”

“But of course. A dram of Scotch whisky, Lord Baxendale, to warm you?”

Father, his face leeched of color, straightened his spine. “An excellent notion, Gunn.”

A servant appeared at Gunn’s side. “Escort Lord and Lady Baxendale to their bedchamber.” Gunn bowed. “I trust a rest shall fortify you.”

When her parents climbed the stairs, Gunn’s lively eyes settled on Charity. “I’m delighted to welcome you to ma home, Lady Charity. To witness you view your work in situ pleases me greatly.”

“I’m honored to be here, Lord Gunn.”

“I asked you to call me Angus, remember? Tonight, at a banquet, ye shall see how well a Scotsman treats his guests. Tomorrow, the unveiling and, if ye permit, after breakfast, a tour of the castle. And now, some tea perhaps.”

“Thank you. Mercy and I look forward to seeing more of your home.”

Charity was determined not to be alone with him. She didn’t entirely trust this big, wild Scot. She found Englishmen politer, and more predictable perhaps.

Mercy’s eyes danced. “I can’t wait to see your castle, Lord Gunn.”

He smiled. “And so ye shall.” If he had intended to draw Charity away on her own, he hid his disappointment well.

After they drank tea and ate apple scones in a smaller, cozier salon, they were shown to a bedroom where a coal fire burned in the grate. Mercy rushed to the window.

“Look, you can see the sea!”

Charity placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder and pressed her palm to the pane. She could feel the blast of wind shaking the glass. “It looks rough, doesn’t it? And cold.”

They sat to pull off their boots. “You don’t like it here, Charity?”

“I’m a little apprehensive about tomorrow.” As she unrolled her stockings, she admitted it could prove a step forward in her career; more commissions might come from it. “What I’ve seen so far is impressive.”

“I like Gunn. He’s like a big cuddly bear.”

“Bears are not always cuddly.”

Charity glanced at her sister with a rush of protectiveness. Mercy had grown quite beautiful though she wasn’t yet seventeen. Heaven knew what she would come out with next, as she was too outspoken. Charity would have to keep an eye on her, or she’d have a few Scotsmen attempting to kiss her.

Mercy scowled and flounced away as a maid came in with thick towels. “I am Brynna, my lady. Shall I order a servant to bring your bath?”

“Yes, thank you, Brynna.”

Charity shrugged out of her spencer. She wished she could remove Robin from her mind as easily. He didn’t deserve a place in her thoughts since he’d stopped corresponding with her without an explanation. He was a fair-weather friend. He’d become an arrogant duke, she supposed, which was very disappointing. They might meet when her father broke their journey in Northumberland to visit his sister, Aunt Christabel. She hoped so; she couldn’t wait to give Robin a set down. The unsettling thought crossed her mind that he might have become engaged. A fiancée might not approve of their letters, as innocent as they were. She felt a wretchedness of mind she’d never had before. It was just that she had few friends, and losing one was very hard.

That evening, the guests were piped into the banquet hall by wailing bagpipes. She wasn’t sure she cared for the sound. Protocol apparently differed in Scotland, for she was placed next to Gunn at the banquet table. Perhaps she was the guest of honor. Such a thought brought a corresponding thrill. Servants scurried in carrying huge platters as a magnificent feast was laid before the guests. The rich aromas of sausage, roast meat, onions, and potatoes filled the air. Baked whole chickens and joints of lamb, diced-up carrot, and swede followed, served with oatcakes and pickled beetroot and other dishes she failed to recognize.

“You must try the haggis, Lady Charity.” The warmth of Gunn’s smile echoed in his voice as he served her from a dish.

Charity eyed the sliced sausage on her plate. It looked most unappetizing. “What is it?”

“A savory pudding.”

Charity forked a piece into her mouth. She swallowed hastily. It was not to her taste. “Is it lamb?”

He nodded, a smile widening in approval. “Sheep’s pluck, minced with onion, oatmeal, and spices and encased in the animal’s stomach.”

Farther down the table, Mercy leaned forward and giggled at the face Charity pulled.

“You don’t care for it?” Gunn asked with a lift of his brows.

“Perhaps it’s an acquired taste,” she said, attempting to be polite. She took several sips of wine to banish the taste.

“Most learn to enjoy it,” he said. “As you would, given time.”

His evocative statement was clearly intended to raise a response. Charity ignored it.

Seated at Gunn’s left, her Father appeared brighter. She was relieved to see an easing of the worry lines etched onto her mother’s face.

After the plates were removed, and the tables pushed back, two men entered and placed two crossed swords on the floor. They bowed. When the pipes began, they danced around the swords, their kilts flying over their knees. They were nimble for such big men.

Gunn leaned toward her. “This is called the Ghillie Callum. It’s a tradition that harks back to the days of Malcolm Canmore, a Celtic prince. It is said he crossed his own sword with the bloodied sword of the defeated chief and danced over them.”

“They are graceful.” Charity watched their flying feet.

“It is seen as a good omen if they don’t touch the swords, a bad one if they do.”

“Then it’s a good omen tonight,” Charity said as the men bowed, scooped up the swords, and departed.

The fiddlers began to play a Scots reel, and the floor was soon covered in a swirl of color, the Scottish ladies in their lovely bright gowns and the men in their kilts. Gunn rose and held out his hand to her.

He guided her through the dance with which she was unfamiliar. Hot, flustered, and laughing when she and Gunn left the floor, she was relieved she’d managed to follow the steps of the spirited dancers. Later, they danced again. Charity tried to avoid his intense gaze when they met during the dance. She glanced over at Mercy. She looked like a fairy nymph in her white muslin and was laughing as her partner whirled her energetically around, her feet almost leaving the floor. Mercy was a natural dancer, the best in the family. This was the first time she had participated in a formal dance, which would not have been permitted in England before she made her debut.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of porridge and kippers, Gunn showed Charity and Mercy around his castle. Charity’s legs tired after negotiating a hundred steps, but the startling view from the tower was worth the climb. The fine land and the sea stretched out before them.

Mercy leaned over the parapet. “That gardener down below looks so small.”

As the wind tugged at her hair and blasted into her face, a shiver swarmed down her spine, and Charity reeled back, discovering a fear of heights. A pair of hands circled her waist.

“Are you all right, Lady Charity?” Gunn asked, his warm breath on the nape of her neck.

Unsettled, she moved away from the heat of his big hands. “Perfectly, thank you. Shall we go down?”

That afternoon, a large group of guests gathered to view the unveiling. Gunn insisted Charity pull the cord, and the covering fell away to reveal the portrait of Lord Gunn standing tall against the backdrop of his castle. As loud applause echoed through the hall, her pride swelled at the sight of the gilt-framed portrait hung amongst those of his ancestors.

“I do not look dour, for which I sincerely thank you,” he murmured. “Congratulations, Lady Charity. I wish you further success in the future.”

As exhilaration flooded through her, Charity placed a hand on his arm. “I doubt I could have made you look dour…Angus. And if your prediction comes true, I shall be eternally grateful to you for it.”

He nodded, his mouth curling in an appreciative smile. “I shall hold ye to that one day, my lady.”

Charity dropped her gaze from the heated expression in his eyes, and her heart thudded. What
did
he mean by that?

Her family surrounded her, hugging and kissing her, pushing her unease about the big Scot from her mind. Even her father gazed at her with respect. She was giddy with relief and happiness, and her vision blurred with tears. She groped for her handkerchief.

“And now we must celebrate,” Gunn cried, striding down the hall. They all trouped after him like lambs following the shepherd.

As she accepted a glass of champagne in the long drawing room, Charity fought to come back down to earth.

“You have enjoyed your stay in ma home?” Gunn asked.

“It’s been wonderful.”

“I would have liked to show you more of it. I wish you a good trip tomorrow. It’s a long way to Tunbridge Wells.”

“We are to break our journey at the home of my aunt, Lady Huddlestone, in Northumberland.”

“An excellent idea.” Gunn nodded thoughtfully. “I leave for London myself very soon.”

After dinner, when they rose and prepared to retire, Gunn accompanied them into the Great Hall. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, while Charity followed Mercy and her parents upstairs. “I pray the weather remains fine for your journey,” he called out from below.