The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four Page 11

  Her father was crouching down, Robin and the farmer standing beside him. They all stared at her in surprise. Father stood and let the soil drift through his fingers. He brushed his hands. “Of course I am. Have you brought news from home?”

  “What? No, no letter yet, Father.” She cast Robin an annoyed glance as he assisted her to dismount. “I was concerned. Should you be riding?”

  Father’s face darkened. “You are cursed with an overactive imagination, young lady. You may return home. As I told you at breakfast, I am perfectly well.”

  Charity’s gaze flickered back to Robin. Impassive, he didn’t offer to stand up for her. She swiveled and strode after her horse, which had wandered, reins trailing, over to the other horses by the fence some yards away.

  Robin walked with her. “Allow me to help you mount.”

  She spun around, still furious. “How could you allow my father to ride when you know he has been so unwell?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Insist he go home? Your father is a grown man and can decide for himself,” he said coolly.

  “I was worried, Robin. You might have defended me.”

  He sighed. “We’ll talk about this later. I promise to return him to you, hale and hearty.”

  She disliked his patronizing tone. She shrugged him off when he moved forward to help her. “I can mount without help, thank you.” She took the reins and put her foot in the stirrup. Her new palma-violet velvet habit, a compromise between her desire for something colorful and her mother’s for something practical, was not as well designed as her older one and made the action difficult without assistance.

  Robin stood back, arms folded, and watched as she hopped about, the horse’s big brown anxious eye watching her.

  “For goodness sake, Charity!” Robin stepped forward. He planted his big hands at her waist and threw her up into the saddle.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster and, as the imprint of his hands remained, turned the horse’s head.

  “Don’t mention it,” came the amused reply.

  Charity bit her lip. Really! What had happened to Robin? She didn’t think she knew him anymore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As Charity rode away, her father came to stand beside Robin. “She is a good daughter, and she cares for her old father,” the earl said. “Perhaps I should have been gentler with her.”

  “Perhaps I should have too,” Robin admitted. He’d been battling with his emotions since last night. His level of frustration with Charity was rising steadily to the point where he longed to take her shoulders and give her a good shake. Hardly the way to her heart.

  Baxendale eyed him. “I’m not sure what is going on with you two, Harwood. But I am watching with a good deal of interest.”

  Robin turned to him. “You know your daughter, sir. Perhaps you can tell me why it is that she seems to want to shut herself away from the world.”

  “She might think she does, but she’s wrong. And I suspect she will find that out very soon.”

  Robin raised his eyebrows. “You believe so, sir?”

  “I do. Perhaps before we leave for home, eh?”

  “I am pleased you have recovered your health, but I wonder if I could persuade you to extend your stay for a little longer?”

  Baxendale smiled with a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “I see how the land lies. It will depend on Lady Baxendale and my daughter, Faith. But if I can, rest assured Charity and I will do so.”

  Robin thanked him, heartened that he had his support, even though he didn’t believe Baxendale could sway Charity’s opinion any more than he could. But he was fond of all the Baxendales, and if he were part of that big family, he was sure he would never feel lonely again.

  ****

  When Charity brought her sketchpad to the castle the next day, she really had no idea which Robin she would find. Would it be the relaxed, humorous Robin, who laughed with her and gazed at her with warmth? Or would it be the Robin who tried to boss her about? She eyed him carefully as she was shown into the salon where he stood to receive her while Henry rushed over to greet her.

  “I am sorry you thought I didn’t support you yesterday,” Robin said as she patted the dog. “But I felt loyalty to your father, too, Charity.”

  “Of course you did,” she said, relieved. “That was unfair of me.” She sat on the sofa as Robin took the wing chair. “I am just so pleased that Father has rallied. I did fear he would suffer another bout of his chest complaint. He really should be more careful.”

  “You father won’t appreciate you fussing over him,” Robin said in a gentle tone. “He’ll feel you’re condemning him to a half-life.”

  She bit her lip. “I can see that. It’s just that, with Mama absent, I thought I should take care of him.”

  “That is commendable. What is this complaint of his?”

  “They call it bronchial asthma and are unsure how best to treat it. The condition comes and goes for no logical reason.”

  “What a damnable thing to suffer. I’m glad he’s feeling better though.” He crossed his legs and dangled one foot, eyeing her sketchpad. “I’ve ordered tea.”

  “That will be most agreeable. Thank you.” Charity found she was still unable to interpret his mood, although he was perfectly polite.

  “There’s a matter I wish to be clear about before we begin.” He flicked a speck from his fawn trousers and looked up, assessing her lazily through half-closed lids.

  She paused in the act of opening her sketchpad and sat up straighter. “Yes?”

  “What made you believe I was engaged?”

  Charity took a deep breath. “On the first day I came here, I overheard Lord Bellamy on the terrace.”

  Robin widened his eyes. “And you were inclined to take Bellamy’s prophesy as truth?”

  His announcement must have been provoked in some measure by Robin’s behavior. But instead of defending herself, she wriggled, uncomfortable and slightly foolish under his scrutiny. “It shouldn’t matter what I think, Robin. But to an observer, you do show your preference for Lady Katherine over the other debutantes.”

  “I have not asked Kitty to marry me.”

  “Well”—she shrugged—“please don’t feel you have to discuss it with me.” He’s obviously very familiar with the lady, she thought, straightening her shoulders.

  “I merely wanted to be clear on the matter,” he said.

  “Shall we get started?” She smoothed the page and picked up her pencil, distressed to find that her fingers shook slightly. She was disturbed that their usual comfortable companionship seemed to have vanished, possibly forever.

  She began to draw and found Robin was studying her too.

  “I have been considering how you should pose,” she explained, wishing she wasn’t so nervous. “Perhaps we could go to the library where I might get a better sense of how to proceed.”

  “Very well. I’ll have our tea sent to us there.” He went to pull the bell.

  She gathered up her things, hoping that the library might offer a more relaxed atmosphere, where they could begin again on a better footing.

  “You must be very pleased with this beautiful room,” Charity commented as she entered the library. She loved the musty smell of old tomes and the secrets they held within their covers. She crossed to the desk as Robin held the door open for Henry to stalk in after them. “I see you spend a lot of time here.” She flicked through the books stacked on the polished desktop. “You have some wonderful editions.

  “Sit in the leather chair by the desk.” She took a brocade-covered chair for herself, placing her sketchpad and drawing materials on the wooden surface of the desk. “The light’s all wrong. But that doesn’t matter now.”

  She began to sketch him, gazing up to observe the way his curly hair grew back from his broad forehead. His strongly defined eyebrows and noble nose with the small bump. Her pencil flowed freely today, as if she’d learned his face so well she could al
most draw it from memory. She captured the gentleness in his eyes, the generous shape of his lips. He was a good man, who would never be deliberately cruel. A realization washed over her. She bit her lip, continuing to render an outline of his strong throat encased in the soft folds of his cravat, the perfect fit of his coat on his broad shoulders.

  After a period of silence, during which Robin managed to remain quite still, she paused. “Well done,” she said with a smile.

  He returned her smile with a shrug. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You’ve kept still.”

  “Ah.”

  Charity lost herself in the process as she added details. The silky folds of Robin’s cravat, the silver buttons on his bottle-green-and-white-striped waistcoat, tight over his wide chest, and down, the way his trousers creased across the top of one muscular thigh, his tasseled Hessians encasing long legs. She wondered what his body beneath the clothes would be like, how his smooth olive skin might feel to the touch. He tugged at one snowy linen cuff with long, graceful fingers, which could draw beautiful pictures of birds in perfect detail, and discovered her heart was beating very fast. A growing awareness lurked within her. The room had become very quiet. She met Robin’s smoky gaze, and her world appeared to turn upside down. Her pencil stilled.

  Robin shifted in his seat. “Do you wish to rest?”

  “Perhaps for a minute.” Her heartbeat had eased a little, but she suspected her cheeks were flushed. He was a sensitive man, and she feared he could read her expression and know her heart.

  “Dare I ask if you have discovered my essence yet?”

  She was afraid she would give herself away. “Only what I’ve always known about you.”

  “What is that?”

  “That you are a kind man, strong, but also gentle.”

  “I’d rather you discovered something more interesting.” He sounded vexed.

  “Of course there are many more facets to your character.” Flustered, she picked up her pencil again as a kind of shield to hide behind. “I imagine you are different things to different people.”

  “But is that all I am to you?”

  Her gaze sought his. “No, of course not. You are my very dear friend.”

  Robin uncoiled himself from the chair. He leaned over her, silently removed her pencil from her fingers, and placed it beside the sketchbook on the table.

  Charity watched him as if frozen, her eyes wide, as he took her hands and drew her to her feet.

  “Robin…?”

  His hand cupped her chin, and his mouth came down on hers.

  Her heart thudding in her ears, Charity held on to his arms as they entrapped her. Like stone, they didn’t budge an inch as he purposefully slid his mouth over hers. She dropped her arms and murmured incoherently. His tongue pressed along the seam of her lips, and when she parted them, more to deter him than encourage him, his tongue dived inside her mouth.

  She sagged as her breath deserted her, and she grasped his shoulders to stay upright when her knees almost buckled. The intimacy of such an act made all her senses come alive, his masculine smell, his strong body against hers, all sinew and bone and muscle, the sweet taste of his mouth, and his lips, taking possession.

  “Charity!” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

  Knowing she loved him, and how impossible that was, became almost more than she could bear. She pushed at his chest. “Let me go, please, Robin.”

  Robin released her, and she sank back in the chair.

  “I’ve been yearning to do that for a very long time,” he said, leaning against the desk beside her. The smile in his eyes contained a sensual flame. “I’d like you to think about that, Charity. Think what we might have, here, together.”

  Had she invited the kiss in some unconscious fashion? She gazed at him as words failed her. The imprint of his mouth remained on hers, her body strangely heavy and bereft. She couldn’t seem to galvanize herself into action.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Come,” Robin called without looking away from her.

  A footman brought in the tea tray.

  “Ah, the tea,” Robin remarked, sounding far calmer than she. “And crumpets. The chef knows how much I like them.”

  “Do you?” Charity leaned back in the chair.

  “I don’t intend to apologize for kissing you, Charity,” he said when the footman left the room. “I enjoyed it too much. I only ask that you consider the possibility of a future with me. Will you?”

  “Robin, I just know I’m not suited to this life.”

  “I don’t believe that,” he said in a frustrated tone. “God, Charity, promise me that you will consider those things in life which would be ultimately more important to a woman. Her children for instance.”

  He was adopting his authoritarian duke’s voice again. It went without saying that she would love her children. She couldn’t explain because he was obviously blind to her feelings, so she merely gathered herself together and seized the teapot as Henry, discovering the presence of food, came to make his wishes known.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Robin took a bite of crumpet and dabbed at the butter on his chin with his napkin. Charity had taken him at his word. She’d poured him a cup of tea, added milk, and stirred in one lump of sugar without asking his preference. It hurt him to see it. She knew his likes and dislikes, but did she want him? He took heart in the fact that she’d taken a while to push him away. She’d liked the kiss.

  “Why do you want to marry me?” she asked, picking up the butter knife.

  “Because I want you in my life every day. And in my bed every night,” he added, to ensure she understood this was not to be a marriage based on friendship.

  She blushed and made a business of buttering him another crumpet.

  It had been so easy to pull her closer and mold her body to his, the curve of her breast and her thighs pressed against him. When his mouth came down on hers, everything that had plagued him a moment vanished and there was only her, her scent, her breath, her lips. It was a kiss that changed everything, at least for him. Surely she was aware of the unspoken implications of that shared intimacy? He watched her through half-closed eyes. Was she attempting to fool him? Or fool herself? He was quite certain that once married, Charity would grow to love him. His parents had not even had the luxury of knowing one another beforehand. But a deep, abiding love, respect, and affection had developed between them as the years passed, and when his mother died, his father never stopped mourning her.

  “I know you like my work, Robin, but you have not once stated that you approve of my career,” Charity said, startling him.

  “But I do, naturally,” he said cautiously. Dash it all. She made him question his true motives. Did he hope that by painting his portrait she would then be satisfied and give up any idea of painting others? “Although I confess I worry about the safety of such a venture.”

  She turned him, eyebrows raised. “I don’t see the relevance.”

  “This is a bad world, Charity. You have no idea. You’ve lived a sheltered life.” He knew it was unwise to broach this, but he seemed unable to stop. “Closeted in a room with someone like Gunn could place you in a position where you’ll be hurt.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” she said stiffly. “But I don’t require fatherly advice. I have a parent for that.”

  Fatherly? Frustration rose in him, but he wrestled it into submission before this turned into an argument that would seal his fate. “But you do see my point?”

  “We can look on the dark side of everything in life and never venture outdoors.” She looked up suddenly and smiled. “Really, becoming a duke has made you lose your sense of humor.”

  “I know it’s here somewhere.” Robin smiled back it her, eager to be on good terms. She referred to his sense of adventure, he supposed, although she was too polite to say it. And it was true. He’d felt stripped of both humor and his adventurous spirit of late.

  Did she yearn for a different kind
of life than she thought he could offer? He suffered a sudden clarity as to how much he’d changed since coming here. He’d never before wanted Charity to deny her own dreams. He wanted only to share that excitement with her. And would have, too, if he’d remained in Tunbridge Wells. She was not prepared to change for him now, and why should she?

  After tea, Charity returned to her drawing, and he returned to his contemplation of her. His fingers itched to stroke the tender nape of her neck as she bent her head over the page. It was as if the kiss hadn’t happened. Now that he had kissed her, tasted her, he was going to want her for the rest of his days. But to win her, he would have to learn to listen instead of imposing his own needs on her. Trouble was he could hardly turn around and say that he didn’t mind her forging new horizons with her art—she would rightly scorn him. He feared he’d overplayed his hand, with no strong argument left to sway her. Bowed but not broken, he let his gaze drift over her as he subsided into a contemplative silence.

  ****

  As she continued her work in the quiet room with Robin, they were both startled by a knock on the door.

  “A message has arrived for Lady Charity, Your Grace.” The footman held out the silver salver to Robin.

  “Wait, Samuel,” Robin ordered as Charity jumped up and took the missive from him.

  “It’s from Father.” She quickly read it.

  Robin came to her side. “News of Faith?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice catching. “I must go.”

  Robin turned to the waiting footman. “Have the phaeton brought around.”

  As they ran to the carriage, the short sharp message in her father’s note tightened her chest. “Come home now.” Impossible to know the reason behind it.

  With Robin’s competent hands on the ribbons, the horses traveled at a clip. While they covered the miles in strained silence, a refrain repeated in Charity’s head. Faith has had her babies. Everyone is well.

  When they pulled up outside her aunt’s house, her father hurried down from the porch. “We must return to Tunbridge Wells today, Charity. Your mother writes that Faith is not faring well.”