Either one—or perhaps both—would serve his purpose.
He’d wasted enough time on the lady.
Lithby Hall, a short time later
Her stepmother was coming down the stairs as Charlotte was going up. Both paused.
“Good heavens, Charlotte, what has happened?” said Lizzie.
“Nothing,” said Charlotte.
“How can you be so absurd?” Lizzie said. “You have mud on your nose. Your dress is soiled. Your gloves are unspeakable. Where is your hat?”
“I gave it to Hyacinth,” Charlotte said. She had stopped at the pigsty on the way back.
“You what?”
“She ate it,” Charlotte said. Contrary to Lord Lithby’s cherished beliefs, Hyacinth could and did eat anything and everything, with no discernible ill effects. The sow had easily digested more than one book of sermons officious relatives had foisted upon Charlotte.
Lizzie turned and followed Charlotte up the stairs. She said no more, however, until they reached Charlotte’s room.
“Good heavens, your ladyship, what’s happened?” said her maid, Molly.
“Nothing,” said Lady Lithby. “Leave us for a moment, Molly. We’ll ring when we want you.”
“But, your ladyship, she’s all over mud,” said Molly.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Charlotte. “I don’t expect you to clean it. You can feed my clothes to the—” She broke off, wondering what was the matter with her. She ought to have better control of her tongue.
The stream separating Beechwood from her father’s property was about two miles from Lithby Hall. Charlotte easily covered two or three times that distance and sometimes more in the course of a day’s perambulations. Long walks helped calm her. On some days she needed more calming than on others.
Maybe she should have walked farther today.
Molly’s gaze traveled over Charlotte, up and down. She shook her head.
“Later, Molly,” Lady Lithby said firmly. “Close the door behind you.”
The maid went out, still shaking her head. She closed the door.
“Charlotte,” said Lizzie.
“It’s nothing,” said Charlotte. “I was walking next door. At Beechwood. I met the new resident.”
“Mr. Carsington, do you mean? The neighborhood is abuzz. He arrived yesterday, I am told.” Lizzie eyed her up and down. “Did you meet him before or after you fell into the pigsty?”
Charlotte, who had fallen into the pigsty more than once in her childhood, considered accepting the easy lie. The trouble was, her stepmother always knew when she was lying. Life was simpler when one told her the truth, albeit as little of that as was absolutely necessary.
“He was lying among the tall weeds,” she said. “I did not see him at first. My mind was elsewhere. I was practically on top of him when he raised his head. Then I nearly leapt out of my skin. I stumbled on something…and I fell.”
Charlotte saw no reason to describe in detail what had happened between the first time she’d stumbled and when she’d fallen on her arse.
She was trying very hard to forget what had happened.
He was so…big…and his hands…
For ten years her physical contact with men had gone no further than a gloved hand lightly clasping hers, or, in the course of a waltz, a gloved hand touching the back of her waist.
He had not been wearing gloves, and her layers of clothes might as well not have been there, for all the good they did.
His hands, his hands. She could feel them yet…along with other disturbing feelings, too much like longing.
But that was impossible. She would never long for a man’s touch, she told herself. She’d learned her lesson.
What had happened today was simple enough: She’d already been upset when she came upon him. Being upset, she’d panicked, which made her too irrational to comprehend that the man was simply trying to keep her from tumbling into the bog that used to be an ornamental pond.
She was upset because of Papa’s brainstorm and the nightmare she foresaw of a marriage beginning in shame and likely destroying the happiness of everyone who cared about her: not only her father but Lizzie, who’d deceived him on Charlotte’s account practically at the start of their marriage.
Without warning, while all this worry churned in her mind, she’d found herself caught in the arms of…a very large man.
Small wonder she’d behaved at first like a cornered animal.
Then, as she was struggling to reclaim her powers of reason, she’d looked up into his face. Under the onslaught of those brilliantly golden eyes and a deep voice that set her vibrating within like a tuning fork, her wits had shattered utterly.
For a moment it had seemed as though one of the Greek gods—Apollo, for instance—had accosted her, as they were known to do to unsuspecting women.
“I see,” said Lizzie.
With a little start, Charlotte came out of her troubled reverie.
Her stepmother had a worrisome habit of seeing more at times than one could wish.
She was petite and dark-haired, the opposite of Charlotte’s mother in looks, and far from the classic English rose her predecessor had been, objectively speaking. But a great many people, including her husband and stepdaughter, couldn’t see Lord Lithby’s second wife objectively. They saw the beauty of her nature and the brightness of her spirit. She laughed easily—at herself, especially. This easy laughter not only lit her face but brightened everything and everyone about her.
“She’s full of life,” Papa always said.
That was what drew him to her in the first place.
At the time he met Elizabeth Bentley, Lord Lithby was not looking for a replacement for the wife he’d loved so dearly. He did not believe anyone could take her place. Still, he was looking for something; and though, as he’d admitted, he had been too lonely to think clearly, Fate had smiled on him.
He could not have chosen better.
Charlotte knew this. She knew, too, that had her stepmother been a fraction less perceptive, Lord Lithby’s precious daughter would have been utterly and irrevocably ruined ten years ago.
All the same, she did wish, this once, that her stepmother would not study her quite so closely.
“No doubt you thought you would have your favorite wilderness to yourself for a while longer,” Lizzie said. “But how curious it is that your father did not tell you about Mr. Carsington.”
“He told me,” Charlotte said. “But I fear my mind wandered.” She let out a small sigh and began to peel off her dirty gloves.
“He told you of his matchmaking scheme first, is that it?” said Lizzie. “That was a great deal for you to take in. That would explain why you became distracted.”
Distraught was more like it. Desperate.
“I was a little surprised, yes, though I should not have been,” Charlotte said. “It is perfectly reasonable for Papa to wish me wed. All of the girls I came out with are married. With children.”
Her child would be ten years old now, if he lived. She felt the stab in her chest, the old ache. She still wept sometimes for her lost baby. Only when she was alone, though. Lizzie would grieve for her if she knew, and Charlotte had long ago vowed never to cause her another moment’s trouble.
“I asked Lithby to let me tell you about his plan,” her stepmother said, “but he said it was his responsibility.”
Naturally, she had respected his wishes.
Only the once, very early in her marriage, had Lady Lithby gone behind her husband’s back. She had done so because Charlotte insisted, because she was so sick with shame—over what she’d done, over dece
iving him. She couldn’t live with the disappointment and hurt she’d cause him. She was the center of his life, and she feared she’d break his heart.
Charlotte would never ask such a sacrifice of her stepmother again. She knew Lizzie deeply loved Papa and respected him. She loved Charlotte, too. At the beginning, his new bride had loved her stepdaughter mainly for his sake. Charlotte had soon learned that for Papa’s sake his young wife would move heaven and earth.
If only Charlotte could have seen that. If only she had been mature enough to understand what a remarkable woman her father had married.
Had Charlotte understood, she would not have behaved so stupidly. She wouldn’t have given Geordie Blaine a second glance. Then she might have had a chance at a marriage as affectionate and happy as her father and stepmother’s.
If onlys were a waste of thought, she told herself for the thousandth—or ten thousandth—time.
Lizzie’s voice interrupted her brooding. “Your father is right, you know. It is time, well past time, for you to make a life of your own. We cannot undo the past. You suffered two grievous losses, following close upon each other, when you were very young. Though it is natural to feel sadness about these matters, we must not let sorrow cripple us.”
“I am not crippled,” Charlotte said. “I think of—of him as dead, like my mother. One mourns, but life goes on.”
“All the same, if you are at all uneasy, my dear, on account of that long-ago time—”
“I am not uneasy,” Charlotte said. That was not a lie. She was so far beyond uneasy that she had no word for her state of mind.
Lizzie did not look quite as though she believed her. She didn’t press the point, though. “Perhaps, after all, this is what we need,” she said. “One who views the situation with a fresh eye.”
“It is very good of Papa to bother about it,” said Charlotte. “I know he would rather spend his time in the country attending to country matters. The livestock. Drainage. Turnips.”
Lizzie smiled. “True, but consolation has arrived in the shape of Mr. Carsington. You know how Beechwood’s decline has frustrated your father. Imagine his delight in learning it will be in the care of a fellow agriculturalist and kindred spirit.”