Charlotte Page 7

  Knowing the Hawthorns had erected a pavilion near the bridge, Charlotte soon spotted the structure. Eleanor Hawthorn, a blue-eyed blond with Nordic features, stood to one side of the draped opening, her arm raised high and waving. Nick reached the tent-like arrangement first, snatched Mrs. Hawthorn into his arms, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “You look magnificent,” he said, leaning back and smiling.

  Mrs. Hawthorn patted her pregnant belly and laughed. “Like a laden barge heading to port. Charlotte, how lovely to see you here. And Sarah, too. Do come in out of the sun.”

  Charlotte closed her parasol and glanced at the spread on the table: tiny sandwiches, whole fish, sliced hams, cheeses, fruits, jellies, and tarts. “Has no one else arrived yet?”

  Mrs. Hawthorn fingered her choker of pearls. “Everyone went down to the river to watch the first race. They’ll be back here to eat soon.”

  “Who won?” Nick idly pulled a grape from a bunch. This morning, he had arrived home late, and he had quickly changed into a dark blue jacket and light trousers. As usual, he looked striking.

  “Tony’s team. James rowed in your place.” Mrs. Hawthorn turned to an auburn-haired lady who appeared from outside with a belly that looked as near term as Mrs. Hawthorn’s. “Do you all know Mrs. Amelia Penrith?”

  Apparently, Nick did, and he shook the lady’s hand. Next, Lady Grace drifted into the tent, followed by Daphne, Hubert, and Emily Downing.

  Charlotte greeted Emily and the Graces, and Daphne aimed a smile at Sarah.

  “You look lovely today, Sarah, if I may call you Sarah,” Daphne said, examining Sarah’s new pale blue gown. “Just as lovely as you did the day you came to call.”

  Sarah glanced at Daphne. “Thank you. Looking nice is a change for me, but a habit for you. I do like your hat, Daphne. Is it designed by Madame Fleur?”

  Daphne nodded, causing the bouquet of pink silk peonies on the side of her shady straw hat to jiggle. “Mama’s taste matches Madame’s. You must sit with us, Sarah, so that we can gossip about everyone who isn’t here.”

  At that moment, in a welter of voices, four jacketless gentlemen dressed in white shirts and cream trousers arrived, boisterously slapping each other on the back.

  Nick took two glasses of champagne from the servant who was circulating with a silver tray and passed one to Charlotte. Draining his glass, he aimed a disinterested face at the group. “You won?”

  “Did you arrive too late to see our resounding victory?” Tony Hawthorn put his arm around his wife’s waist.

  She passed him his jacket and introduced Amelia Penrith’s husband to Charlotte and Sarah while Luke Worthing aimed a faked punch at Nick’s midriff.

  “We won without you,” Luke said.

  Nick shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “With me as their handicap?” James piled his plate with salmon. Tony Hawthorn’s younger brother had the same dark hair, blue eyes, and cleft chin. “According to them, they would be sure to lose if they had to replace you with me, despite the fact that I also had a Cambridge blue.”

  Surprised, Charlotte turned her head to Nick, who tilted his eyebrows carelessly.

  Her chin lifted. “My husband has hidden talents, rowing in circles being the least of them.” Stiff-faced, she brought her champagne to her lips and actually sipped the ghastly liquid.

  Mr. Worthing stared between her and her husband. “Very much the least,” he said, buttoning his russet jacket. “He’s ex-rower. His other activities leave him no time to practice.”

  She carefully placed her almost full glass on the table. “He had an opportunity to practice not two weeks ago.”

  Nick turned. “But I was sadly out of condition.” He picked up her glass. “As you saw.”

  Charlotte eyed him. “Acting is another of your accomplishments.”

  “And drinking, yet another.” He took a mouthful of her champagne.

  “Which was the only reason why I...” Charlotte glanced around. She sounded exactly like a nagging wife.

  “I know. You don’t approve of my drinking.”

  Mr. Worthing frowned. “No one does. You’ve made drinking into a competitive sport and one you’re more likely—”

  “Luke is out of sorts with Nick.” Mrs. Hawthorn gave Mr. Worthing a chiding glance as her guests gathered around the table and loaded their plates with food. “He wanted their old team to row today, but Nick wasn’t interested.”

  “I suspect he’s sorry now the team has won.” Charlotte kept her tone cool.

  Mrs. Hawthorn laughed.

  “Not a bit.” Nick polished off the dregs of Charlotte’s drink. He stared in the direction of the river. “I’m glad to hear I’m replaceable.”

  “Not easily replaceable, though.” Mrs. Hawthorn glanced to the opened side of the tent where Sarah stood with the single ladies. “Luke, have you met Charlotte’s cousin?” She beckoned Sarah.

  Mr. Worthing stood with his eyebrows raised as Sarah approached. “Miss Page and I have met, yes.”

  Sarah stared at him blankly. “Surely not?”

  “A number of times,” Mr. Worthing said, jutting his jaw. “I’m a former suitor of your cousin, but possibly you missed me in the crowd.”

  When Sarah’s eyes narrowed, Charlotte said, “She’s joking with you, Mr. Worthing. I’m sure she danced with you at the Hawthorn’s ball.”

  “You’d best call me Luke. Your husband does. What do you plan to do, Miss Page, now that you are on your own?”

  “I’m not on my own and I plan to find a terribly rich, terribly handsome, terribly clever husband for myself.”

  “In that order?”

  “Strictly,” she answered, clearly more interested in the arched stone bridge, which had filled with carriages bearing onlookers. Toward North Adelaide, the church spires competed with the tall chimneys.

  “I’m safe, then. I’m far more clever than I am rich.” Mr. Worthing’s face creased with a satisfied smile.

  Sarah’s expression closed.

  “I imagine the next race will begin soon.” Charlotte glanced at Nick.

  “Nick, if that’s so, could we go down to the river to watch?” Sarah said, stepping behind Luke Worthing.

  “As you wish, princess.” Nick scooped his arm around Sarah and within seconds was absorbed into the crowd.

  Charlotte rubbed the back of her neck. During her schooling, she’d been taught who to seat with whom around a dining table, she knew the precise placing of the flatware and plates, she could correctly line up a series of wine glasses for each course, and she could make a bunch of weeds into a formal table arrangement. She’d been groomed as the perfect wife for a successful man—but her husband neither knew nor cared.

  “Princess?” Luke put out his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She took his arm. She’d always been very careful around Luke who had shown a clear interest in her, as had James. However, James had mumbled something about Tony and suitability, and he had become a graceful dancing partner, which had relieved her of the responsibility of turning him down. Luke, her only other option for marriage, had worried her by acting with an unwarranted possessiveness. Then, when Nick had supposedly attempted to ravish her, Luke stood back and left her holding her torn bodice. If he’d cared for her, he would have defended her.

  After she had positioned her parasol, Luke wove her down the bank of the river. Soft-leaved trees partly obscured the view on the other side. People brushed past laughing and chattering. Two small boys chased each other around men’s legs and women’s skirts. One grabbed for balance at the waist of a woman holding a cloth-covered basket and almost toppled her.

  “Over there,” Luke said, pointing. “Nick and your cousin if I’m not mistaken.” He steered Charlotte toward the couple, and with a determined clamp of his jaw, he reached around Sarah, spun her around, and walked off with her.

  Nick lifted his eyebrows and stood staring after th
e two. “A nifty move,” he said, turning to Charlotte, “but unnecessary. His chivalry is misplaced. I’m sure you would rather be gossiping about gowns with the other ladies.”

  She glanced away. “I didn’t give you a chance to prove your skill as a rower. I was presumptive.”

  “Or presumptuous.”

  “Is there a difference?” She caught his gaze.

  “Presumptuous means being an ass.” He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets.

  She laughed, wryly amused by his subtle insult. “Then I was being presumptive. Which means ‘taking for granted.’”

  “You’re implying I’m presumptuous. An ass.” He inclined his head, and his lips relaxed. “Touché. Now let’s watch the race. The finish rope is over there. The skiffs will cross within minutes. The Port Adelaide team is ahead by a good length.”

  “They look equal.” She wanted to hold his arm, but she didn’t dare touch him.

  “That’s the angle. See that. Two lengths.”

  A tug around her waist jerked her sideways. Her parasol bounced onto the grass as beery breath blew over her face. A stocky stranger loomed over her, leered, and tightened his arm around her waist. She put her palms on his chest and leaned back. “This is rather embarrassing.”

  He grinned. “Not for me.”

  “Charlotte,” Nick said in a bored voice. “Do leave the poor gentleman alone. I’m sure he would like to go and watch the race elsewhere.”

  The man sniggered. “Who’s the dainty flower? Your sister?”

  “He’s my husband and he’s a very, very jealous man,” she said, using her firmest voice. “So you’d best let me go before he—”

  “—hits me with his pretty parasol.” A blast of stale onions came with a derisive laugh.

  “Take your hands off my wife, now,” Nick said in an irritatingly calm voice.

  The man snorted. “’Cos a toff says so? I think not. She likes me. And I like her.”

  As she twisted, he lurched backward into Nick, said, “Oof,” and tumbled onto the grass. Nick passed over her parasol, which had closed. Trembling, she reached for him and clutched his arm with one hand. He began to move her away, but on her second panicked step, the man grabbed Nick by the shoulder and spun him around.

  Nick raised both palms in a gesture of surrender. “Don’t push your luck. Charlotte, return to the pavilion.”

  She stood watching two more males in rough twill trousers move to stand behind her assailant. “Not without you,” she said shakily.

  “Leave,” Nick said in a hard voice. He scanned the crowd behind her. “Your presence is not required. Take her, Luke.”

  Her breath short, she half turned.

  Luke grabbed her by both arms. “Leave Nick to deal with this.” He lifted her into the crowd.

  She found her feet and slapped at his encircling fingers. “Nick will be beaten to a pulp by those...ruffians. Let me go back to him.”

  He put his arm around her waist and tried to move her up the bank. The pushing bystanders occupied every inch of space. “A sight I’d enjoy, but there are only three of them.”

  Tony’s head appeared above the crowd. “Luke. Leave her be.”

  Hot cheeked, Charlotte twisted out of Luke’s grip. He recaptured her, his hand around her shoulders. “I’m following Nick’s instructions, though I would have preferred to stay and watch.”

  Charlotte’s eyes hurt. “You’re heartless.”

  “Is Nick fighting?” Tony tried to see over the heads of the crowd.

  “He’s found an acceptable outlet for whatever eats at him.”

  “With how many?”

  Luke laughed. “Only three.”

  Tony made a wry face at Luke. “I’ll referee. Charlotte, Nick won’t need help, and he won’t thank any of us for offering. Don’t worry about him, he’s… Ah, here he is.”

  Charlotte flung herself at Nick, squeezed her arms around him, and pressed her cheek against his chest. When he winced, she let him go, hoping she hadn’t exacerbated an injury. Her throat thick with guilt, she examined his handsome, unmarked face.

  He cleared his throat. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have dragged that out. I’ll have the lout apologize to you, too.”

  “I thought they would macerate you.”

  Nick inclined his head. “Thank you for caring.”

  “You should have left when I did.”

  Sarah appeared. Arms crossed, she moved to confront Luke. “May I presume you forgot me?”

  “I must have.” He scratched his ear. “Good Lord. Who could credit it?”

  Sarah gave him a glare, which softened when she glanced at Nick. “You were wonderful. I truly hope those bullies can’t swim. He’s incredible, isn’t he, Charlotte?”

  “I tried my best to avoid fisticuffs,” Nick said in a lofty voice.

  “Didn’t want a fight?” Tony glanced sideways at Nick. “You probably started it.”

  “On my word, I didn’t, did I, Charlotte?”

  “No.” She noted the laughter lurking around his mouth. “You did your best to avoid a fight as you said.” Stupidly unsteady, she walked into the empty tent.

  Nick followed her inside. “I suspect I should have laid that tub of lard at your feet.”

  “Should I suspect you could?”

  “Of course.”

  She faced him, furious. “I ought to push you into the river. Why are you so determined not to let me know a thing about you?”

  He ran his knuckles from her cheek to her jaw. “My life is an open book. Should you wish to turn the pages, you could.”

  “End this, Nick.” Tony stood, blocking the entry. “If you embroiled your wife for your entertainment, apologize.”

  “He didn’t embroil me,” Charlotte said as Nick’s palm slid to the center of her spine. “He again showed me the folly of erroneous assumpt—”

  Nick’s mouth dropped over hers. Arching her into his full length, he lifted her hand onto the side of his neck, flattening her palm onto his sun-warmed skin. He smelled of spirits and clean linen, and she melted, curling her fingers into the crisp hair on his nape. Her eyes closed as his tongue teased inside her lips. He tasted male and thrilling. His size and strength excited her, and his hand dropped to her behind, spanning her bottom, raising her higher against him. She wanted to clutch him, and hold him, and never let him go.

  Then he lifted his head. “Is that the sort of apology you meant?” he asked Tony, his mouth disdainful and his eyes hard. “Or do you think I’ve forgotten she’s my wife?”

  She turned.

  Tony stood, hands at his sides, his face stiff.

  A hollow formed in the pit of Charlotte’s belly. She dropped her grip on her husband and stepped back. He had kissed her only because he thought Tony was watching.

  “No one has forgotten she’s your wife,” Tony said. “And so if you have finished apologizing, I’ll let the others in.”

  Nick smoothed the front of his trousers, buttoned his jacket, and found Charlotte a canvas chair, where she sat straight-backed watching Nell hurry toward her, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Penrith.

  “I just heard what happened.” Nell sat beside her and took her hands. “I’m so sorry you were put through that dreadful experience.”

  Charlotte stared. “Oh, by that awful man. You must think I make a habit of being accosted.”

  Nell laughed. “You were certainly accosted at our ball, but Nick has redeemed himself by tossing the next aspirants into the river. You’re so sweet to make a joke of this. Nick could be exactly the right husband for you if any more men try to...er, oh, dear. You can make a joke of this, but I shouldn’t.”

  “Of course you should,” Charlotte said as her cousin sat by her other side. “That’s exactly what the gentlemen have been doing. Did you manage to see the race, Sarah?”

  “Most of it, despite being deserted by Mr. Worthing. What do you think?” Sarah clasped her hands neatly in her l
ap. “The Downings have invited us to a musical evening. Emily says it will be dull, but everyone will be there. And I told Daphne we will be attending Lady Grace’s supper dance.”

  “Lady Grace should have received our acceptance already.”

  “Our acceptance?” Nick asked, hovering around. “You didn’t include me, I hope.”

  “Not specifically.” She looped a curl behind her ear, appalled that he let everyone hear him reject a respectable invitation.

  “Because I have another engagement.” He shot his white cuffs and joined a noisy group of males who appeared to have been waiting for him outside.

  She glanced at Nell, who lifted her shoulders with a rueful smile.

  “Men,” Charlotte managed to say indulgently.

  Nell nodded. “It takes patience to train them.”

  Charlotte steeled herself. “I need to go as a chaperone for Sarah.”

  Nell patted her hand. “None of Nick’s friends expects him to run tame in the first few weeks of marriage.” She indicated the group outside. “He has built up quite a following in the past year.”

  Charlotte glanced outside, wondering if his young followers were the type of males he preferred. None, of course, were as attractive as he. They looked rather sporting and careless in their attire. As she watched, one tried to box with Nick, who ignored him. As Nick’s wife, she understood when the lad left with slumped shoulders, though she now knew better than to care.

  “Are you and Mr. Hawthorn planning on attending the Graces’ supper dance too?” She laughed when Nell demonstrated her answer by glancing down at her huge belly.

  Charlotte was glad, glad, that Nick had not been prepared to escort them to the Graces’ function. Without a perpetually sozzled husband in tow, she would manage far better, and if he tried to manhandle her again, she would give him a hearty shove.

  She gave Nell a sideways glance. “Could one of your charities use my sewing skills? I find that having servants has left me with too much time on my hands.”