An Unpracticed Heart

Chapter Nineteen

Hartley had no idea what sort of welcome to expect. He was early, he knew, well before the fashionable hour for paying calls, but he hadn't been able to sleep or do much of anything after Charlotte had left. He'd cursed himself then for letting her go, for not convincing her to leave London with him and return to Scotland, where they could be married with a minimal amount of fuss and dramatics. But instead he'd told her to return home, where he could call on her, where he could set about doing things properly.

In the brash light of day, however, he'd already begun to regret this course.

Hang what was proper, he thought, his boots striking the floor as he paced from one end of the drawing room to the other. He ran his finger behind the points of his collar, wishing he could tear off the damn thing and go back to sprawling comfortably in his own home. But he reminded himself he was doing this for Charlotte.

No. No, not entirely. He was doing this for himself, as well. He had to admit that much. He wanted to prove that he could go about matters in the right way, that instead of continuing down a path of destruction that would end with his ignominious demise—and his ancestor's meticulously-kept estates left to some second cousin, the son of some solicitor from Manchester—he was capable of doing things the way they ought to be done. To ask for Charlotte's hand in marriage, to court her, to have the banns read and the bells rung and his troth plighted. Because he wanted to prove to Charlotte that he could be a husband worthy of her. And, well, his conscience needed that same proof, too.

The door opened while he had his back towards it, while he scuffed his heel across the fringe of the rug as if he were a restless child forced to wait. For a punishment or a reward, however, he could not decide. He turned at the sound of a footstep behind him, and there was Charlotte, clad from collar to hem in a gown of deep blue that nearly matched the shade of her eyes. Those same eyes widened when she saw him. Out of pleasure at seeing him, he hoped, that he had come as promised. And yet there was something else lingering at the edges of her expression, a touch of apprehension that caught him off guard.

"You're here," she said, barely above a whisper, one hand still wrapped around the edge of the door.

"Of course I am." He took a step towards her, but a small gesture of her hand stopped him in his tracks. A shake of her head, a tightness at the corners of her mouth, and then her chin dropped an inch as Lady Alvord came up behind her. She continued past Charlotte without a glance and strode into the room, a diaphanous cloud of too much lace, pleating, and flounces pushing forwards with all the determination of a fog bank.

"Lord Cowden!" She approached him with her arms outstretched, rings glittering on every other finger. He remained where he was until she let one arm fall and gave him her other hand to kiss. With no other avenue offered to him, he took it, bussed the air an inch above her rose-scented knuckles and dropped it again before she could extract any meaning beyond the cursory greeting it was.

"Lady Alvord." He nodded, cleared his throat, and allowed his attention to drift to where Charlotte still stood just inside the room. "Miss Claridge."

"To what do we owe this honor?" Lady Alvord asked, and crossed to the nearest sofa. "I did not think we would see you again so soon. Have you come to discuss the events of last night's performance, perhaps?" An odd note in the way she pronounced the word "performance" snagged Hartley's attention. But before he could dwell on it, she sat down, smoothing out her skirt as she lowered her eyes. "I would love to hear your opinions on the famed Madame Catalani," she continued, looking up at him again with a smile on her face. "Shall I call for tea?"

Hartley turned again towards Charlotte. He couldn't help it. Whenever he was with her, she drew his gaze as if he were a mere moth and she was the brightest flame in the room. He clung to that light even as Lady Alvord made a small sound in her throat, one that succeeded in turning Charlotte's face away from his. Reluctantly, he followed the direction of her look. Lady Alvord still sat there, her glance darting between the two of them.