“And what of Lord Mapleton, Drake?” Miss Fairchild pinned her stare upon her maid. “What would make the perfect gift for the earl?”
Anthony couldn’t help but want to know her answer. Not that he wanted a gift from Miss Fairchild, or any gift at all, but he found himself quite delighted with Miss Drake’s creative method for gift giving.
He found himself delighted with Miss Drake, all in all.
“What three words would you use to describe his lordship?” She turned the question back at her mistress.
What words would Miss Fairchild come up with, indeed?
The lady beside him frowned. “Three words?”
“That best describe Lord Mapleton.” Miss Drake nodded.
“Ah…” Now it was Miss Fairchild’s turn to falter. “Handsome.” An appropriate answer even if Anthony did not completely agree with her assessment. His appearance, he considered for the most part, to be passable.
“Titled.” True enough. He could hardly wait to hear her third adjective.
“And well-off.” This surprised him. It shouldn’t, he certainly wasn’t a pauper. But most of his wealth was tied up in estate improvements, thus the need to marry…
And in that moment, the coldhearted manner for which he’d chosen his future wife and the no-nonsense approach behind her likely acceptance, became all too crystal. And strikingly clear.
As a younger man he’d hoped for love. Perhaps it had been an abstract dream of his. But he’d failed to find it in any suitable lady. Or any lady at all, for that matter.
And so, he’d resorted to the way things were done.
“I’ve already purchased a gift for Lord Mapleton, Charlotte, but do tell me what you think he would want.” Miss Fairchild slid a sideways glance in his direction, as though she was finding great amusement with this game.
Miss Drake turned and studied him intently. As though paralyzed, he couldn’t look away to save his life. Something visceral connected them. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was looking into his mind and heart and reading him easier than she’d read any book.
“I would not purchase a gift for Lord Mapleton.” She surprised them both for only a moment before adding. “He seems the sort who would far more appreciate a labor of love.” And then she tapped her chin thoughtfully three more times. “I’d either knit him a scarf so that he’d think of me whenever he used it to keep the cold out or… give him one of my lockets, and in it a few strands of my hair.”
All of the air whooshed out of his lungs making him barely aware of the tsking sounds coming from Miss Fairchild. “Absurd, Charlotte! Absolutely absurd! As if an earl would want a strand of hair in an old locket!”
But all Anthony could think was how incredibly delightful such a gift would be…with a swirl of blond hair enclosed.
The more Charlotte came to know of Lord Mapleton, the greater she esteemed him. The earl not only loved his sister, he liked her. And he physically ached for his mother.
Had his mother embroidered the handkerchief he’d inadvertently handed her the day before? Or had his sister?
Sensing the warmth of his familial relationships, she couldn’t help but compare the cooler one she shared with her own brother. Oliver loved her. She had no doubt of that. But he’d never liked her. He’d told her on more than one occasion that he disapproved of the manner in which she spent her time. Young ladies should not read, conduct experiments or explore out of doors when other tasks needed finishing inside the home. “Such activities only lead to trouble,” he’d told her. She ought to be baking, sewing, washing clothes and undertaking other such feminine pursuits. He’d quite disapproved of the fact that his father employed a housekeeper when Charlotte could just as easily have performed the requisite tasks to maintain their small household.
And she talked too much. Oh, yes. Throughout her childhood, Oliver had complained on a daily basis that she talked too much.
Charlotte glanced at the passing scenery. If her life had not been turned upside down and she’d still been living with her father, the last few warm days would have been spent exploring the winter forest, enjoying the cool sunlight. Perhaps she would be searching for the perfect gift to give her papa for Christmas.
Had Oliver been correct in his opinion of her? Would she have experienced less difficulties now if she’d not been allowed the liberties she had? As it was, the prospect of spending the remainder of her life in service was nearly enough to catapult her into a world of despair.
Charlotte grimaced at her self-indulgent thoughts.
She would not trade who she was for anything but she was going to have to rely upon her wits and imagination in this new environment. She needed to stop allowing herself these incessant bouts of self-pity. Instead she would keep a watchful eye out for traps and pitfalls that could have her fall to an even lower existence.
There were worse things, she knew, than being a lady’s maid.
She tensed as the horses slowed to a stop in front of one of the newly rebuilt village shops. A few of the smaller structures remained in charred ruins but much of the debris was long gone and new construction was taking shape nicely. Charlotte had heard all about the fire that nearly put an end to the village forever but hadn’t been in the area when it occurred. A tremor ran through her as she imagined flames claiming an entire village.
Mrs. Gibson, the Denton’s housekeeper, had told her it was thanks to Lord Mapleton that the village wouldn’t sit idle for the winter. He must be a powerful landowner, indeed.
A caring and powerful one.
When he’d lifted her onto the vehicle, Charlotte had nearly swooned.
Swooned! A word she’d never considered before in relation to her own state of being.
It was just that he’d lifted her so effortlessly. His clean male scent reminded her of another time in her life, of an elegant library her father had once taken her to visit. The earl had smelled of leather and wood, but something spicy too.
And she’d enjoyed the sensation of being considered and protected. It was nice not to struggle against the onerous height of the carriage.
Other men had touched her before, and she’d experienced a most opposite sort of reaction. She’d not liked being touched without permission.
But Lord Mapleton… A shiver danced down her spine.
She’d best not allow him to assist her to the ground. No. She’d hop off at her own volition. Land on her own two perfectly useful feet.
And so, before he or Miss Fairchild could rise, Charlotte shot off the bench. She practically threw herself out of the vehicle.
Oh, dear, they had been two perfectly useful feet when she’d first climbed on. Upon landing, she realized her knees had turned decidedly weak.
But she did not fall. No. Sheer willpower drove her to steady herself and wait patiently while the other two occupants descended in a much more graceful fashion. Lord Mapleton glanced at her curiously, but Miss Fairchild’s face remained blank.
“I’ll wait in the pastry shop while Drake assists you with my gift.”
Miss Fairchild could not be serious. Could she? And yet she was gesturing across the road.
“Oh, but Miss Fairchild, your mother will have conniptions if I leave you alone. I couldn’t…” But Miss Fairchild dismissed Charlotte’s concerns.