Page 2 of Miss Mulberry and the Moody Marquess
It was unlikely, but he did appreciate his sister’s attempts to give him hope. “We shall see.”
“In the meantime, you will have to dissuade Mrs. Whitlow from her propensity as a matchmaker, lest she get you married off to someone else,” Regina mused.
“How do you know she’s a matchmaker?”
“She’s a meddler, Ethan. Meddlers are always matchmakers. They are part and parcel,” she replied dismissively. “Now, let’s go inspect this behemoth of a house you will be rattling around in alone.”
Solitude had never seemed quite so lonely.
“He was very handsome,” Mrs. Whitlow said.
“He was,” Charlotte agreed.
“I think he was quite taken with you.”
At that, Charlotte laughed. “I do not think so. The man could not even pay me a polite, if insincere, compliment. Not that I needed him to, of course.”
Mrs. Whitlow shook her head. “I think he was simply dumbstruck by you, my dear. Are you absolutely certain you wish to marry Arliss Cranford? Charlotte, the Marchioness of Aimsbury has a rather nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Charlotte couldn’t help but smile. She adored Mrs. Whitlow and her slightly inappropriate teasing. She’d never dream of reneging on her promise to marry Arliss. Perhaps he wasn’t the most exciting man in the world. Perhaps he didn’t have the strong jawline and squared chin possessed by the new Marquess. Nor did he have those dark, enigmatic eyes or the air of vigor and vitality that surrounded the man, or the sweep of dark hair that lent him a rakish air. But Arliss, with his thinning fair hair, myopic gaze and slightly stooped stature was kind. He was reasonable. And he’d asked. When no one else had, Arliss had asked her to be his wife. She was well committed to the idea now.
“I will be very happy to be Mrs. Arliss Cranford,” Charlotte insisted. “I do not need any title beyond that of wife.”
Mrs. Whitlow shook her head. “I was nearly a viscountess in my youth. He was nowhere near as handsomely favored as your marquess, though. Still, the title did make him infinitely more attractive.”
It was a scandalous admission. And Charlotte shouldn’t have encouraged her, but she adored the slightly wicked stories Mrs. Whitlow shared with her—as if she were some sort of sophisticated bosom companion and not a poor, country mouse of a girl who’d likely never travel beyond Northumberland. “Then you must have loved Mr. Whitlow greatly to give up that opportunity.”
“Not at the time,” she admitted. “I did come to love him. My viscount was quite poor, you see. He’d squandered all of his inheritance at the gaming tables and needed to refill the family coffers. I was common, but an heiress of significant fortune… alas, Mr. Whitlow was wealthy enough that I knew he married me for me and not the four thousand pounds per annum that came with the role of husband.”
Charlotte, if nothing else, knew that Arliss had asked for her hand solely on her own merit. She hadn’t a tuppence to her name and everyone knew it. “Is it a great burden to have such wealth? It seems as though it would make life very lonely—never knowing what motivates the people around you.”
Mrs. Whitlow smiled. “You will find out one day, I think. Your future, Charlotte Mulberry, is brighter than you can possibly imagine.”
Mrs. Whitlow was a romantic and given to flights of fancy. There was no world in which Charlotte would be suddenly burdened with great wealth… or where a brooding marquess would be so taken with her he’d forget how to speak, even if only temporarily.
Chapter One
June, 1825
Miss Charlotte Mulberry stared straight ahead. With her gaze fixed solidly on the vicar as he prepared to deliver the somnific weekly sermon, she could at least feign ignorance of their presence. Her former betrothed, the Right Honorable Mr. Arliss Cranford, the man she had agreed to marry and whom she had been engaged to wed for far too many years on the pretext of his limited means, had broken their agreement and wed another. Too poor to marry Charlotte, he’d found himself wealthy enough to marry another. Or perhaps theotherhad been wealthy enough to tempt him away.
Her awareness of his appearance—their appearance—had nothing to do with him, per se. There was no awareness of him. No intimate connection that called to her. Rather, it was the low thrum of whispers amongst the parishioners. To maintain what little dignity she still possessed, Charlotte simply refused to react. Let everyone whisper and stare and gossip. Let them. She would maintain her composure. No one would see her tremble and shake. No one would see her tears. She would smile and wish them well if she was confronted with the need to speak tothem at all and she would not, above all else, she would not ask the question that plagued her endlessly. Why? Why had she not been enough?
The whispers suddenly stopped. Indeed, the entire congregation went completely silent. Not even the shuffling of feet could be heard from the pews. Against her will and against all good sense, Charlotte did turn then. And what she saw was beyond shocking. No wonder the congregation had been stunned to muteness. For striding through the doors to the church, sweeping down the center aisle in his great coat, with a fashionable beaver hat tucked beneath his arm, was none other than the Marquess Aimsbury.
One might assume such a man would be more for town than their simple country village. But no. He was perfectly content, as content as a man of his somewhat solemn disposition could be, to rusticate in the countryside. He was simply not one to be social. Ever. For any reason. At all. When he spoke, it was single syllables, primarily restricted to simple yes and no responses to things asked of him. There were no pleasantries exchanged. No talk of weather or such banal pursuits passed his lips. The man, known far and wide as the Moody Marquess, was simply a curmudgeon. A young, handsome but terribly brooding curmudgeon.
And he’d chosenthat dayof all days to attend church. So he would have Charlotte’s undying gratitude for diverting attention from her and her marital, or lack of martial, woes. Offering up a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for the mysterious ways in which He had chosen to deliver her from abject humiliation yet again, she was painfully aware of the gate opening to the pew behind her. She was equally aware of the large male presence that seemed to suddenly fill the space. The Marquess was a very tall man. Broad shouldered and long limbed, she had to wonderthat he would be able to fit in the pews without his knees knocking against the back of the one in front of him when he sat.
When the entirety of the congregation had regained their composure, vicar included, the weekly church service commenced. Hymns were sung. Not by the Marquess behind her, but he dutifully stood as expected even if not a note passed his lips. And as predicted, when he sat, his knees knocked into the back of the pew where she sat. He mumbled a brusque ‘pardon’ and then retreated once more into his usual stoney silence.
And the vicar, of all Sundays, chose that one to sermonize on the act of forgiveness. Pointedly and at length. Great, great, length. Exhaustively, in fact. Beside her in the pew, her aged uncle slept on, blissfully unaware of all of it. The man snoozed everywhere, so church ought not be any different for him, she supposed.
At long last, the service ended. With some less than gentle prodding and several loud coughs, she managed to rouse her uncle and get him to his feet. He shuffled out of the church, and with no other choice in the matter, she shuffled beside him. There would be no hasty escape. There would be no surreptitious departure whereby she could ignore the condescension and false pity from others. Oh, how she detested feeling that she was at the center of attention—and that the attention was for such a humiliating matter. After all, Ambleside was a very small village and a very dull village. Her failed betrothal was a source of much excitement.
It dawned on Charlotte that she was being very mean. Not everyone in the village was against her. She had friends there. It was wrong to think that everyone was rejoicing in her downfall simply because it alleviated boredom for a bit.
“Yoo hoo! Miss Mulberry? Miss Mulberry?”
