Page 12 of Pining for Lord Lockhart
But he turned her to face him. “Look at me. You know I care. I’m not discounting you. Wewilldo something.” He stared earnestly at her.
And she must have believed him because with one more look, she turned back to the carriage.
He hurried after her, almost picking her up, closing the door while the carriage took off nearly at a run.
“What on earth.”
The group of men who’d been ambling over were now hurrying after. Some carried clubs. One lifted the girl up on his shoulders. The boys scattered.
“Oh dear.” Charity shivered beside him. “Were they coming after us?”
“I don’t know.” He suspected they were. “I’m sorry to have driven this far out of the way.”
She turned her brilliant eyes up into his face. “Why did you?”
She knew. She must know. Did she hope for a declaration? Her eyes were pools, and he wanted to be lost in them. He was helpless before her. He must tell her all. He could resist no longer. “Charity—”
His aunt sat up. “Andrew?” She peered out the window. “Good heavens! What are we doing here?” The alarm on her face reminded him of his reckless behavior. “I’m sorry, Aunt. We were taking the long way home, discussing our plans, and we lost track of time.”
She settled back, obviously uncomfortable. “Let’s hope we leave this part of town immediately.”
The carriage turned. “I suspect James has that same goal in mind. Sorry to have concerned you, Aunt.”
She didn’t answer.
They continued on their way. Charity no longer sat as close. His aunt no longer slept. And he knew his moment had passed.
When they pulled in front of the duchess’ townhome, the door opened immediately. And Charity hurried inside without a look back.
He and his aunt continued home to his smaller establishment. When they entered, the bleak emptiness of the place struck him. “Why don’t we decorate, Aunt?”
“We could if you like. I’ve not had the funds until now.” She patted his arm. “That Charity is a nice girl, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is.”
She smiled, humming to herself. “Good night.”
They parted ways, Andrew making his way to his warm bedchambers. If his home lacked furnishings, it did not lack in excellent help. The servants had a hot bath prepared, and he was soon relaxed and pulling blankets up to his chin in bed, a warming pan at his feet.
But he could not feel satisfied.
He had way more money than he would ever use. His estate raised more all the time. He would be leaving his heir and their children comfortable indeed. But his pillow felt uncomfortable for his head. The blankets were either too hot or too cold. He tossed and turned.
The solicitor informed him that another of his relatives had passed on and left the whole of their estate to him with a sizable fortune, as well as healthy functioning properties that produced a good amount each year. He must find a useful way to spend it, the surplus.
His money was being reinvested so as to produce more. He had wonderful financial advisors and his solicitor was most excellent. But he still had excess. His children would never want, but others?
He groaned, knowing he would be plagued forever by the young girl’s wide blue eyes, by Charity’s immediate reaction to her. Those children. He sat up. He was not going to sleep for many hours yet. He lit a candle, wrapped a rope around his now shivering self and sat at his table. With ink and quill, he started to write his concerns. He made a list of all the wrongs in his world that were associated with money. And then he started considering how he might or might not be able to assist with each one.
The candle burned on and he was still writing and thinking and considering. And by the end of it all, his candle was gone, and he’d come to only one solid conclusion: A conversation with Charity was necessary. She would know what to do.
With that, he at last fell asleep, knowing he would see her tomorrow.
Morning came quickly, earlier than anyone had a right to be up and about, but he called for his servant, dressed, ate a quick bite from the kitchen and made his way over to the York townhome.
No one seemed to be about—no walkers yet in the park across the street, no movement in the house, no horses—only the birds, the breeze and the sun barely rising in the sky over the horizon.
He didn’t know why he thought he’d catch her early and he most certainly could not knock on the door. He turned from the knocker, having arrived close enough to see the coat of arms they’d added to the decor, and made his way back out onto the street.
