He mourned his freedom. And, he feared, his Mistress.
The decisions, the fate of his family and all the families who depended on the earldom for their living, indeed the weight of the earldom, sat on him like a heavy cloak. He bowed his head, only to have his mother poke him and whisper, “Head up, please, Lord Harrington.”
He snapped straight.
Right, then. Full steam ahead and all that. No time for grieving.He knew she mourned, though, and her sorrow caused him pain, even if he did not understand her grief.
Her reminder of his new title was unnecessary. He felt the magnitude of it as a millstone and dreaded the fight he knew he’d face with Charlotte. As he strained under the burdens his sudden ascendency, the one he worried about the least would be the one that remained uppermost in her thoughts: the requirement of heirs.
To him, children were an abstract part of his future. He had enough to juggle at the moment. The worry of it all made him itch, his shoulders tightening. His skin felt too tight, and he struggled to focus on the vicar’s words. His thoughts spiraled, thinking of the cost of the funeral, the roofs that needed repair on his lands, the village children who could benefit from more books for their school. And above all, he worried that his Mistress would not allow him to turn himself over to her, to love her as he wished.
His mother appeared outwardly serene, her only tell the handkerchief she twisted between her hands. Was losing his father more or less painful to her than watching him throw their happiness away with each drink he tossed back? At least she no longer had to bear the responsibility of finding the funds for her family and beyond, or managing the estates with limited ability to influence change.
No, those are all mine to worry about now. Then he would cycle back through the chain of emotions.
It was not enough that he had found out three days ago about his father’s unsalvageable loss. He’d been about to write his stewards and housekeepers at the family holdings to have them each release several servants when his mother had entered the library white-faced with the news of his father’s collapse. Of course, it had happened at his father’s club.
She had not yet raised the obvious solution to their problems. In the time-honored tradition of the aristocracy, the quickest way to steer them back to solvency was to marry for money. As long as that lady could also provide the necessary heirs. If he had not met Charlotte, he might have considered it. Now, however, his heart was fully engaged, and he would never settle for second best.
He sighed. He had wanted to tell Charlotte in person, but there had not been a moment he could call his own. Then he’d received a formal note from her addressed to the Earl of Harrington, which arrived with a separate note in the same handwriting addressed to his mother.
He needed to hold Charlotte, even if he could not play, could not serve his Mistress, could not read Latin with her or discuss a news article. He craved her in his arms, her honey curls against his neck and chin, her arms slipping under his coat to rest closer to the warmth of his skin. That little sniff she took, thinking he did not realize she was smelling him, and the resulting smile which bloomed each time, that he could feel against his chest. He needed Charlotte, the love of his life, more than his Mistress.
After the service, the family filed out of the pew first, following the coffin, as the rest of the mourners and supporters stood. He spied South and Folly at the far end of a pew, South appearing gray but sober, Folly in an ill-fitting jacket. They nodded to him as he passed. As he led his mother farther up the aisle, he caught honey curls and sable eyes. Charlotte!
She looked immeasurably sad, her mouth grim and her eyes big pools of cocoa in her pale face. He was sure he looked much the same, actually. As he approached, still holding her gaze, she tore her gaze away, plucking at her gown before turning her head completely.
No!
His hands fisted where they hung clasped in front of him. She was his last vestige of freedom—and if he could convince her, his wife. His shoulders hunched another inch, and his head bowed, weighed down by the chains of his life.
Tears pricked at his eyes. Tightening his hand on his mother’s where it lay on his arm, he bit the inside of his cheek to avoid embarrassing himself.
He straightened, a new determination rising in him. He had dragged the family out of debt once, he would do it again. He had won other arguments with Charlotte, and he’d find a way to win this as well. He just had to strategize. If he could handle the title of earl, he could handle this.
* * * *
William pored over the accounts. The loss of that shipment was a setback, but nowhere what it would have been had he not been investing. And that investing had happened with the help of his Mistress. To say she had a knack for it would be putting it mildly.
He hated having to let staff go, but he had forced himself to finish the letters to his stewards, offering good letters of character and severance pay, despite the family’s circumstances. It did not seem fair to punish other people for his father’s bad judgment. Although they might have been selling off jewelry and other family heirlooms if not for Charlotte. She had introduced him to her man of business, but more, she had talked through her strategy of mixing industries and her thorough research into anything before investing in it. She was more comfortable with simple business ventures: a hair product shop, a few imported goods, shipping. For the last, she had joined a group of investors who funded a shipping company with several ships and had spread their outlay across those ships. The company had to find other sponsors to share in each ship, but everyone had less risk, albeit possibly less reward. He wished he could hand over that side of managing their finances to her, even without marriage. He could picture her at the other desk in the room, where his mother worked now, as they acted together to share the duties and have more time for themselves.
Now, he frowned over the ledgers, trying to find ways to recoup their losses, as well as estimate how long it would be before he could bring the country estate back to full staff. He knew his mother would like to go there when it got warm, although the longer he delayed selecting a wife, the longer his mother would stay in London to prod him.
He loved her dearly, but there were occasions when he wished for a more traditional mother, one who would have already retired to the dower house in the country and let him catch his breath before badgering him about marriage and heirs.
Sitting back, he envisioned working, the patter of young feet in the hall, a boy with honey curls bursting in to hide between his feet under the desk, before his fairer-haired sister chased inside looking for him, followed by—Mistress.
Propping his elbows on the wood, he buried his head in his hands. Sadly, children with their coloring were improbable if not impossible. He wanted to weep for the loss. She would excel at motherhood, just as she had at everything else.
Without lifting his head, he stared at the paperwork scattered across the desk, his skin itching again. Being an earl felt like a life sentence in prison. Hellfire, itwasa life sentence, but it should not feel like this. Every document he read seemed to require an opinion, every letter a decision, every tenant guidance. It was exhausting. Finding a wife or fending off his mother’s prodding was another burden.
These past months as he had unofficially performed much of this role, his outlet had been Charlotte. With her, he could relax. No decisions were needed after the first one, to bow his head and submit to her will. His brain was quiet, his soul was at peace. More, his heart was happy. He trusted her and adored her.
How could he convince her of that? He needed to find a way to be with her, despite the issue of heirs. However, she would not let him in. He’d tried for the past two nights, and he could not find time to formulate different ways to woo her when dozens of mouths depended on his ability to provide their food and livelihood.
Scribbling off a note to Charlotte’s—and now his—business manager, he set it aside to be delivered, and refocused.
* * * *
