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“Moments turn into hours,” he teased his sister.
“Go on.” She shooed him away.
The gentleman raced away before the ladies could change their minds. No doubt he would have preferred a pub, but nonetheless, the room gave a small respite from both the heat and the women. He flashed Patience a grin before he left the ladies.
Patience laughed at her brother’s retreat, knowing full well that he had no interest in shopping other than that his sister, needed a companion for the excursion.
A short while later the women exited the shop with little to show for their efforts save a string of pearls that Charity had purchased on a whim. Perhaps, she had thought, they might be woven into her hair or artfully placed along the crown of a hat she had been thinking to commission.
The two ladies went into the neighboring café to rejoin Reginald. It was all that Lady Charity could do not to groan aloud when she saw what, or rather who, awaited their return.
Their request of libation had been met with vigor, though it appeared that Reginald had acquired a stray along his journey. The gentleman at his table was an addition to their party, which made Charity start, though she said nothing and hoped her face did not show her unpreparedness.
Neville Collington, The Earl of Wentwell, looked relaxed as if he were in his own home, with one arm draped over the back of the chair and his trousers pulled tight. He and Reginald both stood at the ladies entrance and seated them at the table. Wentwell offered Charity her drink. Charm spilled around him and his smile was all too appealing. The same eyes roved her as if he could see more than she was wont to show. She picked up her drink and was reminded of the empty drink cup and Wentwell’s flirtation at the soiree. She put down the cup and immediately fanned herself, artfully using the contrivance to obscure his view. He raised his eyes to hers and grinned at her. She had the uncanny feeling that he was remembering the same conversation.
Charity pursed her lips to keep from admonishing the perpetual flirt. Mother would scold her for not participating and, to be fair, Charity had no direct grievance with the gentleman. Perhaps it was the heat that was making her irritable. Or, perhaps it was the pressure that she had been receiving to engage in such conversations with those of the opposite sex, when she just wanted to enjoy her summer in Bath. Charity was not annoyed with Neville Collington in particular. Only, all that he stood to represent, rakes in general and the artifice which kept ladies from finding a man’s true nature.
“Lord Wentwell!” Patience said smiling. “It is good to see you again. Reginald said you had a letter to post.”
“I do hope I did not inconvenience you, Lady Beresford, Lady Charity,” Wentwell said with a nod. “It was an important matter that I did not wish to leave to a servant.”
“Not at all, Wentwell,” Reginald said, answering for the women. “We were all ready for a sip of something to cool our palate.
“Yes,” Patience said. “I do hope you will join us for the rest of this morning.”
Charity nearly groaned aloud. Her hope of an uneventful and relaxing morning just disappeared.
“I have already promised Reg I shall do so,” Wentwell said, with a slight nod of his head to his friend, and Charity wondered if he had not promised, would he have slipped away to some more gentlemanly pursuit.
Reginald was grinning like a madman, but he hid his smile in his cup.
~.~
Chapter Six
There were few men who frequented Bath that were not familiar with Lord Wentwell. Somehow they all seemed to take favor with him despite his ways among the ladies. Charity wondered if it was some sort of vicarious longing that the other gentlemen had for his loose morals. Lady Charity could not see the Earl’s appeal: refused to see it, in fact. Of course Neville Collington was in possession of a dangerous array of features. The Earl of Wentwell was altogether too handsome, and he knew it. Every fiber of his being shouted the knowledge as did his artful grin and his glinting eye.
Patience was already on to a new topic, recounting their shopping excursion to Lord Wentwell while they enjoyed their slight repast.
In no time at all, Patience expressed her desire to continue shopping, and she led the way, guiding the foursome toward a neighboring shop, where various novelties were sold.
Lady Charity found herself flanked by the two gentlemen and she did her best to devote her undivided attention to Lord Barton and ignore Lord Wentwell entirely. Despite her determined focus, she could not cease to be aware of the pair of devilish green eyes that burned her from behind.
Whether she had intended to or not, she had somehow piqued Lord Wentwell’s interest. Charity refused to be another challenge for the gentleman to best. She did not doubt that he notched his bedpost with his conquests. She would have none of it. She would not allow herself be so used.
“Reginald,” Patience called to her brother as she browsed an outdoor booth that was bursting with bolts of fabric. “You must help me find something similar to Mother’s evening shawl. I am certain that this style is just the thing for her.”
Charity strolled after the siblings wishing that she had never agreed to this excursion. At this moment, she would rather be sitting at home or upon her bench with simple Jean than partnering Lord Wentwell through the streets of Bath.
“My dear Lady Charity,” Lord Wentwell spoke her name as if merely capturing her attention were enough to make her swoon. Charity had to admit his voice was deep and smooth as butter. She turned away from him, determined not to hear or let the man affect her.
“Are you often in Bath?” he continued, this time close enough that she might not continue her pretense without offense. She could smell the scent of him, a pleasant sandalwood smell. Only a scoundrel would overstep personal boundaries so. Still, she had to answer or be proclaimed rude.
“Only in the summer,” she replied shortly. Her response was honest, but not forthcoming. She picked through a box of trinkets, weighing each in her hand and holding one up for inspection.
“Do you not prefer Brighton and the sea?” he tried again.
“My father prefers Bath.”
