The Season of Lady Chastity (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 4) Read online

  More importantly, who would Chastity’s mother have chosen as a husband if she were given a choice?

  “However, that was over two decades ago. Naught can be changed now.” The melancholic air that’d fairly stifled the room dissipated. “Clara was a dear girl. Spirited with a bright future. I mourned her passing, though we were never close.”

  Eloise stood, signaling that their conversation had come to an end.

  “Thank you, Lady Camden.” Chastity’s voice wobbled as she rose from her chair to depart. “Thank you for sharing a bit about my mother.”

  Chastity needed time—and space—to think things through and pick apart everything Eloise had shared.

  “I will bid you good day, my lady.” Chastity sank into a curtsy, her head tilting forward as her gaze met the floor.

  “Lady Chastity, may I offer a last piece of advice?” The urgency was clear in Lady Camden’s words. “I know I have no right; however, seeing as Clara is gone, and you are without the benefit of a mother’s words of caution…”

  An ache grew in Chastity’s chest. “Please, my lady.”

  “Do not be quick to wed. Impetuous decisions can result in a lifetime of regret.” Lady Camden sighed. “There is more to life than a handsome husband or an advantageous marriage. Hastily wed and wastefully led, as the saying goes. Do have a lovely afternoon, Lady Chastity. I look forward to dining with you and your sister this evening.”

  Lady Camden turned and knelt near the Christmastide décor, but she was not quick enough to hide the tear that fell down her cheek.

  “Good day, Lady Camden.” Chastity fled the library, thankful that the riding party hadn’t yet returned.

  A deep pain sliced through her as she visualized Lady Camden: young, beautiful, hopeful, and promised to Lord Camden—a man she thought to love with no hope of that affection being returned.

  The sorrow and reality of the unfulfilled future had Chastity thinking of the only portrait of her mother she possessed. Had Clara, in all her beauty and youth, shared Lady Camden’s regret and grief?

  Yet, was Clara, only a year after her marriage to Downshire, trying to correct the mistakes she’d made by reconnecting with her dearest Cam? There was so much Chastity still did not know and it seemed each time she learned something new, it only deepened the mystery surrounding her mother.

  Chastity hurried through the abandoned corridors of Oxburgh Hall on a path to the chambers she shared with Prudence. If it were possible, Chastity was more confused than ever. Had her mother still loved Lord Camden even after she’d wed another? Could Luci’s father be Clara’s dearest Cam? Her mother had asked Cam to meet her, saying he was the man she truly loved. Had she been planning to run away with him after Chastity was born? What of Prudence—had she meant to leave her and Downshire behind?

  It seemed that her conversation with Lady Camden only gave Chastity more questions that needed to be answered.

  Chastity halted outside the door to her room as she glanced down the hall in the direction Bastian had fled the night before. Voices could be heard coming from behind a door that stood ajar down the corridor. Once again, she was drawn to seek the earl out—if only to have Bastian tell her exactly what Prudence had been saying for months.

  The past was better left…in the past.

  Chapter 7

  Bastian nodded, accepting a plate of apple custard pie, though he could not eat another bite. The long table was adorned with a blue tablecloth and bits of torn paper made to appear like snow with tray after tray of dishes filled to brimming: meats, cheeses, soups, and now savory and sweet dessert pies, custards, and tarts. The only things missing were boughs of holly and garland swinging from the chandeliers above. It appeared that every guest, besides Bastian’s mother, was currently partaking of the extravagant meal after a busy day spent exploring the countryside surrounding Oxburgh Hall.

  Lord Comstock and his cronies had been seated near the foot of the table, surrounded by the younger party attendees—blessedly. However, that meant Lady Chastity had been placed between Ruthven and Tamblerton with Liddell directly across from her. She did not appear enthralled with any of the three gentlemen beyond idle small talk between courses. Lady Prudence outright ignored the four gentlemen—and the custard that’d been set before her.

  “My dear Lord Mansfield,” the Duchess of Atholl said, plucking at his sleeve. “The lovely Ophelia tells me your mother is not well after her journey to Oxburgh Hall.”

  Bastian pulled his gaze from Lady Chastity and smiled at the kindly woman seated next to him. He’d quickly suspected that the evening’s seating arrangements had been organized by Montrose to keep Comstock and his cronies as far from Bastian as possible. While he appreciated Montrose’s thoughtfulness, Bastian also longed to be seated closer to Lady Chastity—and not entrenched between Lady Camden, the Duchess of Atholl, and the Dowager Countess Coventry. The three matrons were far more intimidating—and calculating—than Comstock ever was.

  “She has never done well with traveling, I fear,” Bastian shared, gaining nods of understanding from the ladies seated around him. “However, I think she will be just the thing by morning. Lady Hawke was kind enough to make certain she had several books to keep her entertained.”

  “Me Ophelia gal knows jus’ the thing.” Lady Coventry cackled. “It be that devil’s hair of ‘ers, I tell ya.”

  Several guests turned in their direction, including Lady Hawke, who gave the dowager countess a wide smile despite her mother’s frown. In any other situation, Bastian would be hard-pressed to imagine a regal woman such as the Duchess of Atholl being in the same house, let alone the same room, as Lady Coventry. However, as Lord Hawke’s grandmama, the two ladies, despite their differences, sat across from one another in mock harmony. If Bastian and Lord Hawke ever gained a moment to speak, he would ask after his grandmother.

  The women fell into easy conversation about Lady Luci’s coming nuptials, and Bastian was free to focus on Lady Chastity once more. When she left the breakfast room that morning, he’d gone to his mother’s chambers to see to her comfort and had then returned downstairs. The entire time he’d visualized Chastity meeting with the author of her note in a clandestine location. Embarrassed to admit it, he’d roamed the empty halls for hours, hoping to spot Chastity again, but she’d never appeared. Bastian had even returned to the path bordering the moat where they’d first met, but she wasn’t there either.

  She’d been distracted when she left him that morning, and Bastian had wanted an opportunity to ask after her and discover what had transpired to send her fleeing his company.

  Even now, she smiled when spoken to and spoke briefly when necessary, but her attention was obviously elsewhere.

  Course after course remained barely touched before her.

  Once he’d caught Lady Prudence noticing the same. She’d snapped her fingers to gain Chastity’s attention, but Chastity kept staring off down the table—at nothing. Or was she looking at someone?

  Chair legs scraped the floor as Montrose cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, if you will all join me in the billiard’s room, I have taken the liberty of having an exquisite selection of cognac imported from Jonzac, France, for this very evening.”

  Grunts sounded around the space as the men stood, readying to follow Montrose. Bastian could think of nearly three dozen things he’d rather do than spend the next hour in the company of his old schoolmates and their mocking jests; however, if he failed to join the men, it would only add more fodder to Comstock’s growing cache of taunts.

  “I do believe my lovely intended has a treat for the ladies, as well.” Montrose assisted Lady Lucianna from her chair before placing a kiss on her gloved wrist, causing the gentlemen to cheer, and the ladies to raise their fans to cool their heated faces. “Until tomorrow, my love.”

  Lady Lucianna’s cheeks blossomed a light pink at Montrose’s dashing display of affection as she grinned and invited the women to join her. “Ladies, let us withdraw to the amber salon. Lo
rd Montrose is correct, I have many festive activities planned for this evening.”

  As the gathered guests rose and began filing from the room in small clusters, Bastian positioned himself in Lady Chastity’s path and waited, allowing the ladies in attendance to pass him. Finally, Lady Chastity approached, arm-in-arm with her sister.

  Smiling, Bastian prepared to greet the pair.

  “Lord Mansfield.” The Montrose butler cleared his throat behind Bastian. “A word, if you please.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and back as Lady Chastity and her sister passed him on their way to the door, their heads once again tilted together in private conversation.

  “Of course.” Bastian followed the servant into the hall, watching Chastity and Prudence as they disappeared with the other ladies. “Is everything as it should be?”

  The butler waited a brief moment until the rest of the party had moved far enough away so as not to overhear. “It is your mother, my lord. An upstairs servant requested your attendance in her chambers.”

  Bastian suppressed the reaction to sprint from the room. “Does Montrose have a physician in residence?”

  “Yes, my lord. I have sent word to Doc Durpentire, and he is at your disposal.”

  “Let us hope his services will not be necessary.” Bastian nodded to the butler and pivoted toward the main stairs, urgency punctuating every step he took.

  The voices of the guests faded as he hurried in the opposite direction.

  It had been weeks since his mother had suffered an attack. There was no other word that so wholly captured the severity of his mother’s affliction. It wasn’t a fit because describing it as such insinuated his mother had control over herself. But that was not the case. As he reached the top of the stairs, Bastian broke into a run, expertly navigating the corridors of Oxburgh Hall until he reached his mother’s door.

  It was closed, but that did not stop his mother’s wailing from reaching the silence of the hallway.

  Bastian placed his hand on the latch as a loud clatter sounded from inside, followed by his mother’s sorrowful cries.

  It had been the same since his father’s death: days of lucidity and calm, punctuated by episodes of these manic, unexplained attacks. His mother would sleep for days afterwards and hardly remember anything that had transpired during those uncontrollable times. It could last minutes—or hours.

  His physician in London had no explanation for the attacks, only doses of laudanum to help calm her. The medicine left his mother in a stupor for days after, languishing between sleep and uncontrolled whimpering.

  Several weeks ago, Bastian had banned the physician from their home and refused the use of laudanum for his mother. It did not help, it only masked the pain his mother was going through.

  Bastian opened the door, prepared for the sight that would surely meet his eyes, yet it was far worse than he’d expected.

  His mother’s trunk lay tipped over, and her possessions were strewn across the floor. Bastian stepped around his mother’s cloak and over her pearl-handled brush on the rug. A young maid, assigned to assist Lady Mansfield when needed, crouched near his mother’s partially clothed body where she shivered, her hands clutching the rug. The sheer drapes around the four-poster bed had been pulled from their hangings and added to the various fabrics littering the floor.

  During her attacks, his mother grew feverish to the point where she ripped her clothes from her body until her naked flesh could meet cooler air. Just as quickly, she’d be wracked with violent shivers as the cold set in.

  “Mother,” Bastian murmured, nodding for the maid to depart as he lowered himself to the floor beside her. He gathered her into his arms until her small frame was cradled against him like a babe. Gently, he rocked her. “Hush now, I am here. I will not go.”

  The weeks of reprieve had been a cruel taunt, mirroring Comstock’s malicious jests at Bastian’s expense.

  The idea of no more attacks had been one Bastian had clung to and believed in. Caution had fled long enough he’d convinced his mother to journey all the way to Oxburgh. And now, she suffered.

  “I am a horrid son, Mama. Forgive me.” He fought back the urge to wail and cry along with his mother or send for the physician and the opium that never failed to end his mother’s suffering—at least temporarily. His breakdown would serve no benefit to either of them. He’d given in to his tears on only two occasions until he realized he cried out of pity for himself, not his mother’s sorrow and grief. “We shall return home. Tomorrow—or tonight if you will only come back to me.”

  It had been a while since he’d held his mother in such a way, and he was discouraged to notice she’d lost more weight. Her elbow pushed into Bastian’s ribs, and her knobby, ashen knees were visible as the hem of her nightshift rode up on her thigh. Like this, in the waning candlelight, his mother appeared little more than a helpless babe.

  And Bastian was her blackguard son, pushing her to move on and move past his father’s death before she was ready. But it had been over a year.

  With that thought, Bastian’s eyes drifted shut as he continued to rock his mother in his arms, praying silently to the Lord above to calm her before he gave in and called for a physician and a tonic. It was easier for him, but it did little to assuage his mother’s suffering.

  His heart was torn clean from his chest with each attack, a little less returning to him each time.

  A cry ripped through the room, and Bastian glanced over his shoulder to see that the maid hadn’t fully closed the door. He would not have his mother’s grief paraded about Oxburgh Hall if someone heard her agony. Yet, Bastian could not leave her during her time of need. Never would he abandon his mother when she needed him the most.

  She would come back to him, and he would see her safely home—as soon as she was well enough to travel.

  “Why did he leave us, Bastian?” his mother whimpered, burying her face against the shoulder of his evening coat. “I shouldn’t have... It was—”

  “It was not his choice to leave us,” Bastian cooed in her ear. “Never would he have chosen to leave you.”

  Bastian could not fathom a connection so strong as to leave one broken and crying when the other was gone. Love, it was a peculiar thing.

  Many spent years seeking it out, a lifetime of striving to be worthy of such a grand destiny, only to be left in tatters once it was stripped away. Though Bastian suspected that even if his mother had known her fate, she would have fallen in love regardless.

  His mother sucked in a deep breath, and Bastian waited for the coming wail.

  “Duncan, my love, come back…” Her body quivered with each word, and Bastian’s only recourse was to gather her closer to him, hoping the heat from his body warmed her chilled flesh.

  Love could not be meant to cause such pain, such utter despondency.

  Certainly, his father’s death had left a void within him, but nothing near the depth and magnitude of his mother’s loss. She’d been so strong during his father’s illness, and now she could not hold herself together for any great length of time.

  His mother twisted in his hold, her strength—at least in that movement—growing as she pulled on his arm, lifting her head high enough to see the bedchamber threshold behind Bastian.

  “Duncan?” Her manic tone spoke to the hallucinatory phase of her attack that would ultimately end with her realizing that her husband was gone forever…again. Reliving the greatest loss of her life weekly, and sometimes, daily. “It is you. I feared I’d lost you forever. That you’d gone despite your promises…”

  She whimpered and tucked her head close to Bastian’s shoulder again, twisting her head from side to side as she did.

  “No,” his mother mumbled. “No. No. No.”

  The utterings had no backing, as if she spoke unbidden, even to herself.

  “Shush, Mama,” Bastian cooed, burying his face in her hair. “I am here. I shan’t leave you. Ever.”

  “You are not my Duncan.”

 
; “No, Mother. It is Bastian.” Her attacks hadn’t been so severe in months. Not even recognizing her own child? “Your son.”

  With a sudden intense ferocity, his mother attempted to push from his hold, her eyes still focused on something over his shoulder. Normally, the hallucinations disappeared when Bastian spoke, giving his mother something real to focus on.

  “You. You. You.” She trembled in his arms. “You.”

  “There is no one there,” he comforted her. “It is only you and me. We are at Oxburgh Hall for the Duke of Montrose’s wedding. Do you remember Harriet? Your dear friend? Montrose—Roderick—is her son.”

  “She. She. She,” his mother stuttered, “she is not Harriet. Look.”

  Bastian was hesitant to give in to his mother’s demand. Perpetuating and addressing her phantom visions only made things worse when she discovered that her mind was playing a cruel jest on her.

  “Son, look.”

  It was that simple plea, and her whimpered use of the word son that made Bastian finally turn to glance behind him.

  A figure stood just inside the door. The light from the wall sconces in the hall made her hair appear close to that of a heavenly halo but kept her face obscured by shadows. He didn’t need to see her face. Bastian’s entire body knew her identity as surely as if it had been his father entering the room.

  “Lady Chastity?” It was still a question despite his confidence. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter 8

  Chastity hadn’t overheard the conversation between Chapman and Bastian as they were departing the dining hall; however, the stricken look upon the earl’s face and the way he’d fled the room and up the stairs had Chastity following to lend her help. She’d sensed that there was something more to the lord than met the eye.