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LORD INGRAM'S LITTLE GIRL

by Chloe Carpenter


Charlotte was curled up on her favourite window seat in the sitting room happily immersed in her copy of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations until the faint rumble of carriage wheels and horses hooves caught her attention. Putting down her book she glanced through the window. The Duke of Stanton's carriage was clearly discernible, being painted in the family colours and crests. It approached steadily, pulled by a team of sleek, plumed horses tacked up in pristine harnesses.

Charlotte sighed, for the Duke was an odious man... a lecherous, fat slug of a man with a ruddy complexion, sagging jowls, and chins that wobbled. His large belly protruded over his breeches and he had mammoth thighs that tapered to a ridiculous slimness below the knee, quite disproportionate to the rest of his bulk. She shuddered at the recollection of her last encounter with him: his brazen stare at her bodice, the podgy fingers which grasped her own delicate hand, and those thick lips of his which cloyingly lingered as he kissed her fingers. His oily smile held no mirth, nor was there any reflected in his black pebble eyes; they were cold and hard and dangerous, filling her with an irrational fear as well as loathing.

Not for the first time, she wondered why such a powerful and influential man as the Duke would bother associating with her father ... a man without a title, and socially below the aristocracy. She assumed it was because father was amongst the landed gentry, being a wealthy landowner... though she was uncomfortably aware that the extent of his once vast wealth had dwindled markedly owing to his drinking and gambling habits since mother died. Not that he would discuss such matters with her, but it had become apparent that in addition to selling off great tracts of land (to the Duke), the number of household staff had been halved during the past year, and she was no longer allowed to buy fine gowns, being curtly told to "Make do with what you have."

And now the Duke and his cronies had returned; no doubt for another little soiree which usually involved drinking the best wines from the cellar and bleeding father dry at their stupid card games. As the carriage rolled into the courtyard, Charlotte decided it was time to make herself scarce. Jumping up, she fled from the sitting room, grabbed an apple and a piece of cheese from the larder, and ran up the staircase to the sanctuary of her room. If her presence at dinner was requested, she would simply feign illness and remain well out of the reach of the repugnant old Duke.


Four men sat round the table in the drawing room: the Duke, two of his associates, and Charlotte's father, Frederick Grenville. Drinking heavily, Frederick raised his glass and committed to yet another game. Whilst some card games were based on pure luck, the Duke had a particular fondness for Whist, a game which involved a high level of concentration to keep track of the cards, as well as knowledge of the extensive technical jargon. The Duke was a skilful card player; Frederick was not, and as the evening progressed, his losses were astronomical.

"So ... Grenville, once more you don't appear to have Lady Luck on your side tonight," said the Duke with a grin. "Perhaps we should call it a night ... if you've had enough," he said dismissively.

"Nonsense. Cut me in," said Frederick, his words slightly slurred. "You and I will play Piquet. I'll wager my house on winning the game."

The Duke's associates smiled and sniggered at this, while the Duke narrowed his eyes and unhesitantly delivered one word. "Done."

"Good. Good." Frederick smiled, his face flushed. He was confident of beating the Duke at Piquet. "More drinks, gentlemen? I have a fine French brandy."

He had it brought from the cellar and decanted. Inhaling the aroma from his glass, he swallowed the liquid down. Luck was on his side. He knew it. He would prove the Duke wrong.

But as the game progressed, Frederick felt increasingly desperate, and when it was made clear that he had lost, he stared at the cards in horror.

The Duke sat back in his chair and drained his glass. "Well, Grenville," he said with a self-satisfied smirk, "it would appear that you and your captivating daughter are now homeless."

"B-but ...Your Grace, I ..." Frederick groaned and put his hands to his temples.

The Duke gloated and regarded him with amusement. "Still, as I'm feeling magnanimous, I could offer you a way out of this mess."

"Yes? What? I'll do anything - anything! Name it." Frederick mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He was sweating profusely and felt quite unwell.

"You can keep your house - if you give me your daughter."

"My daughter? Charlotte? You want Charlotte?" The words stumbled from his mouth.

"Yes. I'll take her off your hands."

Frederick paled with shock, then as his senses kicked in a little, an expression of greed crossed his once-handsome features. He had no use for his only child. She wasn't the son he had wanted, so he had paid little attention to her. But to get her married off to a Duke - that was something he had never even contemplated. The Duke had been widowed these past ten years. He could make something of Charlotte. The girl was comely enough. He smiled, thinking of the implications of his own social status once his daughter was married to a man of such enormous wealth, power, and social standing.

"Aye, Your Grace. I accept. She'll make you a good wife."

"Wife?" The Duke threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Are you demented, Sir? Marry her? Why the Hell would I do that? She will be my new plaything and warm my bed and pleasure me." His eyes gleamed at the thought of possessing her ripe young curves. Young. He liked them young.

"Oh." Frederick was momentarily deflated, but then he shrugged. Why not? He didn't care. Let her go and good riddance to her. Let the Duke buy her outrageously expensive gowns and boots and fripperies. Let the Duke do as he damn well please with her. "Very well," he said. "I accept."

"Excellent." The Duke smiled thinly. "Have her ready to leave in the morning. I shall send someone round to collect her." He rose from his chair, his cronies following his lead. "It has been a most productive evening, Grenville. I bid you good night."

"Your Grace." Frederick nodded to his departing guests, and as they left the room, he reached for the brandy decanter.


Charlotte breakfasted alone. There was no sign of her father, and she assumed he was sleeping off the excess of alcohol from the previous evening. The day was cloudy and overcast, the garden sodden from a heavy downpour of rain that had subsided to a dismal drizzle. She ate a leisurely breakfast, frowning slightly, for she liked to walk through the gardens after breakfast prior to riding for an hour, and it would be no fun at all in the rain.

Returning to her room she set up her easel by the window which overlooked the gardens at the rear of the house, and busied herself sorting out her paints and brushes, eventually taking up her position at her easel. From this vantage point she was unaware that a carriage drawn by two horses swept along the driveway, nor of the tall figure alighting from the vehicle who rapped on the front door.

Five minutes later her peace and quiet was disturbed. Footsteps sounded on the landing, and the sound of male voices could be heard. Then without ceremony, her father stepped into the room. Bleary-eyed and haggard, he stared at her for a moment.

"Father?"

"Get your things. You're leaving."

"What? Leaving? What do you mean?"

"You're going with him." Frederick gestured with his thumb to the man who stood silently behind him.

"I ... don't understand." Charlotte put down her brush and stood up, confusion and uncertainty written all over her face. The tall man stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Ingram, the Duke's son." He took her hand and gave a courtly bow as his lips brushed fleetingly against her cool skin.

Charlotte swallowed. The Duke's son? She was aware that the Duke had one son, William, who spent the majority of time at his London residence. She had never before seen him, and couldn't help staring, for he was darkly handsome, and as his brilliant blue eyes fixed on hers, she felt a strange fluttering in her lower belly.

"Lord Ingram," she murmured.

"You are to accompany me at once. I suggest you pack a small bag containing any personal possessions. Everything else you need will be made available to you."

"But ... why? Where am I going?" Her gaze switched from Lord Ingram to her father, to whom she cast an imploring look.

"Do as he says, girl," growled Frederick.

"I don't understand. Why am I being sent away? What have I done to displease you, Father?"

Frederick shifted uncomfortably. "I..." he began.

"I realise this is all very unexpected," cut in Lord Ingram, "and you are not prepared." He cast a darkly simmering look at Frederick. "But you must come with me, Charlotte, and I will explain on the way. Don't worry, little one ... you'll be safe with me. I'll take good care of you."

Perhaps it was something in his kindly tone, or the look in his eyes, or the comfort evoked by his words... whatever it was caused Charlotte to obey. She placed a few items of clothing in a portmanteau, her hairbrush and nightgown, a faded photograph of her mother, a couple of books, and Dorothea, her china doll. Turning her gaze to her easel, she looked back at her portmanteau, realising it would never fit.

Intercepting her gaze, Lord Ingram picked up the easel and a sheaf of paper. "I'll carry this ... like so," he assured her, tucking it under his left arm. "And this." He picked up the portmanteau and transferred it to his left hand, using his right hand to take Charlotte's arm and guide her out of the room. "And off we go. Good day, Grenville." He strode swiftly from the room gripping Charlotte's arm tightly.

"Father!" she cried, turning her head.

"Just go, girl," Frederick growled. "You'll be better off elsewhere."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "You mean I'm never coming back?! Father - no! This is my home!"

"Not any more," came the curt response.


On legs that had turned to jelly, Charlotte stumbled along and would have fallen were it not for Lord Ingram's hold on her arm. Down the stairs they went, through the hallway, and out of the door. It was then that Charlotte noticed the carriage waiting outside. It bore no crest, and the coachman's livery was unknown to her. She barely registered his dark green frock coat, white leather breeches and gloves; the only thing that made any impression were the silver buttons of his coat which sparkled as the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Then she was bundled inside with her few belongings, and shrank back into the seat as the coachman took up the reins and urged the horse forward.

"Where are we going?" she whispered to the man seated opposite. He was looking at her intently.

"Has your father told you anything of last night's activities?"

Bewildered, she shook her head. "No. Last night ... he was drinking and playing cards with the Duke of Stanton. I excused myself from their company. I have no idea what transpired."

"I see." Lord Ingram regarded her thoughtfully. "My dear, your father wagered his house on a game of cards. He lost the game. But ..." The girl was looking up at him with frightened eyes.



© Chloe Carpenter
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.