"Exactly," said Charlotte.
Hang it all, she was a brave little thing! Ralph had to admit a grudging respect for her ability to stand her ground. Lesser women than she – lesser men, too – had been reduced to gibbering nonsense by a single black look from him.
"I will dine with you," he conceded. He supposed it was the done thing, after all.
Sunlight broke over Charlotte's face. In a second, she was transformed from teary to radiant. Ralph was taken aback. To think that glow of happiness was really down to him! And all he'd done was grudgingly accept an evening of her company. Women could be so simple-minded.
"Thank you." Charlotte held her hand towards him. Without thinking, Ralph reached out to press it.
There was a sad, soft tearing sound. Charlotte looked down, confused. "Oh..."
The little star Ralph had crumpled earlier was still in his hand. In taking hers, he'd torn it.
"I – I was –"
Well, what excuse was there? He'd been about to throw the thing in the fire.
Charlotte folded his hand over the torn star. "I will see you at dinner, Your Grace."
Before Ralph could say another word, she was gone.
3
A hot bath turned out to be exactly what Ralph needed after the long, cold journey north. As he sank into the steaming water, he felt as though he were coming alive again, piece by piece.
How strange to feel so far away from his childhood, even though he had returned to his childhood home! He still remembered the sting of the icy pump he'd washed under as a boy.
Coming home for Christmas. What a peculiar notion. The moment he'd come of age he made a vow never to do it again. A bitter promise he’d kept for years. And then he was foolish enough to take a wife, and that meant returning to Langdon exactly as he’d been forced to once a year, all those years ago…
Ralph pushed away the creeping darkness the boyhood memories brought. He was no longer a child. He wasn't home for the holidays from Eton, but under his own terms, a grown man.
He had a wife to deal with. And, apparently, a houseful of merriment to contain.
The idea of it made him want to dissolve into the bathwater, never to be seen again.
Christmas meant one thing to Ralph Warner, Duke of Langdon, and that was misery and pain.
All he had to do was survive the next few days, he reminded himself. Once his duty by Charlotte was done, he could disappear again. He'd set her free of this blasted place, too. No need for either of them to be trapped in Langdon's gloom. She had a pair of sisters, didn't she? Surely she'd want to go to London to see them?
He'd been cruel to keep her locked up in a place like this. She'd obviously taken things too much to heart.
Ralph dried himself off briskly, glad of the warmth of the fire, and tugged on his small clothes, looking over the selection of shirts and pantaloons his valet had laid out. Charlotte was wearing a red dress, as he recalled. He selected a red cravat to match.
She’d made an effort, after all, even if it was misplaced. The last thing he wanted was to behave like the sort of monster his father had been.
Judging by the lapse of formality Ralph had witnessed on his arrival, he half-expected to see the kitchen maids sitting down at the table to dine. Thankfully, there was only Charlotte.
She'd taken the opportunity to re-pin her hair, revealing the graceful curve of her neck. Ralph was struck by the oddly intimate sight of that soft, pale skin. He found himself wondering how it would feel to gently stroke it with his fingers, or even his lips.
He had every right to do it. That was the strangest thing. She was his wife, and he might touch her wherever he wished, as long as she enjoyed it.
Charlotte had ordered the table laid in an odd fashion. Rather than sitting at either end, as a husband and wife should, she'd placed herself beside the head of the table. Within easy chatting distance. Ralph tried not to groan. Her motives could not be clearer.
She wanted to get to know him. Why, he had no idea.
It had never occurred to him that friendship was a necessary part of marriage.
"I thought it would be nicer sitting this way," said Charlotte, as Withers served them both a bowl of soup. "The table is terribly grand, but it doesn't seem quite right to sit all the way down at the opposite end. Anyone would think I couldn't stand to be near you!"
Ralph did not know what to say to that. He gave a brief grunt to show that he was listening.
"Next time you go away," Charlotte continued amiably, "you must let me know your favourite foods so that I can have them prepared to celebrate your return."
"I see nothing to celebrate about coming here," said Ralph, thinking he might as well be honest with her.
Charlotte hesitated, her thick lashes fluttering. He'd upset her. Well, sometimes the truth was painful.
"Tell me about your time in London," she said, perhaps sensing that talk of Langdon Manor would only repel him further. "I'm dying to hear the latest gossip."
"I aim to avoid frivolous chatter wherever possible."
"Oh." She was only put off for a moment. "Well, if you do not wish to be frivolous I can give you the latest news of your estates."
"Thank you, but I will arrange to meet with the steward early tomorrow to deal with business."
"You will certainly not!" Charlotte laughed.
Ralph blinked. It had been many years since anyone dared tell him what he would and would not do.
"I have sent Mr Gardiner home to spend Christmas with his family," Charlotte continued, unabashed. "He will return after New Year's Day."
"That is unacceptable. I will be leaving long before then."
"Oh." Once again, that single, quavering syllable was the only sign that Charlotte was affected by his indifference. Ralph suspected she must think him a beast, but he was at a loss as to how to remedy the situation.
"In that case, time is of the essence," said Charlotte. He noticed that she no longer met his eyes with the same bright attention as he spoke. Now that the eager gaze was gone, he missed it. "Let me begin with the rental income from the village..."
To Ralph's astonishment, she launched into a precise account of the state of his lands in Yorkshire, speaking entirely from memory. She had evidently expended a great deal of effort in getting to grips with the management of his estate. Even Gardiner, capable man that he was, could not have done a better job. Every question Ralph could think of was met with an immediate answer, needle-sharp in its precision. Better yet, all the numerous issues he had anticipated dealing with before he left for London had clearly been taken in hand.
They were almost done with the roast pork by the time she was finished, and Ralph was unexpectedly impressed.
"You have quite the head for figures," he said. Charlotte blessed him once more with her midsummer sunbeam of a smile. Ralph felt an answering warmth spark in his own heart. There really was something about his new duchess. Something that made him almost willing to forgive the red and green ribbons she'd tied around the candlesticks on the table...
"Do you hear that?" asked Charlotte. When Ralph tried to answer, she shushed him with a finger to her lips. In her excitement, she'd laid a hand on his wrist. He found, to his surprise, that he very much wanted her to keep it there. He kept his arm still as stone to avoid startling her away.
"Listen!" Charlotte repeated, whispering, insistent. Ralph obeyed.
The sound of distant singing reached his ears. An old, familiar tune. A rustic and untrained set of voices, somehow charming despite their imperfections.
He knew the song. It was Here We Come A-Wassailing.
Charlotte rose from her seat, moving softly so as not to drown out the noise. "The wassailers are here!" she said. Her hand left Ralph's wrist. She hadn't noticed at all the effect she'd had on him.
The moment she stopped touching him, the world took a sickening lurch sideways. The noise in his ears rose to a clamour. The roast pork churned in his stomach.
The old carol ha
d brought memories flooding back, and Ralph was drowning in them.
"Charlotte," he gasped, shocked to hear how hoarse he'd become, "send them away."
She turned to him, pink lips round with surprise. "But, Your Grace –"
"I will not hear them. Send them away. Withers!" he called. The old butler appeared at his side in an instant. "See that the doors remain closed. The windows, too. I have no wish to hear any more of that noise."
"Nonsense!" Charlotte snapped. Her voice was like a steel rod. Ralph closed his eyes and tried to quiet the thumping of his heart. The last thing he needed was to give the impression that it was Charlotte affecting him so severely. "Let them in, Withers,” she continued. “I promised them a cup from the wassail bowl, and they shall have it. The last thing I want is for Langdon Manor to gain a reputation for poor hospitality."
Ralph forced himself to his feet, desperate to put an end to it all. He felt that if he heard another verse of the ancient Christmas song, he'd go mad. "You have no idea of the Langdon family's reputation. That rabble will not be allowed in my house, do you hear?"
"You're right," said Charlotte. Beside her, Withers was doing his best to melt into the background. "And I wish you weren't. If I'd known your reputation sooner, Your Grace, I might never have made the mistake of marrying you."
She couldn't have stunned him more if she'd slapped him in the face. Ralph was shocked back into the present, the echoes of the past dwindling to a distant murmur.
Withers prudently excused himself from the room.
"Do you really feel that way?" asked Ralph. "Have I been such a poor husband? I have not mistreated you, I have not –"
"You have been no sort of husband at all, as you well know," Charlotte countered.
Ralph groaned and raised a hand to his forehead, feeling the prickle of sweat which had formed there. The girl didn’t know what she was talking about. He had good reason to avoid Langdon Manor. He had still better reasons to avoid making a pretence at family life.
He knew he was unfit for such things.
Yet there was Charlotte, an innocent party in all this. And he had hurt her.
"If you will stop their singing," he rasped, "I will allow them to stay."
Charlotte looked as though she did not believe him. He could hardly blame her.
"Will you join us?" she asked.
"I cannot imagine that you want me to."
"It is all I want," said Charlotte softly.
Ralph stared at her, helpless. "Why?"
She stepped forwards and took his hands in hers. "Because you are my husband, and although I do not know you, I... I would like to. And it's Christmastime. If we cannot get along now, when will we?"
Ralph was more grateful for the steadying pressure of her touch than he cared to admit. She certainly had a knack for driving away his darkness.
"I would like to get along with you," he said.
"Then you will join me and greet the wassailers?"
"If that's what you want."
Charlotte rose on her tiptoes and planted an unexpected kiss on his cheek. Ralph rocked back on his heels, astonished.
"I'm sorry," said Charlotte, blushing prettily. "You must think me terribly forward..." Ralph met the blush with a kiss of his own, closed-lipped and chaste, pressing her soft cheek with his bearded mouth. He made a mental note to shave. Charlotte's skin was as delicate as a rose petal, and he was as prickly as a holly bush.
She didn't seem to mind. She lifted a hand to the place where he'd kissed her and let a wicked grin flash over her face. "Let's go and let them in."
4
Blue flames leaped into the air from Peter’s open mouth. As the villagers cheered, he snapped his lips closed on the raisin he’d plucked from the flaming bowl, extinguishing the fire. Tilly gasped and simpered over his bravery. Charlotte hid her smile. Of course, they’d all seen snapdragon played before. She’d never taken part herself – she didn’t see the enjoyment in risking a burnt tongue – but she had to admit that watching the men breathe fire was a great deal of fun.
“More! More!” called Peter. He was aiming to retrieve the most raisins from the bowl of burning brandy. The winner of snapdragon won the right to choose his own reward. Judging by Tilly’s close attention to the game, she had a fair idea of the prize Peter would ask for.
Charlotte dipped a glass into the wassail bowl, filling it with hot spiced wine, and wound her way back through the party to the corner where Ralph stood in brooding silence. A lock of his dark hair had fallen over his eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. The man must spend his time looking at the world from under a shadow.
Charlotte wished she were bold enough to brush the hair back from his face. Instead, she handed him the glass of mulled wine. “Isn’t this nice?” she asked, nodding towards the centre of the room where a fiddler was playing a reel and several couples had begun dancing.
Ralph shrugged. It occurred to Charlotte that she had no idea whether he liked to dance or not. She was longing for a partner, but as the duchess, there was only one man in the room with the status to ask her. And he was glowering at the company as though they personally offended him.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Charlotte asked, somewhat redundantly. Ralph answered through gritted teeth.
“I am… tolerating this.”
That was probably the best she could hope for. Charlotte was distracted from her husband’s gloom for a moment by the raucous applause from the snapdragon table, where Peter was finally claiming his kiss. Tilly’s shrieks of horror fooled precisely no-one.
“How delightful, to be young and in love,” Charlotte murmured. She had quite forgotten that Ralph would hear her.
“You are still young,” he said. He clutched his wine with both hands, and she noticed that his knuckles had whitened. It must have cost him more effort than she realised to stand in the corner and watch the merriment.
“Are you suggesting I will fall in love with someone?” she asked pertly. When Ralph met her eyes, she realised he had taken her much more seriously than she intended.
“You are deserving of love,” he said quietly. The regret in his tone shook Charlotte to the core. It could not be more obvious what he meant. You deserve love, and I will not give it to you.
Sickened, she turned back to the party. One of the more enterprising young lads from the village gave her a cheery wave. “Aren’t you going to join us, Your Grace?”
“Impertinence,” snapped Ralph. Charlotte was in no mood to indulge him.
“I find it quite endearing. There’s nothing I like more than an old-fashioned country dance.”
She heard the clatter as he set down his wine glass too hard on the table. “Very well.”
To Charlotte’s amazement, Ralph seized her by the arm and propelled her onto the dance floor. The servants and villagers broke into applause around them.
Ralph fastened her arm about his neck and his hand around her waist. His expression was as stony as ever. “Let’s have a waltz!” he commanded, in tones more suited to the battlefield than a ballroom. Their audience didn’t seem to notice: his order was greeted with shouts of joy and a scramble to find partners.
It was the most brutish, overbearing invitation to a dance Charlotte had ever received.
It made her glow with pleasure.
The fiddler began, and a farm boy upended an empty bowl and began drumming out a lively rhythm. This waltz had more of an English barn dance in it than a stately Viennese ballroom, and Ralph entered into it with grim gusto. He whirled Charlotte around from one end of the room to the other, keeping steady time with the music, until she was breathless. She caught sight of the blur of Tilly in Peter’s arms as they spun past, and that was the most sense she could make of her surroundings. She might even have fallen, had Ralph’s strong arms not carried her with him. It was glorious, exhausting, exhilarating, and she was smiling so broadly that her cheeks hurt.
Ralph, on the other hand, looked as though he would rather be
almost anywhere else. When the music ended, he bowed as stiffly as though they were strangers and immediately stalked from the room. Charlotte was left alone in the middle of the dance floor, catching her breath and wondering what on earth had just happened.
She had never anticipated that her stern, humourless husband could dance like a demon and spin her heart into a state of such whirling confusion. What did he mean by abandoning her as soon as the dance was done? What did he mean by dancing with her in the first place?
Charlotte was sick of pandering to the character of cold-hearted master Ralph had created. In the course of one evening he’d berated her, kissed her, torn down her Christmas decorations, and asked her to dance. There was nothing Charlotte could abide less than a puzzle. If the man insisted on maintaining his aura of mystery, he had better learn to let his wife in on the secret.
She glanced around to check that her guests were well-provided with wine and food, and followed her husband from the room.
5
Ralph reached the cool darkness of the staircase with a grateful sigh. He let himself sink onto one of the marble steps, unable to go any further, and shook his head to clear away the sounds of the villagers’ laughter.
It had nearly worked. He’d nearly broken free of the torment that this place and this cursed season brought him. The heat of Charlotte’s waist lingered on his fingertips, a warmth which pushed back winter’s chill. It was almost, almost enough.
But now the blackness was closing over him again, more potent than ever.
His ears filled with the ghost of voices now three decades old. The words which tormented him every time he returned to Langdon Manor. The nightmare which had left him in this state, wounded and broken. Unable to provide Charlotte with the loving family home she so desperately wanted.
He should never have married her. How could he inflict himself on such an innocent girl?
The Duke, the Earl and the Captain Page 2
