Your favorite niece,
Charlotte Annick
With both letters sealed and addressed, she pulled out a fresh sheet to begin her duty list. She labeled it Daily Schedule and jotted in a left-hand column each hour of the day. In a middle column, she wrote the task to be completed. In a right-hand column, she made comments and reminders.
In Charlotte’s former life, that is before she met Drake, she preferred things orderly, structured. Change at a certain time, drink tea at a certain time, smile at a certain time. She scheduled her life to perfection. Some might find her attention to detail silly, but she was happier when she knew what to expect and how to act.
This new life felt disjointed. Although today was only mid-week of her first week in her new home, already her schedule was not her own with the dowager duchess having scheduled her days for her. Housekeeper meetings in the mornings, luncheons with the dragon, callers in the afternoon, all scheduled by her mother-in-law. She suspected every day would follow suit with her setting the schedule.
Ruefully, she added one hour per day for “dragon slaying.”
With a deep breath and a tightness in her chest, Charlotte studied the Daily Schedule and knew if she didn’t start with the most important task on the list, she’d lose her nerve.
She walked to the bellpull and rang for assistance. Within moments, a fresh-faced parlor maid stepped inside with a curtsy.
“Your name is Stella, yes?” Charlotte asked, trying to remember which maids she had met.
The maid looked up momentarily, clearly surprised to be remembered and directly addressed by a duchess.
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the maid, her eyes returning to the floor. “Shall I bring a tea tray?”
“No, but thank you. I wish to make a request,” Charlotte replied, inching towards the maid so her voice wouldn’t carry beyond the parlor doors.
“A request, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I would like all the portraits in my bedchamber removed to the attic. I would also like to arrange a meeting with a local artist, someone skilled in landscapes. I wish to commission paintings of the estate for my bedchamber.” Her voice might sound confident and authoritative to the maid, but Charlotte’s pulse raced. The dowager duchess could overrule her request in a single breath, thus declaring war.
“I’m only a parlor maid, Your Grace. I’ll need to ask Mrs. Fisk, and she’ll need to—.” She stopped when Charlotte interrupted with a tut.
“You do not need to consult anyone. I trust in your abilities, Stella, and I leave this task to you, as well as a selection of staff of your choosing. I know you can do this, Stella. I can trust you, yes?” Charlotte raised a slender eyebrow.
The maid glanced up, blushing. Charlotte could see the girl’s wheels turning. If the maid could please the duchess, this could mean a promotion in the future and more personal requests.
“I will see to both tasks, Your Grace. Is there anything else I may do?”
“No, you’re excused. Oh, and Stella,” Charlotte placed a hand on the maid’s shoulder, transferring confidence to her helper. “Discretion is appreciated.” With a smile, she sent the maid on her way.
Returning to the Daily Schedule, she placed a check mark next to the day’s “dragon slaying” task.
Charlotte waited in the chaise lounge overlooking the walled rose garden. Her mother-in-law would arrive shortly for their daily luncheon. As with every day since her arrival, she’d not seen Drake since the previous evening. He was becoming a stranger to her. She could hardly believe only three days ago she had shared a carriage with him and had done so every day for a week, trapped in close quarters.
As much as his crass behavior had ruffled her feathers, she’d give her left foot to be trapped in a carriage with him again. Unconvinced she’d act any differently than before to his behavior, she did prefer his amorous attention to his silence. His silence only confirmed what his mother said as the reason he married her.
Where was he? Did he intentionally avoid her, or did he have work to do on the estate? No, of course he didn’t work, not according to his own admission and certainly not according to his mother. So, where was he, what did he do all day, and why hadn’t he sought her out?
Knowing so little about the man and his hobbies was proving an impediment.
And to think, she’d worried during the drive north about how she’d live with him. She had imagined him accosting her in hallways and making vulgar jests during dinner. As much as she had expected that behavior to embarrass her, she’d prefer it to being ignored. Was this the life she was to expect? How disheartening.
Mama Catherine entered the room with a thump of her cane, disrupting all thoughts of Drake. Charlotte rose from the chaise and curtsied, a lump forming in her throat.
“Stand straight,” Catherine instructed. “We curtsy to no one except royalty. You need to learn how to incline your head, to whom to incline your head, and to whom not to incline your head. Come.”
Charlotte noted with disdain that the dowager had shifted from addressing her as a child to a lapdog. In less than a week, she had been demoted. Should she yip in response? No, her dragon slaying task for the morning had been completed. Breathe, relax, and observe.
Obeying the command, Charlotte stepped forward, holding her head high.
“Let us begin with the acknowledgement of peers, then gentry. We do not acknowledge lower than gentry. Is that understood?”
Charlotte nodded.
“No!” Catherine snapped.
Black eyes skewered Charlotte, sending a bead of perspiration between her shoulder blades.
“What is that nod? Where did you learn that? Don’t answer. Follow my lead.”
The next hour involved the most absurd lesson of Charlotte’s life—the art of inclining one’s head. Catherine thumped her cane to command and shush protests. Charlotte’s neck ached at the end of the lesson. Of all the duties she had expected to learn, this was not one.
Only when Stella arrived, bringing a tea tray with cheese, fruit, and cold meats, did Charlotte relax. A familiar face was difficult to come by. Pouring the tea with a baluster-straight spine, she tried to catch the eye of the parlor maid before the girl ducked out of the room. No luck. Stella shuffled off without raising her eyes.
Charlotte wasn’t so ignorant that she didn’t know how to behave with staff, but she found the whole of it silly. Back home, staff were practically part of the family. Many of her happiest childhood memories involved sneaking into the kitchen to steal food in hopes Cook would catch her, as the punishment was always a fresh slice of pie and gossip.
Part of being a duchess, she realized, was behaving like one, for the image she portrayed reflected on the entire family, not to mention the reputation of the title. Her success or failure as the Duchess of Annick would affect current and future generations. She needed not to befriend parlor maids.
“Friday morning,” Catherine said, “you will pose for your portrait between nine and noon in the Gray Parlor. I have commissioned portraits for both you and Drake. From one until four, you will receive particularly special callers in the Red Drawing Room. Lord and Lady Tidwell will visit, as will Mrs. Wortham. I’ve taken the liberty to answer the correspondences on your behalf. The remainder of this week’s afternoons are booked with invited callers.”
Catherine had answered Charlotte’s correspondences? The woman had already arranged the next three days’ schedule on Charlotte’s behalf? Arg! Fury coursed through her veins. Charlotte strangled her hands, clenching and twisting them. The nerve of this woman! Yet again, she wanted to march to Drake and demand he do something.
Only after deep breaths did she trust herself not to unleash a tempest.
Unperturbed by Charlotte’s silence, Catherine continued. “Over the course of this week, we will discuss your social duties, which will include visiting the poor and hosting ch
arity balls and agricultural fetes. Are you accustomed to calling on villagers?”
“Yes, of course,” quipped Charlotte. “My sister and I have delivered food to the miners since I was a child. When the children know we’re coming, they’ll run up from the houses to see us. My sister knows their names better than I do. I have a terrible memory for such things. But, yes, I’m accustomed to such a task.”
Catherine recoiled. “No. That is not how it is done. How disgraceful to give them ideas above their station, to mingle with filth. No, no, no. You will visit the poor, but you must not engage in conversation. Never leave the carriage. The maid will bring the basket to the door on your behalf. It is enough of a kindness for them to see the ducal crest and receive the basket. Do you understand?”
The woman couldn’t be serious. Lizbeth was more interested in visiting the miners than Charlotte, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have a fondness for them. The people were kind and always greeted the sisters with affection. Such visits lifted Charlotte’s spirits. She liked the attention every bit as much as the miners did, a victory for both parties. Of course, she never socialized personally with them, not like Lizbeth, but she would never snub them.
Mr. Taylor opened the door, surprising both women.
“The modiste has arrived, Your Graces. I showed him to the Blue Drawing Room.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t expecting him for another half hour. He’s early.” She waved a dismissive hand to the butler. “Let him wait.”
With the door shut, she turned back to Charlotte.
“I will attend the fitting and choose the appropriate selections. There will be no country fashion in this house.” Her eyes shot daggers into Charlotte’s dress. “I expect you to appreciate the trouble I’m going through for you. You had better be worth the time and money I’m expending.”
Head held high, Charlotte responded with, “I am the Duchess of Annick. I will make you proud, Mama Catherine.”
Chapter 8
Not until dinner did Charlotte see Drake.
He winked at her in greeting, then spent the entire dinner whinging with his mother about a neighbor Charlotte didn’t know. Though it had only been a few days since their arrival, to Charlotte he felt like a stranger. He was standoffish, so unlike the London charmer or the carriage rogue. This wasn’t how she had envisioned life with him.
Mary ate her meal silently, glum from her visit with another suitor. As much as Charlotte wanted to ask her about the fellow, whose name escaped her, she daren’t do so in the hearing of Lady Annick.
And so, Charlotte also ate silently, feeling tiny as a gnat. The least Drake could do was look at her.
It was all too clear his mother was right. He’d married her out of spite. All his flirtation had been for show. He had his own life with countless, experienced mistresses, and no interest in her. Their wedding night made sense, as well. He came to her fully dressed with no indication of wanting to bed her. At the time, she thought she’d pushed him away with her inexperience, but it would seem he never had intended them to have a real marriage. Her sister had been right about him all along. Once a rake, always a rake were Lizbeth’s words.
Charlotte was morbidly depressed.
The only brightness in her day had been returning to her suite to change for dinner and finding the portraits removed from the wall. The sweet taste of success lingered until dinner.
As they finished their last course, Drake turned to Charlotte and shocked her by asking, “Would you join me for cards after dinner, my dear?”
Her heart skipped a beat. His sapphire eyes danced with their usual mischief, but his expression was politeness itself, a far cry from the wolfish grin with which she was acquainted.
“I would love to,” she said with a flirtatious smile that belied her despondency.
Throughout dessert, she schemed. This could be her chance. She could finally speak to him about his mother, scold him for ignoring her, and question him about his marital intentions. Setting things straight would be the best course of action.
On second thought, perhaps not.
That might put him on the defense, and the last thing she needed was to lose her only possible ally. No, she needed his friendship. She hadn’t the faintest how to seduce a man, let alone one with his reputation, but she had to try. On further reflection, this was the better course of action.
Should she skip the card game and invite him to her chamber? Whatever reservations she still had about sharing a bed were overshadowed by the benefits of intimacy. It could bring them closer, bond them together with a shared interest. She had hoped that shared interest would be the estate, but she would take what she could get. He wouldn’t ignore her if she gave herself to him, and he would feel obligated to defend her against the dragon. Better yet, he could send his mother to the dower house once and for all.
“Drake,” intercepted the dragon. “I must speak with you after dinner.”
“Of course, Mother. Could it wait until after a game of cards with my wife? You have her all day, every day. It’s only fair I have time with her after dinner.”
“Very well. I will come for you in one hour.”
Charlotte ground her teeth.
After dinner, Catherine and Mary retired to the parlor, leaving the newlyweds alone in the lesser dining room.
Drake nodded in the opposite direction towards the Blue Drawing Room. “Shall we?”
Oh, we shall! She wanted to scream. With all my heart! Be my savior and whisk me away from all this suffocating condescension.
Instead, she wordlessly followed him into the obnoxiously blue room, as blue as her chamber was peach, and joined him at a table near the hearth. Before sitting, he rang the bellpull to request wine, and then grabbed a card deck from a mahogany bureau on his way back to the table.
Memories of the last time they drank wine heated her cheeks. Only a week and a half since their disastrous wedding night, but it felt like a lifetime. Was there a subtle way to invite him to her room? She wouldn’t protest, not this time, not after the way Catherine made her feel, not after the way the servants made her feel. She wanted to feel important, desired, and beautiful. Drake could make her feel those things.
Before either spoke, two footmen scuttled into the room, one carrying a bottle and two glasses, the other dashing about to close the drapes against the setting sun, casting the room into a candle-lit darkness, flickering flames dancing on the walls.
Drake poured wine into bell-shaped bowls perched on slender, multispiral, airtwist stems, his movements languid, shoulders at ease. In contrast, Charlotte wrung her hands in her lap, not at all at ease. They had but an hour before the dragon would descend. Only an hour for her to find a way to reconnect with him without seeming desperate.
Drake took a moment to run one hand through his hair, tussling it into dishevelment, while the other hand reached into his pocket for his snuff box. After a quick pinch, he brought the glasses to the card table.
A low hum buzzed in her ears at the sight of his lithe frame, her pulse quickening. His long legs showed to advantage in skin-hugging buckskin breeches. She imagined what he must look like when fencing, those legs shuffling back and forth across the floor, all speed and strength, his arm moving lightening quick with the sabre.
How had she managed to avoid his affections for the entire journey north when all she wanted to do now was feel the muscles beneath his shirt and run her hands through his hair? She must be going mad. It was this place. It was his mother. It was the feeling of powerlessness. Charlotte hungered for control. At the very least, she needed an ally to gain a modicum of that control.
“I thought we might play piquet,” Drake offered.
When she took her glass from him, she grazed his fingers with hers, delaying her capture of the stem long enough to run the tips of her fingers over his knuckles.
She looke
d up through her eyelashes to see how he would respond to her touch. He gave no indication of having noticed. Instead, he set down his glass and began shuffling the cards without looking at her. Right. Flirtation, apparently, wasn’t one of her skills. So help her, she would succeed at this if it were the last thing she did. Wine would help.
The first sip of wine prickled her senses, tingling down to her toes, a pleasant heat settling in her limbs. The second sip flushed her cheeks and tickled her stomach. By the third sip, she knew only how much she wanted her husband to come to her tonight. She could almost feel his moist mouth trailing kisses down her neck.
Drake held out the pack of cards in invitation to draw. They each pulled a card.
He smiled smugly. “Looks like I deal,” he said, then glanced at her empty glass of wine, his untouched. “Thirsty, Charlotte?” One eyebrow raised, cards poised.
Without waiting for a reply, he retrieved the bottle and refilled her glass. She hadn’t meant to drink the entire glass so quickly. Yes, she wanted to loosen her nerve, but she did need control of her senses or this seduction would be for naught.
The game began with minimal conversation. This wasn’t turning out how she wanted. Blast. Why wasn’t he flirting? With each passing minute, she was reminded of his mother’s words. He married her out of spite. He thought her desperate and in search of advancement. He wasn’t attracted to her. What other explanation was there for his change in behavior?
Yes, yes, so she had brushed off his affections during the drive north, but it had been a stressful ride and she’d been nervous, so what did he expect? There was no other explanation for his change in behavior from flirty to frosty. He simply didn’t want her. The only solution was to improve her game.
“Point of five,” she declared, studying him over her cards.
“Not good,” he replied.
“Trio of aces.”
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