Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2)

by Blythe, Bianca

  “My dear, Charlotte,” Callum said, “please let me introduce you to Lord Braunschweig. Lord Braunschweig, this is Miss Charlotte Butterworth.”

  “I am most delighted to meet you,” Lord Braunschweig said, in a silky baritone that Charlotte did not trust at all, despite the consistency with which the man smiled.

  “Though she will soon be the Duchess of Vernon,” Callum said, and the man’s eyes seemed to snap in surprise.

  “You are eloping.”

  “Correct,” Callum answered.

  “How...romantic,” Lord Braunschweig said, and Charlotte felt that even in her wedding finery she didn’t quite meet the expectations of the ton. Finally, the man gestured to his female companion. “Please let me present my sister.”

  “I am delighted to meet you both.” The woman practically purred. She lifted an elegant hand to her throat and retained a cool and composed smile that reminded Charlotte every bit of Lady Isla.

  Charlotte tried to act nonchalant, and she forced a smile.

  The steward reappeared. “Your rooms are prepared, Your Grace. I have taken the liberty of informing the captain that you are on the ship. You will take your meals with him.”

  “Thank you,” Callum said.

  The steward led them below the deck as the ship left the most crowded part of the Thames. The steward introduced them to the captain. Despite their late and unexpected arrival, everyone seemed happy for them to be on board, and Charlotte tried to quell a slight prickle of unease.

  They would be on the ship for a few days, and sailors generally sailed for weeks. And yet a few days from land seemed far away. She could hardly swim back to London, should the boat capsize. One had to completely trust the actions of the captain.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They would arrive in Guernsey today.

  Excitement thrummed through Charlotte, but she focused on the accounts that Callum had brought with him from Hades’ Lair. Numbers were comforting, but these numbers were also fascinating. Callum’s former guardian had been most devious.

  Footsteps padded outside her cabin, and a knock sounded.

  She opened the door, and Callum stood before her. “We’re nearing Saint Peter Port. Would you like to see?”

  “Oh, indeed.” She closed the door and followed him through the narrow corridor, nearly stumbling as the waves continued to rock the ship.

  Callum turned around and steadied her, and his arms felt secure and unwavering.

  The door was at the top of a long wooden staircase, and Charlotte knew it would probably be more pleasant to wait for the boat to dock. Still, she pushed the door open without any hesitation.

  Cold air brushed against her, and for a moment, she trembled. The wind seemed determined to lift up her hem, and she was thankful for the heavy fabric of the traveling gown Fiona had packed and its relative narrowness.

  “Don’t blow away, lass,” he murmured, his voice husky, and he took her hand.

  Normally the man didn’t use Scottish words, even though traces of his burr were present every time he spoke.

  A shiver of excitement rushed through Charlotte.

  The man’s handsomeness was the sort that extended through him. He was good and wanted the best for everyone. She needed to remind herself of the latter point. It was almost possible to imagine that they were a couple eloping because they were madly in love, and not simply because it was convenient to both of them. The reasons for their marriage could hardly be termed romantic, no matter Callum’s pleasant demeanor.

  Salty spray spilled onto the deck and dappled her dress and face, and she inhaled the scent. Her locks whipped across her face, the pins having long since lost their usefulness after the days-long battle with the elements.

  “That’s Guernsey.” Callum pointed in the distance.

  At first, Charlotte didn’t see anything. The waves sufficed in beauty. Foamy crests rose toward the sky, as if competing with one another in a never-ending tournament.

  They needn’t. The water alone was beautiful. The pale blue managed to contain shades of green. Were the color discovered in a jewel, it would triumph over any other.

  There before them, growing increasingly taller, was an island. White cliffs rose in the distance, but unlike the waves, these did not simply collapse into the ocean. If the waves desired to rival anything, no target could be more magnificent than this land. The ship veered toward it, and pastel-colored homes perched about a harbor. The sailors’ activities shifted and grew more vigorous.

  The green island spread out before them. The channel was gray, but it didn’t diminish the wonder of the steep cliffs that sloped around the sea, forming delightful bays and coves.

  Callum squeezed her hand. “We’re almost there.”

  Salty water continued to spray her face, but she didn’t step away.

  Tiny fishing boats dipped over the sea, and people sat in them. The world was filled with more than the ocean and the sky, even though both of those seemed incredible.

  “We’ll be married soon,” Callum said.

  Those words might be meant to be reassuring, but her heartbeat quickened all the same.

  She wanted to stay on this ship forever, admiring the azure color of the ocean and conscience of Callum beside her. The sky was a crisp blue, devoid of any of the clouds that seemed to delight in flittering about England’s skies, striking unease in anyone beneath them who might ponder to themselves, whether that shade of gray, that precise form of fluffiness, was likely to lead to rain, and if so, at what time they might expect it on even the nicest, sunniest days in Norfolk.

  Finally, the ship halted.

  Geese strutted over the shore, directing their beaks to the ground and vigilantly pecking whichever edible delight they happened upon. Sailboats glided through the water with the elegance of swans, spurred by the steadiness of the wind’s pace. Fishing nets hung from some boats, appearing like lace.

  Callum gave her a pleased smile, the sort unaccompanied by worried lines about his eyes.

  “Follow me,” Callum said after she packed the ledgers and the rest of her items, and they disembarked from the ship. Charlotte was conscious of the captain and Lord Braunschweig and his sister following them.

  “I thought you’d never been here before,” Charlotte said.

  “I haven’t,” Callum said, “but there’s a church there.”

  “Oh.”

  “Stop!” A voice barreled after them. “You can’t get married.”

  They were the same words Callum’s brother had uttered, and for a wild moment she considered the possibility his brother might have followed them.

  But this man’s accent was decidedly not Scottish.

  Georgiana tensed and she turned round slowly.

  It was the captain.

  The man wrinkled his brow, and his nostrils flared.

  “You can’t get married,” the captain repeated, and Callum squeezed Charlotte’s hand.

  “You can’t prevent us from marrying,” Callum.

  “I wouldn’t dream of preventing your match,” the captain said solemnly. “It’s so lovely to see such a nice couple.”

  Charlotte blinked. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that bushy-bearded sea captains used words like lovely.

  “A pretty girl like that won’t want to go straight to the chapel, no matter how besotted you are. You need a celebration.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lord Braunschweig’s sister said, clapping her hands together. “A wedding is the happiest day of your life. It should be perfect. It must be perfect.”

  “And perfect starts with?”

  “Flowers,” Lord Braunschweig’s sister said. “I’ll get some guests and speak with the preacher.”

  Charlotte was swept into their enthusiasm. They didn’t dismiss her as a bluestocking, and their merriment filled her with joy.

  THE WEDDING WAS PERFECT.

  It wasn’t Mayfair, and no Grecian columns adorned the single-story church that squatted in the center of the town, as i
f weighted down by its steeple. The stained-glass windows were of the small variety, and their existence dimmed the small amount of light that streamed through the panes.

  And yet, the stone floor reminded her of her father’s chapel. The place was all medieval charm. Charlotte’s heart swelled. If only this weren’t the end. If only she weren’t dying. If only...

  “Ready?” Callum whispered.

  “Yes,” Charlotte said.

  Callum gestured, and music started playing. Wild flowers adorned the chapel.

  Charlotte blinked. “It’s beautiful.”

  The music played, and soon the vicar spoke.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Callum wished he could take Charlotte to the finest palace. They’d celebrated their wedding, but it was now evening. He supposed the inn’s room at least had the advantage of not rocking, even if the curtains were a drab brown that would never be found at even the most modest manors.

  The bed lay in the center of the room. Though no silk sheets peeked from it, and no embroidered fabrics draped over it, his pulse still quickened. A strange image of throwing Charlotte onto the bed overcame him.

  He avoided her gaze, as if she could read his emotions.

  They hadn’t made a love match, and even if they had, the doctor had expressly instructed that Charlotte could experience no excitement.

  The light from the lantern flickered over her skin, swathing her in a delightful golden hue. His eyes danced about the room, landing everywhere except her.

  “I’ll—er—sleep in the next room of course,” Callum said. “I hope it will be suitable for you.”

  “Naturally,” Charlotte said.

  “Please let me know if you require anything,” Callum said. “At any time. Please do not hesitate at all.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to stay in your room,” Charlotte said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  She swept her long lashes downward. “Only that you’re a man, and you appear to be one in possession of virility.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Men’s cravings,” she said. “I do know about them. I might be untouched, but I’m not naïve.”

  Untouched.

  There should be a law against women like her saying such a word. The only thought running through his head now was touching her. He desired to touch her...everywhere.

  She was beautiful.

  Somehow, she had no idea, probably because men like him had dismissed her, sensing there was something about the cut of her dress, the choice of her fabric, and the way the way she was never seen in the same circles as the most distinguished debutantes, that made her unworthy.

  “I don’t expect you to uphold your marriage vows,” she said.

  THE MAN MANAGED TO evoke such shock and innocence that Charlotte blushed.

  “The thought isn’t so ridiculous,” she said.

  “You’re expecting me to spend the night with someone I just met instead of my own wife?”

  She swallowed hard. “We don’t have that kind of marriage.” She raised her chin. “I-I’m open minded about such things. I understand men’s needs.”

  “Whom exactly do you think I would like to see? Some woman on the dockyard?”

  She hesitated. “Perhaps the baron’s sister. She seems quite sophisticated.”

  “Nonsense. Why would my needs include her?”

  Charlotte knew the answer to this question. She raised her chin. “The baron’s sister is a beautiful woman.”

  “Is she?” Callum seemed amused.

  Charlotte frowned. He wasn’t taking this seriously.

  “Yes, her features are quite symmetrical. Her hair is golden.”

  “So is yours,” Callum said.

  “But mine is flaxen. It can’t be described as golden.”

  “It’s rarer,” Callum said. “Far more special.”

  Charlotte flushed. Why was the man looking at her like that? He shouldn’t look at her like that. It made her yearn for other things. Things that were impossible.

  “And she’s tall,” Charlotte said, conscious that for some reason her voice was squeaking. “Statuesque.”

  “I don’t want a statue.” Callum narrowed the distance between them.

  “I mean of course not,” Charlotte said, laughing, though the sound seemed awkward. “That would be ridiculous. What would you do with a statue?”

  “What indeed?” Callum said, and the man’s eyes glimmered for a reason she couldn’t quite define. Most likely, it involved something sultry.

  “I only meant her height is similar to you. You might find it convenient.”

  “Convenient?” he sputtered.

  “Mathematically. A similar height would mean a smaller distance for kissing. Far more convenient. I’m surprised the thought has never occurred to you before.”

  “I remember us kissing,” he said.

  Fire blazed through her. The room was getting far too warm, despite the steady ocean breeze, and despite the fact that the sun had gone down long before.

  She remembered too.

  She remembered everything about those few seconds. She remembered the exact sweep of his lips and the exact manner in which his tongue had briefly touched hers. She remembered his scent, and she remembered the brush of his cheek against hers. She even remembered how his arm had briefly grazed hers.

  “Differences in heights are no barrier,” Callum murmured.

  “No?” she breathed.

  “No.” Callum was only inches from her, and in one sudden, glorious movement, he pulled her into his arms, as effortlessly as if he were holding a book.

  Her heart soared, conscious of the touch of his arm against her back and under her legs. She might be fully clothed, but the action was utterly intimate. His shirt stretched in interesting manners, some of the linen fabric caught by her dress, and she was aware of his muscles. The thin linen was no true barrier.

  He was taller than she was. Most people were taller than she was, but her world was now consumed with the view of his broad shoulders and his face, gazing at her. If she looked at him she would be consumed with contemplating the man’s chiseled features, his straight nose and chin, and his high cheekbones that light seemed to desire to dance over, as if each sunbeam knew that there could be no nicer spot than him. He raked a hand through his curly blond locks. He managed to seem exasperated, a quality she was sure he should not possess.

  “The thing is,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m not going to visit the baron’s sister.”

  “But her qualities are remarkable.”

  “Her qualities are irrelevant. I have what matters in my arms.”

  She jerked her head toward him, and he set her down.

  HE’D SAID TOO MUCH.

  The fact was obvious.

  Her eyes were widening at an alarming rate.

  His words had been spontaneous, not thought out, though he had the uncomfortable sensation that did not render them any less true.

  He swallowed hard.

  She couldn’t be what mattered to him most. She hadn’t agreed to a love match.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  The images that raced through his mind were not images one shared with a maiden. And yet, the curve of her collarbone seemed utterly enticing, and he was filled with an urge to follow the curve to her bodice.

  What would be the shape of her peaks? Would they be rosy? Or a more tawny shade? He longed to glide his hand over them and feel them pebble beneath him.

  Her hair dangled over his hand. Charlotte’s hair was usually tied into a sensible updo, but now it was loose and utterly enticing.

  She shouldn’t think he would prefer to be elsewhere. He couldn’t let her think she was in any way less than any other member of the ton. Her interests were so varied, so intense. He didn’t need to be with someone who knew the answers to every single line, who knew the steps to every dance, or who knew how to address everyone appropriately.

  He’d bee
n bored by the woman of the ton. They’d been beautiful, shimmering in their Parisian gowns, even at the height of war when the only people going to France should have been spies, intent on dismantling the brutal regime, rather than people intent on discovering the latest trends in fashion.

  Charlotte was different.

  He gazed at her again, and her lashes fluttered downward.

  He couldn’t allow her to think she was anything less than wonderful. He stroked her hair, and he still held her in his arms.

  “You are beautiful,” he said.

  “And you are kind,” she said.

  “That’s more than you would have said about me when we first met.”

  “You’ve not made any carriage invasions since then,” she said, and humor glimmered in her pale blue eyes.

  He kissed her.

  His lips brushed against hers, and life was magnificent.

  I mustn’t.

  The woman was dying. Sudden excitement could cause her deadly harm.

  He wanted her to take pleasure in life, not endanger her.

  “I—er—should leave,” he said hastily. “I’ll be in the next room.”

  He hastened through the adjoining door. His heart thumped madly, as if intent on admonishing him for leaving her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next day sunbeams splattered through the thin curtains of the room, and a strip of cerulean blue ocean was visible through Charlotte’s window. Unfortunately, neither image managed to banish the memory of her husband sprinting from her bedroom like a petty thief the night before, and she made her way warily down the steps.

  The innkeeper ushered her to the breakfast room. Charlotte had stopped in posting inns with her family on their way to Norfolk, but those had been filled with groggy-eyed travelers attempting to barrel sufficient food into their mouths with efficiency. This place exuded calm, and the innkeeper led her to a table.