Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2)

by Blythe, Bianca

  And now she would live.

  And she had ruined his life.

  Charlotte knew how cruel the ton could be. She knew what would happen the first time they entered a ball. She knew about all the titters and stares he would encounter, and she didn’t want to live with him when he realized his act of spontaneous nobility had doomed him to a life without joy or satisfaction.

  She needed to break things off between them. She needed to free him from his noble impulses. It might destroy her, but she would do it.

  And Callum, dear Lord, would never suggest they part. He’d made a promise, and he was the type to honor it. He would do it, and he would never tell her he minded doing it.

  But she knew Callum had never wanted to marry. If he had, he could have married Lady Isla long ago. Even if Callum tolerated her, even if she’d allowed herself to imagine he more than tolerated her, marriage would never have been the path he would have chosen.

  Callum was adventurous. Now that the war was over, the man could go anywhere in the world he wanted to. He wasn’t going to go to balls with his wife, watching as all the hostesses, tittered at him for managing to marry the least admired debutante.

  If she left now—perhaps she could save him. Perhaps she could get an annulment. They’d consummated their marriage—Charlotte paused, pondering precisely how delicious that event had been, but Charlotte could lie. She could say they hadn’t. His happiness was more important than her eternal soul.

  I have to leave.

  She knocked on the door to Miss Braunschweig’s room. Miss Braunschweig had flung a blanket around her shoulders and it managed to look as elegant as any silver-threaded shawl.

  “I would like to travel to London with you,” Charlotte said.

  “Of course you can come with us,” Miss Braunschweig said. “You must be so frightened. I suppose the duke will want to travel up later.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t mention that she was running away. She would always love Callum, always miss him, but she wouldn’t force him to spend the rest of her life with him.

  CALLUM SMILED AS LIGHT hit his pillow, and he stretched his arms toward Charlotte. He didn’t feel her, and he opened his eyes. “Sweetheart?”

  He got out of the bed, wondering at the hour. He’d arrived very late last night.

  Charlotte’s not going to die.

  It wasn’t the first time that Callum had had this thought, but normally it had been generated by a desire to protect her, to make her visit every possible doctor. He’d pushed the thought away quickly each time, cognizant that hope was an imperfect antidote to science.

  But she’d survived the storm, and then, she’d survived the shipwreck.

  Her heart should have given out at either of those events.

  The fact she’d survived... Well, it was bloody wonderful. Perhaps the doctor had misdiagnosed her. Perhaps the doctor’s apprentice had made a mistake.

  Happiness jolted through him, even though Charlotte didn’t seem to be in the room.

  Well, she couldn’t be far.

  He’d thought she would be distraught after the ship wreck, but she’d seemed quiet and resigned.

  His Charlotte was brave. She was the very best woman in the world.

  He spotted some paper on the desk and he strode toward it. Most likely it was not for him. Perhaps some other guest had left it. But he recognized Charlotte’s handwriting, and relief moved through him. Likely, she had simply gone off to do flower picking or some other such thing for which she’d judged that his presence would be unnecessary.

  My dearest Callum,

  It seems the doctor’s diagnosis was incorrect. I am alive, and as we both know, I shouldn’t be after the intensity of last night.

  I am returning to London with Lord Braunschweig and his sister.

  Thank you for taking such good care of me. I will ensure we get an annulment.

  Yours,

  Charlotte

  Callum’s eyes widened. He reread the letter, as if he’d somehow managed to replace key words in his mind.

  But the letter was absolutely the same.

  She was still leaving him.

  He swallowed hard, and his heartbeat throbbed in his chest.

  It’s impossible.

  They’d just made love. They should be rejoicing. They were safe from the storm, and if her health was better—

  He pulled on his clothes quickly, cursing the many buttons, all seemingly designed to keep valets in business.

  She couldn’t have gotten far. He would go after her. He would catch her.

  His feet padded down the stairs of the inn, past the startled innkeeper. He rushed outside, and his boots sank more into the soil, muddy from last night’s storm. Some birds began chirping, beginning ballads to their loved ones.

  “Charlotte!” he bellowed. His voice cut through the air and seemed to echo.

  There was no answer.

  CHARLOTTE SAID GOODBYE to the baron and his sister and stepped into the hack they’d found for her.

  “Where to, Miss?” the hack driver asked.

  Charlotte didn’t hesitate. Her family might be living in Mayfair, but there was someone else she needed to see. “St. James Square.”

  “Very well.” The driver nodded, but didn’t leave.

  “Take me there now,” she said.

  “No one is coming?” the driver asked.

  “No.”

  The driver’s eyes widened, but he started driving. Her heart quickened as she spotted the familiar facades.

  This was London.

  She’d made it.

  The hack stopped before the doctor’s office. She paid the driver to wait and marched up the pavement and entered the building. The doctor’s apprentice rose.

  “Is the doctor back from Edinburgh?” she asked.

  The apprentice nodded. “Indeed. He’s in his office. If you’ll just wait—”

  Charlotte strode past him. Niceties were things of the past.

  The doctor lowered his pince-nez. “Young lady, what are you doing here?”

  Charlotte squared her shoulders. She clutched the original diagnosis she’d taken from the doctor’s apprentice.

  “What are you doing with that scraggly piece of paper?”

  Charlotte didn’t flush. The doctor was right. The paper was scraggly. She’d read and reread it so many times.

  “You saw me last month,” she said.

  “Did I?” The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll still need an appointment.”

  “You don’t even remember me?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m sure I do,” the doctor said, still staring. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  “What was it that ailed me?” Charlotte asked.

  “Er—you had a cold.”

  “I didn’t,” Charlotte said.

  The doctor threw up his arms. “You can’t expect me to remember everything.”

  “Perhaps then you’ll remember this note you left in my file.” Charlotte handed him the paper.

  The man picked it up distastefully, and Charlotte tried to remind herself that a fear of infection was likely a good sign in a doctor.

  “You told me I was going to die,” she said.

  The man’s eyebrows rose. “Did I? That can’t be right.”

  “Read the letter.”

  “And you’re Charlotte Butterworth?”

  She nodded. “It’s a unique name.”

  “My, my.” The doctor lifted his head from the paper. “That is a mistake.”

  “Quite,” Charlotte said.

  “I hope you didn’t do anything drastic about it.”

  She gave a tight smile. She wasn’t certain whether doing something drastic entailed having a duke propose to marry her out of a mixture of sympathy and convenience, and then fleeing to the Channel Islands when the man’s brother quite reasonably disapproved of the match.

  And now she would have to deal with the consequences.

  �
��Let me see,” the doctor said. “I wrote that for another woman.”

  Charlotte felt a pang of sadness for the woman. But it made sense. The doctor was more likely to have made a mistake in addressing the letter than in conjuring up an utterly wrong diagnosis.

  “She’s lived a full life,” the doctor said. “She’s quite old. Quite old indeed. As for you... Let me see if I can find your letter in her file.” He rummaged through his desk, and then he pulled up a thin folder. “Ah, yes. You suffer from nerves.”

  “N-nerves?” Charlotte stammered.

  “Quite harmless,” the doctor said.

  “My chest was hurting.”

  “It’s an experience that can affect younger women. Particularly the unmarried ones.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte blinked.

  “I suggest you don’t tighten your corset too much.”

  “I hardly do at all,” Charlotte said.

  “Good,” the doctor said. “Now if you can excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “You told me it was urgent.”

  “It was. I was going to be gone for a whole month.”

  Charlotte frowned. “You should know that your misdiagnosis did affect me.”

  “Oh, quite, quite.”

  “I know it’s too late for you to do anything about it, but I do want you to know that it mattered.”

  The doctor’s face reddened. “I am a busy man, and I was preparing for a conference—”

  “Take more care in the future,” Charlotte said.

  She rose and strode from the office, holding her head high.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Callum had hoped to see Charlotte when he entered his London townhome.

  He certainly had not expected to see a man of similar height and exact age to himself.

  “H-hamish?” he stammered.

  “Callum?” Hamish raised his head from a book.

  Callum frowned. Most people if they entered homes that did not belong to them did not occupy themselves with books. They preferred to hide. Or leave.

  “What are you doing here?” Callum asked.

  “Ah.” A ruddy flush darkened Hamish’s cheeks.

  Callum frowned. He hadn’t known his brother to have a tendency to blush.

  He leveled his gaze at him.

  His brother scratched the back of his neck.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Hamish said finally. “It’s quite nice.”

  “Er—yes.” Callum supposed it was nice. “Did you develop a passion for London on your visit?”

  It was the sort of thing a more sociable person than his brother might do.

  “In a manner,” Hamish said.

  “A manner?” Callum narrowed his eyes.

  Hamish’s chin jutted out. “I’m staying here until I can find my own lodging in London.”

  “You want to live in London?” Callum sputtered.

  “It’s not so odd,” Hamish said. “You’ve seemed to always like it.”

  “That’s true,” Callum said, wondering whether he actually had liked it, or if he’d just wanted an excuse to be far from the setting of his childhood. He suspected the latter might be the case. His two weeks in Guernsey had far exceeded any pleasures he’d ever experienced in London. He hadn’t missed the theatre or ballet a single moment the entire time.

  “But you’ve always abhorred London,” Callum reminded him.

  Hamish smiled. “You’re right.”

  Callum had learned that when his brother smiled, it normally had something to do with some nefarious plot against himself.

  He gazed warily around the room. The last time he’d been in a parlor alone with Hamish, dreadful things had occurred.

  “I’m married,” Hamish said. “I thought a London townhouse would be suitable, given that she has relatives and friends nearby. I can’t expect her to change her entire life for me.”

  Callum’s eyes widened. Hamish wouldn’t marry. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t get a London townhouse. The Hamish he knew would have thought his bride would be far better removed from the Grecian facades in London which he railed against with a passion that could only belong to an architect who subscribed to a different design philosophy.

  But would he marry someone whom Callum had not even met?

  Callum swallowed hard.

  Perhaps they truly had grown that far apart.

  Callum had been so focused on protecting Hamish from Lord McIntyre’s deeds that he’d stopped confiding in him completely. He’d joined the war with barely a thought about Hamish, spurred on by dreams of glory, of vindicating himself from Lord McIntyre’s accusations. And now Hamish had married.

  He glanced around the room, grateful they were in a drawing room and there was a variety of seats into which to collapse. He settled on the nearest one. “You never mentioned you were courting someone.”

  “It was a quick match.”

  His brother had never been apt to actions of spontaneity before, but he’d decided to exercise his first one to marry someone Callum had never met.

  “I think I remember you didn’t invite me to the wedding,” Hamish said.

  “Yes,” Callum said.

  There had seemed to be a good reason to do that, but now he was reminded only that Hamish was his brother and the only relative still alive.

  “Besides,” Hamish said. “I know you’ll approve.”

  “Oh?” Callum cast his mind on if he’d ever encouraged Hamish to make a match with a particular woman. Whom would Hamish think suitable?

  A horrible thought struck him.

  Hamish always prided himself on his honor, a virtue that seemed to forever compelling him to do unpleasant tasks.

  Hamish wouldn’t have taken it upon himself to marry Lady Isla? The woman he’d grown up assuming Callum would marry?

  Callum’s heart beat an uncomfortable rhythm.

  “You shouldn’t look so horrified at the thought of my marriage,” Hamish said. “I thought you would be pleased.”

  “Pleased?” Callum’s voice was hoarse, and he coughed.

  “Naturally,” Hamish said. “Your engagement seemed inexplicable, and mine—”

  Hamish’s eyes sparkled, and Callum blinked.

  Hamish’s eyes didn’t sparkle. Not for years at least. They glowered on occasion, and they were quite adept at narrowing so they seemed to bore into whomever Hamish spoke to, but they never sparkled. Was it possible Hamish was in love?

  The thought seemed absurd, more even than happening upon Hamish in the Butterworth’s home.

  And yet... Callum gazed at his twin brother again. Hamish’s lips could hardly be described as veering downward.

  “Are you happy?” Callum asked tentatively.

  “Oh, indeed.” Hamish grinned. “She’s wonderful, Callum. She’s marvelous. Divine.”

  “Divine?” Callum blinked.

  “Utterly,” Hamish breathed and leaned back into the sofa cushions.

  “That’s splendid,” Callum said.

  “Now where’s your wife?” Hamish said. “I know mine is eager to see her.”

  Callum’s smile wobbled. “You still haven’t told me who your wife is.”

  Hamish’s eyes widened. “I thought it was obvious. It’s Georgiana.”

  Georgiana.

  “You married the elder Miss Butterworth?”

  “Your wife’s sister.” Hamish grinned. “Two sisters married two brothers. Quite nice, don’t you think? It will make holidays ever so practical.”

  A pain moved through Callum. He didn’t want to admit that Charlotte had run away from him. He’d tried to give her everything, and at the first sign of good health, she’d bolted.

  He covered his face in his hands.

  “Callum?” Hamish’s voice was filled with a sympathy Callum did not associate with him. Evidently married life had changed him.

  “She’s gone,” Callum said.

  The statement was baffling. Wives weren’t supposed to flee. Women weren’t supposed
to even travel by themselves, much less decide to make a new life.

  “I suppose you had a bit of a tiff.”

  “It was no tiff.” Callum almost laughed. Bits of tiffs were generally supposed to be about different tastes in household decor. Bits of tiffs certainly did not describe Charlotte’s actions.

  The thing was... They hadn’t even argued. There’d been no sign she was unhappy. If there had been...He would have rectified it. Instead he only had her note, in which she distinctly expressed the fact that she didn’t want to see him again.

  Callum gave his brother a tentative smile. “Just why are you married to Charlotte’s sister? I seem to remember you heading off to Scotland.”

  Hamish smiled. “It’s a long story.”

  “You despised her.”

  “I hardly knew her.”

  “That didn’t stop you from criticizing her.”

  “I was a fool,” Hamish said. “And now—”

  “—You’re buying a home in London.”

  “We don’t have our castle anymore,” Hamish said. “After your marriage—”

  Oh.

  “I told you that you shouldn’t move out.”

  “The mortgage belongs to the Earl of McIntyre. Duty—”

  “—Blast duty,” Callum said, and Hamish blinked. “You should have told me.”

  Hamish was supposed to stay in their home. Lord McIntyre wasn’t supposed to secure a brilliant home for his descendants. Not if the method of securing the home had involved murder and deceit.

  Callum paced the room. He had to fix this.

  He swung around. “I’m getting that castle back.”

  “Now?” Hamish stammered.

  “Naturally not,” Callum said. “First I have to get my wife back.”

  CHARLOTTE KNOCKED ON the door of her parents’ townhome, wrapping her cloak tightly around her. Flora opened the door. The maid widened her eyes, and Charlotte darted inside quickly.

  It seemed odd that everything would look the same. Everything in the world had changed. She’d eloped and lived life briefly, albeit blissfully, as a married woman.

  But the same thin Persian carpet was on the floor, and the same small mirror hung over the same sideboard.