“She hasn’t been married to me for a decade.”
“Annulments are never granted,” Wolfe said.
“She’s prepared to say the marriage was never consummated.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Wolfe said.
Callum flushed. He’d tried so hard to be virtuous.
Wolfe stared at him. “Then again, you are a duke. Perhaps the current Archbishop of Canterbury will be easier to convince than the one in Henry the Eighths time.”
“I don’t desire an annulment,” Callum said.
“You mean to say you have fallen for her?” Wolfe chuckled.
“She’s the most wonderful woman in the world,” Callum said.
Wolfe chuckled again.
“We need to talk about Montgomery Castle,” Callum said.
“Oh?”
“Your father was dishonest,” Callum said.
The grin on Wolfe’s face vanished, and Callum told Wolfe about the ledgers, about Lord McIntyre’s words to him and about his own suspicions about his aunt’s death. Charlotte might not want anything to do with him, but it was she who had given him strength. He didn’t need to live in Montgomery Castle, but he would no longer permit anyone to demean his parents’ memory and he would no longer allow his late guardian’s family to profit off of his parents’ demise.
Wolfe tapped his fingers against his desk. “I received a curious letter from a solicitor a week ago stating something similar.”
Callum blinked, and Wolfe smoothed out a letter. “The solicitor seems to have been hired by your wife, and it mentions some ledgers that he has in his possession.”
“Indeed?” Callum felt his eyes widen, and Wolfe gave him a small smile.
“Perhaps she does not desire to remain married to you, but it seems that she was already working to get your estate back. She must have hired quite a clever accountant. The facts seem clear. My solicitors have already gone over them. I am afraid my father may have misled you and I—er—apologize.”
Callum bowed his head. “Thank you.”
He’d assumed the books had been lost in the shipwreck. It seemed that Charlotte had been working even harder on the project than he expected and had already given them to someone else.
“I expect you will want to return to your estate now. I can’t pay you all the money our father stole from you, but I can give you that.”
“I think I might want to sell it,” Callum admitted. “There are too many memories there.”
“I see.” Wolfe shrugged. “I might be able to help you with that.”
“So you’re not going to fight the claim?” Callum asked.
“I might run a gaming hell, but that doesn’t mean the concept of honor is foreign to me.”
Callum nodded. Wolfe had fought heroically in France.
“You’re a bastard for breaking off the betrothal with Isla, but you were still my best friend,” Wolfe continued. “Besides, I would have a hard time fighting the case. The accountant was damned good.”
“The very best,” Callum said, and his chest swelled as he thought of Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE TRIED TO adjust to her new life. She still visited Hyde Park, conscious she should do her best to live her life, even without Callum.
The pain had not dissipated, despite her best efforts.
She strolled through the park with Georgiana. Charlotte tried to find pleasure in the open sky and the feel of the wind on her face. The vast landscape seemed not quite as impressive as before. She was too conscious the park existed because of the whims of the people in London than because of nature. It was too manicured, too perfect, and she sought to dismiss the pang of longing. There was no ocean, no waves to brush against, no rocks to stroll upon, no cliffs on which to watch bright fishing boats bob up and down.
The temperature was higher, and the birds seemed to chirp with rather more vigor than normal, as if optimistic of their chances of drawing a mate.
Hopefully they would be fortunate.
Charlotte knew now the reason so many women pressed marriage on others was not merely so they would not be a bother on parents who would no longer need to provide for her, but because a good marriage was something to aspire to, even if in reality it was something quite rare. Still, her parents had managed to find it, as had, more surprisingly, her sister Georgiana. She was happy for Georgiana, even if it meant she could never entirely forget about Callum.
She would always be conscious if her parents went to Scotland for Christmas, wondering if Callum was there, or if he would rush off to some corner in Europe, pretending to take a sudden interest in French art or Italian wine, when everyone knew it was really just to avoid her.
The trees were no longer pink and lilac. The blossoms had long ago been replaced with thick green leaves that clung firmly to the trees. This was England at its very finest. This was happiness. She knew that. Everyone around her was happy. Every other person was smiling, beaming into the sky as if the only thing they needed was the sun hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of miles above them. I’m happy, she said to herself, but even in her own thoughts, it felt like a lie.
It didn’t matter. The important thing was that Callum was free.
Georgiana stiffened. “Don’t look to the right.”
“Why not?”
“It’s someone unpleasant,” Georgiana said.
“Oh.”
“Ah. Charlotte Butterworth,” a familiar voice said that caused ice to invade Charlotte’s heart. “Or should I say Your Grace?”
Charlotte swallowed hard and turned to see Lady Isla.
“Forgive me,” Lady Isla said, in a confident tone. “Normally etiquette does not elude me, but your status seems unclear. Most duchesses do not live with their parents.”
“I expect you don’t need to call me anything,” Charlotte said. “Since we are not friends.”
Lady Isla frowned and her dark lashes moved over her pale icy eyes. Her steely composure seemed rather less steely. “That is beside the point.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows, and Lady Isla departed rapidly.
Georgiana stifled a laugh. Her sister leaned closer to her. “You have changed.”
“I just didn’t know the answer.”
“Nonsense. You would never have addressed Lady Isla like that before.”
“I hope I wasn’t too rude. I forgot you’re her neighbor.”
Georgiana waved her hand dismissively. “I am certain she thought you rude, but sometimes the occasion calls for it.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“You look lovely,” Mama said.
“Only my best dress was available,” Charlotte said.
“Indeed?” Mama asked blithely. “Oh, I did forget. Flora is doing the washing?”
“Not all my clothes needed washing.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“They were in the wardrobe. But now they’re gone.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes.
“How very curious,” Mama said. “Oh, well. I suppose there must be an explanation. Perhaps Mayfair has been beset by clothes thieves.”
“A good clothes thief would take my best dress,” Charlotte said.
“A good thief would take jewels. We are hardly dealing with the very best.”
“I doubt we are dealing with thieves at all.”
“Don’t be too certain.”
Charlotte frowned. Mama seemed to be acting most suspiciously.
“Are you going to the park now?” Mama asked.
“I always do at this time,” Charlotte said.
“Yes,” Mama beamed. “Dearest, let me come with you.”
“You want to ride the cart with me?”
“Of course, dear.”
“You’ve never gone with me before.”
“That was when I was young and foolish, dearest.”
“I haven’t been gone that long,” Charlotte muttered.
Mama gave a broad smile and glanced at her husband. “Remember not to spend too much time with Hegel tod
ay.”
Papa turned the page of his book absentmindedly, as if he weren’t even reading it, and his eyes sparkled.
Mama squeezed into the cart with Charlotte and Georgiana, and they left for Hyde Park. Soon Charlotte guided the horses onto Rotten Row.
Rapid horse hooves sounded behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a curricle rapidly approaching.
Charlotte tightened her hands about the reins and directed the horses off the gravel and tan bridle path toward the wooden fencing that separated the path from the public walkways as the curricle rushed her.
Who was disturbing her quiet day?
“That man is driving too quickly,” she murmured.
“As if he desires to crash into us,” Mama said, for some reason smiling.
Charlotte stiffened, remembering the last time a man had crashed into their coach.
It couldn’t be him.
He was probably at some house party in Sussex, admiring the ocean with a bevy of elegant, sophisticated women. It would be ridiculous to glance back at the curricle, as if the driver desired to get her attention. She knew better.
And yet...
The horses from the curricle still trotted closely behind her own.
“Charlotte! Charlotte!” A distinctive male voice shouted behind her.
It couldn’t be him.
Most likely she’d simply heard the murmurings of the wind through the trees. She remembered the sound of his voice so well—it was no wonder it was going through her head now. What other men did she know besides him?
“Perhaps we’ll be run over,” Mama said.
“Once there’s a clearing, I will pull the cart over. We’re not going to get run over, no matter how fast that driver behind us drives.”
“What a good idea,” Mama said.
“Oh, indeed,” Georgiana said, equally unconcerned about the curricle chasing them.
Charlotte spotted a clearing and directed the horses to pull over. The whole thing was unnecessary. Why had the curricle followed so closely behind her? At least now the carriage could pass her, and she would no longer think of Callum.
Wheels and horse hooves sounded behind her, and she turned.
Shiny blond hair gleamed in the sunshine, adorned with a glossy top hat.
Callum.
The man wore a suit that would have rivalled anything in Beau Brummel’s closet. His clothes weren’t wrinkled, and no one could mistake him for anything else but a duke. He radiated handsomeness, and for a moment Charlotte’s heart stopped.
How could she have married him? How could she have imagined a man like him had anything to do with her?
“Charlotte,” he said.
His voice sounded husky, and he stared into her eyes.
“Oh, my.” Mama fanned herself.
Charlotte swallowed hard.
“I’m happy to have found you,” Callum said.
“Of course,” Charlotte said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, you’re speaking to me...” Her voice wobbled, and she had the impression she might have said the wrong thing again. Her chest tightened. How was she supposed to think when she was with him? Her eyes only wanted to look at him, to feast in the attractive planes of his face and the way he wore a suit so nicely.
“I am happy to see you,” he said reassuringly.
“Your voice is like velvet,” she said.
The man’s lips twitched, and she flushed.
“You’re distracting me,” she said reproachfully.
He didn’t laugh, but his eyes were still kind. He hopped up from his curricle.
“May I join you?” he asked.
She nodded, conscious her fingers were trembling. She moved them hastily away and folded them onto her lap.
He abandoned his curricle and approached her.
Mama cleared her throat. “You know I’ve always wanted to be in a curricle. Haven’t you, Georgiana?”
“Oh, indeed,” Georgiana said, grinning. “I want to see how a curricle works too.”
“Georgiana. You should stay...”
“Nonsense,” Mama said. “These reins look quite intriguing. I wonder if driving a curricle is just like driving a cart.”
“But you never drive a cart, Mama,” Charlotte said.
Georgiana walked hastily to the curricle, and this time Charlotte did not protest. Hopefully her sister would prevent Mama from injuring herself.
The curricle moved. “I got it to work,” Mama said triumphantly.
“Splendid,” Callum said.
For some reason the duke didn’t seem concerned about Mama and Georgiana driving off with his curricle. If something was making him nervous, it wasn’t that.
“Let me sit beside you.” He climbed into the cart and took the reins, urging the horses into a trot.
“Where are you taking me?” she gasped.
“We’ve never been to Jersey yet,” he murmured.
“Jersey?” Her mouth fell open.
“In the Channel Islands,” he said, and the horses began to canter.
“You don’t need to explain geography to me.” She crossed her arms and looked sternly at him, even though all her instincts were telling her to hold onto the edge of the cart with all her might. The world swerved about her, a flurry of bright colors. The air brushed against her.
“Perhaps we won’t visit Jersey,” he admitted.
“Good,” she murmured, conscious of a prickle of disappointment. She pushed the feeling away.
It was good if he was becoming more sensible.
Perhaps he had only wanted to see her to assure her she’d been correct to leave him, and that he was indulging in his normal life of roguish glee with such enthusiasm he felt compelled to speak with her now, lest next time he find himself in a drunken haze and could not recognize her.
She straightened and smoothed her dress. She wanted him to be happy. That was all. It was what the man undoubtedly deserved.
“You seem well. I’m glad,” she said matter-of-factly, doing her best to quell any lingering thought that he need not seem openly joyful.
Usually she found it quite pleasant to be correct and derived much satisfaction from solving mathematical equations, but in this case, it did not seem absolutely necessary for the man to display his joy quite so fully.
He reached over and squeezed her hand. Her nerves tingled, but she valiantly raised her chin.
“I’m sure that’s not appropriate.”
“It’s utterly appropriate,” he said smoothly. “You are my wife. And you love me.”
Her cheeks flamed. “I said that in a moment of weakness.”
“Are you saying it’s not true?”
She was silent.
“It’s fine,” he said, more calmly now. “You see the thing is, I love you.”
She blinked. He was supposed to declare that she was correct and that he was thankful to her for restoring his life to him.
“You needn’t be so surprised,” he said. “I remember telling you before.”
She swallowed hard, and her heart thudded.
“That was under the influence of the storm. Emotions can become heightened in moments of extreme anxiety. It would be wrong to hold yourself to the sudden whims of a moment of terror.”
“That is quite nice of you, but I assure you I have no problem being beholden to those emotions.
The cart moved swiftly through the park. Great trees soared above them, and sunbeams cast golden light through the leaves, so the ground seemed to sparkle.
Charlotte inhaled the woodsy scent. Callum made everything more magical.
I never want to leave.
Soon though rows of buildings stood majestically before them.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“You’ll see.”
“You must tell me.”
“St. George’s.”
It can’t be.
“You have a sudden urge to be religious?”
T
his wasn’t Sunday. There would be no service. And St. George’s was the most fashionable church for weddings. It was, of course, where they had originally planned to marry.
The cart moved onto the cobblestones, and the wheels rumbled against the uneven ground. They were thrust into a whirl of gray stone buildings, albeit with elaborate facades, and Callum slowed the curricle as traffic filled the street.
Charlotte had avoided this section of London. The last time she’d been here had been riding in a carriage with her family, on the way to her wedding at St. George’s. Her heart tightened.
“Is someone we know getting married?” she asked feebly.
His eyes glinted again, filled with humor. “Yes.”
“Are you going to tell me more?”
“I thought you were quite good at figuring out puzzles. I’m sure you’ve worked it out.”
Her heart thudded again.
Our wedding.
She didn’t want to utter it. She didn’t want to be wrong. She didn’t want to admit to herself that—
She tried to force the feelings away.
The cart moved into St. George’s Square, and the familiar columned church rose before them. Children were outside, armed with rose petals.
Everyone seemed to be smiling.
Some people she recognized, members of the ton. Louisa Carmichael was there, and her family.
“My dear Charlotte,” Callum said. “Will you please do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She blinked. “We’re already married.”
He grinned. “Precisely.” He leaned toward her, and his scent sent a wave of yearning through her body, and she remembered their closeness on the ship, before their whole world collapsed about them. “Still, I thought you might value my declarations more if all of our friends and family attended.”
She moved her gaze toward the church. “They’re all inside?”
He shrugged. “It’s quite full. I’m afraid some of the patrons from my club also insisted on coming.”
“And you kept it a secret?”
“Your mother kept it a secret.” Callum squeezed her hand. “Now please say yes.”
“But your life... Your future...”
“...Is better with you in it,” Callum said, his voice serious. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“B-but you could have anyone,” she stammered. “You’re a duke. I’m sure you could convince the archbishop to give you an annulment, and there must be many women willing to overlook our previous marriage.”
Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2) Page 17
