And last night had been truly incredible.
“And she must have made some impression on you.”
Indeed she had, but Warrington didn’t need to know all the details of that. He could never know, in fact.
The last thing he needed to find out was that Kingston had dallied with his sister-in-law. If his stepbrother didn’t challenge him outright to a duel over that offense, he’d at the very least cast him from his home.
And Kingston had no intention of leaving. Not yet.
Or even worse than those possibilities: Warrington could force him to do the honorable thing and marry her.
That would be a tragedy for both of them. He’d make a miserable husband.
“You’re mistaken,” he insisted, determined to convince him. “I’ve no appetite for milksop misses.”
“Hm,” Warrington murmured, clearly still in doubt. “I must confess, she does not strike me as your brand of female.” Kingston bit back that he had not imagined the duchess to be to Warrington’s tastes either, but such a response would be much too defensive . . . much too revealing.
“You are correct. She is not to my tastes.” Somehow the untruth managed not to stick in his throat and choke him.
“Indeed. Respectable females are not your ilk.”
“No,” he agreed. “They are not.” No sense explaining to him that presently no female was to his taste—respectable or otherwise. Until last night. Until Charlotte Langley.
Warrington considered him for a moment before moving away. Once he was gone, Kingston’s gaze returned to the departing Pembroke carriage. He watched it go, cutting through undulating waves of heat rising up on the afternoon air.
He watched until the conveyance was well out of sight, vowing he would be waiting for her on her return to Haverston Hall. He and Miss Langley would have words.
They had much to discuss.
Chapter 10
Charlotte plucked at her dress and pulled it away from her chest, hoping to encourage a bit of air flow to cool her skin in the very close and suffocating confines of the carriage.
It did little good. Her chemise and corset remained plastered to her body. What she wouldn’t do to be free of her garments and out of this infernal heat and back in the pond again—without Kingston. The winter had been unseasonably cold, and it seemed they were being rewarded with an unseasonably warm summer in recompense.
Billy’s voice murmured beside her in a mild, intermittent drone as he returned her home following tea with his family. He was not much for conversation. Nor did he ever expect much chatter from her.
She frowned. She might have exchanged more words with Kingston last night than she had in weeks with Billy. That was a troubling realization.
She shook off the sudden insight and chased away her frown, reminding herself that she liked Billy this way. She liked that Billy did not talk to nauseating excess. If he talked excessively, then he would be like his parents. She shuddered briefly.
These days his sporadic commentary centered on the subject of their wedding. They would marry this summer, but they still had much to decide. Mrs. Pembroke was forever telling her that.
Even so, her primary focus was on the passing countryside and not the myriad wedding tasks demanding her attention. She lifted her face, hoping to feel a bit of breeze reach her through the window.
She slid Billy a considering glance. He was attractive in a mild, unassuming way. She covertly assessed his lanky form. Soon they’d be married and sharing a bed. Her thoughts had never strayed to those intimate details before, but now she wondered.
Now she questioned whether there would be passion between them. It had never felt a necessary prerequisite, but she could not help thinking it would be nice. After last night . . .
No.
She would not think about last night or compare it to anything. Not Billy.
The carriage rolled to a stop before Haverston Hall and she inched forward in her seat, eager to be free of the stuffy confines of the carriage. The coachman opened the door and handed her down. Billy followed, taking her elbow and leading her very correctly up the front steps.
Once they were in the foyer, they were spared the impact of direct sunlight, but the lack of free-flowing air made her tug uncomfortably at her collar.
“I will see you tomorrow?” Billy inquired, bending over her hand.
She nodded, trying not to hide her cringe at the reminder. He would be bringing both his mother and grandmother with him for tea.
Charlotte watched from the doorway as he departed, climbing back up inside the carriage. She stood there for some moments as the carriage rolled away, various emotions churning through her chest. Turning back around in the foyer, her gaze landed on the footman. He stood post in the corner, trying to look alert and not a little drowsy in the sweltering afternoon.
She could empathize. She tugged at the cloying and itching fichu tucked into her gown. Escaping to her room, removing her garments and flopping down on her bed for a nap in nothing but her chemise sounded like bliss.
She took the winding steps upstairs. Once in her chamber, she shed her clothing. Dropping down on the bed, she spread her arms wide at her sides, not touching herself.
The memories of last night were too close. Her skin felt new, tender and raw. No longer the skin she had worn yesterday but a new layer. It would take some time for it to fade into something resembling normalcy, she imagined . . . for her to feel like herself again.
Still, the lack of clothing was an improvement in the uncomfortably warm air.
She exhaled and inhaled in several great sighs, futilely wishing that she could have a day without the Pembrokes in it.
A reprieve from Billy’s family. A senseless wish. At least until they were married. For now, she was scarcely ever alone with Billy without his mother present.
She really needed to learn a little more forbearance when it came to his family. They were to be her family, too.
She cared for Billy a great deal. She’d known him all her life, after all. That meant she had known his family all her life—even if his grandmother had only recently come to live with them. Charlotte should be able to find something agreeable about them . . . something to like.
But if she could not, so what?
Where was it written one must get along with their in-laws? She’d have Billy. He had always been a steady and gentle constant in her world. Theirs was no grand love affair, but what they had was good. Friendship would run deeper and last them much longer.
When her mother died, he did not plague her with visits and inane conversation. Because he was kind that way. He’d understood what she needed. Everyone else had fluttered around Papa, dropping off food and lingering, occupying their parlor for hours with no care that they might want to be left alone to mourn. But Billy knew.
He would simply leave little gifts for her. A book. A beautiful ball of yarn. A necklace he had fashioned from honeysuckle vine. He knew to give his distance. He knew how to show he cared.
She had been forever grateful to him for that. She still was, to this day.
When Papa had died and her family’s prospects took a grim turn, Billy’s parents had put an end to their courtship in true mercenary fashion. She knew Billy had been miserable about it. He’d written her a heartfelt letter, offering to run away with her, but she had quickly killed that notion with a swift refusal.
She’d never told her family. She was not certain why except that it felt too private. Too personal. His offer . . . her rejection . . . it was her business. Hers alone. And she didn’t want her sisters to know of it. They might have tried to talk her out of it.
As an only child, Billy stood to receive a nice inheritance, and she would not cheat him of that. She had refused to let him make such a sacrifice.
And he had not really thought out the details of eloping with her. Ever the pragmatic one, she saw all the flaws and potential harm if they eloped. She could predict the potential consequences and none were envi
able.
He had no means of support aside of his family. They’d have nothing. No income. No home of their own waiting for them. Marian would have welcomed them, of course, but that would have been an additional burden on her sister. Charlotte could not do that.
They’d be married and destitute, and she knew what destitute felt like. It was not a pleasant way to live. If avoidable, it was no way to live at all.
She had declined to subject him to that.
So she’d had to let him go. On reflection, it hadn’t pained her very much. She’d told herself it was because it was the right thing to do.
Then her sister had wed the duke.
Everything changed after that.
She and Billy could be together. They could marry. Just when she was getting accustomed to the idea of not being with him.
Once they were married and in their own home, things would be different. Better. She would have her own house, one in which she felt comfortable, and Billy would be separate from his family. He would be his own man. Her husband. Things would be better, indeed.
“Stop moving,” Mrs. Hansen muttered around a mouthful of pins, glaring up at Charlotte.
The irony wasn’t lost on Charlotte.
A year ago, she was in the employ of Mrs. Hansen, the very same woman who now sat at her feet and worked so diligently pinning the hem of her wedding gown.
Strange how life could turn so quickly. One moment Charlotte was working her fingers bloody with a needle and thread, hoping she was doing enough to help her family, hoping they would not be expelled from their home, hoping they would have a proper dinner that night.
The next she was here, living in an extravagant home. Her sister was married to a duke. And she had entered into liaisons of a lascivious nature with a rogue.
Life, indeed, could turn quickly.
Charlotte had not been keen on using the woman to create her wedding gown. Mrs. Hansen had not been the kindest of employers, and her husband, the repellent Mr. Hansen, often made her feel uncomfortable with his leering ways. The wretched man always seemed to be bumping into Charlotte and the other dressmaker apprentices. She thought of those poor girls now, still working for the Hansens with no end in sight, no relief—just an endless stretch of days bent over their sewing and suffering long body brushes with Mr. Hansen.
But Mrs. Pembroke had insisted on commissioning Mrs. Hansen for Charlotte’s wedding gown. Even Marian had to agree that Mrs. Hansen was very talented and knew the business of dressmaking better than any other seamstress in the fife.
Charlotte considered herself in the cheval mirror. They were right. The dress had turned out beautifully. She rotated and turned, observing herself from every side: from the lace cap sleeves to the delicate threading and beadwork across the cinched bodice, it was lovely, understated elegance. No fancy London dressmaker could have done better.
Even Nora looked suitably impressed from where she sat on a chaise in the middle of Marian’s dressing room. “Beautiful.” She nodded. “Too bad it’s your wedding dress.”
“Nora,” Marian snapped.
Charlotte ignored her, still studying herself in the mirror.
“Let’s just see how it will look with this atop your head.”
Marian lifted a tiny cap and cascading veil speckled with tiny pearls from where it sat nearby and carefully positioned it atop Charlotte’s head, letting the veil drape partially over her face.
Mrs. Hansen rose to her feet, removing the pins from her lips. “Indeed, you’re the bonniest bride to ever grace Brambledon. Wait until everyone sees you!”
There were more words, compliments all, talk of the dress, the flowers, the menu for the luncheon to follow the nuptials.
And yet she felt nothing inside.
Charlotte felt utterly hollow as she gazed at herself in the mirror—seeing the bride she would be in a few short weeks, walking down the aisle to join Billy. William. Perhaps she should start calling him William like everyone else.
Boys you grew up with were called Billy. Husbands were William. Yes. Indeed. William. Her husband, William.
Husband.
Why did the simple word, the very notion of it . . . the notion of being married to Billy—no, William—fill her with such queasiness?
It must be Nora’s fault. All her jibes and unwelcome remarks were taking root and giving Charlotte doubts. Jitters. She gave an internal nod. That was all it was. Jitters. Perfectly normal. Everyone said so.
Mrs. Pratt had teased her just the other day over that very thing, asking if Charlotte had prewedding jitters yet and then going on about her own long-ago wedding to Mr. Pratt and how she had been so nervous the weeks before. Apparently everyone entertained second thoughts as their wedding day approached.
Everyone.
Except Charlotte had not felt any doubts regarding her marriage to William until Kingston showed up. Blast the man and all his wicked ways.
Wicked ways you fully embraced.
She took a deep breath. The air felt thicker in the room, harder to draw inside her shrinking lungs as she contemplated his wicked ways and her role in them. Her very active and participatory role.
Certainly the first time she could blame it on that blasted tonic Nora fed her, but what about what happened between them at the pond? Was her behavior truly a result of residual effects, as she had claimed to him?
What about now? Just the thought of him made her skin hot. Was that normal?
No.
Certainly it wasn’t normal.
She glanced down at her hands. Her arms were covered down to the wrist in fabric. The only part of herself exposed was her hands, but the skin there was puckered to gooseflesh.
It had been a week since the incident at the pond and she had managed to keep her distance from Kingston during that time. It wasn’t easy. It mostly involved hiding out in her room until dinner, so then she only had to see him in the company of others, where he could do nothing other than comport himself properly.
Again, it was manageable, but not desirable for any extended length of time. She couldn’t hide in her room until the wedding.
Wedding. It felt like a great boulder was sitting on her chest. She couldn’t lift her rib cage to suck in air. Wedding. Again, the word reverberated through her like a death knell.
Suddenly she was moving, hopping down from the dais where she stood and shaking out her skirts as though that could free her of the confounded dress. Perhaps then she could breathe.
Mrs. Hansen squawked, flapping her hands.
“I have to get this off.” Charlotte twisted around, trying to reach for the buttons she could in no way reach—at least not without help.
The other women exclaimed and lunged for her, but she was past reason. She couldn’t tolerate one more moment of this dress on her body.
“Char? What’s wrong?” Marian cried over Charlotte’s ragged gasps.
“It’s the dress!” Nora stabbed a finger in her direction. “It’s biting her!”
“Rubbish, Nora!”
Charlotte lifted her chest high, desperate, hungry for air.
“Look at her! What’s wrong with her?”
“Have a care! Stop! You’ll ruin all my hard work.” Of course, that was Mrs. Hansen.
Charlotte couldn’t stop, though. She couldn’t breathe and she was convinced that had to do with the wedding dress suffocating her.
Irrational or not, she twisted and tugged, getting poked by pins. She winced. The pain was justified. Necessary.
The dress had to come off.
Suddenly the room felt too tight. The dress itself was a constricting fist, but the room . . .
Heavens save her, the room was like a coffin closing in.
“Charlotte! Stop!” Marian waved her hands in the air as though she were trying to calm a wild animal. “We will help you! Hold still!”
Shaking her head, she lifted her skirts and lunged for the door, charging out of her sister’s dressing room and through her bedchamber.
Outside. Naturally there would be plenty of air outside. Outside this room full of ladies gushing over her in her wedding finery.
The other ladies followed fast on her heels, complaining loudly.
“Charlotte, what is happening?” Marian shouted.
She didn’t know. She only knew that panic was riding high in her squeezing throat and she needed out of this dress, out of this room.
Air. She needed air. Blessed air.
She yanked open the door leading out into the hall and stopped hard. Kingston stood there, clearly surprised to see her. She’d evidently caught him as he was passing by. He must think her mad, charging out like some deranged bride.
If it had been hard to breathe before, now it was impossible. She pressed a hand to her chest, wheezing.
His gaze widened, raking her up and down, missing nothing as he assessed her in all her wedding finery.
“Kingston,” she managed to get out in a gasp. As far as greetings went it was fairly pathetic.
His expression altered, flashing to alarm. “Charlie?”
Even in her state of distress, her face caught fire at the nickname he insisted on using. No one ever called her that, and it only added to the sense of intimacy between them—an intimacy that she could not allow to exist.
Suffocated beyond endurance, she clawed at the neckline. Modesty was the least of her concerns when she could not draw breath. At any rate, what would it matter if she tore it off? Underneath she wore a corset and chemise, and he had seen her in those before. In less than those.
He seized her elbow and his touch on her bare skin felt like multiple points of fire. “Charlie? Are you unwell?”
She shook her head, her fingers curling inward against her chest, digging into her bodice. “Can’t. Breathe.”
His gaze flicked from her face to her laboring chest.
She felt the arrival of her sister at her back. “Oh, Mr. Kingston,” Marian exclaimed in perfect graciousness even in the present circumstances. Her years as a governess had trained her to keep her composure. “It appears you’ve caught a sneak glimpse of our bride here.”
“It appears so,” he agreed even as his eyes remained transfixed on Charlotte.
The Virgin and the Rogue Page 9
