by Susanne Lord
“Mrs. Repton.”
“Right. Thanks for the correction. Jamie was looking scandalized.”
The footman grinned. “I’ll go on ahead, sir, and light the lamps. No one expected your return. I’ll get the fire lit in Miss—your rooms, sir.”
“Thank you. Just her room.”
“Shall I wake the staff to attend to you?”
He’d not thought of that. It seemed unkind to wake the servants to undress them. “No. No need. I can, uh…attend to her.” Probably.
He’d shrugged into his coat and stuffed his gloves into his pockets, and found Charlotte facedown and asleep again on the seat. He hadn’t the heart to wake her. Besides, she looked light enough to carry.
She was an excellent sleeper, not stirring even when he hoisted her into his arms. The careful descent from the carriage and up the stairs shot little darts of pain from his knee to hip. Sitting motionless for so long had caused his leg to stiffen, so he hobbled gracelessly up the steps.
Halfway up, the lumbering motion roused Charlotte and she peeked her eyes open. “Does your leg hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Put me down.”
“Almost there.” He tightened his hold. The only time he could touch her was when she slept.
The footman had left a door open to a room aglow from a crackling fire. The furnishings were feminine and their trunks were on the rug. This must be it.
He laid Charlotte on her bed. He closed the door for privacy and returned to study the traveling costume she wore. The long cape was easy enough to remove, but there was a perplexing amount of buttons all over her body: on her gloves, at her sleeves, from neck to waist, and along her hip.
Charlotte would be of no help. Her breathing was deep and steady and she’d curled onto her side.
Start from outer to inner. Steeling himself, he disassembled and removed her cloak, gown, and petticoat, then began unthreading her corselet. Why the woman wore the device was a mystery. Her thin chemise bore the indelible impressions of the eyelets and seams of the stays. Would her skin be marked the same in such tight constraints?
He rubbed the fine linen along a deep wrinkle, hoping the skin beneath hadn’t been pinched all day. Remembering his purpose, he stopped his hand. The chemise was loose and looked comfortable enough, and there was no need to remove the pantalets beneath. Her stockings, though…
How were they held up? Why did he not know these things? A twenty-eight-year-old man ought to have undressed a woman before, oughtn’t he?
He probed gently along her knee until he reached the garter. Remove the stockings, then he’d leave. Careful not to touch her skin with any meaning, he untied the garter and rolled down the stocking. Down the silken skin turned golden by the firelight, down the slender, erotic curve of her calf, the taper of her ankle, the delicate, arched foot…
There. The deed was done. And with a minimum of discomfort, really. He wasn’t some rutting animal, lusting for a sleeping woman, so vulnerable and warm and smelling of white peonies in summer. He palmed his brow, his hand coming back damp with sweat.
He pulled the blankets over her and she tucked in.
Before he looked too long, he left the room. There was a chair in Ben’s study he could use. And he could fall asleep anywhere.
It was staying asleep that was the trouble.
He’d not dreamed of Tibet the last three nights with Charlotte beside him; he was overdue for his nightmare. The thought delivered a grim smile to his lips. At least if he cried out, Charlotte wouldn’t hear.
He lit a lamp and the familiar study was illuminated. A stack of letters, white on the dark wood table, could not be overlooked. He’d asked his parents to forward his mail here, but—as usual—there was no communication from Asia. Never any letters.
In the careless sweep of his eye, a name stopped him: Viscount Spencer.
The bastard had written to Charlotte. He lifted the letter and glared at the name, trying to glean the contents by the slant of the writing. What could he mean by writing to her? After what he’d done?
“Goddammit.” Kicking off his boots, he flung himself into Ben’s deep wingback chair and propped his feet on a low stool. Sleep would elude him now. Setting his jaw, he glared at the letter, seeing Spencer again in the wood, holding Charlotte down, hurting her.
What the hell did the bastard think he was doing by contacting her?
But he would not keep it dark, either. Let her read the damn thing. He flung the letter on the table before he could be tempted to burn it.
It may not be a true marriage, but Charlotte was his responsibility and he’d not allow Spencer, or any man, to hurt her.
But what would become of her after he’d gone?
Seventeen
There were certain frustrations and misunderstandings to be borne in marriage—Charlotte understood this from the ladies of Henrietta Abernathy’s salon—but waking without her temporary husband was an event she would not suffer to be repeated. If Will thought he could abandon her in the country, ignore the terms of their agreement and sleep apart from her, then…
Well, she had no actual recourse in the matter but the man would soon learn she did not like it. Not at all.
And she would have her morning greeting at the first opportunity. And her kiss. Privacy permitting, she supposed. She could hardly fall upon her husband before the staff.
She descended the stairs. Jamie was crossing the hall with a tray of china. “Good morning, Jamie. Have you seen Mr. Repton?”
“He’s had his breakfast, miss, and is at work in the study.” Jamie ducked his head and went on his way.
The door was closed. Perhaps she should not intrude. Should she go in to breakfast? Perhaps he would come to talk with her…?
This was intolerable. The man would just have to bear a short interruption. She made for the study before she might change her mind.
A stranger’s deep voice carried through the door. “You’ll want for a solicitor. One of them ones on Fleet Street to name your kin. Beneficiaries, they’s called.”
“Yes, that’s been done,” Will answered. “Not that there’s much of an estate to speak of.”
Charlotte’s steps slowed, uncertain over what she was hearing.
“Enough to see to your parents?” the stranger asked.
“Yes, thank God. Enough to see them through their lives, at least. Even for my wife in humbler circumstances.” Will’s voice was dry and amused. “She’ll not have much use for anything I can leave her, but I did what I could.”
Her breath hitched in her throat. He was speaking of his will. Why would Will bequeath anything to her? The marriage contract required no jointure on his part and—not to put too fine a point on it—her dowry was eighty times the man’s estate anyway.
It was rather vulgar to put the point on it, but there it was.
The gesture was really rather sweet—oh, honestly, she would not stand here and listen to Will speak of death as calmly as the weather.
Drawing a breath, she knocked and peeked into the study. Will sat across from a large, muscled man draped wholly at his ease in Ben’s wingback chair. “Good morning,” she said. “Please forgive my interruption.”
The men stood. “Come in, Charlotte,” Will said. “This is Seth Mayhew. Mr. Mayhew has just returned from an expedition in the Americas. Seth, may I introduce Charlotte Ba—uh…my wife.”
Mr. Mayhew’s eyes widened and he let loose a booming laugh. “Your wife now, is she?” He gave Will a friendly shove. “A bit pretty, you said.” He shook her hand and made her bracelets bounce. “Well then. Missus Repton, very pleased to meet you.”
“How do you do, Mr. Mayhew?” Mr. Mayhew’s hands were rough with calluses, and his skin dark from sun and wind. The Americas must be wild, indeed. But he was a fine-looking man.
Oh dear, did she have a penchant for explorers?
“I didn’t know plant collectors married ladies like you,” Mr. Mayhew said.
“Fortuna
tely, they do,” she said. “Though I had the devil of a time persuading him.”
He let loose another booming laugh and squeezed her hand. It was that unashamed handshake and the steadiness of Mr. Mayhew’s clear-eyed gaze that convinced her of his worthiness. This man’s counsel may help keep Will safe, and that made him most attractive in her estimation. “May I offer you some tea, Mr. Mayhew? Or perhaps you would prefer coffee?”
The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile. “I would at that, Mrs. Repton. Thank you.”
“I thought you might. Will, may I have a word please?”
The small smile on Will’s lips faded. He followed her into the hall. “Charlotte, about last night—”
“Not here, please.” She instructed a maid to bring in a tray to the study, along with sandwiches as Mr. Mayhew was too robust a man for petits fours, then moved to the back parlor and shut the door behind them. Sitting on the settee, she smiled and patted the seat beside her. “Will you sit?”
He eyed the seat suspiciously for such an oddly long duration she was compelled to look at the cushion herself.
“I suppose you aim to scold me.” He crossed his arms.
“Scold you?”
“About last night.”
“Scold you?” she repeated, confused. She was hardly some fishwife out of Billingsgate.
“You were asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Scold him. It was really rather an insulting notion.
“And I was comfortable in the study.”
There was not even a chaise longue in the study. Was he so intent on avoiding her he’d sleep with less comfort than a hall boy? Her jaw plopped open to admonish him—but she would not like to be thought a shrew. In fact, she would not succumb to his stupid silence at all. They had an agreement, after all, and the marriage was not her idea in the first place. He was entirely in the wrong, and the man could not be so obtuse as to not comprehend that.
Scold him, indeed.
At her continued silence, Will’s eyes slipped uncertainly to the door and back. “I know we discussed sleeping as husband and wife but upon further thought, that is not sustainable. You have to admit, the arrangement isn’t comfortable—well, it is comfortable, we sleep well together.” He widened his stance. “But I’m a man—”
Her brows quirked at the proclamation.
“—and as a man, I have needs…you know we can’t commit to any sort of carnal, uh…and you are really…so that’s why.” Will glared at the needlework pillow of her beloved pony, God rest her sweet soul. “I insist, in fact.”
Will set his jaw in a stubborn line and, before she might respond, plodded on with other reasons why they ought not share a bed. All blather and nonsense about late hours and her maidenly innocence and his manly urges, so she closed her ears and indulged in examining him.
He did look fine in his light gray waistcoat, the blue of his eyes so striking in contrast. That was the same one he wore the night before the wedding. And she rather liked his hair like that, even as careless as he was with styling it. Rumpled from sleep was best, of course, but that sight was hers alone. Perhaps she might persuade him to try some of Wally’s pomade. Peter could purchase a jar when he ran his errands this afternoon. Where would he purchase it? Surely Michael would know, wouldn’t he? If the shop was in Piccadilly, he might collect her new book at Hatchard’s.
Sighing, she rose and gently shook her skirts to order. Instantly, he stopped talking. As usual, he delved into her eyes before diverting them across the room over her head.
“You have not wished me good morning,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “Good morning.”
She stepped closer until she brushed his crossed arms. “That was not very husbandly.”
He shut his eyes and exhaled. Angling his head, Will hovered his lips an inch over hers. He knew what she expected, so she smiled and pursed her lips. Tentatively, he touched a small kiss onto her mouth.
Satisfied, she beamed, happy he was so biddable in the matter. But he didn’t back away. Hard arms cinched tighter than her corset, bending her backward as his mouth descended.
Her heart leapt. Goodness, the man knew how to kiss!
He pressed more firmly until, with a growl of frustration, he lifted his lips. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, his voice hoarse and deep. At her compliance, he groaned and invaded her with his tongue. Her legs went to jelly beneath her and she held tightly to his neck, letting her head loll back on her neck under his skillful attention.
Oh yes, this was definitely the man she loved! No one else would ever do.
Thirteen more weeks of Will’s kisses. What a bargain she had made.
Too soon, he broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers, his panting breath steamy and thrillingly intimate. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she whispered.
While he mastered his breath, his hands smoothed the fabric at her waist. “I wrinkled you.”
“I don’t mind.”
“This braid thing is loose.”
“I’ll fix it.”
His fingers came to a rest, gently spanning her waist. The sweet man. Why did he resist ravishing her? They might do all manner of pleasurable activities short of breaching her burdensome maidenhead.
He cleared his throat roughly. “I should get back to the study.”
Back to the study. Back to work. Back to China. She corrected the childish pout on her face with effort. “Your coffee will be cold.”
His lips pressed together and she suspected he was trying not to smile. He straightened, setting her from him. “Are you done scolding me?”
“Yes, I think so. That was a lovely ‘good morning.’ I will expect a ‘good night’ as well.”
He blinked. “Yes, well.” He raked a distracted hand through his hair, tousling it more.
Charlotte smoothed his hair—Peter really must get that pomade this morning—and swept toward the door.
“And we are agreed on separate rooms?” he called.
Her stride did not waver. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“You must not keep Mr. Mayhew waiting.” She smiled at him from the door. “I’ll have Michael unpack your things.”
* * *
That night, and for many nights to come, Will discovered depths of willpower and restraint he never knew he possessed. There were moments, of course, when his lust overrode his reason. Times when his good-morning and good-night kisses quickly overheated. Times when his cock swelled at the seductive sight of Charlotte straightening her stocking or tightening her stays. Or sorting her mail…stirring her tea…threading her embroidery needle.
Of course he had tried, once more, to avoid her bed by feigning work until two a.m. But the scheme had been found out and the look of hurt on her face was one he vowed never to be repeated.
So each night, as he did tonight, he hurried under the blankets and hid his erection as best he could beneath the ridiculous, blowsy nightshirt he wore for modesty’s sake. And each night, Charlotte talked.
He, of course, did too. As decreed by her second marriage requirement.
“You enjoyed Cook’s menu tonight.” She flipped over to face him. “You had two servings.”
He grinned and rolled to face her, propped on his elbow and resting his head on his hand. “I did.” He pulled the blanket to beneath her chin. The less he saw of her body, the better. “I like toad in the hole.”
Her nose crinkled, but she laughed. “Toad? In the what?”
“The sausages. Baked in the batter? Mum makes it for me all the time. It’s one of my favorites.”
“That was cake salé à la saucisse de morteau.”
“Is that French for ‘toad in the hole’?”
“No, there is no— It is French for ‘savory cake with sausage.’”
“Right.” He flipped onto his back. “Toad in the hole. I’ll have Mum make you some.”
Charlotte nestled deeper
under her blanket and when he glanced at her, she giggled. “Toad in the hole?”
He shook his head, the smile on his face growing. “Good night, Charlotte.” He pushed up to plant his good-night kiss on her lips. Always the most treacherous maneuver of his day—Charlotte on her back, her lips so soft and warm, near enough for him to smell the perfume of her skin.
Her hands cupped his neck, lengthening their kiss. He didn’t object. He never objected.
Steeling himself, he raised his head.
“Good night,” she breathed. Her fingers slid slowly off him and the sensation tingled low in his back.
It was gratifying, at least, to know his attraction was not completely one-sided. Time and again, he caught Charlotte studying him, lingering on different parts of his body with a soft, curious light in her eye.
And he was never the first to initiate their closeness in bed. Always she was the first to spoon against him and snuggle close.
But then, he might be imagining her attraction. As she was an expert sleeper, he did make for a generously sized pillow.
The days were easier. Being out of bed was easier. And strangely, they lived in harmony, all to Charlotte’s credit. He had no idea what to do with a female like her—never had done—so he watched her happy comings and goings, a bundle of petticoats and feathered hats trailed by a maid, and remained confounded.
Her schedule of house calls, philanthropies, and shopping kept her dashing in and out of the house most of the day in a different dress than she wore at breakfast. Though he was learning white cotton or muslin meant she would be staying in, donning a coat she called a paletot meant she would go out walking or shopping, and a silk or satin dress without a hat meant she was receiving visitors.
At night, after changing into another dress for dinner, she wrote letters, read a few pages from one among the many books she was currently reading but never finishing, and drew little sketches she laughingly stuffed into her book whenever he drew too close to see.
That hurt his feelings a little. Not that he had any right to see.
The only thing that concerned him was that Charlotte remain her happy self, and he would do his best to keep her that way. He would be an obliging husband—and with her, it was easy. There were no tormenting dreams to disturb his sleep, the preparations for the journey were progressing smoothly, and at some point, he could not be sure precisely when, his nerves had no longer tightened at every sound. His rested body and mind were, at times, so light he found himself laughing aloud at Charlotte’s anecdotes.
