by Corwin, Amy
“Which made you suspect a woman,” Nathaniel said.
“Yes. No strength was required, and there was very little chance of injury. Have you ever tried to beat off someone who comes at you from behind? Your Lady Beatrice would not have risked having her face clawed during a struggle.”
“She is not my Lady Beatrice, thank God!”
The corners of Cheery’s mouth twitched slightly before he turned on his heel to find the Archers. Glancing down, Nathaniel saw to his consternation that Charlotte had been listening throughout the interchange.
“I am sorry,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair. “Forget about this—you will be home, soon.”
She nodded and then squirmed, speaking softly. “I can walk.” Her voice was so low he could hardly hear her.
So he pretended he didn’t and carried her down the stairs.
****
The next morning, Charlotte stared despondently into the mirror. Her eyes glowed a brilliant, deep, turquoise blue—mostly because the whites were vibrant red. She looked like a demon suffering from a particularly pernicious hangover. Her head throbbed when she stood up too quickly and her throat…. Well, lemon verbena tea liberally laced with brandy and honey was all she could swallow. It made her head swim and her limbs numb, but it was worth it to obtain relief from the aching pain.
The slight tipsiness also made her feel less depressed about Nathaniel. Now that he was no long in danger of hanging, the ladies would be swarming around him like bees.
Did he regret his foolish claim that they were engaged? The declaration had been made hastily and in public to save her from being embarrassed. Maybe it embarrassed him now.
Perhaps she should thank him and reiterate that she had no intention of marrying. He was free to select some appropriately aristocratic female and breed as many idiot children as he desired. There must be hundreds of girls dying to become the next Duchess of Peckham.
“Miss Haywood? You have a visitor waiting in the Yellow Sitting room,” a maid announced with a curtsey.
Charlotte wanted to ask whom, but she decided to save her voice. She nodded slightly and then rose to her feet very, very carefully. When the top of her head remained where it was without exploding, she glided to the door.
The stairs were a bit of a challenge. However she found by stepping down unhurriedly and then pausing on each stair, she could manage. She slowly descended and was relieved when she got to the second floor without falling or bursting into flames from the sparks of pain in her head igniting the alcohol fumes lacing her breath.
The Yellow Sitting room positively swarmed with people when she entered. She stood in the doorway, blinking in the bright light. Mr. Archer and Lady Victoria were seated on a bench, companionably sharing the newspaper. Nathaniel stood near an alcove with a window seat piled high with white-and-gold silk pillows. Suddley was in the process of setting down a tea tray on the low table in front of Lady Victoria.
“Miss Haywood!” Lady Victoria called, catching sight of her. “How are you feeling this morning?”
She smiled in response and tried to take a seat in a comfortable gold damask armchair situated across the low table from Lady Victoria. Charlotte had barely bent her knees before Nathaniel slipped an arm around her waist.
“The view by the window is extraordinary this morning,” he said, guiding her toward the alcove.
“Suddley, a cup for Miss Haywood, if you would. With plenty of honey,” Lady Victoria said.
Charlotte shook her head, but had to stop when the room started spinning. She wondered precisely how much brandy the maid had put in the pot of tea this morning. Wiggling her toes, she realized she couldn’t quite feel them, or her ankles, any longer.
She blinked. Her nerves jangled.
Nathaniel partially shut the yellow velvet drapes.
“You look exceedingly well after your ordeal, Charlotte.” One of his brows rose after using her name in front of her guardian.
She stared at the duke, considering how to deliver a proper set-down without actually opening her mouth.
When she remained silent, he studied her, catching her gaze. “Your eyes are…very vivid blue.”
“Hmmm,” she said. She had noticed the same thing just a few minutes previously. Bloodshot whites greatly enhanced their vividness. Her mouth curved down.
“I suppose you must realize, Charlotte….”
She raised her brows.
“I love you!” he said.
Her brows wouldn’t rise any higher, so she patted his hands and suddenly found herself in his embrace. He tilted her head up and fastened his mouth over hers. Heart pounding, her arms slipped over his shoulders, her fingers twining into his soft hair.
He felt so warm and safe. Like a sheik of Arabia, carrying her off on his white Arabian horse across the hot sands….
Good Lord! That pot of tea must have contained an entire bottle of brandy! Or she was losing her mind.
When he released her, he smiled down at her. “You will marry me, will you not?”
Her grin faltered, and she shook her head.
“Are you refusing?”
“Um-huh,” she whispered. “Can you not find some other girl to pester? I thought you were not ready to be bound and gagged with the bonds of matrimony?”
“The hell of it is—I was wrong. I am ready, Charlotte, and I want to marry you. I love you. Please don’t refuse—you cannot be so cruel as to leave me to the mercy of every smug young debutante who decides she wants to marry a duke.”
“I am sorry, but…Egypt. I cannot give it up. I simply cannot.” Her voice was so hoarse she wanted to cry. She felt forlorn and helpless.
“Surely, you don’t still intend to run off to Cairo?”
She nodded vigorously. “I want to. I need to—” she rasped out, her hand rubbing her bruised throat.
He sat back, his brows drawn into a deep V. He appeared to think deeply before he asked, “You don’t love me, then?”
She grasped his hand and brought it up to her mouth. She had to tell him the truth before she left. “Yes, I do. But you must stay here, and I must go.” Her voice gave out, and she took a sip of tea.
He had to realize that as a duke, he could not leave England for long periods of time. He had duties and responsibilities here, while she had dreams of Egypt.
Her heart felt crushed, imprisoned within the walls of her ribs. Despite her love, she could not give up the only thing that had sustained her during eight long, cold years.
Her pride wouldn’t let her.
Then she wavered, gazing into his blue eyes. Was she giving up emotional warmth for the physical heat of the desert? But she wanted to feel as if she were involved in something important, something she could be proud of and which would allow her to use her mind.
Could she give up love for pride? Was it only pride that made her want to know things, to understand the world around her?
No. It was a hunger she was helpless to control, a hunger almost as intense as this new emotion crushing her in its embrace: love….
While she dithered, Nathaniel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. “What if we were to spend our honeymoon in Cairo? A month? I will have to give up Grouse season this fall, of course, but if you can bear to spend a single month in Egypt, I can give up shooting holes in the skies over Scotland.”
Her lungs pressed against her heart so fiercely she could scarcely breathe. “A month? What about your responsibilities?” She realized then, that all he offered was a month: one short trip to Cairo. “Just for our honeymoon? That is all?”
He laughed. “Once a year, if you wish. Perhaps more, though I cannot avoid my duties in Parliament.”
She was so overwhelmed, she could not reply. Her pulse pounded in her ears, deafening her and leaving her shaking her head.
“And if that is not enough to suit you, have you considered the excavations here in Britain?” He continued as if pushed onward by desperation. “We
have extensive Roman sites, including several on my own property, which you would be free to manage as you see fit.” He grabbed her shoulders. “And moths! Don’t forget your interest in moths. Have you managed to find the Garden Tiger yet? Or the Buttoned Snout?”
She smiled. He had remembered their names, after all.
“And,” he said. “Have you considered butterflies, birds, and any one of a number of species you have yet to observe?”
Laughing, she pressed her fingers over his mouth to silence him. “I see there is much I have overlooked.” Pride be damned. But her voice gave out, and she swallowed, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. “And you have no objection to my management of excavations at your estate?”
“I am sorry, but only the Duchess of Peckham will be given license to muck about on my property.”
“Muck about? Muck about?”
He grinned and cupped her chin. “My property is very sensitive. Of course I must be extremely cautious in allowing anyone to muck about with it.”
“Ah, but was not it the Roman ruins we were discussing?” she asked sweetly, batting her eyes at him. It took an almost Herculean effort to keep from laughing with sheer joy.
“I have no objections to those being excavated by anyone properly licensed.” He pulled another paper from his envelope. “And as you see, I have one particularly proper license right here: a particularly special and most proper license.”
“You came prepared, I see. I suppose this means no one will be able to call you Dodger any longer, either.”
“Yes, I am through dodging women, or at least one woman. So, you will marry me?”
“Do you…at least love me a little? Seriously?”
He kissed her so fervently that she was quite dizzy when he let her go.
“Of course, you silly goose,” he said. “Have I not already made it quite plain? I adore you and intend to marry you. So do you agree?”
“I suppose I must now that you have tantalized me with visions of Roman ruins.”
“I knew those old ruins would be useful one day.” He replied, claiming her mouth once more.
Epilogue
False characters.—Regarding false characters… The offence is punishable by fine or imprisonment. — Constable’s Pocket Guide
Nathaniel dismissed his man of business after signing the paperwork to grant the deed for a tavern called, oddly enough, the Spotted Badger, to Red Smythe and his new wife, Rose. Charlotte had insisted, and it seemed little enough to do to make her happy, although her motives remained a mystery.
After a few more grueling hours of business, Nathaniel managed to escape into the clear air of early spring. He sauntered in no particular direction and soon found himself near his club where he caught sight of someone in whom he had a special interest.
“Westover,” Nathaniel hailed Lord Westover as he approached White’s.
Westover turned with a smile. “Your Grace, I understand congratulations are in order, although I seem to be several months too late.”
Nathaniel followed Westover inside, pausing to glance around for a conveniently empty room. As it was relatively early there was a small card room on their left unoccupied.
“The Duchess and I returned from Cairo two weeks ago. I will let Her Grace know you send your regards. If you’ve a moment, Westover?” He gestured toward the empty room.
“Certainly, Your Grace.” They stepped into the card room and took seats at the table.
One of the waiters, alerted by the doorman that His Grace had arrived, hastened in with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.
Nathaniel glanced up as the waiter hastened to explain, “Compliments of the management, Your Grace, and congratulations.”
Nathaniel smiled and waited until they were alone again. He took a sip of the champagne and watched a string of bubbles froth along one groove in the glass. “Westover, I am relieved to find you doing well,” he said. “After transferring Miss Haywood to my uncle.”
Westover’s grin faltered. “Well, yes, but it turned out for the best, didn’t it?” He winked.
Nathaniel suppressed the urge to pop him in the mouth. “I suppose you must have been aware that her inheritance was considerably less than my uncle was given to understand.”
Pale as the champagne, Westover unwisely took a large swallow of the beverage. He choked and sneezed for several minutes before blowing his nose on a large handkerchief. “Sorry, Your Grace. Bubbles, you know.”
“Back to Her Grace’s inheritance, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, well surely, you must be aware…. A great many difficulties managing—well, with the bulk of the estate situated in the Carolinas….” He continued to sputter until Nathaniel held up a hand browned by the hot Egyptian sun.
“I fully understand the difficulties entailed by trying to manage foreign properties. Her Grace was fortunate my uncle had trusted associates in the Carolinas to salvage what we could.”
“Yes, yes. Very fortunate.” Westover hooked his fingers into his neckcloth and rotated his head as if he was strangling. “I regret I was unaware of the situation.” His skin turned a sickly gray under a sheen of sweat. “Of course, I realize—that is—since Her Grace did not in fact have her fortune intact, I will, of course reimburse Mr. Archer to cover the value of the pot. I am an honest fellow….” his voice trailed off.
“I am sure my uncle will appreciate the delicacy of your position. However I am more interested in another aspect of that particular game.” Nathaniel refilled his glass and Westover’s.
Westover barely waited for Nathaniel to upright the bottle before he drained his glass. “You will have to allow me some time to collect the funds, Your Grace. I never meant to—that is—”
“Don’t excite yourself.” Nathaniel smiled but noted that instead of reassuring Westover, it only seemed to make him more nervous. He was profusely sweating now as he poured himself the last of the champagne and downed it. “While my uncle might appreciate the additional funds, I raised this issue mostly to satisfy my idle curiosity. All I want is information.”
“Certainly! Anything, Your Grace.”
“My uncle—well, how shall I put this? My uncle’s hand was unusually lucky, was it not?”
“Yes, Your Grace. He is a very astute card player.”
“But not that astute,at least not in that particular game. Would you agree?”
“I am…I am not sure I entirely understand. Surely you are not implying your uncle manipulated the cards?” A drop of sweat rolled over Westover’s brow and his mopped it hurriedly with his handkerchief. “Waiter!” He called with a hoarse voice. “Brandy!”
Nathaniel waited until the liquor was delivered along with two fresh snifters before he shook his head. “No. My uncle was entirely innocent.” He paused. “Was he not?”
“I am sure if Your Grace says so, then of course….”
“Which brings us back to that exceptional hand he had.” He eyed the man across the table from him. “Do take a taste of this brandy, Westover. Are you sure you are feeling quite the thing?”
“Yes, yes. Well. Very well.”
Nathaniel lounged back in his chair, stretching his long legs out. “So, in your considered opinion, how did my uncle manage to find four aces in his hand?”
“I am sure I cannot imagine.”
“No? Really? Perhaps it will help your memory if I inform you that I, myself, held an ace. The ace of diamonds.”
“You? You had an ace? In your hand?”
After a look at Westover’s mottled, red face, Nathaniel sat up abruptly. “Good God, man! You are not going to faint are you?”
“No!” Westover replied in a fading voice. He ripped his neckcloth away and gasped. “Bloody hot in here.”
When Westover recovered, Nathaniel asked again, “Well?”
“Your Grace is most perspicacious,” he said at last. He stared down at the table, holding his brandy snifter between two shaking hands. “I, um, I may have manip
ulated the cards.” He glanced up, his watery hazel eyes pleading. “I did not try to win.”
“No. You tried to lose my wife, most likely to foist off the looming financial difficulties onto my uncle.”
“Will they—will they revoke my membership in White’s?”
“I doubt it, unless you wish to make this more widely known.”
“No, Your Grace!”
“My uncle and my wife would not appreciate it, if word of your…manipulation of the cards ever came out. Just as you would not appreciate it if an audit of the Haywood fortune during the period of your guardianship were ever to be performed.”
“Of course, Your Grace. No one need ever know!”
“Then I expect you will continue to be welcomed at White’s as long as you keep your word.”
“Certainly!”
“And you will provide suitable remuneration to my uncle, amounting to the pot as it stood when you wagered your American, correct?”
“Of course! Certainly, Your Grace!”
Nathaniel stood, satisfied and anxious to return home. He hoped Charlotte would be recovered by the time he arrived. She had been miserably sick, and a doctor was with her when Nathaniel departed for his walk.
Draining the snifter of brandy, he was startled to see his own hand was none too steady. He focused on Westover.
His wife had been treated shamefully by her previous guardians. He could never make up for the slights, but by God, he could ensure she received a few apologies. He eyed Westover, gauging how close to apoplexy the man really was. Not so close that he couldn’t address one final grievance.
He idly twirled his empty glass. “And Westover, you and your wife will send your best wishes to my duchess and express your regret that her visit with you was terminated so abruptly. And I expect we will receive numerous invitations from you and your wife to attend social functions. We may not, of course, attend.” He shrugged. “That decision will be made by my wife. However, I expect we will receive a good many invitations from you for many years to come.”
