Dukes Prefer Bluestockings (Wedding Trouble, #2)

by Blythe, Bianca

  “Are my parents in?” Charlotte asked.

  Flora nodded rapidly. “They arrived back recently. They’re in the drawing room.”

  “Good,” Charlotte said, even though good wasn’t quite the appropriate word when one was about to forever disappoint one’s parents.

  This was the moment she’d been dreading. Nothing surpassed this in discomfort.

  “Dearest!” Her mother’s voice sailed through the drawing room and into the entrance. Footsteps quickly followed, and soon the door swung open, slamming against the sideboard, and her mother strode out, the ribbons on her cap bouncing from the recent expulsion of energy. “It’s you!”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, and her mother narrowed the distance between them and crushed her against her chest before Charlotte could stammer further confirmation of her existence.

  “And where is my son?” Mama jerked her head in the direction of the door.

  The closed door.

  The door that was not going to open anytime soon, and certainly not to reveal the duke.

  Charlotte swallowed hard. “He’s not here.”

  “Well, obviously not, my dear,” Mama said. “But when is he arriving?”

  The tension in Charlotte’s body soared. Speaking might be something she’d long ago mastered, but at the moment the exact process seemed complex and unwieldy. Her tongue was too thick, and her throat too dry to attempt to speak properly.

  Mama glanced at the door, and she relaxed her features, prepared to smile at her son-in-law.

  Mama had always been fond of the duke, satisfied of his good intentions even as the rest of London seemed to whisper at the suddenness of his engagement, whispering whether she might have found herself impregnated by him, though the fact he had chosen her of all women to bed seemed to befuddle them.

  Footsteps padded through the room.

  Papa.

  Relief at seeing him, relief she was no longer traveling by herself, fought with her shame.

  Georgiana would understand, and she headed upstairs.

  “Where are you going?” Mama called.

  “I’m going to see my sister.”

  “You have been gone for very long,” Mama said.

  “Y-yes.” Charlotte paused. “Is she not here?” She turned toward the window. The rain was quite strong.

  It was unlikely Georgiana had decided to go to Hyde Park in this weather, but perhaps she was calling on someone.

  “Georgiana doesn’t live here anymore,” Mama announced.

  “Excuse me?”

  There was no reason for Georgiana to not live at home. Where else could she go? Was she visiting one of Mama’s relatives? The thought was odd. Georgiana got on well with their parents, particularly Papa. There was no reason why she would want to go to some far off place, unless—

  No.

  She couldn’t be married.

  There was no one whom Georgiana would marry, was there? Georgiana was a wallflower. She didn’t have any prospects. Men were wary of her red hair, and the supposed poor qualities that went along with it and could be passed on to children. Even if people took on a less medieval opinion on redheads and inquired about her, they would be informed about her poor position.

  That’s why Charlotte had desired to marry Callum. She’d known that Georgiana had no prospects, and she’d wanted to give her parents some bliss.

  “I don’t understand,” Charlotte said.

  Unless—

  Her shoulders sank. “She didn’t marry the curate?”

  The curate had been Georgiana’s one caller. He’d been a nice enough person, but hardly equal to her sister. His prospects would lead to an even lower standard of living than Papa’s.

  “Oh, no. She’s not married to a duke, of course, but I assure you, she is very well married.” Mama gave a secretive sort of smile.

  “Whom did she marry?” Charlotte asked.

  “You must know!”

  “I don’t,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh, dear. The mail must be horrid in Guernsey. Well, she married your husband’s brother of course.”

  “Of course?” Charlotte’s eyes widened.

  There was nothing natural about that occurrence. Georgiana had been very wary of Hamish.

  “It’s possible Georgiana is in your husband’s townhouse,” Mama said. “Perhaps they’ll all visit together.”

  Charlotte flinched. Now was the moment to tell them. Now was the moment to say that the marriage they had been so proud of, was nothing like what they’d thought.

  “He’s not coming,” she said.

  “I expect he has much to do at that club.”

  “I expect he has much to do too, but he’s not coming. Here.”

  “You mean he’s dead?” Papa widened his eyes, and his fingers moved to his forehead.

  Papa was a vicar, and he was no doubt likely to quote some Biblical passage. But it wasn’t necessary. Callum was very much alive—just not with her.

  Charlotte shook her head. “We should never have gotten married. It was all a lie.”

  “But you did elope in Guernsey?” Papa said sternly. “He didn’t run off with you and then not marry you?”

  “No, no, no,” Charlotte said quickly. “He is a man of honor. I’m afraid he’s not ever arriving.”

  “Was he taken ill?” Mama clutched her hand to her chest. “That poor sweet boy. It was food poisoning, wasn’t it? Heavens, you were in the Channel Islands! Think of the possibility for food poisonings! All that fish. So many varieties. And how many are venomous?”

  “We did not encounter any,” Charlotte said. “He does not suffer from food poisoning.” She paused. She hadn’t seen Callum in days. “At least, he does not suffer from food poisoning that I know about.”

  “Then he’s still alive?” Mama asked sharply.

  Charlotte nodded. “I would assume. The man is in good health, and statistically he should still be alive.

  Her cheeks flamed as she considered how easily she’d been persuaded to believe that her health was poor.

  “In fact I left him.”

  “You left a duke?” Mama’s voice wobbled.

  “I did,” Charlotte said miserably.

  “And people call me the unsensible one in the family,” Mama huffed. “Am I to understand you traveled here by yourself?”

  “I took a mailing coach with...friends,” Charlotte said. “I know it must seem undignified.”

  “Undignified?” Mama exclaimed. “It is utterly unlike you. It is difficult enough to persuade you to attend a ball. Guernsey must have changed you.”

  Charlotte blinked.

  Mama was correct.

  She would never have ventured on her own otherwise. The fact she had changed in Guernsey due to the duke’s influence only steadied her resolve.

  Voices ushered through the door accompanied by the definite sound of banging.

  Charlotte frowned. No one was in the habit of banging on the front door. Papa was a vicar, and hardly in the habit of going about upsetting people, and even the most stringent parishioners were unlikely to desire to see Papa urgently for their eternal salvation. They were hardly Catholics.

  “Charlotte! Charlotte!” Callum’s pleasant tenor voice barreled through the thick door. The pitch he’d chosen might not be the most elegant, but it still sent a rush of longing through her. The rough sound had an air of desperation entirely uncalled for.

  Callum wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Flora dashed toward the door.

  “You don’t have to open that,” Charlotte called out.

  “Of course she has to,” Mama said. “It’s your husband. And my son.”

  Mama rushed to the hallway, as if there was a possibility Flora might not open the door. Charlotte stood up and darted her gaze about the tiny room. If only she could leave.

  She couldn’t face Callum.

  The man would be honorable and state things he didn’t mean, things she wanted so badly to believe.

  No
.

  She had to leave. She ran toward the window. If only people in past decades had thought to make windows larger. She glanced at the door, but thankfully no one had entered. Yet.

  She took a deep sigh, drew the curtains, pushed the window pane open, placed her knee on the ledge and ducked her head through the opening and—

  “Charlotte!” Her mother’s voice soared through the room. “Are you climbing out the window?”

  Her mother’s surprise and disapproval was evident.

  “I—er—” She glanced around, and her mother’s eyebrow arched upward. “The door functions quite well.”

  “Charlotte?” Concern emanated through Callum’s voice. The man’s eyes were round.

  No disapproval was in it, just worry.

  He’s sorry for me.

  The man had always been. He’d been concerned when he’d thought she was dying, and even now that he did not think she was bound to spontaneously collapse and be placed into a coffin, he still thought her so awkward, so lacking in the grace common in most debutantes, that he continued to feel sympathy for her.

  Her cheeks flamed, and heat pricked the back of her neck. She removed her foot from the ledge and hastily placed it on the floor.

  “Sweetheart!” Callum said.

  She tried to smile, but her lips wobbled.

  “I’m not—not that anymore.” She stopped. Reminding him they were no longer together was hard. It went against everything she most desired.

  His face sobered, and he dropped hold of her hands. Her heart ached, but his gaze didn’t leave her face.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  Her heart ached further. “You have nothing to ask my forgiveness for.”

  “I want you to be by my side. Forever.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. We’re married.”

  She smiled sadly. “I’m—I’m so sorry about this. Forgive me.”

  “You love me,” Callum said.

  She blinked. “That’s a pompous thing to say.”

  “Did you only tell me that because of the storm?”

  She swooped her eyelashes downward. She was sure she had been taught some rules of eloquence, but clearly nothing had lingered.

  “I hope you love me,” Callum continued, “Because I bloody well love you.”

  She blinked.

  He sighed. “And perhaps I should apologize for swearing—but honestly, that’s the least of my concerns.”

  “What’s your main concern?”

  “Trying to get you to see that I want to live with you... Forever and ever.”

  “No.” She firmed her jaw.

  Something gnawed at her heart, but she stayed firm. “I didn’t mean to manipulate you. I didn’t mean to do any of that,” she said. “But clearly I did. And I won’t let you ruin all your wonderful plans by marrying me.”

  He scrutinized her. “You would do that for me?”

  “Naturally.”

  Callum smiled. Most likely, the man thought that Charlotte would succumb. How could she resist him? It wasn’t just that he was incredibly handsome. It wasn’t just that he was a duke. No, he was kind and wonderful.

  But it was for that reason that she couldn’t accept his plea.

  “YOU MUST LEAVE.” CHARLOTTE’S expression was cold.

  Charlotte’s expression wasn’t supposed to be cold.

  Not now.

  Not now that they’d grown to know one another.

  Her demeanor was as stiff and uncertain as when they’d first met.

  But then he was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to be at a loss for words. That hadn’t been an affliction which he’d ever suffered from.

  “How lovely to see you both married.” Mrs. Butterworth beamed, darting her eyes from Callum to Charlotte with evident delight. “It’s so romantic. You had a tiff, and now here he is again, begging you to return to him.”

  “Then you’ll say yes?” His voice quivered.

  “I should have known that you would come after me. I am afraid I must apologize to you.”

  “No need to, sweetheart,” he said.

  “I must apologize, because I am afraid you have journeyed a great deal for no purpose.”

  “No purpose?” His eyes widened.

  She reflected. “Perhaps you will be able to see to your business at Hades’ Lair.”

  “That’s not why I came here.”

  “You came to see me,” she said. “Because you are good and honorable and magnificent.

  But I cannot return to you.”

  “Charlotte Eliza Butterworth!” her mother screamed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Setting him free.”

  “But he’s your husband!”

  “Dukes are known for debauchery. Perhaps he can get an annulment. Perhaps Papa can say the man absconded without his consent—”

  “Absolutely not,” Papa said. “That man is your husband.”

  “He shouldn’t be tied to me for the rest of my life. It would be unfair.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she rushed upstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Callum strode over the familiar plush carpet of Hades’ Lair. Crystal chandeliers, obtained from Murano, glimmered in their familiar fashion, aided by the newly lit twelve hour candles. Raucous laughter sounded from the next room.

  The air seemed thick, as if smoke still wafted from the patrons’ cigars. The red leather chairs were empty. At some point, the club would fill again, but now it was afternoon.

  “Ah, you’re back,” Sir Seymour said. “The club isn’t the same without you.”

  Callum slowed his pace and gave his best attempt at a smile.

  Now he was in public again. Now he had to be proper.

  The action of smiling seemed all together unfamiliar, and his lips felt tight. Charlotte had shattered his heart. Sir Seymour, though, gave no indication of anything being amiss, and his smile did not falter.

  “Most dull without you. I must let you know there have been the most atrocious rumors about you.”

  “Oh?” Callum didn’t bother to raise a brow. His reputation was hardly an issue of concern.

  “Oh, indeed.” Sir Seymour beamed. “Most distressing. In fact, I do rather despise sharing the information with you. Still, I feel it is my duty, as a frequent visitor of Hades’ Lair, to inform you that people are saying you’re off in the Channel Islands. With the second daughter of someone in the cloth.”

  “Are they?” Callum asked. He leveled his eyes at Sir Seymour. “Her mother used to be friends with your wife.”

  “A fact we prefer not to talk about,” Sir Seymour said. “The earl will be most happy to see you. He has been asking about you often.”

  Wolfe is here.

  Callum’s heart tumbled down farther.

  “I will see him now,” Callum said.

  “Quite right.” Sir Seymour hesitated. “If you have a pistol, I suggest you bring it.”

  Callum braced himself and headed toward Wolfe’s suite. Earlier he might have run away, escaping to the arbory fortifications of Hyde Park, but this time he didn’t hesitate to enter.

  A fast-tempo music filled the air, and Callum ignored the queasy feeling of his stomach.

  Other people played the piano well, and the club even employed an excellent pianist, but no one could approach the keys with such unrestrained emotion. Normally Callum felt a sliver of pride on Wolfe’s behalf. The man had struggled to read as a child, and his intelligence had been doubted. Perhaps that had been why Wolfe’s father had been so eager to become the guardian of Callum and his brother, and so eager to arrange a marriage between Callum and his only daughter.

  Once Wolfe had a tutor who’d succumbed to his frequent demands to be taught the piano, and Wolfe’s skill had become evident, no one had doubted the man’s intelligence any longer.

  Callum frowned. He’d imagined this would be his moment of triumph. Sir Seymour had said that Wolfe was upset, and now he
could gloat.

  And yet the only emotion he felt was disgust at himself.

  He was filled with unhappiness. How could he wish it on anyone else?

  Wolfe glanced up.

  “Callum! You look terrible.” Wolfe halted playing and poured whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He placed the whiskey on the table before Callum.

  Callum eyed the amaretto-colored drink. Charlotte was well, was expected to live long, but she’d decided to spend her life without him. No drink would distract him from that, and he pushed it away.

  “I’ve had more happy days,” Callum grumbled.

  “And you could have had more if you’d only married my sister,” Wolfe said. “What on earth were you thinking? Charlotte Butterworth? Hardly a suitable match for a duke.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I know she’s the daughter of a vicar. Untraveled. Quite unsuitable. Just because women aren’t supposed to work does not mean they have to be devoid of any qualities.”

  “You don’t know Miss Charlotte Butterworth at all.”

  “You’re being terribly testy about her.”

  “I am married to her.”

  Wolfe scanned him, and Callum shivered under the intensity of the man’s gaze. “The experience does not seem to have benefited you.”

  “That’s not true,” Callum said.

  Charlotte had changed him. He’d been cold, callous before.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” Callum said.

  “It’s not me you should apologize to,” Wolfe said.

  Callum nodded. He knew. “Has she returned to London?”

  Wolfe gave a short laugh. “Unfortunately so. She arrived from a country house party to the dreadful news.”

  “I hope she wasn’t too offended.”

  “At having the man she was betrothed to marry another woman? And one so beneath her?” Wolfe gave a wry laugh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Wolfe jerked his head toward Callum. “Don’t pity her. She’ll be fine. Just stay away from her.”

  Callum nodded, conscious his stomach felt queasy even though he hadn’t taken a single sip of Wolfe’s whisky.

  “How is the marriage?”

  “She wants an annulment,” Callum said miserably.

  Wolfe chuckled. “That didn’t work for Henry the Eighth.”