“I trust you’ll spread no tales describing the glory of her dress.” Marian laughed lightly as she rested a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.
“You can trust me, indeed. I’ll not utter a word of it.”
“Splendid! We want Mr. Pembroke properly surprised.” She gave Charlotte’s shoulder a reassuring pat—as though Charlotte cared about such tattle, as though she were not choking for breath.
“Your Grace . . . your sister does not look well.”
Marian stepped around to get a better view of her face. She blanched at the sight. “Char! You’re turning red!” Marian pressed the back of her hand to her cheek.
Suddenly Nora was pushing out into the hall with them. “Red? She’s turning purple.”
“She can’t breathe,” Kingston exclaimed.
Then it was all a blur.
Kingston spun her about and his hands went to her back.
Over Mrs. Hansen’s screeching, Charlotte heard the popping of buttons at the back of her gown. From her peripheral vision she saw several tiny rose-colored buttons launch through the air.
Her dress immediately loosened, sliding down her arms in a whisper.
Kingston’s gaze dragged over her. “Bloody corset,” he muttered. “No wonder you can’t breathe.” There was a tug on her laces and then relief as he undid them, freeing her from the constraints of her corset. Sweet air rushed into her lungs.
Air. Blessed air.
The shouting intensified and suddenly she was being hauled back into the bedchamber, away from Kingston’s eyes, as though she must be shielded from view, her modesty protected. That was an almost amusing thought considering that her modesty, in relationship to Kingston, was unsalvageable.
There was a brief moment before the door slammed shut on Kingston’s face when she saw his expression. He wasn’t looking at her semi-clad body or the wedding dress sagging around her. He wasn’t seeing the dress at all. He was looking at her face, and his gaze was full of worry.
He was worried. About her. For her.
He didn’t care about her torn wedding gown or that she stood in a state of dishabille. Indeed not. He only cared for her welfare and that she could breathe again.
“Come, come. Let’s get you to the bed.” Marian and Nora guided her to the bed as though she was an invalid. Before settling onto the thick mattress, she stepped out of her dress.
Mrs. Hansen was ready for it. She snatched it into her arms, embracing it like it was a dying soldier. With a moan of distress, she whisked it away, clearly hoping to repair it.
Nora dropped down beside her. “What on earth just happened?”
Marian scrutinized her closely. “Your color seems improved.”
“I already feel much better,” she murmured, taking a breath.
Perhaps it was putting on the wedding dress. Or perhaps it was the upcoming wedding. Either way, whatever had brought about her distress had passed and she was breathing easier now.
“Was it your corset? Were you laced too tightly? Poor dear.” Marian rubbed circles on the center of her back just like their mother used to do.
Charlotte inhaled and nodded. It was easier to let her think that than explain the truth. The truth. That she had found herself in some manner of physical upset simply trying on her wedding gown.
If that was indeed the truth, it wasn’t something she could understand.
It was unwanted and vastly inconvenient. It couldn’t be true.
“Well, then thank goodness for Kingston acting so quickly,” Marian added.
“Indeed. He wasted no time,” Nora seconded. “Did you see the way he discarded her of her clothing?” Nora lifted her eyebrows as though in awe. “He must have had copious practice at that.”
“Nora, hush,” Marian reprimanded. “You mustn’t say such things.”
Her sisters devolved into bickering among themselves and Charlotte took the time to compose herself. She relaxed back into the much too comfortable bed. She rested a hand over her stomach that now rose and fell with gentle, easy breaths.
She was indeed glad to be free of that dress. Certainly her episode had been an anomaly. A protest against her overly tight garments.
After Mrs. Hansen altered the gown and loosened the stays, she would not have another episode. She would not wear her corset so tightly again either. She’d put on a little weight since the first fitting. Her measurements had changed, obviously. Nothing more than that. It was Warrington’s excellent cook and all the delicious meals she had been eating, making up for those many months of deprivation.
Nothing more than that.
It wasn’t because the dress had felt like a funeral shroud, signifying the end of her life.
Chapter 11
The following afternoon Charlotte departed from her room with a cautious glance to the left and right. Satisfied the corridor was empty, she closed the door to her chamber quietly behind her and hastened forward.
She was done hiding away.
She could not abide another day indoors, counting the minutes until the supper hour.
But that didn’t mean she wanted to bump into Kingston. Every single one of their encounters had been fraught with calamity.
Interesting, that. Her life had been so unfettered. Aside of the tragic loss of her parents, she had led a dull and contented existence.
Certainly, she had had a brief taste of tribulation. There had been poverty and deprivation aplenty following Papa’s death. The loss of her mother was so long ago she felt it like a dull ache. An old wound or echo of an injury. Nothing too unbearable.
People lost loved ones and bore that grief and carried on. She deliberately focused on the happy times. Small moments of comfort. Charlotte remembered Mama humming as she worked in the garden or in the kitchen. She remembered how a tender smile would grace her face as she played at the pianoforte. Those memories were fond little gems that she would pull out on occasion . . . especially within the walls of her home. Home. Not this place.
She missed her old home. It might lack the grandeur of Haverston Hall, but it was more than enough for her. It had always been enough. Always grand in her eyes and never so much as when she had left it behind. As when she no longer possessed it.
It held so many precious memories. When she envisioned her future, she saw herself there. She saw herself with a child or two, tending the garden as Mama had, cooking in the kitchen as she had liked to do. Even when they had staff to do such things for them, Mama had been there, elbows deep in dough.
Charlotte minded her tread, keeping it light and silent as she made her way to the back servants’ stairs.
Kingston might have helped her out of a situation yesterday when he freed her from her gown—as awful and awkward as that had been—but that didn’t mean she wanted to see him again. She was not ready for that.
Truthfully, she might never be ready for that. She winced. Their encounters often involved a shocking lack of clothing on her part.
Cowardly or not, she would continue to avoid him. It was the wisest precaution.
Hopefully, he would take his leave soon. He could not mean to stay forever.
A sophisticated gentleman like him couldn’t want to linger in a provincial little hamlet like Brambledon despite what he said to the contrary. He doubtlessly had parties and routs and a flock of glamorous women waiting for him.
She’d also sensed a tension in her brother-in-law. Warrington did not want him here. That much was clear as he sat at the head of the table each evening, chewing his food with a rigid jawline. Marian was forced to carry on the conversation, often glaring at her husband for his sulking manner.
Curious indeed. Charlotte would like to know more of the relationship between Warrington and Kingston, but she resisted nosing about. It was not her business. To inquire reflected poorly on her . . . made her appear too interested.
She descended the servants’ stairs at the back of the house and slipped outside stealthily. Lifting her skirts, she very nearly broke into a run
to escape the shadow of the grand manor house. Her nape prickled as she imagined any number of eyes watching her from its many windows, tracking her escape. She gave a swift shake of her head. Simple paranoia, that. No one was watching her.
Fortunately today was not as uncomfortably hot as the previous week. Perhaps the hottest days of summer were behind them. She could only hope. She’d voiced concern that a wedding in July might be too warm, but Mrs. Pembroke had insisted on it, overruling Charlotte’s concerns. As was her custom.
Still, even with more temperate weather, Charlotte was glad she had worn her bonnet with the widest brim to shield her face. She did not relish Mrs. Pembroke criticizing her nose and cheeks for being overly pink.
Now well clear of the house, she strolled at an easier pace, enjoying the day, letting the fresh air fill her lungs and fortify her.
This evening she was taking dinner with the Pembrokes. She could use a bit of fortification before going into that. While the men took their cigars and brandy, she would be left with Mrs. Pembroke. She would want to talk about the wedding. Incessantly. Exhaustively.
Briefly, fleetingly, it crossed her mind that she should want to talk about the wedding. It was her wedding, after all. Was wedding planning not something brides lived to do?
She crossed the duke’s property and arrived on the main road that meandered past the Pratt farm. The Pratt’s property sat between Haverston Hall and her original home. She eyed the Pratt farmhouse as she passed it, grateful that Mrs. Pratt was not outside. The lady loved to talk. Gossip was her currency. Charlotte was thankful to avoid her.
She kept to the road until it was time to cut across toward her house.
Home.
She crested the hill and looked down at it with a lovely unfurling inside her chest. It had not fallen to disrepair since they vacated it. Warrington’s groundskeeper saw to the lands. Charlotte visited often, tending to the garden and performing light housekeeping to keep the place up until she moved back in.
It would always feel like home to her. As happy as she was for her sister, as grateful as she was to the duke for taking her and Nora in and never making them feel like unwanted relations hanging about, that would never change. She could not wait to return to this place permanently.
As she passed through the white fence surrounding her house, her heart continued to lighten. She latched the gate behind her and quickly located the additional key they hid under a rock in the front garden.
She unlocked the yellow front door—even faded the color struck her as cheerful—and stepped inside, frowning a bit at the creaking hinges. She needed to see to oiling that.
She stood in the foyer, rotating in a small circle. The house smelled a bit musty, even with her frequent visits. It required a good airing out.
No, it required people. She nodded with certainty. A family again living beneath this roof breathing life back into the place.
She smiled, seeing herself and those faceless children she had yet to meet. Her smile slipped as she attempted to envision William among them, with them. His features were a bit hazy in her imaginings. Indeed, he was rather faceless as he lifted one of those children up into his arms, which didn’t make sense. She’d known William all her life. His face was more familiar than her own. She should be able to see him very clearly in this particular daydream.
“Are you feeling better now?”
She whirled around with a gasp at the question spoken behind her, her hand flying to her throat.
Kingston stood in the doorway, limned brilliantly in the sunlight, coatless, cravat loosened at his throat. The handsome sight of the bare skin there gave her a bit of a jolt. His lack of attire might have looked unkempt on another man, but he merely looked casual and breezy and achingly handsome.
She swallowed against her suddenly dry mouth. Apparently her departure from Haverston Hall had not gone unnoticed. Had he followed her?
“Yes, thank you. I don’t know what happened. It was a spell of some kind, I suppose. I must have been laced too tightly in my corset.”
“You must have been,” he agreed, his gaze rather vague, as though he did not entirely believe in his agreement. “I’m glad you’re doing much better.”
“Thank you for acting so quickly.” She let loose a nervous little laugh.
“Even if you did send Mrs. Hansen into a fit when you ripped the dress.”
“Did I rip it? I had not noticed.”
She released another little laugh. “You tore the buttons off.”
His bourbon-colored eyes glinted at her and she knew he was remembering another time buttons had been lost—only she had been the person doing the ripping then.
He shrugged. “You couldn’t breathe. A silly dress was hardly of concern to me. You were my priority.”
You were my priority.
She did not think anyone had said such a thing to her before. Indeed, her sisters and brother loved her as they ought to do, as family loved family.
But she did not think any individual, outside of her kin, considered her a priority. Not even William, and that was a disheartening thought. She imagined he would . . . once they were married. Once she was his wife. An uncomfortable sensation swept over her. A disquieting prickling that ran all over her body.
An awkward silence rose up between them.
She wished she hadn’t mentioned the silly dress. She didn’t even want to think about it, much less talk about it.
He stepped fully into the foyer as though she had invited him to do so, as though the matter of the two of them being alone here was of no concern or threat to propriety.
She eyed his lean figure, summoning the words that would demand his departure, but they did not come.
Craning his neck, he peered about them. “So you lived here? This was the dwelling of the infamous Langley sisters?” A devilish smile played about his lips.
She was not certain if he’d been informed of that fact or he simply had inferred it.
“Yes. Up until a year ago.”
“Very nice.” He nodded, looking around. Even vacant with only a few rudimentary items of furniture, the happy spirit of the Langley family remained, clinging about the place, humming on the air. She felt it and, staring at his thoughtful expression as he surveyed, she suspected he felt it, too.
She moved deeper into the house, pushing open the double doors to the drawing room.
“I’d offer you tea, but the house is not outfitted.”
They shouldn’t even be here together. It was improper. The kind of thing that could end a reputation. Her reputation. And yet the circumstance of finding herself here with him seemed redundant after all that had transpired between them.
They’d been alone together several times now, and every time inappropriateness had abounded. This time she would like to prove, if only to herself, that they could behave and comport themselves appropriately when the opportunity for mischief was present.
She moved to the drapes and dragged them open, revealing through the mullion-paned glass the riot of wildflowers that Mama had planted so long ago. Every year they returned without fail.
“Well, that’s a lovely view,” he commented, walking up beside her and staring out the window with his hands clasped behind his back.
She held herself still, trying not to feel him beside her—trying not to notice the way his body radiated warmth and something else . . . an energy that pulled at her.
“My mother planted those and they still thrive. It’s like a part of her is still here every year I see them bloom.”
He nodded. “I suppose she is then.” He glanced out through the glass at the myriad flowers in full bloom. “I’m sure that gives you comfort.”
“My sisters and I would sequester ourselves there and weave coronets of grass and flowers for our heads.” She smiled fondly at the recollection. “We had happy times here,” she volunteered. “Even after we lost Mama, Papa kept us occupied with our studies and hobbies. Our lives were full.” She smoothed a hand al
ong the papered drawing room wall. “There was a lot of laughter in these walls.”
“You were very fortunate, indeed, to have such an upbringing.”
She smiled and shoved off her sudden overwhelming sense of nostalgia. He didn’t need to see her so maudlin. She was no Gothic heroine under the dark cloud of pervasive threat. Indeed not.
Charlotte lived in a grand house and was preparing for the finest wedding the shire had ever seen. She lived a life of comfort and privilege and had a doting betrothed.
With a smile fixed to her face, she inquired, “Is there someplace like that for you? Where you grew up?”
“I was sent to school at age four. Our instructors were not the sort to encourage frolicking in wildflowers.”
“Four? Is that not very young?”
“I imagine it is. Childhood goes to die in places like that.”
She shuddered. “Sounds awful. Will you send your children away to school so young then?”
He hesitated. “I don’t imagine I will ever have children.”
She angled her head thoughtfully. “Why not?”
“I don’t anticipate marrying, and although I was born outside of wedlock, illegitimacy is not something I’d wish on any child.” His face grew tight as though he was somewhere else right then, lost in some memory.
“My brother is away at school,” she volunteered, hoping to lighten the mood and distract him from somber thoughts.
“You have a brother as well?”
“Yes. But he did not go away until he was twelve.” She laced her fingers, twisting them together slightly. “We had many good years with him.”
He smiled. “A proper age for a young man to be sent to school.” His gaze dropped to her fingers and she forced them to stillness.
“He seems to enjoy it from all his letters. And he visits at every holiday. Each time we see him he’s grown another half foot.”
“That’s the way with lads. They grow like weeds until suddenly they are lads no more.”
She drifted through the room until she sank down on the settee. It appeared the thing to do as they were having a normal conversation with no buttons flying.
The Virgin and the Rogue Page 10