by Sara Portman
She could use a dose of practical, good sense just then, she realized.
She patted John’s hand one more time. “I think I will go find Lucy and see if she would like to take a short walk through the garden before dinner.”
She rose and so did he, with the crestfallen look of a boy who’d lost a game he didn’t understand.
“Just make time for Charlotte,” Emma implored him. “I truly believe that is all she needs.” Then she swept from the room to seek out Lucy, thinking a walk might be just the thing.
* * *
Hugh shook his head as he hurried along the corridor.
A reprieve. Ridiculous.
He could see a break from lessons and the like. But no supervision whatsoever? That was pure foolishness. Who knew what sort of trouble that headstrong girl could find? She was likely in danger already, horse or no.
He checked the library first, as it was the nearest place to check, but did not expect to find her there. He wandered to the east parlor next, thinking it might be a good place to hide in the afternoon, since it was usually only used in the morning. She was not in either place, nor in any of the rooms he checked on the way, so he quickly climbed the steps in the hope that she was simply sulking in her bedchamber.
He found her bedchamber door closed. He rapped quickly and waited only a moment for a response before rapping again.
Still nothing.
He opened the door and was greeted with an empty room. He walked into it and spun around. He considered peeking under the bed, but decided against it. She was not that juvenile, and she was too ornery to hide.
He thought of the duchess’s offhand comment about Charlotte being terrified of horses.
She wouldn’t have…
No. He’d had a report from the stable master that her lesson had been a dismal failure.
Still…she’d been compliant enough to endure a lesson in the first place.
Hugh strode out of the bedchamber, pausing only to pull the door closed behind him, and saw a flash of movement in his peripheral vision.
He quickly stepped into a shadow. One of the maids? Who else would be hurrying toward the back stair? This particular maid, however, was unusually petite with raven hair. Or was his mind playing tricks on him?
He peeked out from the doorway. No maid he’d ever seen at Brantmoor looked quite so much like Charlotte Brantwood. Had she stolen a dress from the household staff?
No, the rag of a dress fit too well to be borrowed.
As he had on more than one occasion, Hugh marveled at how Charlotte’s childish temper could be contained in a package so womanly for its small size. In the rare moments when she was not scowling at him, she was lovely to look upon.
As he watched, she disappeared down the back stair that led to the kitchen. Did she expect to sneak out of the manor without notice simply because she’d worn an old dress and exited through the kitchen? She may be small, but with her ebony hair and sapphire eyes, she was a striking woman and would be noticed anywhere, particularly in this house.
Once she was no longer in sight, Hugh cleared the distance to the steps in three long strides and followed her down the spiral staircase. He was careful to maintain a discreet distance.
He stopped before rounding the last curve of the staircase, keeping out of view. He listened, waiting to hear the commotion among the kitchen staff when a lady of the house walked into their midst—dressed as a ragamuffin.
“Well, here she is, ladies,” barked a voice from the kitchen. It carried not even a hint of the scandalized shock Hugh had expected. “What is it today, my dear? Another dress fitting?”
Charlotte released a light, easy laugh.
A laugh?
“Nothing of the sort,” she answered. “I’ve been given a reprieve and told I may do as I please.”
The other woman clucked. “I doubt Her Grace meant to send you to the kitchens when she told you to do as you please.”
“Of course she didn’t.” Charlotte’s voice was…different. It lacked its usual bite. “She wouldn’t approve of my coming here..” She laughed again. “Of course, I’ve not heard any complaints of the food either.”
Laughter from several women trickled up to Hugh as he hid.
Unable to resist the temptation, Hugh bent forward to peek around the corner. He was stunned to find Lady Charlotte Brantwood, wrapped in an apron even more worn than her dress, wandering expertly around the kitchen gathering implements and ingredients in a large wooden bowl.
A stout woman with sleeves rolled up to her elbows walked over to Charlotte. “What’s it to be today, Lottie?”
Lottie?
“What are you serving us?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s squab for tonight.”
“Hmmm.” Her back to the staircase, Charlotte rested the large bowl on her hip as she considered the question. “Do you have mace and nutmeg?” she asked.
“Always.”
“Could you get me a small glass of brandy?”
“I think we can manage that.”
“Perfect. I’ll make tavern biscuits—American biscuits. They’re delicious. Fit for a king.”
“Are they fit for a duke?” the cook asked.
“They were fit enough for him when he was a lowly clerk in Boston.”
The ladies shared another laugh.
Hugh receded into the shadow and out of view.
Of all the possibilities for mischief, his thoughts had never landed upon this one. How long had this been going on?
He slowly turned and began quietly climbing the steps.
Lottie?
He smiled to himself.
The stair tread creaked loudly under his step.
He stopped, waiting.
“You!”
Hugh turned just as Charlotte appeared at the base of the narrow staircase.
She crossed her arms and leveled him with an accusing glare. “What are you doing here?”
He’d been caught. He could do nothing else but grin. “I might ask the same of you, Lottie.”
She gasped, then glared again. She charged up the stairs until she stood one step below him. “You’ve been spying on me.”
Hugh could not deny it. “Guilty, I suppose. Though in my defense, the mischief I imagined you getting into was something altogether different.”
“What did you think I would do? Steal away for a tryst in the stables? You’ve a rather low opinion of me, haven’t you?”
In all honesty, the vision that assaulted Hugh at her mention of a tryst in the stables left him with a rather low opinion of himself.
He looked down into her defiant blue eyes and pout-pinched lips and was struck with a veritable chain of inappropriate thoughts.
He moved from the step above her to the step below and tried not to think of kissing the pout right off her lips. “What are you doing here, Charlotte?”
“If you’ve been spying, you already know.”
“I can see that you are cooking, but why?”
Her chin jutted forward. “Because I like to cook and I’m good at it.”
He lifted a brow at her boast.
“You’ve eaten plenty of my cooking and seemed to enjoy it.” She put her fists at her hips and dared him to deny it.
As he had no idea which food she might have prepared, he couldn’t very well say. “I gather you prepared meals in Boston?”
“Yes. There is nothing wrong with that.”
Hugh shook his head. “Sheath your weapon, would you? I never said there was anything wrong about it. Why must you be so contrary all the time? I’d be more offended if you told me you sat around and tried to act like a lady while your mother and brother worked hard to support you.”
“Well. Fine then.”
“Fine.”
Charlotte’s eyes fell, then rose again with less defiance. “You’re going to tell them, aren’t you? What I’ve been doing.”
“You don’t want me to?”
She pulled her bottom lip b
etween her teeth and trapped it there—held his gaze trapped there—before she answered. “I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t. He’d put a stop to my coming if he knew. Or she would.”
Her tone wasn’t precisely submissive, but her request was delivered with more civility than he’d ever received from her before.
“You don’t mean to stop cooking, do you?” he asked.
“No. I like it. I know what I’m doing.”
That was the second time she’d told him not only that she liked working in the kitchen, but that she was skilled at it. Maybe the duchess was right. Perhaps Charlotte had been made to feel inferior.
Of course, if sneaking off to the kitchen was that important to her, and he held the power to prevent it in his hands…
He smiled wickedly.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I would like to help you, Lady Charlotte. Truly, I would. But you see, we boorish oafs are rather selfish. I look at our present predicament and wonder if there isn’t something in it for me.”
“Do you really intend to blackmail me over a bit of cooking, Mr. Brydges?”
“Oh, you really should start calling me Hugh, now that we’re sharing secrets, don’t you agree?”
When she didn’t immediately agree, he waited.
“All right, Hugh,” she ground out. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to blackmail me over a batch of biscuits?”
He stepped up this time, filling the space next to where she stood and creating a tight fit in the narrow stairwell. “Put that way, it does seem rather trivial I suppose. I can’t demand too high a price, but perhaps a small one.”
“What is your price, Mr. Brydges—Hugh—since you lack the integrity to honor the request of a lady?” Her expression remained defiant, but she had lost a bit of her confidence. Uncertainty crept into her gaze.
Hugh leaned toward her until their bodies were nearly touching. “I believe I would like to see you atop my horse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He laughed. Her expression was so delightfully scandalized. “If I recall, Charlotte, you told me James Madison would swear fealty to the crown before you sat atop my horse. If you want me to keep your kitchen escapades a secret, you will agree to a riding lesson given by me—on the horse I delivered especially for you.”
She leaned away from him, but the wall prevented her from gaining much distance. “But I’m on a reprieve. I’m to have no lessons. The duchess promised.”
“The duchess won’t give the lesson. I will.”
She glared at him. “You swear if I agree to this lesson—one lesson—you will tell no one about this? Ever?”
“I swear.”
She thought a moment, then nodded. “Agreed. One lesson. Now go away before someone comes looking for you and finds me. I have work to do.” She turned and flounced down the steps.
“Charlotte?” He couldn’t help calling her back.
She stopped and turned. “What is it?”
“You didn’t by any chance make the pear tart with lemon custard that was served Saturday last, did you?”
“I did, actually,” she said, watching him with a bemused expression.
“Do you suppose that could find its way onto the menu again some evening soon?”
Her smile was hesitant, then beaming.
“I imagine it could.” She turned and was around the corner and gone.
Hugh stood arrested, watching the spot from which she’d smiled brilliantly up at him. It was the first time he’d been the recipient of such an expression from Charlotte Brantwood. She was a beautiful woman when her eyes flashed with the blue heat of anger, but when she smiled—that brilliant, artless smile—she was incomparable.
Chapter Thirty-One
Emma knocked and entered Lucy’s room to find her, not reading as she’d predicted, but standing at the window, staring out. “You seem troubled, Lucy, and I must apologize for that,” Emma said, walking to where her friend stood. “I was only thinking of my own comfort when I brought you into our uneasy situation here. I am very sorry.”
Lucy turned from the window and took Emma’s hand in hers. “How can you owe an apology for calling upon your dearest friend when you are in need, and how could I demand one, when I am glad to be the person you would call upon?”
Emma’s lips turned up at the corners. She should have expected Lucy would find a way to make an apology seem not only superfluous but an offense if given.
“I am not troubled,” Lucy continued, “but I have been thinking of the challenges facing your family. They are more than they should be, it seems, for just the few of you.”
“Indeed.” They were a family of but three.
Lucy sat on the high poster bed and patted the place next to her. “Why don’t you sit? We can talk about these troubles, and even if we aren’t able to solve them, perhaps we can make them feel a bit smaller for a time.”
Emma welled up with gratitude at the simple comfort her friend offered. “That is why I so love you, Lucy. I had come to suggest a walk, but this is better. You always seem to know just what I need to hear. How do you manage to know every time?”
It was true. How many times as young girls had they draped themselves across either Emma or Lucy’s bed while Lucy dispensed wisdom that belied her years to apply to the dilemma of the day.
“Why don’t you begin,” Lucy suggested.
“No, you. Go ahead, please.”
Neither woman spoke.
Then both laughed.
Lucy pulled her legs up onto the bed. “When did we become so polite?”
Emma sat beside her. “We can’t help it, I suppose.” She faced her friend with a comically severe expression. “I am a duchess, you know.”
“Good heavens, you are. You know I feel very guilty that I’m not intimidated by you. I’ve tried very hard to be.”
Emma patted her friend’s hand. “I’m sure you have and I am grateful for your efforts.” She sighed. “Since you insist, I suppose I will begin. I wanted to talk to you about Charlotte and the scene we all caused in the drawing room yesterday and…well, just everything. You must believe they are all mad and I’ve gone mad right along with them.”
Lucy’s laugh was bright and natural. “Of course you haven’t gone mad, any of you. You’ve all just been thrust into an impossible situation. Charlotte is young. Her mother has only been gone a short while and everything is different here. She will settle in, I’m sure of it.” Lucy set her hand gently on Emma’s arm. “And so will you. I know you never wanted to be a duchess, but you are. You will be a grand one, I know it.”
Emma’s look was dubious. “How would you know that?”
“Because you will snub all of society thus leaving them all vying for your favor. Nothing is so desirable as that which is withheld, wouldn’t you agree?”
Emma laughed. “Lucy, my dear, you are very wise. I believe you would make an excellent duchess.”
“Don’t be silly. You are the perfect duchess.”
Laugh as she might, Emma knew she was not the perfect duchess. She had so far made negligible progress in preparing Charlotte and had failed entirely in all ways but one of becoming a wife to her husband.
She was determined, however, not to fail in her friendship to Lucy. “We should speak of Mr. Brydges.”
“What of Mr. Brydges?” Lucy asked. “He seems an incorrigible sort, but he and the duke are clearly very thick. They’ve been friends a long time, I presume?”
“Yes. I believe so,” Emma answered, “but I am more concerned with the man’s attention to you. Have you noticed, when he is critical of Charlotte, it is most commonly now as a comparison to you? He is always very complimentary and attentive to you, I have noticed. I simply thought to caution you, in case you might be developing a preference for him. I’m not certain I trust Mr. Brydges, entirely.”
Lucy’s laugh was light and unconcerned. “Emma, dear, Mr. Brydges is handsome, clever, and comfortably situated. He has, through his great skil
l and effort, built a successful horse farm. He also appears to be a rather loyal friend to your husband. Have you failed to notice the inaccuracy of your early opinion of him?”
“So you do prefer him?”
Lucy’s smile in response held a secret. It sent warning bells pealing through Emma’s brain.
“I would be fortunate to have the affection of Mr. Brydges, but I would not waste my time hoping for it. His interest is directed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“Must I take your hand and lead you to it? Mr. Brydges is completely taken with Charlotte.”
“Charlotte? You can’t be serious!”
“My dear, I am gravely serious.”
“But he criticizes her mercilessly.”
“One must be watching very closely to notice the detailed imperfections Mr. Brydges seems to notice in Charlotte, wouldn’t you agree?” Lucy asked.
Impossible. They detested each other. Emma couldn’t countenance what it would mean if they did not. Or at least if he did not. “Even if he did have some interest in Charlotte, it could not be serious,” she observed. “Mr. Brydges does not seem the sort to have serious intentions toward anyone.”
“Are you so certain? Mr. Brydges has no pressure to marry. He has no title to perpetuate or need for financial rescue. But that does not mean he will not marry for love, when he is struck by it.”
Emma shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I cannot believe it. I am sorry for doubting you when you are usually so wise, but there it is. I cannot believe Mr. Brydges is lovesick for Charlotte.”
Lucy’s eyes danced with laughter. “Wait and see, and we will know if I am correct.”
“I suppose,” Emma conceded.
Lucy shifted her legs underneath her and the laughter in her expression fell away. “And last to speak of is the duke.”
There was too much knowing behind Lucy’s concerned gaze. Emma’s cheeks flamed. “There are no troubles with the duke,” she demurred. “I asked him just this afternoon to pay more attention to Charlotte and he has promised he will.”
“What of you?” Lucy asked. “When will he begin paying more attention to you?”