“Sit, Charles.”
“You said that as if I were a dog,” he complained. But he obeyed, and as she’d hoped, he gave up on the prim notion of sitting opposite and instead took a seat beside her.
And then, all laughter was whisked from her throat when he leaned closer and kissed her, entirely without warning or preamble.
Slanting his mouth, he firmly claimed hers beneath his. Raising her arms, she clasped her fingers behind his neck and let him push her back on the sofa.
“Charlotte,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Charles,” she said back.
“I’ve been going mad wanting to kiss you again.” He nibbled the edge of her mouth, making her body sizzle. “Having you in my arms last night with no way to hold you close was torture. Dancing was nothing less than a teasing torment.” And then the kiss deepened again.
Her stomach tightened, low between her hips when he swept his tongue between her lips.
“Mm,” she said, the way she would when eating a delectable sweet, for he was the most delectable man.
“Mm,” he repeated, and before he pulled back, he gently tugged her lower lip with his teeth.
“Oh,” she breathed as her stomach flipped again and her heart thumped a rapid beat. When he tried to draw away, she clasped her fingers in his soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“Again,” she demanded.
And he did.
A LITTLE WHILE LATER, she sat primly and properly at one end of the sofa while he sat at the other, grinning at her like a fool. Charles couldn’t help himself.
“Miss Rare-Foure ... Charlotte ... I should make some pretty speech,” he began.
She shook her head. “Not needed or expected.”
He halted, not having expected her comment. Then he went over in his mind what he’d rehearsed before his mirror and decided to leap ahead to the best, most pertinent part. “I confess my heart is overflowing with love for you. Will you be my wife?”
He didn’t expect her to laugh in his face, but she did. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and a thousand fears raced through his veins.
“Oh dear!” she said at once, probably because he’d gone pale. Reaching out, she took hold of his hand, which he ought to have done in the first place, not to mention going down on bended knee, and he would have done both if he hadn’t been so distracted by their heated kiss. More than that — he was truly nervous to learn her answer.
“No, please,” she said, “don’t look offended. It’s only that I didn’t expect such a short declaration any more than I had expected a pretty speech. After all, you are a barrister. So I expected a long persuasive argument, designed to quell any misgivings I might have.”
“Do you have any?” he asked, hoping this wasn’t going to end badly. He wasn’t sure he would have the fortitude to try a third time. Waverly would have a field day making fun of him if a viscount couldn’t secure the hand of a shopgirl. Even the most spectacular shopgirl who ever existed.
“No,” she confessed.
He’d nearly forgotten the question. “No? Oh, you mean no, you don’t have any misgivings.” He blew out a breath of relief. “Preparing any such argument seemed a waste of time, as I hoped I knew your thoughts on the matter. May I dare to believe my feelings are reciprocated?”
“Yes, and in the strongest measure,” she agreed, wrinkling her nose in a sweet fashion and treating him to a generous smile of her full lips.
The strength left his body along with the tension he hadn’t realized was holding his muscles taut. He put his head back and closed his eyes, all the while feeling her squeeze his hand which she continued to hold.
“Charles?” she asked uncertainly.
“I’m simply so very relieved and happy.” Then he realized what a besotted noodle he must appear to this vivacious woman. Sitting up, he did right by her and dropped to his knees next to the sofa.
“Charlotte, will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?” He realized belatedly he was still staring at their joined hands. Lifting his gaze to her face, he looked into her eyes, the color of rich chocolate and saw a few tears glistening there. His heart clenched.
“Oh, no,” he said at once. “Don’t cry. Please. I want you to feel solely happiness at the thought of being my wife.” A uneasy thought flitted across his brain. Had his own mother held in reserve her hopes and dreams for a life of travel and fun when she became a countess with all the dreary duties and expectations? It seemed to him, if she had truly loved his father, she would have created the life she wanted within the boundaries of their marriage.
“I am extraordinarily happy,” Charlotte said, putting all his doubts to rest. “Make no mistake. As long as you truly love me.”
“Dear lady,” he murmured, “you have entirely captured my heart. I think from the first time I went in the back room of your shop and—”
He stopped when she gasped. “That’s exactly what my mother always says. I have long thought the shop had a magical power,” she trailed off. “You’re frowning.”
“I assure you, it was not your shop. It was you, Charlotte. You made it impossible for me not to love you. Your sweetness and caring manner, the way you laugh and see fun in everything, even dancing with a bunch of pompous folks who tried to insult you.”
She shrugged. “I like to dance, especially with you.”
“Especially! I should hope so, too. I would rather you never danced with another man again,” he declared.
“I would be considered terribly rude and never invited to any dances. And how could I be your viscountess and host parties if I refuse to dance with anyone except my dashing husband?”
“Dashing? Who are you marrying again?”
She giggled, but then her expression turned serious as she rested a palm on his cheek. “I’m marrying a barrister who rides to the defense of strangers without being asked.”
“Or paid,” he reminded her.
“You are dashing in every way, even with your lopsided smile.”
“My lopsided...?” he trailed off. “Do I smile crookedly? Is it noticeable? Have you got a looking-glass handy?” He scanned the room and saw one hanging on the wall behind a lamp.
Rising to his feet, he went over to it, immediately peering at himself in the mirror.
“My mouth doesn’t look lopsided.”
He felt her arms go around his middle. How familiar! How wifely and wonderful!
“Smile,” she ordered him, and he did, looking to himself like a dog baring its teeth. And sure enough...
“Dear God! Is that preposterous buffoon with his smile askew really me?”
He felt her laughter as he heard it. Her body jiggled against his back, and he grabbed hold of her hands where they were laced across his waistcoat.
“Do you see the dimple, my lord? It is, I promise you, a dashing one.”
He smiled again, and saw the dip in his cheek. “If you say so.”
“I promise you. Every woman loves a man with a dimple.”
He turned in the circle of her arms and held her close. “I bet women prefer a man with two dimples even more.”
“Nonsense. A single dimple is quite...,” she trailed off, and her cheeks turned delightfully pink.
“What?” he prompted.
“Sensual. It invites one — namely me — to salty and steamy thoughts,” she finished.
His own thoughts went instantly to steamy ones, too. “I had no idea a dimple was all that. What do you think about a short engagement?”
She laughed so hard, tears sprang to her eyes again.
“I’m not speaking in jest,” Charles protested. “If you are amenable, I think three months. Perhaps I can hang on through four months, but—”
“Three would be perfect,” she agreed. Such an amiable woman!
“I shall go with you to the shop at once and ask your father’s blessing.”
She smiled. “Do not be alarmed if my parents behave as if we’re already engaged, or as i
f they thought we were at any rate. I swear, they have been far ahead of each of my sisters and the men who became their husbands.”
“All the better. I won’t need to rehearse a persuasive argument. And we’ll get our families together soon. Not that I have many on my side. My father has a sister in Scotland, but I’ve only met her twice. She probably won’t come, and it’s too far to bother going to see her.” Charles realized he was babbling like a brook but couldn’t stop himself.
“We’ll have your parents over to meet my father by week’s end. And your sisters and their husbands must come, too, of course.” It would be good to have Pelham there to smooth out any rough patches. “Naturally, Pelham has met my father on many occasions, but I don’t think your sister, the duchess, has.”
Charles felt a bit of anxiety thinking of his tetchy father together with the sunny Foure family, but as to nervousness about becoming engaged, he had absolutely no doubt Charlotte Rare-Foure was the woman for him.
BEATRICE WAS BACK, and just in time for dinner at the Earl of Bentley’s and the Viscount Jeffcoat’s home, soon to be Charlotte’s, too. Letting Delia fiddle an extra twenty minutes with her hair, Charlotte waited while her maid set another ringlet on the right, an extra curl down her back, and then a peacock feather tucked into the small braided bun on top.
“I think that’s good,” Charlotte said at last.
“Good? We want splendid. You’re going to dine with your future father-in-law.”
Charlotte kept it to herself how the man had thought her a light-skirt the last time she was there.
“I love this dress you chose,” Charlotte said, standing and twirling in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. “It is an unusual shade of greenish-blue. Or is it bluish-green, would you say?”
“Neither,” Delia said. “It’s jade.” She made sure the white lace at the neckline was lying flat, and gave a tug on the bodice.
“Oof,” Charlotte said. “Not too low.”
Delia smirked. “Have I ever dressed you in any way that wasn’t decent? But now, you’ve got the viscount, you can dress a little more adventuresome. It will ensure you keep the viscount.”
“Delia!”
Her maid took no notice of her tone. “Turn,” Delia said, before making sure the folds and pleats of the gown’s tournure were perfect.
“It will all be mucked up after the ride over there anyway,” Charlotte reminded her.
“Perish the thought. Have one of your sisters go into the water-closet with you and you can take turns making sure you’re tidied and arranged after you get there.”
“Yes, Delia,” but Charlotte had no intention of fussing. After all, sitting at dinner or in the drawing room might mess up the perfect folds of her bustle again, so the best she could do was to keep facing forward. She was far more interested in being with Amity and Beatrice together again.
As expected, they congregated in the drawing room, which looked vaguely better than the last time Charlotte had seen it, simply because more lamps had been brought in and a fire burned brightly in the hearth.
Her mother and sisters glanced around the room with the same discerning eye, undoubtedly thinking what she thought about the need for a brighter carpet, fresh paint and wallpaper, and some pretty vases with flowers. Her father, on the other hand, and her sisters’ husbands, Mr. Carson and His Grace, the Duke of Pelham, didn’t seem to notice the drab appearance at all.
The Earl of Bentley was fully dressed, hair combed, and greeting his guests. “So this is the one who snagged a duke, eh?” he said when meeting Amity.
Charlotte hoped her sister didn’t take offense, but Amity was distracted by her heavy condition and merely offered her lovely smile before taking the first available seat. As for the duke, he was well-used to his friend’s father’s irascible ways.
“She did indeed bag me, sir,” he said, shaking the earl’s hand, “like I was a prize stag.”
When he turned, Charlotte noticed he exchanged a look with Jeffcoat, tolerant and fond.
“And you are?” the earl asked Beatrice and her husband. After Charles introduced them, his father made little comment except to say, “American! Really?”
Charlotte dragged them away from him, a little afraid of her middle sister’s quick temper when she thought she was being snubbed.
Her parents skated through without incident, too, and then Charlotte went up to her future father-in-law and bypassed the hand he stuck out to her. Instead, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“I’m so grateful for Charles,” she murmured so he alone could hear.
“You smell good,” the earl returned, which everyone heard, causing them all to laugh, and they were done with introductions.
With champagne in hand, except for Amity who presently enjoyed nothing but a little glass of stout occasionally as advised by the midwife, they all took seats. The sofa was hard as Charlotte recalled, and she winced when Amity reclined awkwardly, looking blatantly uncomfortable.
Charles made the announcement of their engagement, which wasn’t news to anyone, and he said it as if she were doing him a favor. What a dear man! He could have any woman he wanted, but Charlotte was confident she would love him best of anyone — from his crooked smile to his, hopefully, not crooked toes, although that would be fine, too. She looked forward to seeing his bare feet and his bare —
“I cannot believe we shall be related at last, Jeffcoat,” the duke said raising his glass. “You couldn’t be marrying into a better family.”
“Agreed,” said the Mr. Carson, whom Charlotte thought a wonderfully pleasant person with whom she had spent the better part of the previous Season while he courted Bea.
“All three of our girls, Mrs. Rare-Foure,” their father proclaimed, “engaged within three years. Rather remarkable.”
“The magic of Rare Confectionery,” Felicity mused, placing a hand on her husband’s arm.
“I knew it!” the duke said, his voice teasing. “Something grabbed a hold of me when I went in there, and wouldn’t let me go. I thought it was solely my wife’s delectable chocolate, but perhaps it was magic.”
“All I know is something was thrown at me,” Mr. Carson joked, giving Beatrice a loving smile, “and yet I returned in order to receive many magical tongue lashings along with a goodly amount of toffee.”
Beatrice didn’t look bothered one bit at having her sharp tongue brought up in mixed company. She shrugged and sipped her champagne before asking, “And what magic brought Lady Marzipan and Lord Jeffcoat together? Will you tell us or will we have to read about it in the gossip rags?”
“Lady Marzipan?” Charlotte repeated, looking past her sister’s stomach to see Beatrice grinning like a cat.
“Well, you labelled me a treacle toffee heiress before all of London’s nobility,” she pointed out. “But you, you shall be a titled lady.”
They all laughed, except Amity, whose face was unusually pale and whose mouth looked pinched. Charlotte was about to ask Charles if he thought their cook had some ginger tea to soothe her sister when, over the laughter, Amity groaned. It was a loud and strange sound that made the room fall instantly silent as they all stared at her.
The duke rushed from a winged chair toward his wife, and Beatrice scattered to the side to give him access.
“Are you ... do you ... that is, can I...?” he asked.
Charlotte had never seen the Duke of Pelham look more helpless.
Amity could do little more than shake her head, which told them all nothing, and then she closed her eyes and groaned again.
Charlotte took hold of her sister’s hand and felt her give a reassuringly strong squeeze. Amity had the strength of ten men, and Charlotte had a feeling she would need every ounce of it.
After a pause, Felicity Rare-Foure, sounding calm, said, “I believe we shall have to postpone the dinner party. My daughter, the Duchess of Chocolate, has gone into labor.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Charlotte didn
’t mind the abrupt ending of the dinner party because she was suddenly an aunt, which was practically the best thing in the world next to being a mother herself. Without going home first, she went with her family straight to her sister’s grand home at St. James’s Place. A doctor arrived shortly after, as well as a midwife because the duke said he was taking no chances.
When he wondered aloud if he ought to also summon the best veterinarian in London, Felicity ushered him from the bedroom and shut the door on the anxious duke, Charlotte had joined her mother and Beatrice to sit with Amity.
“There’s really nothing to do but wait and possibly eat something,” their mother said, after making sure her eldest daughter was as comfortable as possible. “I was looking forward to trying out the skills of your future cook,” she added, looking at Charlotte.
They sent Amity’s maid to fetch a pot of tea, another of hot chocolate, and whatever was in the pantry since the Pelham’s kitchen staff hadn’t expected to feed guests that night.
“It’s a shame,” Amity said between contractions, “because you all look so lovely tonight, especially Charlotte.”
“Leave it to you to be so amiable,” Beatrice remarked, “as to wish your labor hadn’t started so we could have a nice dinner party.”
“Besides,” Charlotte said, “my fiancé got to see me in this dress.” She looked down at her now-wrinkled evening gown. “And that is really the point, isn’t it? Besides I’ll have the opportunity to wear it again. By then, I will be an auntie.” She clapped her hands. “This is so exciting.”
She noticed her mother exchange a glance with the midwife, and then Felicity shrugged. “This won’t be all strawberries and cream. You girls understand that, don’t you?”
“Mother,” Bea said. “We’re not children. We’re married women.” She glanced at Charlotte. “And engaged. Anyway, the point is, we’ve all either had a friend go through this or read about it.”
Charlotte nodded, as did Amity, who looked a little frightened. Charlotte couldn’t blame her but thought the best thing was if they kept her mind occupied as long as she wanted them.
My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3) Page 28